#no beta we die like little green men

[bakedbakermom]

Stained

Chapter 1: Sanguine.

Read on Ao3; tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

But first, a word from the author. I first wrote this fic when I was about 14, circa late 2000. It was very much a product of its time, both of who I was/how I wrote then, and where the respective shows were in their runs. I found it recently in an archive I will NOT share, and was stunned to find that it actually did have some good bones--and, as is to be expected, plenty of cringe, but I try to look on my past self with indulgence and sympathy in that regard; we are, all of us, unfortunately fourteen at some point. There were even a few beautiful lines in there that I lifted entirely. I don't think I've ever gone 20+ years between a first and second draft, but here we are, in 2023, and I am back on my XF/BTVS brainrot for a second pass (and third, and fourth, as editing commands me). This fic takes place in late season 7 of the X-Files, post-Hollywood AD; and season 5 of Buffy, post-Intervention. Do those seasons line up at all? Nope. But let's be real, neither show was all that great at keeping consistent timelines. Besides, time is an illusion and canon is a sandbox; if we're not going to play, what's the point? As for how a crossover like this works when there are references to one work within the other work? Short answer: Don't worry about it. Long answer: I have lost my mind and you can see my spiral into madness here (contains a few minor spoilers/background info for this fic)

Fic is COMPLETE and will be updated Sundays and Wednesdays.

Scully unlocked the door to room 217 of the Sunnydale Motor Inn and slipped inside, hoping the brief spill of buttery sunlight wouldn’t disturb the occupant. The soft snick of the door plunged her into sudden darkness, but her eyes adjusted quickly; she was getting used to the dark. Inside, little light pierced the drawn curtains, and what did filter through was stained a deep crimson, as if a haze of blood hung in the air.

She eased herself down onto the edge of the rumpled bed that filled half the room and prodded the lump of blankets she assumed was her partner. The lump moaned and shifted, and from the opposite end, Mulder’s tousled head appeared. A shock pierced through her when she saw how pale he had become, how dark the circles were under his eyes; she tried not to think about how he had been sleeping upside down, like a bat. He would only tease her for the comparison. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

He groaned, his voice barely more than a croak. “Half dead.”

She lifted one auburn brow and tried to smile. “Oh good, only half.”

Mulder sat up stiffly, his bones creaking and popping like the hinges of a haunted house. The sheets fell away from his bare chest, now a sickly white instead of his usual golden tan. He shoved a pillow behind his back to prop himself up, as if the effort of sitting was too much for his withering body. His eyes narrowed into tiny slits and he winced. “Isn’t it a little bright in here?”

“Mulder, I can barely see you.”

“Oh. Right.”

Something shameful flickered in his eyes and she reached out to take his hand; his skin was dry and frighteningly cold, the bones beneath it not quite right. She pushed the fear down with a thick swallow. “Don’t worry about it. The sun will be down in an hour or so.”

They relied so much on touch to communicate these days. A subtle brush of fingers to say I am here. The pressure of his hand on the small of her back, We’ll be alright. A tear thumbed away from a cheek, Your pain is mine too. A kiss pressed tenderly to a forehead, We’re not done yet.

Touching him was different now. Strained. Stained. Death lived in his skin; it was a void she had to force herself across with every caress, because each time she touched him, she was reminded of what lived inside him. 

What it had tried, gleefully, to do.

Her memories of that night in the graveyard were murky at best, flashes of blood and terror glimpsed only through a dense fog like a stormy night at a drive-in, and it was a relief to her that she was spared the worst details. Her body was healing, and though she knew that repressing emotional trauma was an unhealthy coping mechanism, it was the only thing allowing her to function. The reckoning was coming for her, sure as the sun outside was edging toward the horizon; when the darkness came, it would swallow her whole, just as it was trying, now, to swallow her partner.

The darkness was inside him, a part of him, and she could not touch one without wanting to recoil from the other. She hated the relief that filled her as she released his hand to reach into the paper bag she had brought inside with her. “I got you something to eat.”

His eyes lit up as they landed on the small styrofoam container, the kind usually filled with soup or pasta salad to-go, with the name of a local butcher on the side: Sunnydale Fine Meats. Its logo was a cartoon pig holding up a link of sausage speared on a fork, the little speech bubble near his mouth proclaiming it both local and delicious. Scully found the image horribly macabre. “Beef or pork?” Mulder asked, taking it eagerly from her hands and giving it an appraising sniff.

“Lamb,” she said, and when he wrinkled his nose, “Sorry. It was all they had left.”

“Don’t worry about it, Scully. I imagine it’s a popular take-out spot in this town.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, and she fought not to pull away from the chill of his touch. “Thank you. For all of this.”

He stood slowly, accompanied by another symphony of popping joints. He tightened the drawstring on his sweatpants—when had he gotten so thin?—and carried the container to the microwave in the room’s tiny kitchenette. Her stomach lurched as she realized he was heating the contents. Ninety-eight point six.

Mulder glanced up and saw her staring, then looked quickly away. “Tip from Spike,” he muttered. “Says it’s easier to… get it down… this way. That I’ll get used to it faster if it’s warm.”

“Is it really that bad, compared to..?”

A shudder passed through his body, but not of revulsion. She shouldn’t have reminded him about that, but he answered anyway. “It’s like day-old coffee versus a chocolate shake. With whipped cream. And extra cherries.” His voice dripped with a hunger bordering on lust. “I can handle it, but I’d rather have… well.”

Compassion and pity warred with a visceral disgust and the sudden roiling in her gut pushed her to feet. She couldn’t watch this.

“I’ll let you eat,” she said, too fast, nearly lunging for the door. Stupid, she yelled at herself the moment she realized what she was doing. Don’t give him anything to chase. Not when he’s hungry.

His hand clenched painfully tight around her wrist before she even heard him move, and her heart started to hammer beneath her sternum. She knew he could hear it, watched his pupils dilate as the sound reached him, and his gaze fell on the pulse fluttering in her throat.

The dark centers of his eyes grew inhumanly huge, nearly eclipsing the warm golden green, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip.

Scully stood very, very still.

Her blue eyes were cold and hard as she met his stare. Do not flinch.

“Mulder,” she said carefully, threading steel into her voice. “Let me go.”

He held on, breathing harder than he had any need to, nostrils flaring as he took in the coppery scent of her fear, fingers constricting so tightly she felt the fine bones of her wrist grinding together and the tingling static of the circulation failing in her fingertips. She would have a new bracelet of bruises tomorrow. A sound between a moan and a growl bubbled up from his throat.

Scully’s free hand began to inch toward the chain around her neck when suddenly the microwave beeped from across the room, breaking the tension like a splash of cold water. He stepped quickly away and turned his back to her, shoulders hunched and shaking.

“God, Scully, I am so sorry.”

If her hand trembled as she laid it on his back, they both ignored it. “I know, Mulder. It’s okay. I know.”

“No, you don’t,” he said gently, his voice choked and breaking. “And I’m glad you don’t.”

She forced herself to move closer, to cross the death-black void that had bloomed between them; the fear she felt was a small price to pay to erase the pain written so clearly across his face. She wrapped her arms around his abdomen and laid her cheek against the icy expanse of his back. He flinched as the tiny gold cross on her necklace made contact with his skin; she pulled away just enough to tuck it into her shirt, then squeezed him even tighter. “You’re so warm,” he murmured, placing one hand over hers where it rested against his stomach. “It’s so nice to feel warm again.”

Her throat constricted painfully as she fought away the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, and it was a long while before she trusted herself to speak. Her voice came out small, empty of anything but helpless fear. “What are we going to do?”

He sighed and rolled his gaze heavenward. There were water spots on the ceiling. “Shoot me?”

“Yeah, a lot of good that would do.”

Mulder huffed out a barbed little laugh and turned within the circle of her arms. His hands came up to cup her face, and the defeat in his eyes nearly broke her heart. A single tear slid down his ashen cheek, glinting red in the fading light. Red as blood.

“I’m scared, Scully,” he whispered. His thumbs brushed tenderly over her cheekbone for a moment before he folded around her, his face buried against her neck and his arms painfully tight around her. “I’m so scared.”

She held him as he wept, stroking his hair and whispering soothing words neither of them would remember later. It was not really her words he needed, merely her touch, the comfort of knowing she cared enough to brush up against the monster inside him if it meant that the man could feel the touch of her body, small and warm against him. His tears soaked into the collar of her t-shirt until it stuck to her skin.

No, not tears. Saliva. He licked the place where her neck met her collarbone and moaned. His hands came up to thread his fingers through her hair. He pressed himself tightly against her, and she felt him growing hard against her hip. Her gut clenched, and not just from fear.

“Mul—”

His name died on her lips as something sharp pierced her skin, a sudden warmth spilling down her shoulder. She struggled in his grip, a fly in a web, and he bit down harder.

Scully had an unfortunate amount of practice stuffing down her gibbering panic, translating the adrenaline that threatened to paralyze her into action instead; she summoned every drop of strength she could manage, twisting at the hip, and used the strength of her legs and torso to shove him back. Her hand immediately flew up to press against the wound on her neck as she stared at him, blood trickling between her fingers and her mouth open in shock and fear.

A monster stared back at her from the place where his face should have been, thickly ridged brows and serrated teeth dripping with crimson and eyes gleaming the fevered yellow of a jungle cat. It wore her blood like warpaint, like a sacrificial mask. A growl rumbled forth from what had been Mulder’s throat and its hands clenched and unclenched at its sides as it prepared to strike again. It dropped into a crouch, shoulders hunched, muscles rippling unnaturally beneath the surface of its skin. Its features twisted into something like joy.

Scully wondered if she could free the gun at her hip before it reached her; a bullet might not drop the thing, but she could slow it down.

Even vampires feel pain.

A sudden shudder passed through the creature and a high wail of grief tore from its throat. Slowly, the face softened, melted, Mulder’s familiar features coming back to the fore, dazed and afraid. He touched a finger to his chin and revulsion crossed his face as he realized he was streaked with her blood; the stain of it was shockingly dark against his skin. He turned away, shame-faced, but not before she saw him lick his lips clean.

“Get away from me,” he growled as she started to reach for him. She snatched her hand back as if burned, as if he would bite it. He collapsed onto the bed, his head buried in his hands. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“I’m all right, Mulder,” she said, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. “You didn’t hit anything important. I’m fine.”

But her hands shook as she grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and pressed them to her neck; they soaked through more quickly than she had expected, red blooming across the flimsy paper like roses on snow. She dropped them and grabbed another bunch, ignoring the way his eyes followed the sodden ones to the floor. She forced herself to take a step forward, then another, and then to sit beside him on the bed. Her free hand found his shoulder, and though they both flinched at her touch, neither moved away.

“I could have hurt you, Scully. I could have—” He gulped, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I could have killed you.”

Her hand on his shoulder tightened and she forced him to turn towards her, not with the strength of her hand—pitiful compared to the strength he now possessed—but with the tenderness of her touch. She cupped his chin and waited for his eyes to meet hers; she held his gaze, blue staring unwavering into green. “You didn’t, Mulder. And you won’t.” She took a deep breath. “You’re just hungry, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding shakily. “Speaking of which.” He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the microwave, fishing out the container and pulling back the lid. His face twisted and fell as a rancid, metallic smell wafted through the room.

“No good?” she asked, nose wrinkling.

“It’s gone all lumpy.”

“Coagulation,” she explained, the medical doctor inside her rising to the surface. “Clotting factors catalyze plasma proteins into sticky threads, forming gel-like clumps that slow blood loss from a wound.”

“Charming. It looks like tapioca pudding that’s been left out for a few centuries.”

Her stomach turned at that mental image. “I don’t know much about your new… dietary requirements… but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t eat that.”

He sighed, closing the lid and dropping the whole container into the wastebasket beside the mini fridge. “It’s okay, Scully. I can wait.”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can’t. Mulder, you’re barely standing. You won’t be able to hold yourself back much longer, and you won’t be any help with research tonight.” She laughed, though there was no joy in it. “You can’t even make it through a single stakeout shift without a sack of junk food, and that was before you took on a ravenous, demonic parasite.”

Her voice grew hollow and detached as she realized what she needed to do. “If you snap and… hurt someone… you’ll never forgive yourself.” And I’ll never forgive either of us. She drew her pocket knife from the front of her jeans and turned it over and over in her palm, hoping she’d cleaned it recently, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much. “No, Mulder, you have to eat.”

“What are you—?! No—!”

But she had already flipped open the blade and pressed it into the creamy flesh of her forearm, below the bend of her elbow. She pushed a little harder, letting a thick bead of blood well up before slashing firmly downward, opening herself to him with a small whimper of pain. Thick rivulets of red, glimmering like jewels, trickled down her pale skin, pooling in the trembling cup of her hand.

Mulder managed to hold her gaze for a brief moment, his face a silent plea for forgiveness—for what he had become, for the hunger he was powerless to fight, for what he was about to do to her. She smiled her benediction as tears fell from her eyes. “Just don’t take it all.”

As the scent of her blood reached him, the demon’s form bubbled up to the surface—and its face was full of nothing but pleasure. It lunged forward and closed its mouth over the wound, its teeth piercing deep as it suckled ravenously, its tongue probing obscenely beneath her flesh. Its hand closed around her bruised wrist almost tenderly, like an apology, pinning her in place; small sounds of satisfaction came from its throat as it gulped her down. It moved off the bed and knelt before her, its free hand spreading her thighs and gripping her firmly as it settled between them.

Deep inside her heart, in a place she rarely thought of and never shared, she felt a tremulous thrill at the need this monster had for her. She knew all the legends, the place vampires occupied in folklore as seducers and devils. She could rattle off theories about devouring blood being a puritanical metaphor for sex: the penetration of the fang as it corrupts innocent flesh, the blood spilling from the bite the way some women bleed during their first intercourse.

Hell, she’d seen that Anne Rice movie more times than she would ever dare to admit.

But no dusty book of folktales or moody Hollywood film could have prepared her for the desire that flooded in to fill the space her blood left behind as it flowed into Mulder’s mouth. Her heart pounded, her breathing grew rapid and shallow, and maybe she could blame that on the blood loss—but not the way she throbbed between her legs as he tongued her open wound.

Pity it took this for Mulder to finally put his mouth on her.

Through the ecstasy of her pain, she felt him pull away. Her head was swimming, and she drew several deep, steadying breaths, feeling out the weakness in her body before deciding she was mostly all right. Not much worse than the annual Red Cross drive at the bureau. She debated asking Mulder for a cookie; but his refusal to meet her eyes, even as the face of the demon faded away, killed the joke before it passed her lips.

“That’s enough, Scully.” He looked around for a moment, as if puzzled to find himself kneeling between her legs, and dropped his eyes as he moved away. “Um. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? I’m a little dizzy, but you can have more if you need it.”

A small amount of color had returned to his cheeks, but the circles beneath his eyes were still dark as bruises. Even as he shook his head and stepped away from her, his eyes lingered on the still-oozing cut, on the thin trickle sliding down her arm and dripping off the tips of her fingers. It landed on the dingy carpet with a patter like raindrops.

She moved quickly into the bathroom and shut the door; she didn’t want to see him licking the floor.

The face that met her in the mirror above the sink was even paler than usual, her freckles like dark constellations spread across the expanse of her skin and circles under her eyes nearly the same purple as Mulder’s. She would have to return to her room and apply more makeup, and find something to cover the mark on her neck, which she was relieved to see was smaller than she had imagined. She shuddered as she moistened a washcloth and wiped away the crust of dried blood that had formed around the punctures, remembering the heat of his mouth, the way her body had coiled with pleasure even through the haze of pain—and the way his body had responded to the hot pulse of her blood in his mouth. Maybe it was a good thing Mulder couldn’t see his reflection anymore; she found herself unable to meet her own eyes, and she had only been the vessel. How must he have felt, drinking of her very life?

In the medicine cabinet, she found a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and used it to clean the wounds on her neck and arm. Rummaging under the sink produced only a box of moldy bandages, too small to cover the slash she had made. It was deeper than she had first thought, blood still seeping sluggishly down her arm, and she made a mental note to be more careful next time.

And she knew, eventually, there would be a next time.

They had said the pull of human blood was strongest in newly-turned vampires, and she had witnessed firsthand how he struggled to consume animal blood. If it was a choice between feeding him herself or allowing him to grow hungry enough to snap and prey on a helpless stranger, she would choose to open her veins every time. At least she had a gun and a cross and her FBI combat training to fall back on.

She grabbed a thin towel from the pile beside the shower and ripped it into strips to clean and bind her cut.

As she worked, she found herself slipping with relief into the cool, clinical detachment of science and medicine, pondering the physical reality of what her partner had become, because the mystical side was beyond her realm of expertise. If she sent a sample of his saliva to the lab, would she discover the presence of anticoagulants, painkillers, aphrodisiacs—chemicals to make the victim more compliant and allow a vampire to feed more deeply? And, she thought with a blush, explain my reaction to his bite? Could his pale skin contain some kind of photo-reactive substance that burst into flames upon contact with sunlight? She had seen vampires bleed; what moved that blood through their bodies, when they had no detectable pulse? What sort of electrical activity would she find in his brain, how did he keep from rotting if his cells were no longer alive, and what was the mechanism of the change that came over him when the demon came out to feed?

By the time she had tended her wounds to her satisfaction, Scully had a long list of questions; even without the answers, she felt more secure in her skin than she had in days. Yes, something horrible had happened to her partner. Yes, she was adrift in a sea of paranormal mystery that she didn’t fully understand. But this was not the first time she had found herself faced with a daunting new reality; she had survived all that had come before, and she would survive this too. She was a medical doctor, a trained FBI agent, and a veteran of more than seven years worth of hauntings, monster hunts, and demons—both personal and literal.

She would face this. For Mulder and for herself. She would find answers, maybe even a cure, if not in the science she held so sacred than in the dusty tomes of mysticism and myth. She took comfort in reminding herself that they were not alone in this quest, that Mulder had somehow stumbled across a band of unlikely allies in this coastal town whose sunny days only belied nights filled with terror and death—allies who had spent years battling the stuff of nightmares and usually won. Even now they waited in town for Mulder and Scully to join them.

She stepped back into Mulder’s room to find that night had fallen completely, filling the room with an inky darkness. The lights were off—he didn’t need them to see in the dark anymore—but she found him by scent and touch just the same and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You’d better get dressed, Mulder. It’s time to go see the Slayer.”

[r0-boat]

Feral!Lighter brain rot

I'm very normal about his EP

Cw: Dubcon, consent non-con, rough sex, No beta we die like men

Thank you for coming to my TED talk...*explodes*

Even the undefeated champion can get overwhelmed whether it be from stress or simply becoming drunk off adrenaline from a fight.

All he wants to do is maul the next thing he sees, like a feral animal.

That's what pretty little things like you are for. He tells you over and over that he'd never hurt you in a soft voice that makes your heart swoon. But you know full well that he can.

He knows precisely what you want, You're not exactly the most subtle with your desires.

That thought had been driving you crazy. The What if Lighter: Your sweet, protective boyfriend wasn't so sweet with you? To see you as a toy to play with than someone that he cherishes more than anything else in the world.

Why not give you an experience to remember?

This is what you want. To have him come in just when you're about to go to bed. You're lying on the couch when your door knob clicks and turns. You know exactly who it is... There was only one other person you gave your spare key to.

It's not that you didn't want to see him. It's just that you weren't expecting him; usually, he would shoot you a maximum of three-word text when he came to crash or visit.

But this time, he practically barges in, slamming the door behind him. The look in his eye shivers down your spine as an imposing figure stocking closer toward you.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, especially when he left his jacket and shirt, dropped on the floor forgotten. He took his red scarf and wrapped it around his left hand.

"On. Your. Knees."

That wasn't a request.

You looked at him, eyes wide., Whatever was showing on your television was long forgotten. Your legs shook everything, urging you to drop to your knees and let him do whatever he wanted. But something within you stirred inside, whether it be curiosity or blind courage. It made your lips move.

"Make me."

Lighter's green eyes flicker at your blatant challenge. His eyebrows raise slightly. The silence is deafening as his lips curve into a smile. His left hand grips the red fabric as the other takes off his shades, tossing them.

He comes after you in a flash, His hand roughly grabbing at your color, yanking you until he hoists you over his shoulders. His fingers dig into your back as he brings you to your bedroom, tossing you on the bed with little care of where you end up before crawling on top of you, licking his lips. He could practically smell your arousal.

And he was just as aroused as you were. Scratch that He's more aroused than you are. He feels so bad for handling you similarly to how he handles riffraff. But he can't deny how hard his cock was pressing against his jeans.

He lets out a snarl His arms flexing as he tears his pants in two. Before doing the same to your shirt and pants.

"Hey! I just got those!" You yell, hitting his rock-hard chest. It's kind of cute how you think you can hurt him.

"too bad doll, should've listened to me the first time."

There was no ounce of gentleness to how the man handles you to flip over, grabbing your wrists, and tying you with the scarf.

Coating his fingers in his saliva before plunging it inside you. His hand and thick fingers force you open. His callused palm and rough scarred fingers groping your ass spreading you whiter as wide as he could to force his fingers deeper stretching you out for the hardness you can feel grinding against the crack of your ass.

Fuck... Your muffled screams sound so good. He wanted to be at least gentle when he fucks you, but It looked like his body had other plans. Taking you like this was so thrilling. His eyes rolled back as he lost himself in his own lust, ravaging your body till there was nothing left.

"Gonna fuck you... Going to fill you up and teach that naughty little mouth not to talk back!" Lighter growls in your ear taking out his fingers before plunge again in your mouth You're empty hole soon filled with something bigger screaming against his mouth and fingers as he immediately sets his pace.

You're tasting yourself on your tongue. The thought alone was setting Lighter a blaze.

Why do you make him like this? He could feel every ounce of self-control crack and crumble.

He was making so much noise from the bed rattling and his own moans your neighbors could probably hear but to be honest he doesn't give a fuck. All he cares about is fucking all the stress he has built up from god knows how long.

From how tightly you were gripping his poor cock, to your shaking, quivering body and you're sobbing, muffled mess with your tears soaking his thumb and palm, you were close. Lighter was, too. Lighter was so close. And all he wanted to do was fill you up fill your insides tell you were leaking.

You felt him sink his teeth into your shoulder before the both of you exploded at the same time. Lighter can feel you milking him as he came harder than he ever did in his life.

For the first time since he first started training, his body felt sore as he practically collapsed on top of you before quickly rolling off so he doesn't crush you.

When he finally catches his breath, He rolls over to your side, wrapping his arms around you and holding you to his chest, kissing your face.

"hey hey hey...shhh It's okay... It's okay we're done... I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

He'd never forgive himself if he did. But he got his answer when your arms wrapped back around him and he saw your beaming smile. He sighs in relief smiling back kissing your lips.

"I guess It's safe to say that you liked it.... Good... I did too."

[psycheetamore]

Feyd-Rautha’s benevolent teachings for his favourite soldier

Summary: you are the favourite concubine of the na-Baron. After a gruelling day of battle on Arrakis, he wanted to wind down. But one of his most prized soldiers, Ivan, had again saved his life, granting him one wish to be fulfilled. And again, he chose to have you, or in any case tried to do that. The young lord tried to settle with offering entry to his annual underground rave, and one of his other concubines, not wanting to share you again. But Ivan was not having any of it. Where initially the men started to quarrel over you, it ended with them examining who could fuck you best.

Tags: the works – MDNI, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Is His Own Warning, explicit smut, Feyd-Rautha is physically imposing, Feyd-Rautha as benevolent teacher, oral (trying to dry her out and weirdly not succeeding in it), p in v, public, little ménage à trois (mfm), punishment, Feyd-Rautha having someone else pressing down their hand to feel the na-Baron’s cock, reference to a na-Baron shaped toy, interaction between concubines, dubious consent, no beta we die like duke Leto, the author regrets nothing, the author was set up to write this by @houserautha & @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal following a convo on the meme above I made recently

Word count: 5.4k

+++

“Ivan, you seem to have done everything you could to save me” Feyd-Rautha growled. Although it should have been his soldier’s task to protect the na-Baron, the former had learned that the latter would upkeep tradition that anyone who saved a member of the Harkonnen family could ask for anything they wanted. Which could only be refused through a battle to the death.

“I do not believe there was a second where you were not hovering around me” the young lord continued. “And” while the men stood to look at how Ivan had overcome a Fremen who flown from under the surface of the sand to kill “it appears as if you have succeeded.”

Ivan smirked, crow feet forming around the eyes on his tanned and quite rectangular face. This man did not even try to feign what he was after. Light brown curling hair and green eyes: quite the opposite of his master. Years in battle had roughened his body and face, but had never managed to remove his boyish twinkle in his eyes and lips. And that would not change now.

“We both know why you did that” Feyd-Rautha sighed. Laying his hand over the shoulders of this brother in arms, he asked: “what do you want this time? And please don’t ask me anything that will make me kill you.”

“Sir, you know what I desire, and you know what I will ask” he said, as the men walked back to the ornithopter.

Another sigh left the body of the Harkonnen heir, as he replied: “how about tonight? Join me at my gathering. You are my special guest. And maybe I can teach you a thing or two.”

Ivan nearly jumped, getting this honour bestowed upon him. Never had he participated in this infamous event, despite longing to do so after hearing many rumours. Feyd-Rautha wanted to continue his annual fête, even if he no longer was in Barony. Organised within the belly of the Arrakeen palace. A party, fuelled by spice, sounds and sex, continuing for multiple days. There were no limits, other than the darlings of the na-Baron. Not even the body of the heir was inaccessible.

+++

As you were preparing yourself for the evening, which required your participation, Feyd-Rautha stepped in your room. He always did this, visiting his different concubines, comforting that he came back in one piece, even if that was a given. As his favourite, he would first come to you.

“Feyd!” as you leaped at him and wrapped your arms around him. You knew he disliked you seeing his return as a special achievement. Still, you could not overcome the worry, and allowed yourself this little insubordination. It was good you were not yet dressed, as this hug covered you in blood – again.

Kissing him on the cheeks and hugging him, relieved he was back again, safely in your arms, you asked him whether the raid was squashed.

“Yes, it was my darling. I told you to never doubt me” he stated, with some displeasement in his voice.

“I am sorry my lord. You know I just cannot deal with the uncertainty, however small the chances may be of you being hurt” you explained with an exhale.

He petted your hair, as he said, surprisingly understanding: “I know. You explained it before. You know that I carry good protection with me, who has proven to be very reliable once again.”

You looked at him, perplexed. He was not one to admit someone or something had saved him. Your heart stopped beating for a second. The last time he told you something like this, you ended up being fucked by him and Ivan.

You still thought about that every night that you were alone, and also sometimes when Feyd would own you. You would close your eyes, and as the na-Baron was fucking you, you thought about how it was actually Ivan driving himself in you, relentlessly, punishing. Soldiering through. You had always found both of them to be very attractive. Knowing the pleasures the soldier was willing to bring you, made you keen to see him again. Who knew what could be the situation now, and why he had mentioned it. You just hoped it was Ivan again, who had saved him, and that he had requested your favours again. And at the same time, you felt incredibly guilty. The young lord had allowed you to live in a lap of luxury, protected and provided with everything you needed, including his own companionship. Unless you had acted up, he would always leave you satisfied, give you more than you could deal with. There was nothing to complain. But still, being surrendered to another man enticed you. Perhaps even more knowing the menacing na-Baron was appalled, or even offended by it. You felt alive. And having some hair to hold yourself to was also nice for a change.

As you gathered your wits to ask him, he had already wrestled him from under your arms, kissed your hand and bid you a good evening, only to see you at the gathering.

With a flutter in your stomach, you continued your preparations.

+++

Feyd-Rautha walked into the deep basements of his palace towards the source of relentless beats. He was adjourned by his concubines, two of whom walked next to him, as he had wrapped his arms around their waists. You were one of them, being fully covered in a form hugging leather brown one-piece, held together through zippers and buckles. He had opted for mere leather trousers, showing his impressive pale physique. Walking into the large basement area with the prince of the party caused you to bask in the limelight.

No time to waste, Feyd-Rautha did not stop to join one of the halls where guests were focussing on dancing. He went directly to the more scarcely lit rooms, deeper into the castle. The rooms where people found each other. Where they joined their limbs and became one. As you got deeper and deeper, less people were dancing and more people were groping each other, pushing themselves into each other, licking and sucking each other. In corners, trying to find places with more shade. As you got deeper and deeper light became scarcer all together, as was the case with people’s inhibitions. The sound from the party softly died down, allowing for the more physical noises to take over. Even if you could not see them, you could hear and smell bodies merging repeatedly with pleasures being found.

Nothing was off limits, apart from the darlings of Feyd, as well as the platform on which a custom bed was placed. You found your way through the mass of people laying on the floor, standing against pillars and sitting on couches while fucking each other high on spice, to find the matrass large enough to cater to a considerable number of people. Soft, sturdy, surrounded by poles. Curtains could be drawn, or not. Although it was not roped off, everybody knew this was truly Feyd’s territory.

He went straight for the bed and laid his tired body down to rest. You knew he loved to watch people lose all inhibitions, submitting to fornication. It made him feel safe, relaxed. He pointed at one of his other concubines and ordered her to take of the outer layer of her clothes. Watching her follow his orders, he winked to have her come stand next to him. He moved her panties to the side to push his fingers in her. “Warm and wet. You will do” and ordered her to sit at the end of the bed.

“Ivan, come claim your prize” he shouted, and as if coming from the woodwork, an excited soldier emerged from the shadows. “There, you can take her. She is ready for you. You will like her.” He turned around, as this conversation was now over as far as he was concerned. He wanted to avert his attention to you.

But Ivan was not having that: “Sir, the woman you offer is lovely. But, I want her” glancing at you, while both arms of the na-Baron were wrapped around you. “I have never encountered a cunt so velvety, so sweet, so full of desire.”

“Ivan” he said menacingly.

“Sir” he replied with a light tremble in his voice.

You heard a sigh, as your heart was racing. You were so close yet so far. You had been longing for Ivan. You had never expected to have this opportunity again. But the thought of him fucking another woman, mere meters away from you, it was devastating. You knew you could not plead to Feyd, you could not beg. But how you wanted to. Clenching your jaw to control your emotions, you decided to accept this situation.

But Ivan would not, and he moved closer to the bed, ignoring the woman he so brutally had rejected.

The atmosphere shifted and you felt the men size each other up. From the look in his eyes, you knew Feyd-Rautha could lash out any moment now. Before you could control yourself, you grabbed his face, turned him towards you and kissed him, dragging him into you. Knowing what you were doing, he shoved you away and leaped up towards Ivan.

The men started to fight and soon ended up wrestling on the floor. Rolling over each other, trying to get each other to submit. All, to be able to claim your favours this evening. How you were willing to share them with both of them, as you had a while ago, they would probably never know.

Panting, Ivan said: “I have trained you, I know your weaknesses. Keep your promise. It is always the same with you Harkonnen scum” as he pounded away at him. Ivan had managed to mount the young lord and was throwing punches at his abdomen and face. Some landed, some not, but Feyd-Rautha was pressed into the defence. You wanted to intervene. You needed to intervene. But how could you, without insulting your lord? You knew your concubinator would be able to salvage himself, but you wanted to protect Ivan. Winning from your lord would come with repercussions. He should have known that, but he clearly did not care, as he continued to fight.

So, you did the one thing you could think of, that should not get you in life-ending trouble. You crawled towards Feyd’s other concubine, who had been sitting at the end of the bed, nearly naked and alone. From the corner of your eye, you could see they were slightly disrupted by your actions, keen to learn what would happen.

Once you found her, you spread her legs to kneel between them, and started to kiss her. If neither of the men would entertain you, you would find someone else.

As you kissed her, your hands flowed down over her body, across her back, her waist, her hips, her legs. You pressed her mouth on yours, as you placed her legs further apart. Starting to push her backwards, your fingers found her folds. Still warm and still wet.

You wondered what kept them from intervening. Were they so taken in by their fight, that they would ignore this?

While in the process of exploring your fellow concubine, you suddenly felt yourself being torn off her.

“Woman, why did you distract me?” as Feyd-Rautha turned out to be the one holding your ankle, as he pushed you on your belly and slapped your butt cheek. “I thought I taught you to never cause any distraction” as he slapped you again. Feeling the leather surrounding your body was holding you back from feeling the true pain, he started to unbuckle the back of your jumpsuit. He needed to find your bare skin, allowing his hits to have their full impact.

But before he could continue, you heard Ivan speak to him: “sir, I believe that this night I get to implement your punishment. I saved you, and now I bested you. You need to keep your promise.” It was followed by a growl, and movements on the bed.

Soon hands continued to uncover your backside. “Milady, I am terribly sorry, but I must enact the punishment your lord has ordered for you.” He continued: “my lord, how many blows should she get for this?”

“Ivan, do you want me to kill you?” was the response that came.

“No sir, I just want to follow your orders. Ensuring discipline is key in managing both your army and your harem” Ivan responded.

“Ivan, I will not forget this. You will be punished.” He sighed, clenching his jaws out of frustration and spat: “give her 10” as you felt him fall back to the matrass again. “And make them hard. She needs to regret what she did.”

“Yes, sir” as he caressed your butt, before he started to hit.

You decided you would not give Feyd-Rautha the pleasure of hearing you scream of pain. The first slap caused you to bite your teeth. You could handle this.

The second blow resulted in you biting your lip.

The third strike was harder than the two before. You were not anticipating that and grabbed the covering on the mattrass to project your pain.

After the fourth slap you could not stop yourself and groans left your mouth. Your buttocks were turning red, the palm of his hand started to show and a fire was ignited inside of you. Laying bare in front of him, no panties covering any sights, allowing him to see right into your core.

By the eight slap your response had turned into screams every time his hand hit you.

At the tenth slap you were trembling, trying to recover from the pain, dripping from your core.

Ivan crawled over you, with you still laying on your stomach as you tried to breathe the pain away, whispering in your ear: “I will make it up to you. You have no idea how much I have longed for you. No woman could compare after I had you. I would give my life for a last fuck with you. I want to bury my cock in you, and stay there until I die. I want to be deeper in you than any man has ever been. I want to be so deep in you that I am lost, can no longer leave and are to life there forever.”

As he pushed his fingers in you, he continued: “you are so fucking wet. So warm. Hmm, I believe you wanted to be punished. Didn’t you? If I would not know better, I would have thought you had already come, so slick, so precious.”

From the back of the bed, a smoky voice shouted: “stop the charade, fuck her already and get it over with. You don’t want to keep your master waiting.” You felt the tension rising again, causing your heart to skip a beat. “And you know: you cannot come in her pussy. That is reserved for my cum that she will get tonight, if she behaves. But we are still a long way from there as punishment of this distracting thing is not yet over.”

“Yes, my lord” as he unzipped his pants, pushed your legs wider and drove himself into you while pushing your chest deeper into the matrass. You felt him fuck you without any gentleness, just as you had remembered. No build up, no soft beginning: menacing from the start. You tried to stop yourself from coming so quickly, but you were so ready for him. You had been ready for him ever since he had spilled himself in your ass a while ago.

In the aftermath of that first and last time, feeling his cum leave your body, as Feyd’s left your cunt, smelling both of them on you – it drove you insane. Feyd knew his concubines could have appetites he could not always fulfil as he needed to attend to all of them, so he had gifted each a toy replicating his manhood. You used this gift to satisfy yourself, with what they left as lubrication. It wasn’t as good as with either of them, but it was successful none the less, being filled and stretched by this correctly dimensioned yet larger-than-life replica.

You wanted to savour these moments. Cherish them. But your body wasn’t capable of stopping itself, and within what felt like mere seconds you came; barely being able to shut your mouth, as you would have otherwise moaned Ivan’s name.

 “Coming so quickly? Little needy cunt that you have. Didn’t your lord satisfy you, while I was away? You needed me, I see” he whispered. “Nice tight little pussy, all for me. I spoiled you. It knows it will never get a better cock.”

“I fucking heard that, Ivan. I can still kill you” the menace behind you threatened.

As Ivan kept driving himself in you, he looked to Feyd-Rautha and you could already imagine that he would say the most taunting things. Just like last time, when he chose a balancing act putting his life on the line to achieve his satisfaction.

He did not disappoint: “tonight, you will watch me fuck your favourite. You see how quickly she came? I can teach you that as well, sir. Or maybe you just need to give her to me.” As he continued to engulf himself in you: “you can borrow her sometimes, if you ask nicely” while squeezing one of your cheeks so hard that it left the marks of his fingers and nails.

You had learned to read men. To understand men. It was a matter of seconds before Feyd-Rautha were to challenge him again. But there was nothing you could do.

And you were right.

Ivan was pushed aside, causing him to leave you mid-thrust without a warning, resulting in a large thumping sound and a ripple on the platform. As you turned around to see what had happened, clenching your thighs together to keep the pressure on, you saw Feyd kneeling where Ivan had kneeled just moments ago, whipping his cock out, ready to replace his trainer.

“My darling” he said, as lovely as he could do that, tiling his head forward and gazing straight into your eyes, “you will need to tell me, us, who fucks you better” as he pushed you on your back, drove your legs apart and found himself where he had just caused emptiness.

Despite the perhaps deserved disciplinary actions inflicted on behalf of Feyd and despite all the efforts of Ivan, your walls still needed time to adapt, causing you to curl under Feyd’s relentless punishment. Your lord knew you needed time to adapt, you always needed that. But he did not give you that luxury this evening, no time to get accustomed, every centimetre he possessed was driven inside of you at once.

“Tell me woman, who feels better? Who claims you better? Who gets you wetter?” he growled.

But all sense had left your head as you were heading towards a new high. Something that would save your life. The only sounds you were capable of making were involuntary moans. It must have been a sight to behold, in front of his other concubines, in front of his subjects, fighting over a single woman. Neither of them made any effort to hide or somehow protect your modesty. There was only one thing on their mind, or perhaps two: best each other and find their own highs.

“Sir, I do not believe she will make for a very objective judge” while looking at you as you fell apart. “We need to find another way to determine who takes her better, who she hungers for more” Ivan suggested.

Continuing to own you, Feyd thought about this. The ever-benevolent leader, he had always been willing to learn sensible ideas from his men. He had no patience for stupidness, but he had grown accustomed and perhaps even had started to appreciate Ivan’s forwardness. Any other man would have already been laying to bleed dry on the floor for the insolence shown just this very evening, but not this man.

“What other way, soldier? How can we compare? Through her wetness? How quickly she comes? How hard she moans?” The young lord’s brain capacity was available only partially, as he was primarily focussing on you.

“Yes, let’s start with that. We cannot compare how much moisture comes from her anymore. She is already too wet.”

“No. You need to think in solutions. You can lick her dry” the na-Baron replied.

“We can try, sir”, an enthusiastic Ivan replied.

“No soldier. You do not try. You succeed” as he removed himself from you, allowing Ivan to proceed.

Your mind still in a haze, you could not help but feel that the young lord knew what he was doing all too well, as Ivan started sucking your pussy, starting the quest. A tiny moment that your eyes locked was enough to convince you.

The man’s tongue and mouth worked for your pleasure, even if that was not his primary goal. Not stopping but continuing. You could no longer recall where one high started and the other ended; it became one big wave you surfed high.

As was the case with everything between these men, this too became a little fight between them. Trying to drive themselves in to deplete the source of all the moisture, seeing who could achieve that first.

But in the process, they only enticed you to share more.

“Sir. I hate to say it, and I would love to continue, but quite unexpectedly I am coming to the conclusion that we may not reach out goal anytime soon. She is expelling too much of her liquid gold” after which he continued to fulfil his duty.

“Let me have a better look. Continue” his master said.

How he knew what he was doing. He always knew. A more cunning man than his cunning appearance even suggested. Knowing you were on full display did cause you to startle, but the delicateness of Ivan’s movements soon took over.

“Ivan?” he growled.

“Yes, my lord?” while continuing to suck.

“Why are your fingers in her cunt?” he said laced with a tone of annoyance.

“Uhm…” as he removed his fingers instantly. “A matter of habit sir.” He answered like he was caught doing something naughty.

“I will show you how it is done” as he pushed Ivan away.

“Sir, please. Leave some for me” Ivan said, trying to find out how he could participate without taking the pleasure of his master away. The men had fought in battle together, finding ways out while being under fire. They could master this situation as well.

“Ivan, you have misunderstood the assignment. If you are thirsty, grab something to drink. It is about comparing who is best at fucking her.”

The men stood up to start arguing. They had always added physical intimidation to their discussions. In the process, they started to ignore you, allowing you to recoup again. The concubine that had been sitting at the end of the platform moved slowly to you, lifting your head up her lap, petting your hair. She felt you panting. She knew how relentless the young lord could be. How he could push his female companions to their limits. She wanted to help you, support you, recover. She was a dear friend. In her arms you felt yourself slipping away into a deep rest, which was her trigger to try to get you covered up again.

As she started, you felt a hand yet again on your ankle, pulling you away from her, again.

“Don’t. Intervene. Ever” Feyd-Rautha said punishingly, causing her to scurry away. “I will give you your punishment after the party” he promised.

You would have been perfectly happy calling it a night, but that was not your destiny this evening.

Feyd-Rautha looked upon you, still holding your ankle. “Neither do I believe she will be responsive enough anytime soon to be a good judge.”

After giving it some thought he said: “explain to me how you fuck a woman on her back, and I will do the same. That will show us who is best.”

Ivan nodded: “I can agree with that, sir.” Looking at his lord, he asked: “may I?”

“Yes, Ivan. Here you go” as he gave your ankle to Ivan to position himself.

You decided to help out and spread your legs while placing your feet on the matrass. Ivan positioned himself between your legs and started his process: “sir, I would first of course check whether the lady is wet enough to have me. It is otherwise not pleasurable for either of us. But I will skip that for now, as she is.”

Feyd-Rautha hummed, as he had placed himself next to the bed to look at you, pushing his swollen cock back into his pants. He too needed to recoup, although he would never admit it.

As Ivan placed himself at your entrance, he continued: “typically, I would proceed quite gently. Allowing the lady to open herself up to me. Although it can be interesting to know I am hitting her cervix, it causes her pain, which again, makes it less pleasurable for either of us.”

“Continue” the na-Baron said, as he had placed his hands on his hips to observe.

“With the tip of my cock placed at her entrance, I do not need any support any more. A woman like this makes a man like me hard enough to do without any guidance.” He had placed his fingers on your folds and explained: “depending on how wet she is, I will either push her open with my fingers or not. Like this” as he showed how he would do that.

“But in this case, this little treat does not need that. She is wet and open enough already. So, I just push myself in, like so” as he did exactly that.

“With sweetness so ready for me like she is, there is not need for patience” as he started his relentless pace. You curled your back and grabbed the sheets again. It was all still so sensitive and here you were being slaughtered again. Yet, it felt so good, knowing also this was being condoned by your concubinator.

“I see. Not bad” Feyd-Rautha said with genuine interest. “There are however a few things you can improve on. I will show you.” Ivan left you and moved away to give the na-Baron room.

“You need to look at the state of a woman. This one here is nearly done. Or even done. She would like to curl up like ball” as he grabbed your hips and pushed his clothed hard cock against you. “Don’t you, my darling?” he said, for the first time in a while addressing you. Ever sensitive for your position, you knew what to say: “never, my lord. I will cherish all benevolence you have to share with me.”

“She is lying, Ivan. That is perfectly fine. I want my pets loyal. I want them to sacrifice themselves for me. For my pleasure. And that is exactly what she is doing.” Pinching your hips, he addressed you again: “a good little pet you are.” Looking at Ivan he continued: “I have fucked her bloody, raw. I have fucked her so hard that she ran out of moisture, and she still would not try to refuse me.” Crawling over you, he whispered: “because you know I treat you like a good master. And because you know you would not survive that.”

Standing up straight again: “the first step, Ivan, is to set the right atmosphere. Half of how well you fuck does not come from your cock, but from enticing their heads.” Moving his lips to your neck: “you would not survive that, because you could not live without my cock. You need it, as you need air and water, don’t you, my precious darling?”

You moaned agreeingly.

“Speak” as he placed his teeth on your neck, and applied pressure.

“Yes, Feyd. I would die without your cock” you said, still happy for the moments you got to replenish your energy, as you knew this was anything from over.

“So, that’s where we start, Ivan. With their heads.” He opened his trousers again. “With that out of the way, I will now proceed to fuck her. But, I like my pets needy. Yearning for me. They need to be addicted to me. This means I need to get her to crave me again. Her body will adapt. It will start to seek for a high again. And I will not be giving that anytime soon. The longer I delay their peak, the better their peak is. That is what makes my cock so addictive.”

“Look at how slowly I will push myself in her. There is no need for speed. Her walls are already tired.” Under Ivan’s watchful eye, Feyd-Rautha sheathed himself in you, centimetre by centimetre. “And if you pay close attention, you will see how she starts to move. She is now positioning herself to have me hit her most sensitive bits.” As you did exactly that, involuntarily, he pointed out: “see? How she tilts her hips, how she opens her legs, how she tries to draw me in by pushing her butt just out a bit? If I do this well enough, I don’t have to move at all. She will do all the work.”

“Sir. I must say that I am impressed” Ivan complemented.

“I will show you one other trick, Ivan” as he removed himself from you. “Here, hold her leg just a bit wider” and pointing at his other concubine: “you hold this one.” He placed his hand under your behind and moved you to the edge of the matrass, allowing him to stand. With your legs wide open, your cunt had no place to hide. Ivan could not help himself but dip his finger in you for a taste of the sweetness that had got him enticed.

“I will keep one hand under her back, tilting her backwards. The other hand will stay on her hip to help me stabilise”, as he thrashed in you again. Thrusting harder and harder, deeper and deeper. He hit the front of your walls with new found energy. It was overwhelming. Being taken by your lord in front of Ivan. The men competing over who could fuck you best. The deep vibrations coming from the music. Being on full display while your master taught his soldier. While your master taught everyone in the room. It was as if your mind had left your body, as you looked up the mirror filled ceiling of the platform to see yourself being fucked.

You saw your lord look at Ivan again: “if you pay close attention, you can see my cock protruding through her belly” his balls slapping violently against you. “Here, place your hand on her abdomen.”

As Ivan complied, he gasped. It was as if he felt the cock of Feyd-Rautha hit his hand. He felt the power that was behind each thrust. Knowing the distance from your entrance to where he had his hand. Seeing you unfold again in pure chaos, how you submitted to the na-Baron, how you were willing to break down just for his pleasure, Ivan could not do anything else but accept that he was bested: “sir, may I ask you to teach me?”

+++

After note: sorry, I could not help myself and add some Feyd-Rautha Managerial Examples. And yes, the favourite of our favourite is also Ivan’s favourite.

[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 1: Lost Pet Meet-cute

Divider by:  @cafekitsune

Flufftober prompts are from the wonderful @flufftober page!

Title: Alpine’s Adventure

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Tags: Fluff, Bucky x reader, Meet-cute , Alpine goes exploring,  Alpine is the best wingwoman , cat dad! Bucky, gn!reader, Alpine P.O.V, no beta we die like men, flufftober

warnings: brief mention of a panic attack

Summary: Alpine escapes the apartment and decides to go on an adventure to find Bucky the perfect gift, eventually enlisting the help of a newfound friend to help her plan come to fruition.

Word Count: 3.3k (3365)

As always I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated or copied. My warnings are non-exhaustive and I may have missed something (though I try not to) so please read at your own risk.

A/N: Well, hello. This is my first official post of my own on tumblr. I won’t blather too much because there’s a pinned post explaining that this is my first rodeo.

The inspiration for this particular prompt came from the opening scene of 101 Dalmations (clearly). This also inspired another prompt - and maybe even a part three. 👀 (can you tell I loved writing this one?)

I hope you enjoy; comments, likes and reblogs are always welcome! Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

Next

Part 1 (you're here) | Part 2

Alpine's day had been pretty exciting, all things considered.

Alpine loved her dad – no doubt between her furry little ears. However, when her dad left for work that morning, curiosity had finally gotten the better of her as she slinked by him and out the door. In his tired state he hadn't noticed her dash for freedom and she hadn’t expected to actually get outside.

But she had.

The street was loud, louder than it was in the apartment and people walked by so briskly they barely noticed her. Alpine dodged multiple shoes and weaved through legs hurriedly. Some humans scorned her but otherwise left her alone.

Alpine's soft paws tittered over the concrete as she took in her surroundings.

Everything smelled the same, just amplified.

She hadn’t been outdoors  - at least, not without her dad– since she was kitten. She couldn’t remember much about her life before she met her dad other than everything was big, it was cold and she had been scared. Bucky had brought a warmth she had only briefly experienced as a kitten. He had taken her in, fed her and comforted her. He had shown a kindness she was unfamiliar with but appreciated all the same. She had attempted to return the favour, on occasion, but apparently dead mice are not appropriate gifts for humans. However, Alpine had found she was better on the nights her dad couldn’t sleep or had a nightmare, sitting on top of his chest and purring gently to help him calm down.

Alpine slipped through an iron fence crunching leaves in her wake and emerged from under a green shrub onto another pathway. This one had strange wooden seats littered along the pathway, looking onto a lake and…

Birds.

There were plenty of shrubs and trees in this area and the humans around seemed to be feeding strange birds on the lake. Alpine hopped onto one of the strange seats and sat down, curling her white tail around her, studying the birds. Perhaps a bird would be a better gift than a mouse. Alpine’s ears flattened as she considered it but eventually decided that her dad would probably scold her and be ungrateful for her efforts as per usual.

Alpine’s tail flicked in annoyance. There had to be something she could gift her dad, without getting into trouble. She eyed the humans who were walking along the pathway with the utmost scrutiny.

Small humans got excited to see her and she had to swat one who was petting her a little too hard. He was tugged away by his mother pretty quickly after that.

Slowly, a pattern began to emerge. There were all sorts of humans, of all ages, but mainly in pairs.Old, young, mother and son, father and daughter, sisters, brothers… they were all coupled in some way. Alpine’s tail tip curled with excitement. She could find her dad a companion. Steve and Sam were okay but she couldn't imagine their hands intertwined with her dad's or doing that strange thing coupled humans were doing with their mouths.

No. Alpine needed to find a new human to be her father's companion. That would be the best gift she could get him.

Alpine leapt from her seat and began her search. The first human she walked by was pretty, but pulled a sour face when Alpine approached and was snapping at someone down the phone. They only stopped to shoo at Alpine.

Too rude.

Alpine huffed, tail flicking is distaste and moving down the path.

The next was a woman who, Alpine assumed, in her prime would have been beautiful. She has feeding some pigeons with a woollen blanket across her lap, large thick framed glasses almost covering her face entirely. Her wrinkled hands shook crumbs onto the floor for the birds, who barely batted an eye at Alpine’s approach.

“Well, now,” The lady cooed as Alpine sat before her. “Aren’t you just darling.”

She held out a knuckle to Alpine, who graciously butted it with her head and allowed herself to be petted ever so gently by the sweet old woman.

Too old. Unfortunately.

After five minutes of fussing, Alpine moved away giving the old woman a small trill of a goodbye.

Much of the next hour around the open area was the same. Some were too young, or too old, were not a good potential match,  didn’t like Alpine or were already coupled. Alpine growled in frustration. Maybe she would have to go elsewhere but for now she wanted to go home. Today’s mission was a failure.

There was a loud noise that tore through the park. It wasn’t human. It was angry, gravelly and approaching rapidly.

A dog.

Alpine’s eyes widened in fear as the dog made a run for her, teeth snapping ferociously. She scampered, clawing her way more than halfway up a tree, turning back to hiss viciously and scratch at the dog’s muzzle when it tried to jump for her. It’s human was taking an idle time in retrieving it.

However, Alpine didn’t have to wait very long when she heard a human yelling at the dog, and it’s human. Alpine’s blue eyes narrowed  as she spotted the human stomping their way over to the tree.

“Keep your damn dog on a leash!” The human yelled as the dog’s owner tugged the collar of his pet away. The dog’s eyes watched Alpine and continued to snarl.

“Christ, it’s a cat –“

“and you’re an irresponsible dickwad.” The human stood tall, hands on hips as they glowered at the owner. “Dogs at the park should always be on a leash, regardless of how well trained they are. There is a reason for that; protecting the dog and the other people. How inconsiderate do you have to be?”

The owner huffed and muttered under his breath, finally managing to get the dog away. After glowering at the owner until he was out of sight, their features softened and they dropped their hands loosely at their side, turning towards Alpine.

“Hey sweetheart,” they spoke gently, giving Alpine space to jump and vanish if she so wished. “it’s okay. You’re okay now.”

Alpine considered the human for a moment, detaching her claws from the bark and elegantly landing on the ground. She sniffed hesitantly. Alpine could smell so many different things from the human; cinnamon, coffee, another scent she couldn’t quite place and... her cat kibble. This human smelled similar to home. The human offered their knuckle and Alpine bumped her head against it with a happy trill, tail high in the air.

The human laughed and rubbed Alpine’s ears as she weaved around their legs. The human’s smile was warm and gentle; just like Alpine’s dad’s.

You are perfect.

Your day had been relatively mundane. Until you saw an asshole with his dog off leash chasing some poor cat up a tree.

Now you had said cat bundled into your hoodie purring happily whilst you rode the subway, the cat’s little white head sticking out the neck hole to hiss at anyone who came too close to you. Probably not the strangest thing New Yorkers had ever seen, but you couldn’t help but smile at the little furball.

The cat’s tag had noted its name as Alpine but no address, only a phone number. You had made a mental note to call later in the safety of your apartment, however, you had more  pressing issues at the forefront of your mind. For example, manoeuvring for your subway tickets whilst holding Alpine in your arms.

“Sweetie, I might have to put you in bath jail.” You tell Alpine, looking down at her tucked away in your hoodie. Alpine looks up at you, as if she’s listening intently to what you’re saying, big blue eyes staring back at you. You melt – she’s so beautiful. Her owner, whoever they may be, clearly adores Alpine; a cute collar and beautifully maintained soft, clean white fur.

“I don’t know if my kitty will like you.” You say apologetically, giving Alpine a small smile. You could’ve sworn she huffed as she looked away from you as you climbed the stairs to your apartment.

Unlocking your door awkwardly, leaning back so Alpine doesn’t slip out from your hoodie, you enter your apartment. Once the door shuts into place, before you can even call out that you’re home, Alpine is wriggling from your grip and out of your arms.

“No no no,” you say hurriedly, dropping your keys as Alpine bounds away from you sniffing.

There's a scampering sound, then bolting into the living area, Apollo appears. His green eyes fix onto Alpine, his usually sleek fur prickling like he was charging static. Alpine’s tail fluffs up like a pom-pom and you watch on with baited breath as Alpine growls warningly at Apollo. The last thing you need right now is a literal cat fight.

Apollo’s ears twitch rapidly. Both cats are frozen in mid-step, staring at one another until Apollo chirps, his thin tail twitching as he bounds at Alpine. He bulldozes into her and she flops onto her side with a soft thud. It takes you a moment to realise that your young cat is playing and Alpine doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, shes tolerating it. You sigh with relief watching Alpine pin Apollo’s excitable self under her with ease. Apollo's legs stick comically out from underneath her, his tortoiseshell patterning making Alpine’s elegant self look like she’s wearing crocodile hot pants with white socks.

You chuckle and snap a quick picture before punching the number you’d copied from Alpine’s collar into your dial pad. You hold your phone to your ear, pacing to the kitchen to make yourself a drink. It rings seven times and you almost hang up before a male voice answers.

“Hello?” The voice is gruff and curt, and you're immediately feeling nervous, wondering if you’d typed in the wrong number accidentally. “Look, if you’re selling something I’m in the middle of-“

“I have your cat!” you blurt and at the risk of sounding like a catnapper, hurriedly add, “I found at her at a park near the Central Cafe.”

“Oh thank God,” the voice heaves, sounding a lot less tense now which helps to ease your own nerves. “I’ve been looking for her for the past two hours. I can call off the search party.”

You chuckle, glancing over at Alpine, whose now pinning Apollo by the head with a snowy paw. “She’s got one heck of a personality, I’ll give you that.”

“She sure does,” The voice chuckles. “Uh, when can I come to get her?”

“Oh – whenever. I can text you my address.” You open the fridge with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, pulling out a soda.  

“Great. I can come now? If that’s not too short notice?” The person on the other end is clearly desperate to be reunited with Alpine and you don’t blame them one bit. The soda in your hand hisses as you pop open the tab.

“No it’s fine. You want your baby back, I get it.”  

“Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” You expect to hear the beep of the call disconnecting, but you’re surprised when the voice speaks again. “And thanks... for finding Alpine.”

You feel a little bashful. You hadn’t exactly found her. More like rescued her and then she’d clambered onto you. “It was nothing. I’ll see you soon.”

“See ya.”

You find yourself smiling smugly as the call disconnects and you tap in your address to Alpine’s parents’ number.  When you look up from your phone, both Alpine and Apollo are looking at you.

“What?” You say, raising your arms half heartedly. Strangely, the cat’s are looking like they were plotting something  and you couldn’t put your finger on what. With one last curious glance at them, you shake your head and move to the couch; waiting for Alpine’s owner to arrive.

Bucky’s day had been awful.

He was still tired from his last mission when he got called in to work again. He couldn't wait to return home to Alpine. He imagined her waiting for him by the door as usual, waiting patiently for him to walk in from work and bombard him with pleas for attention and treats. He smiled to himself as he unlocked his door. Alpine was the best thing to have ever happened to him and he spoiled her rotten to prove it. He never thought he would be what Natasha had called a cat dad, but he was, and loved every moment he spent with his furry companion.

So when he entered his apartment, calling out for Alpine and having no response, his mind immediately frog-leaped to the worst conclusions. Bucky tore his apartment apart frantically, calling Alpine’s name. With each shout and each room and nook searched his voice became more desperate. Bucky checked all of the windows to make sure they were closed. He checked Alpine’s usual spots. The cupboards. The washing machine. Under the couch. He almost ripped up a floorboard before he realised he was hyperventilating and collapsed to the floor.

His breathing was laboured, vision blurring from both the lack of air in his lungs and the overwhelming feelings of fear and guilt thar plagued him. His head was in his hands staring at the floor wondering how and where Alpine had vanished to.

He'd almost missed your phone call because he was so upset.

Bucky stands outside your door awkwardly. He's buzzing with desperation to have Alpine back in his arms but doesn't quite know what to expect beyond the door. He raps the wood gently, hearing the butsle of you shift off your sofa with a muted "Coming!"

The first thing you do when you open the door to Bucky is smile. That catches him off guard. You step aside and welcome him in, apologising for a mess that doesn't exist and explaining that Alpine was playing with your cat somewhere in the apartment.

"What did you say his name was?" Bucky asks, eyeing an enormous cat tree you'd placed in a corner. He made a mental note to buy one for Alpine.

"Apollo." You reply. You frown and pace around your sofa, clearly looking for something. "Sorry I... they were right here a second ago."

"That's a nice name." Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets. You hum in response this time. This was painfully awkward.

A meow from one of your rooms echoes through the apartment. It sounds like Alpine. Bucky moves before you do, taking two large steps in the direction of the sound before a flash of fur attaches itself to Bucky’s leg. Bucky looks down excitedly expecting to see Alpine, but his face falls when he realises it's a cat he doesn't recognise. It's Apollo.

Apollo's claws poke through the blue fabric of Bucky's jeans and Bucky could have sworn the cat looked damn smug about it too.

“You little asshole,” You gasp, grabbing Apollo. His back half lifts easily but his claws remain latched in Bucky’s jeans. Even as Apollo is stretched further, his body limply following your hands, he doesn’t retract his claws. He mewls softly and looks back at his pet parent with wide green eyes, that were trying desperately to look as innocent and cute as he could muster.

“I am so sorry.” you grovel apologetically to Bucky, not meeting his gaze. Bucky huffs with a smile. Now he really doesn't know what to do. Your cheeks burn with embarassment as you give Apollo a gentle wiggle. “Let go.”

Apollo refuses and meows in defiance. As if on cue, Alpine trots out from your bedroom rounding on you and jumping onto your back. You yelp, startled by Alpine's sneak attack, and straighten your back to try to shake her off. Alpine perches on your shoulder, sinking her own claws into the thin fabric of your shirt. She definitely wouldn't be moving unless she decided it, and meows triumphantly.

"Alpine!" Bucky gasps, reaching for his own cat. She had never done this before with anyone. He flushes with embarassment as well now. He thought your cat was a smug ass and now his cat was misbehaving too. This day was getting worse and worse.

Alpine mewled in protest when Bucky attempted to tug her away from your shoulder.

"Ow, ow, ow," You mutter, half turning to offer more of your shoulder to Bucky.

"Sorry," Bucky mumbles trying to detach Alpine’s claws; but she'd lift a paw to re-attach it to you shoulder again. What had gotten into her?

With Alpine’s distraction, Apollo sinks his pin-needle teeth into Bucky's leg. Bucky curses and looks down, you fluster and are about to ask what happened when Alpine slinks lower and leaps from your chest; her back legs pushing off you hard enough to send your back into Bucky’s chest. You stumble slightly, and thanks to his training, Bucky catches your hips to steady you. He looks down at you with concern and your head tilts back to look up at him wide eyed and flustered.

The cats have disappeared from beside you both. It's just you and Bucky in the middle of your apartment. The silence is palpable but not uncomfortable. You both are taking in the other's features; truly looking at one another. It isn't until a loud meow snaps you both out of your thoughts.

Bucky releases your hips, blushing and mumbling an apology. You stand up straighter, blushing equally red, also mumbling an apology. Bucky's eyes drift to where the meow came from, only to see Alpine and Apollo sat side by side, watching their parents' interaction.

"I think we've been had," Bucky says, pointing at them. His lips twitch into a small smile and you follow his finger to the cats, whose tails are flicking impatiently.

You sigh, setting your hands on your hips. "I knew they were planning something."

Bucky chuckles. "She's never done that before."

"I wish I could say Apollo hasn't," You smile sheepishly over at Bucky and he can feel himself smiling back.

"He is a little bastard." Bucky glances down at his jeans that have a few small holes from Apollo's teeth and claws.

"But he's my little bastard," you chuckle jokingly and hold out a hand. "I'm Y/N."

Bucky pauses for a moment before shaking your hand delicately with his flesh hand, conscious of the serum and worried about accidentally crushing your hand. "Bucky."

There's another moment of silence as you shake hands, looking at eachother. Bucky watches you swallow thickly and he clears his throat, dropping his hand from yours.

"I don't think the cats want to leave just yet," Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so.... bashful.

You glance at the cats, who look like they're trying very hard to be nonchalant.

"No, I don't think they want to leave their play date either." You comment, narrowing your eyes at Apollo before turning back to Bucky. "Would... you like to stay for a coffee?"

"Coffee sounds good, if you don't mind." Bucky smiles again and you smile back. Something inside of his chest twists, and heat creeps up his neck. He watches you move towards the kitchenette, your hand meeting with Alpine’s head as you pass by. Alpine’s eyes close as you scratch her head and she purrs loudly. Your saying something about sugar and milk and apologising for Apollo again but Bucky isn't listening.

There's something about the way Alpine is looking at him, the way her eyes blue blink slowly at him and look over to you, sitting proudly on the counter that reminds him of when she brings him mice. He shakes his head of the thought and rejoins the conversation with you.

Alpine and Apollo share a look; a look of smug triumph that's missed by their parents who are too busy chatting and standing close to on another. Apollo gives a short trill and nudges Alpine with his head. Alpine purrs gently in response. Their plan had succeeded.

You were most definitely better than a mouse.

[nukhaos]

TW : NSFW, no beta readers we die like men, wrote it for a friend 🫰🏻💕 English is not my native language, small breeding kink and pinning, fuck the scientific explanation on how you can take him, m!reader

ONE SHOT

DR PHOSPHORUS

You're a member of the creature commando and have a crush on the neon green skeleton man.

It was a weird feeling for both of you; Being part of a team, or more, being part of a team again for you. You couldn’t stop looking at the neon figure standing almost a foot taller than you, body made of toxic gas and of a skeleton face showing a smile always looking too happy to be where he was. You were not sure if he was made of flesh anymore, didn’t have the occasion to touch to prove your theory that, maybe, some part of his body was saved after whatever happened to him couldn’t even guess if he had any organs left. 

You were seated in the kitchen of the castle, waiting for Rick and the princess to be done with whatever they were doing, not that you really cared anyway. Nina and Bride were making an inventory of what would be needed if they were to pack their bags and leave this shithole of a place, you were not even sure wi-fi existed in this country but you sure weren’t here to invent it and you were starting to feel so fucking bored.

And suddenly he was here, looking at you like you were holding a secret of some sort from him. Well okay, maybe it was true, you were attracted to the man…the skeleton ? The thing ? Fuck, okay maybe the name of the squad made more sense, “ creature commando” rang weirdly to your ears at first, but you couldn’t say weasel wasn’t a creature of some sort, the same did go for Nina. 

“ Why do you look so serious, data guy?” He suddenly asked, after a few minutes of just looking at your face who was wearing a frown he never saw before. You couldn’t help but scrunch your nose at the comment.

“ Data guy ? Really ? Is that all I am ?” Defiance, maybe he liked it a little too much, but you couldn’t even guess if he was smirking, smiling, or even frowning.

“ For now, yeah, but, maybe you could be so much more.” A bony hand was tentatively going a little too close to your face, you could almost feel the burn. You really could be so much more, you weren’t a creature, just like the boss of your team, you weren’t even supposed to really be on the field to fight. You were here to look, gather information about the team, each of them. Echoes of Nina and Bride in the back of the room who were tentatively laughing and trying to get the focus of Dr Phosphorus out of you. “ Come on, leave him alone, of course you’re important." Nina placed, while the  scoff of Bride came to your ears and her hand started going over Nina’s waist to guide her out of the room.

Alexander Sartorius, as you could read in his files, was standing above you the minute they exited the room, hands on each side of your thighs, face so close you wondered if you were going to be intoxicated either by his closeness or just his body. He could clearly see your eyes full of questions, of a tantalizing analysis of your person. Who were you ? Why did you accept to be here with the freaks that they were ? Everything, but not one sound to go toward directly asking. You could almost smell his breath. 

“ Why are you bent over me like that, d’you like me that much doc ?” You could almost see him shiver at the sound of your voice so close to his ears. 

“ You’re a mystery, it’s fun.” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “ Collecting data on all of us, but what about you ? What makes you special champ?” His hand grew closer to your thigh, ready to pierce a hole in your pants that were supposed to protect you from his burn while you were sitting with him in the fuckass bus they gave you to travel the city. 

“ I ain’t special, and you’re too close.” Even if somehow you were tempted to become someone else than human suddenly if it meant he could touch you. He didn’t even made a move to get away from you, and your reflexes to go away from him made you almost lay entirely back on that kitchen table. Weird position to be found in, you’d agree, but somehow it left you excited, waiting like a fucking pray to be devored and eaten whole by the man you could guess by the shape of his oh so strange body, if you could call it that.

“I’ll find a way to break…your walls.” You’d almost laugh if you weren’t scared of the wood beneath his hands to start burning like you felt your cheeks start to burn, bright eyes who examined what situation you fucking landed on. “ Did the adventure of Rick and the dilf-chaser princess turn you on ? Are you that desperate ?” You snickered, maybe you were trying to make him back off, or maybe you were trying to see if he was serious about it, he didn’t seem serious about anything ever after all.

His hand suddenly pressed on your jaw, making your entire body face him, making you look at him, a split second where the burn would have destroyed your jaw but the quick pain only made you shiver, he wasn’t touching long enough to even make a blister. 

“What if I am ? What would you do ? Should I try to ask the S.H.A.DE to make you a special suit so you could handle all I've got ? Would you beg for it ?” You couldn’t hide the laugh growing in your chest, you were used to Harleen flirting with you, or even Digger trying to not be too awkward while talking to you, but this was new, it felt more serious, like he would really do something about it even if it meant changing you at your core. 

“ We’re not at this point of our relationship yet, Alexander.” And he backed away, just like that, like it’s been a decade someone didn’t call him that name.

“ I’ll see you later.” He huffed, almost offended or maybe turned on by you using his name.

You’ll see where it goes, if all that was supposed to go toward something.

—

You started to think about it, turning left and right in the bed you had at your disposal for the time being. You didn’t really know anything about Alexander, well, Dr Phosphorus, or really anyone else, you catched glimpse of their stories in the files you were reading. Should you really be falling for a criminal ? Again ? It was always like that with you, asking you stupid questions and re-questioning everything again and again instead of sleeping to be somewhat efficient on the field. But maybe, it was because of that specific quirk of yours that you noticed the creaking of the door being open making you push your body up on your elbows in the dark of the room ‘till a well known light now acted as a fucking lamp in the small bedroom.

“What the fuck.” You whispered, and he just shrugged, you guess he couldn’t sleep either anyway, hearing the moanings and obscene squelching of your fish friend and her undead girlfriend some rooms away from you. 

He took your earlier conversation  seriously, maybe too seriously, but somehow you weren’t disappointed at all, he had something on his mind and you weren’t the one who would deny him. You craved him like a cigarette, and quite literally he could burn your lungs if he wanted, you’d die happy. Such a weird way to die but eventually you’d be gone doing something you wanted, being railed to death, such a poetic way to go. 

You looked at his figure, cocking your head on the side with a quiet “why are you here ?”.

So many questions not answered, did he even sleep ? How ? How his clothes were not burning ? Why was he coming closer and closer to the bed? 

You felt the weight of the mattress shift under his weight, you didn’t really register he had some weight to him. “ I thought about it. I would burn the world to bring some heat to you. And you always fucking looks cold kid.” It was enough to send you into another dimension, for fucking real ? You knew the man for maybe a week and he was already in your bed ready to do god only knows what to you. 

“ But how ?” And it didn't even need an answer, sharp toothy mouth against yours, he found a way, didn’t know how, didn’t care about the science behind it. Hands on your waist and you couldn’t let him think he was winning, couldn’t let him think you were so easily earned. “ Me first.” You had this know-it-all look to your face, this smirk who said you were gonna fucking eat him alive. And you didnt care for any blisters, any burn scars, building this moment since you laid eyes on him, the monster fucker you could add to your fucking resume. 

It honestly felt weird, to touch him, like a transparent body, you could see every bone but somehow couldn't reach it, it was deep, carnal, feral even, the way you were bobbing your head only to make him moan, fingers deep in someone you couldn't hide anything going on. There would be retribution for that, for being deep inside his body, enjoying the warmth, when he was only gasping for air and trying to scratch each part of your back without burning it to a crisp.

“ I could make you pregnant” You couldn’t, realistically, but you could always try again and again till your brain was only much from the toxic gas you inevitably inhaled while kissing him and pressing your body against his. “ I could make you pregnant.” He said, gripping a handful of your hair and maybe he was serious too, or it was just another one of your bickering, both of you always trying to have the last word. Rubbers piling him in the corner of the bed and condensation piling on the windows. He flipped you like you weighed nothing, pressed your head against the pillow like you did to him an hour ago. 

A battle for dominance and it was like you were really part of something again, bony fingers digging deep in the dimples of your back, probably bruising you inside as much as he did outside. You were gasping for air, gasping for more, begging for the moment to never end. “ What we’ll name it huh ?” He said, wrapping a hand around your throat to be able to bring you closer to his chest and turning your head just enough to be able to kiss you. “ Shut the fuck up and work” You hissed, didn’t want to talk, lost in the cloud of pleasure you were feeling.

You ended it by sharing a cigarette, face burrowed intermittently in his neck, wondering what the other teammates would say about the noises going out of both of your throats. But it was a problem for later, you wanted to forget you had a world to save.

[enbyenvy666]

May I request an a/b/o hitoshi shinso x cismale reader? They're all aged up, and a hero Shinso meets civilian reader. Just some fluffy interactions of shinso courting the reader, with a fluffy'n'smut ending? Thank you for your time!

wow this took so long to write lol

honestly i just took this idea and ran with it so i hope the wait was worth it ! also i haven't written for Shinso before so hopefully he isn't too ooc

(also he doesn't have a cannon hero name so i tried to get around that by the reader giving him a nickname instead)

��𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

CONTENT WARNINGS - 18+ MDNI, a/b/o, alpha!Shinso, omega!reader, slight scent and breeding kink, knotting, mating press, reader is a paramedic, reader treats shinso's minor wounds, fluff n smut, no beta we die like men w/c - 3.7k

Red and blue flashing lights made Shinso’s head hurt, straining his already tired eyes. Police cars and ambulances surrounded him and his fellow heroes, showing up after a particularly rough takedown. He had a couple of scrapes and bruises, but the paramedics wouldn’t let him leave before they assessed him. The only problem was, that there were others with more severe injuries than his own so it was taking a while.

As he sat on the curb, fiddling with his capture weapon, two work boot-clad feet entered his view. His purple eyes trailed up their legs, noticing the deep green uniform they wore with the paramedic shield embroidered over their chest pocket which held a couple of pens.

“Alright Mr. Hero, it’s your turn,” you grinned down at him, waving him towards one of the empty ambulances. He stood with a groan, feeling one of the cuts on his arm burn and sting. You climbed into the back of the ambulance, guiding Shinso to sit on the stretcher. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you as you fluffed around his, slipping a sphygmomanometer around his arm and a pulse oximeter on his finger.

“Any pain anywhere?” You asked, and if he wasn’t looking at your lips he wouldn’t have noticed.

“No,” he muttered, watching how you gently inspected the cut on his arm. Even through the latex of the sanitised gloves, he could feel the warmth of your fingertips. Just when the band around his upper arm felt like it couldn’t get any tighter, it slowly deflated. You looked at the reading and smiled.

“Blood pressure is good.” But when you read the result of the oximeter, you frowned a little. Shinso didn’t like seeing you frown, and he wanted to do anything to see you smile again.

“Pulse is a little high,” you mumbled. If it was possible, he would’ve slowed his pulse at that moment, just to make this stranger happy. Readjusting the device on his finger, you also squeezed his hand in yours absentmindedly as you typed in his results onto your little laptop.

“I’ll keep this on a little longer, but otherwise you’re in good shape! I’ll just clean up your wounds a little and you should be good to go.” Finally, that smile was back on your face, showing off your pretty teeth while you changed your gloves.

The alcohol used to disinfect his cuts and scrapes stung, every time he would wince you would softly apologise. One by one, you tended to his wounds and with each bandage he felt himself growing more and more infatuated. As you softly dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton pad over the smell scrapes near his hairline, he spotted something shiny under your uniform collar.

It was a scent-coating collar, torn and ragged around the edges, clearly old and worn out, but as he inhaled, he could smell the faint scent of you.

“You’re an omega,” he mumbled. You chuckled nervously, movements stuttering for a moment before you leaned away from him.

“Oh, yeah, guess I need a new one huh?” You joked, referring to the band that circled your neck. With a bandage in hand, you leaned back over Shinso and softly pressed it over the scrape, smoothing the edges down with your fingers.

“I’m just gonna check your eyes for any signs of a concussion,” you explained as you pulled out a pen from your pocket, clicking the small button on the side of it. The end lit up, and you pointed it towards his eyes.

“You should be fine… just making sure because you did hit your… head.” You trailed off, too concentrated on the way his pupils contracted and expanded. The way you bit your lip made his heart flutter, and he almost got worried the oximeter would read too high again. But that would mean he would get to stay with you longer so maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.

“Just keep staring at my nose.” Gladly. The light flickering in and out of his vision irritated his eyes even more, so he was thankful when you pocketed the pen and smiled.

“Alright, you’re good to go!” He almost wished there was something wrong just so you would stay with him, but alas, he left the ambulance. All of the other ambulances and police cars were gone, leaving just you, him and your partner.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“No problem, Mr. Hero,” you grinned back.

“It’s-“ The walkie on your belt started barking out codes and addresses, to which you grimaced. Must not be good.

“Shit, gotta go,” you muttered, quickly turning and rushing back into the passenger seat of the ambulance. Your partner got in the driver's seat, and just before they turned on the lights and sirens, you leaned out the window and shouted goodbye to Shinso. He couldn’t stop his lazy grin as he waved back at you, watching you zoom away, off to save someone’s life, he presumed.

He didn’t realise how much of an impact you made on him until he had another rough take down and you weren’t one of the paramedics that showed up. He felt disappointed, and the way the paramedics tended to his injuries wasn’t as gentle as you were. He wasn’t sure why, but he missed you.

It took some searching, but eventually, he found you at an ambulance station during one of your few breaks from being on the road helping patients. As you were taking stock of the inventory in your ambulance, Shinso’s messy indigo hair.

“Hi Mr.Hero,” you greeted happily, climbing down from the back of the ambulance, clipboard in hand.

“What can I do for you? If you’re looking for medical assistance I’m required to tell you to go to the hospital, I can take you there if you need?”

“No, I’m okay,” Shinso denied. While your eyes flashed with confusion, the same gentle yet gleeful smile stayed on your lips.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

“Oh! There’s no need, I’m just doing my job,” you dismissed with a wave of your hand. It looked soft, and he wanted to hold it, brush his thumb over your knuckles, or maybe his lips. To stop him from grabbing your hand and doing just that, he fiddled with his capture weapon, just like he was doing when he first laid eyes on you.

While he didn’t like you denying your hard work as ‘just part of the job’, he understood where you were coming from. He often has the same mentality when it comes to being a hero, and that makes him feel closer to you.

“I also wanted to,” he hesitated, feeling an unusual anxiety bubbling up into his throat. Why did this feel so difficult?

“Ask you to dinner.”

Your smile dropped, and so did Shinso’s stomach. Your cheeks grew warm as you looked away from the hero, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your giddy grin. If you had a tail, it would’ve been wagging at the speed of sound. Composing yourself, you looked back at Shinso, but nervously couldn’t meet his hooded eyes.

“I’d love to.”

The weight on his shoulders lifted, and he quietly sighed in relief with the faintest smile. But as soon as you started to organise when to go out, you both realised that your schedules didn’t align very well. Shinso kept on his stoic appearance even as he felt his hopes crumble. Was this really how it ended, before it even started, all because of conflicting schedules?

But finally, there was a night when you and him were free. It was a month away, but at least it was something. That date is what carried him through work. On tough days, he would remind himself of his dinner with you, counting down the days until it finally arrived.

He couldn’t believe how nervous he felt, but at least his stoic demeanour didn’t betray that fact. The flame of the candle on the table flickered and swayed, Shinso’s purple eyes watching its every move. Time felt like it was moving too slowly. What felt like ten minutes of watching the flame dance was truly only a minute, but every second of it made him more and more anxious.

The longer he waited, the more he fretted that you weren’t going to show up. Perhaps the month's wait had given you enough time to change your mind. Tugging on his sleeves and collar didn’t help to cool him down, but it was the only sign that he was upset. Just as he was about to get up and leave, the chair across from him was pulled back.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” How could he be mad at you? Your skin glowed in the candlelight, your lips parted in an apologetic smile that showed your beautiful teeth (even with any imperfections). You sat down before holding up a single rose in your hand and handing it to him.

“As an apology.”

“I wasn’t sure what kind you liked,” you explained sheepishly, hands nervously fiddling in your lap under the table.

“Don’t worry, it’s perfect,” he smiled softly. Thankfully dinner continued without a hitch, except for when a fan wanted a picture with Shinso. He was annoyed until he caught you stifling a giggle across the table. He loved to see you laugh.

When dinner was over, he didn’t want to say goodbye, even as you stood outside the restaurant, a cab waiting, he didn’t want to let go of your hand. It just fit so well in his. As you turned to him, looking up into his tired eyes, you smiled.

“I had a really good time,” you admitted, squeezing his hand. Lifting up onto your toes, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. While it was only quick, to Shinso it felt like an eternity. Your soft lips on his skin, your scent clouding his senses, your palm on his chest to steady yourself. It took everything in him to not sweep you off your feet at that moment and claim you as his omega. But alas, you stepped away, with a final call for him to text you before you climbed into the taxi.

He was more infatuated than ever, finding more and more opportunities to visit you at the ambulance station. After learning your favourite snacks, he would drop them off for your lunch or dinner if you were working later. Sometimes he’d even leave flowers and on a Valentine’s Day when you were working, he left chocolates and a stuffed bear.

On nights when it was too late for a date but you were both free, you would talk on the phone for hours.

“And then she tried to hit me when I tried to check her blood pressure! I get that no one likes it, but come on! There’s no need to get violent,” you ranted.

“I know what you mean, I feel like old ladies just want to let their anger out at anyone who cares. One time I got a lady's purse back from a robber and she yelled at me for swinging her purse around too much,” Shinso replied with a soft chuckle. You bit your lip when you heard the sound. It was melodic.

“I mean, we’re just trying to help, aren’t we?” You agreed, rolling onto your stomach, legs idly swinging behind you.

“How did you go after the handoff today?” Shinso asked, running his fingers through his soft hair as he also lounged on his bed. Earlier that day, he caught a man in a hit-and-run who didn’t quite like being held accountable. He was claiming he had chest pains which meant an ambulance had to be called, and Shinso was super happy when he saw you climb out of the vehicle.

“He got worse once you and the cops were gone, the asshole even ripped off my collar,” you grumbled. Shinso felt possessiveness and anger at the thought of that guy putting his hands on you and harming you.

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” He asked.

“I’m fine, my partner managed to subdue him until we got him to the hospital.” It eased his worries to hear you were unharmed, but he was still worried about you.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” He asked, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Your hum through the speaker sounded like a soothing drone, he could use it as white noise if he wanted to.

“Don’t think so, why?”

“Do you want to come over? Dinner and a movie at my place?” Your legs kicked behind you like an excited teen, butterflies swarming your stomach.

“I’d love to.”

Both you and Shinso slept with grins, excited for the next evening. Work felt like a breeze, nothing could get you down when you knew you would be seeing Shinso when your shift ended. He felt the same, if not more excited and anxious.

Before you knew it, you were standing on his doorstep, fist raised shakily to knock on the door. As soon as your knuckles hit the wood, it swung open, revealing Shinso. He must’ve been waiting on the other side of the door.

He invited you in, to which you graciously accepted. You didn’t miss how he held one arm behind his back, but you were too distracted by looking around his home to say anything. It was cute, and you noticed the cat toys strewn about. Shinso cleared his throat, your attention now trained on him.

“I got something for you,” he mumbled, revealing the box he was keeping hidden. He seemed nervous, which made you feel anxious in return. With ginger touches, you took the box and opened it enough to peek inside. It was a collar, amethyst in colour with shining silver metal on the buckle. A definite upgrade from your last one.

“Shinso!” You gasped, picking it up from the box. The inside of it was soft so it wouldn’t irritate your skin, and you could smell that slightly chemical scent that would cover yours.

“It’s beautiful!”

“Do you like it?” He still asked, wanting to quell his anxiety.

“I love it,” you grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist, and pulling him into a tight hug. He quickly reciprocated, head tucked into your shoulder. Without the old collar, he could smell your scent entirely. It was sweet, intoxicating. You pulled away and turned your back to him while holding up the collar.

While he wished you didn’t have to cover your scent, he still complied, clipping on the collar, wanting to do anything to make you happy. Using your phone as a mirror, you admired how the piece looked around your neck, unable to hold in your excited squeal.

Pulling the hero in for another hug, you muttered repeated thank yous. He held you in his arms as you pulled back to look up at him. Shinso’s smile was soft, but it was enough to make you feel jittery. With your gaze locked on his, the world around you fell silent.

Slowly, he leaned down, lips meeting yours in a kiss so passionate it made your knees weak. But you weren’t worried, you knew he would catch you. His hands groped and tugged on your body, palms rough from years of hero work. Your hands found his hair, threading through the soft strands. Everything grew heated, clothes striped and initial date plans pushed to the side until you were finished.

The rest of the night felt feather light, and like there was a warm glow around Shinso, the edges of your vision tinted in rose. Dinner tasted like magic because he cooked it. And the movie was perfect because he picked it. Everything about him was amazing. You were on cloud nine, even as you went to bed alone in your home.

But that all changed by the next morning. Your body felt hot, coated in a sheen of sweat, and struggling to breathe. Stumbling out of bed and making your way to the bathroom, you could feel the slick between your thighs and realise how hard you were. Your reflection showed your sweat-dotted face and messy hair. Your cheeks didn’t cool even after you splashed cold water on your face, so all you could do was slink back into bed.

Your encounter with Shinso last night must’ve had more of an effect on you than you thought, leaving you in heat and needing more. Even as your hands shook, you managed to dial the man in question.

“Hello?” He spoke into the phone. His voice made you whimper, which he heard.

“‘toshi,” you whimpered.

“Is everything okay, baby?” He asked.

“Need you. So bad,” you panted, unable to resist the temptation of palming yourself through your underwear.

“What’s wrong?” The concerned tone in his voice was noticeable.

“In, ah, heat.” You swore you could hear him fumble the phone.

“I’ll be right there okay? Just hold on for me.” He hung up, much to your chagrin as you wanted to keep listening to his voice. It felt like an eternity before he finally showed up. You met him at the door, almost tackling him the second the door opened. He managed to get you back inside, even as you tried to climb him like a tree.

With your arms and legs wrapped around him, he carried you back inside, trying to ignore the way your scent made his body react. He felt himself growing hard, and a hot flush washed over his body. He wanted nothing more than to fuck you right then and there, but he needed to wait a little while longer, then he could have you. Carrying you to your bedroom was the easy part, but getting you to let go of him was another level of difficulty.

You ended up just dragging him onto the bed with you, desperately clawing at his back to keep him close, to drown in him. His hands shook, his grip on you wavering as he fought his urges. As much as he wanted to breed you, he wanted to make his omega as comfortable as possible. 

Finally unlatching you from his body, leaving you to whine and squirm on the bed. Hitoshi shrugged the duffle bag off his shoulder, one you hadn’t even noticed. Blanket after blanket, he pulled them from the bag and placed them around you on the bed, creating a nest for you. 

“I wanted to bring pillows but I didn’t have enough room-” your lips collided with his, arms pulling him close till your body was flush against his. 

“It’s perfect,” you whispered between kisses, slowly pulling him down to the bed. Desperately needing air, he parted from your kiss as your back hit the mattress. You looked like a god below him, the sweat dotting your skin made your body glow. Your hands cupped his face, warm palms on warmer cheeks. 

“Please Hitoshi, make me your omega, be my alpha.” All self-control left him when he heard those words fall from your sweet lips. Capturing your lips once more, his needy hands started pulling on your clothes, desperately wanting to feel your bare skin against his. He couldn’t get them off fast enough, almost resorting to tearing them off when your lips trailed down his neck. Your scent had flooded his senses, his vision clouded fuchsia and all he could think about was you, you, you. 

The moment your underwear was pushed down enough, your hand travelled down between your thighs, fingers collecting the slick around your hole before gently but eagerly pressing them inside. You couldn’t wait for Hitoshi to undress himself, and the sight of you preparing yourself for his cock was something he never wanted to forget. As soon as his clothes were off, his fingers prodded your entrance. Reluctantly you removed your fingers, but you were given little time to dwell before his thicker digits fingered you. 

You occupied your hand by jerking your cock, the wetness on your fingers helping your hand glided smoothly. There were practically hearts in Hitoshi’s eyes as he watched your face contort with pleasure, your eyebrows knitting together when he added a third finger to your wet hole. 

He couldn’t wait any longer, retracting his fingers and hooking your knees over his shoulders. Using your slick as lube on his cock, he pressed his tip to your tight ring of muscle, biting his lip to hold in a hiss of pleasure when he slowly thrusted himself inside you. You, however, moaned unabashedly as his cock carved itself inside you, making it fit perfectly like two puzzle pieces. 

Hitoshi was quick to start an even pace, pressing your knees to your shoulders so his cock could thrust even deeper inside you. You couldn’t grab him in this position as much as you wished you could, instead twisting his blankets in a white-knuckled grip. Your eyes rolled back, swearing he was rearranging your guts at that very moment. Hitoshi couldn’t stop his groans as he felt your walls cling to his cock, pulling him back in every time his hips pulled away. 

Precum dribbled from your tip, leaving glistening droplets on your stomach. The purple-haired man above you leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours to inhale your scent, angling his cock to hit your prostate in the process. Each thrust against the spot sent shockwave after shockwave of pleasure through your body, making your fingers and toes tingle. 

Groans turned to growls as Hitoshi felt his peak building, his knot beginning to swell. He rut could only rut himself inside you, letting go of your knees to wrap his arms around your arched back instead, bodies pressed together. Your ankles quickly locked behind his back, preventing him from pulling out, as if he even wanted to, nails leaving red marks across his shoulder blades. Hitoshi tucked his head between your neck and shoulder, teeth brushing against your skin, but not yet biting down. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he growled over and over, his voice straining and growing in pitch until he reached his peak, ropes of cum coating your insides as his teeth finally sunk into flesh. The feeling of him filling you with his seed, his knot locking you together, and him officially making you his omega brought you to orgasm. Hitoshi’s hips finally stilled, panting against your neck as you both came down from your highs. Your fingers played with his soft hair, unable to stop a smile from gracing your lips. 

Hitoshi pressed a soft kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder before lifting his head. He smiled softly, threading his fingers with yours as he kissed you deeply. 

“My omega.”

-----

i hope you enjoyed :) also writing the next chapter of personal pornstar so stay tuned ;)

[malicedragoness]

Kinktober Day 2 - Bath/Shower

Characters: Syzoth x GN Titan!Reader

Word Count: 782

Synopsis: Titan Reader has been busy piecing together their timeline after the battle with Titan Shang Tsung. Syzoth decides to help them unwind a bit in a hot spring.

Notes: Not beta read, we die like men! And I know it’s not technically a bath, but who’s gonna stop me? Lol

Warnings: Sex in a hot spring, oral sex (no gender specified)

Kinktober 2024 tag list: @bihanspookies

An exhausted sigh left your lips as you lazily unlatched the buckles of your armor. After Titan Shang Tsung had been dealt with, there have been lasting repercussions to your timeline that you have been diligently working on solving with Geras. The mere existence of other timelines had thrown you for a loop. Much less being summoned by Liu Kang to help defend his world and the worlds of others.

After a few grueling months with not a moment to yourself, you decided to break away for a few minutes to bathe in the hot springs of your quiet mountainside. When you shaped the world, you carved a safe haven for yourself in a beautiful part of the world.

Constructing a small bath house for yourself on the peak of a mountain. Ivory stone walls formed a protective barrier from any who could stumble upon you. The roof and one of the walls opened up to reveal the perfect vista. Lush, green forests, gorgeous mountaintops, serene skies, and the swirling warmth of the springs.

The perfect place to bathe and rest your weary bones. Your armor slumped to the ground with a heavy thump. Your robes soon join the pieces of metal, eager to soak in the blissful warmth.

Once bare, you crack your toes on the dewy grass before lowering yourself into the shimmering water. The steamy depths send soothing tingles throughout your nerve endings. Like a warm caress traveling up your spine, gently massaging every atom of your body, down to your bones.

A pleased sigh leaves your lips, sinking into the hot spring until it meets your chin. You close your eyes, listening to the gentle sound of the water and leaves fluttering in the wind.

Only one person could make this even better.

A faint shuffling could be heard, causing a smirk to tug on the corner of your lips. If not for your enhanced hearing as a Titan, you would have been none the wiser.

“I was just thinking of you, Syzoth.” Your eyes hold a teasing glint as you gaze at the wall to your right.

A thud could be heard as heavy feet landed on the soft grass. The air rippled like a calm lake being disturbed by a thrown rock, as the Zaterran’s reptilian visage appeared.

Syzoth cut a menacing figure. Muted green-yellow scales decorated a hulking, muscular body. Sharp claws, broad shoulders, powerful tail, and taller than any human you’ve ever met.

He crawled to the edge of the hot spring, muscles rippling with each step. You watched in fascination as he plunged head first into steaming waters, completely immersing himself, until even his tail was underwater.

Little bubbles floated to the surface as he swam his way over to you. A gentle glow emanated underwater for a brief moment.

Soft hands glided up your legs, causing a shiver to run down your spine. A human face poked just above the surface, revealing mischievous emerald eyes.

“Syzoth!” You jump up, letting out a surprised laugh when his hands tease your sides.

Syzoth stands up, water cascading down his toned body, making your heart skip a beat. “You finally decided to grace me with your smile.”

His hands cup your face and he leans his forehead against yours. A low, affectionate growl rumbles in his throat.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ve been busy.” You murmur, basking in his comforting presence and the warmth of his hands. You always wondered how they could be so soft in his human form, when his clawed hands were rough and thick.

“I know. You’ve done amazing.” He presses his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. Oh, how you’ve missed those lips!

“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you,” he whispers into your ear.

His warm hands travel down your wet body, caressing every groove and dip. Open mouth kisses slowly trail down your neck, your chest, and lower abdomen, until Syzoth’s head submerged in the water to kneel before your needy sex.

You feel his elongated forked tongue licking a long stripe along your arousal. His smooth tongue swirls, licks, and teases you relentlessly. Your hips try to buck against his mouth, but he holds you down with clawed hands, refusing to let you move an inch. Making you submit to his sweet onslaught.

“Syzoth…” You whine, gripping the edge of the hot spring.

Bubbles break through the surface as his movements speed up. Plush lips greedily suck on your sensitive flesh. Scaley tail swishing in the water.

You tilt your head back and close your eyes.

It’s been too long since you’ve felt Syzoth’s loving touch.

The world can wait. Right now, you need him.

[bucknastysbabe]

criston cole in a greens win au really is the kingmaker if he’s cucking aegon. slapped a crown on the king and now he’s making bastard kids to go on the throne. u go king.

Now I must write a blurb hnghhhh cuckingggg this is prob ass bc I’m sick rotting in bed with flubonic plague but OH WELL

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Dayne!reader, greens win AU, Criston is dark and manipulative, Aegon sad sacking around the place, cukolding, exhibitionism, breeding kink, crispy creme pie, infidelity, v!fingering, oral (m!receiving), pnv!sex, no beta I die like Ned stark, jealousy, one-sided-ish

Taglist: @starogeorgina @moncherri @bambitas @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @arcielee @valeskafics @sugarpoppss2 @fairysluna @lovelykhaleesiii

Do Your Job - C.Cole

Criston stopped caring long ago, pulling himself out of the layered filth of blood, gore, and dirt. Bodies of his men. The butcher’s ball they called it. Criston made sure that the Winter’s Wolves, Benjicot Blackwood, and Roddy the Ruin got a nice death by dragon. After some torture.

He saw through with that, as the Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Criston had to attend to such matters. Such as what to do with Rhaenyra’s last child. Or the fucking mess that was Aegon. Aemond was still lurking around Harrenhal— said to return when his child was born. Aegon meanwhile, made Criston’s blood boil. Alicent was a maddened gnat in his ear.

Aegon had been recently remarried to a Dayne of Starfall, seeking out the ashen hair and Valyrian eyes of the Dornish house. She was gorgeous, eager to please, and could suck Criston’s prick under his desk for hours. The adorable queen had trouble with Aegon— considering the man was a bag of shattered bones and burns. The maesters had been attending to the two’s fertility plan.

She was not hard to woo, seeking Cole’s comforts as Aegon still wanted to hoard playthings and whores, uncaring much of his wife at the moment. He bedded her regularly— but they had to be careful with his bad leg and hip. Criston’s little star, beautiful as one, was the shiniest thing in the dreary keep by far. But horribly lonely, so he’d been keeping an eye, asking the Queen to help him with letters and tasks of the realm.

It wasn’t long before she was in his lap crying about how terrible the Red Keep was. Criston had his proverbial claws sunk deep into her by then. He meant his words of praise, how special his star was, and meant doubly on how much he too hated the Keep. Criston’s fingers crawled up her dress as he cooed, bringing the girl to likely her first orgasm since arriving.

They sat together in the Hand’s foyer, Ser Cole writing a letter to some raucous lordling. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back, dark eyes meeting a strange indigo of sorts. “Have there been any advancements with the maesters and your womb?” She shook her head, blush dusting her cheeks.

“Go on, what’s the issue my star?”

She leaned over the table to grip his hands, pleading in her body language. “Do not grow wroth when I tell you this okay?” Criston nodded, there was no chance he would not be pissed. Just a feeling. The Dayne sighed, “He’s impotent but he swears it’s me, I don’t know, they’ve started transferring his, seed, into me. By now I’m not sure, he berates me about it.” Criston’s eyes narrowed and she squeaked.

The smaller figure was picked up by him, striding to the King’s chambers. Where Aegon was like to be making two court favorites defile themselves. The queen begged, “My lord, please, I know you feel strongly for me but-“

He growled, “No!,” then softer, “No. He’s being a fool, a lady’s desire should help the process. I’ll oversee you two. We need heirs to the throne.”

He kicked open the door, startling a half-awake Aegon. Criston gently laid the Queen on the bed then turned to a glaring Targaryen. Aegon’s burnt face twisted in annoyance, slightly slurring, “The hell is going on here Cole?” A goblet of wine sat in front of him— of course he was drinking.

Criston folded his arms. “You’re drunk right now? It’s barely even past midday.”

“Sorry, one tends to get bored when his wife would rather cavort around with the Hand,” he acridly spat back.

She protested from behind, “Alright, I can stay around, it’s fine!”

Criston eyed his star and back to Aegon. He asked “You have a beauty like that and can’t fill her belly with seed? You have the maesters stuff her like a turkey instead? Pathetic.”

Aegon’s form shook with rage, reaching for his crutch, Criston swiftly kicking it out of the way with a clatter. Aegon barked, “I’m your goddamn king, bring that back now! Maybe she’s the one barren, dirtied by lowborn seed!”

That little fucker! Criston’s eye twitched. He had not put his cock into her sacred place but now? Someone had to do the job— and it would be him. The taller brunette forced Aegon’s chair closer to the bed, the king hissing in pain, violet eyes wide. Cole chastised, “Since you’re so smart, I’ll do a little test, see if my lowborn cock has sullied her womb.” Aegon’s soft face pulled into a frown, squirming in position.

Criston began to pull at his gauntlets in quick snaps, then the bracers, and the chest plate along with the heavy shoulders. He decided to keep his chain of hands on as an ego boost. Lowborn cock raised to the second highest position in the realm, doing the highest position’s job.

Dayne stared at him, eyes flicking to the strangely silent Aegon, then back. Criston smiled at the queen, winding a tan hand into her ashen locks. He murmured, “Don’t worry dearest, we’ll have you feeling wonderful in no time, right your Grace?” Aegon remained stone cold— lips pouting.

The hand began to ease off the simple Dornish layers of her dress, baring that gorgeous body. How could she not be fertile? His star was all curves and soft skin, she would be great as a mother. Criston told her that, earning a whine, her legs wrapped around his waist. He panted to the king, “First, they need to be actually attracted to you.”

Cole pressed lush kisses to her neck and shoulders, his big hand testing the waters between her thighs. She was a little wet, not yet how he could get the Dayne, sopping. He rasped just for her ears, “Relax for me, he’s so jealous you might get an obedient king. Gorgeous star doesn’t know her own wiles.” She writhed a bit, tits pressed tight against flat chest.

“Oh, oh, there my Lord,” the blonde panted.

Criston was pumping one finger into her velvet heat, sliding in a second one to crook upwards. His thumb swirled around her swollen bud. He laughed carelessly at Aegon, whose scarred hands dug into the sides of his chair, puffy lips open. The brunette snarked, “See how easy it is not to be a selfish prick? It’s quite rewarding to make your lady come— although I think she’s already too attached to me.”

The king whined softly.

The queen moaned louder, crying Criston’s name and wetting his fingers further. The knight pulled from her full tits, purposely working her cunt over while asking. “Doesn’t that feel good little star? Don’t you wish your King would take care of you like that?” The queen gasped and mewled, cheeks a deep flush, eyes guiltily looking over at the squirming Aegon.

Criston patted her cheek, pressing a kiss over plump lips. Inky eyes and smug lips turned again to talk down to the Targaryen. He added in a dark voice, “Obviously you can’t do the fucking job so I will until you get it up and pump her with a blonde one. Although I am quite attached myself, she’s a wonderful little star. I’m going to fuck her good and thorough. Our first time too.”

Aegon whined, begging, “Ser, stop, I didn’t know, don’t!” But his hard cock was pulsing and the king had made no attempt to call for help. He couldn’t move either, the crutch out of his grasp. Aegon watched Criston work his wife into a peak, her pretty breasts heaving, thighs twitching. Utterly gorgeous. Jealousy swelled within his burnt chest.

The Dayne beauty sloppily mouthed against Criston’s mouth, trailing down to press kisses against his lower belly, grabbing his cock before asking. “You want to impregnate me sir? Give me an heir?” She could almost explode at the thought. Criston nodded, eyes hazy as her plump lips enveloped his cock, hands expert on rolling his balls and the other working in tandem with that warm mouth.

Aegon made a gutted noise.

Criston groaned deeply, watching his length disappear down velvet throat. The queen kept her indigo eyes on him, teary and wide. Fucking beautiful. He swallowed down a weak noise and rasped to Aegon, “She’s quite good at this, willing to please and eager to learn your Grace. But there you are, quickly back to your old ways.” She shuddered at the praise, Criston easing his star off so the real fun could begin.

He murmured, “On your back sweetling.” He pecked her once, shivering at the taste of him. The queen laid on her back, instinctively tucking a pillow under her hips. Criston rumbled, playfully giving her ass a smack. “Good girl, mmm, you just want to be a mama hm?” The shared noises of Aegon and his Queen made the Knight laugh.

He eased himself on top, making sure her thick thighs spread around his waist. The knight laid forward, grinning and nuzzling her nervous face. He cooed, “You’re safe with me star, pretty baby, doing so good.” Her arms slunk around his shoulders, their bodies fitting with together as Criston eased himself into her slick, swollen folds.

Fuck, she was tight and pulsing already, inner walls aiming to milk the man. Lady Dayne cried out, busty tits heaving as she was filled up by Ser Criston’s heavy cock. It was foreign, having so much care put into her pleasure. She moaned in surprise when he bottomed out, rasping nonsense against her neck.

Aegon sniveled now, watching his Queen get something he couldn’t possibly provide. Ser Criston, the crafty fucker, already worked his magic and cock into his queen. The blonde regretted many an action against his wonderful wife— seeing how she mooned over fucking Cole. Cole; a common born conniving oathbreaking madman, he truly enjoyed seeing suffering and agony. But there he was, giggling and gently fucking Aegon’s queen, the picture of chivalry. He needed more wine, and to tug his miserable cock.

Criston hiked her legs up, the back of her knees in the crooks of his arms— a mating press. She cried out, little hands scrabbling at his shoulders, eyes getting teary with pleasure. He moaned low, forcefully fucking himself inside her tight cunt, making sure she could feel every little drag and thrust. She mewled in ecstasy, “Criston, Ser, breed me, breed me please! Ohh I want it, need it!”

He grinned at Aegon’s sobs and pulling of his own prick. Criston teased “You want my seed star? Want to be all pretty and round, knowing your Lord Hand made you swell? Tits and hips so ripe for me, such a pretty mother you’ll make.” She tightened around him, arching her back, practically drooling. He focused on fucking her deep, swiping his thumb around her button, earning the cutest little mewls.

“Yes! Gods yes! Criston,” she howled, clamping down on his prick. He pressed his lips to hers, grunting as he fucked her to the point of no return. He cooed at his cute little star crying out her peak, gushing all over his still-moving cock. She weeped, “Please, give me your seed, want to be a mama, please!” Cole couldn’t deny her request, groaning long and low as his tummy tightened, emptying pump after pump of his cum into her tight pussy. He bit his lip bloody in the process, feeling feral, but the knight wouldn’t tear her skin like that.

He let go of her legs, gently holding her canted hips, humming, “How long do they say wait Aeg?”

A sharp cry, gasp, and tortured, “15 minutes.”

The Dayne didn’t even seem to be worried about her broken husband, smiling and holding Criston’s big hands. She kissed at each knuckle, eyes full of adoration and love. How they should be. How he deserved all along. What a special little star.

The first two came out with brown hair and eyes, sending a familiar shock across the keep. Then the third had ashen hair, just like the Queen. Mayhaps the Targaryen seed wasn’t that strong within Aegon, people whispered. Criston would smile, not indulging a secret. He’d rub her pretty bump alone, let Aegon play the daddy. He did alright enough.

[marshmellin]

Star and Stone, Ch. 8 | Long Ago He Rode Away

Gil-galad did not want to show divisions in front of Men and their kings. He wanted to show a unified front. To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his kin against the darkness, as the Valar would want. To show these Men the true strength of being Firstborn . To show Elven glory and valor and might stretching back before the waking of the sun.  But something stopped him.  Elendil was offering the lives of his people. Their brief, bright, precious lives. And Gil-galad would not return that sincerity with a lie. 

Rating: Explicit for minor smut; canon-typical angst

Notes: Gil-galad lives. Fluff and happy ending. Sort of a slow burn, but we'll get there. Gil-galad deserves a little smooch. He's going to get a lot more than a smooch. Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. No beta, we die like Mirdania.

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

//

The journey to Greenwood had been long and arduous, the road winding through dense forests and shadowed glades. Gil-galad had journeyed for nearly a full moon cycle with a small group of guards – far from his typical retinue of courtiers as High King – to come here. 

It felt more honest that way, somehow, to come alone. King to king.

The cavernous halls of Oropher’s palace seemed to echo with each step as Gil-galad walked into the Woodland Realm's throne room. Oropher’s courts were much different than the court in Lindon. Lindon was golden light, warm radiance, the sun breaking into dawn. 

Greenwood was the cold silver of night stars peeking through the trees, sharp and keen.

The smooth stone of the walls shimmered faintly under the soft glow of orbs of light suspended in the air. The pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling rose like massive trees, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns of leaves and vines. 

At the far end of the hall stood Oropher’s throne, carved from pale rock that gleamed like moonlight, resembling the entwined roots and branches of an ancient tree. The throne rose high above the dais, its back fanning out into a lattice of twisting branches. 

And there sat Oropher himself. Draped in flowing robes of silver and forest green, his crown intertwining silver branches, studded with green and amber jewels. Leaves caught in mid-autumn moonlight.

If any crown in this room is enchanted, it is his and not mine, Gil-galad thought wryly, remembering Elaniel’s joke.

Gil-galad approached the dias and Oropher rose slowly, his movements deliberate, as if each step was meant to command attention. The two kings stood to face each other, their gazes locking—a meeting of equals, each one proud, each one wary.

“Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor,” Oropher intoned, his voice smooth. He inclined his head slightly, his eyes closing as he did so. “It is my honor to welcome you to the Woodland Realm, High King. It is not often that our paths cross so directly.” Though his expression was calm, there was a quiet intensity in Oropher’s gray eyes.

“King Oropher,” Gil-galad replied, inclining his head with the same respect. “It is my honor to be welcomed. Your halls are as beautiful as I have been told. It is a pleasure to stand within them.”

Oropher smiled faintly, though the gesture carried more politeness than warmth. “And I see the tales of the High King’s courtesy are no exaggeration.” His gaze swept over Gil-galad, evaluating him as a fighter examines his foe’s weapon. “But I doubt you have come all this way merely to admire my halls.”

Gil-galad’s expression remained steady, though he felt the tension beneath the exchange, a subtle dance of pride and guardedness. 

Then let us dance, Oropher. 

“I come seeking your alliance. The Shadow spreads farther with each passing day, and I fear that neither of our realms can stand alone against what is to come.”

Oropher’s eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting. “An alliance,” he repeated, the word lingering in the air like a challenge. “Such bonds are often forged with difficulty and sustained with even greater care. What, I wonder, would you ask of me and my people?”

Gil-galad stepped closer, his tone firm but not unkind. “I ask only that we stand together as darkness falls. Your people are strong, your warriors swift and skilled. With our combined strength, we may withstand what Sauron sends against us.”

Oropher’s gaze turned distant for a moment, as though he were peering through the walls into the depths of his memories. “You speak with conviction, High King, but conviction alone can not sway me from my duty to my people. They have already suffered much in wars waged far from these woods.”

Gil-galad nodded slowly, acknowledging the weight of Oropher’s words. Gil-galad’s forefathers had started some of those wars, and they had ended others. 

And finally, he understood that, despite not having committed the wrong, he was duty-bound.  It was not his action, but he had to answer for it nonetheless. 

A silence stretched between them, heavy. Oropher broke it first, shaking his head. “Why should my people bleed again, and leave their families unprotected? And why should I ask them to travel so close to Mordor and death to do it?”

“Because Sauron does not care for borders or allegiances. He will come for us all, whether we face him together or apart.”

Oropher’s voice softened, though the tension in his posture remained. “Your words are not without merit, High King. But I have lived in Middle Earth long enough to know that alliances are forged not only in words but in deeds. Tell me, how far are you willing to go to prove the strength of your commitment?”

Gil-galad met his gaze unflinchingly. “As far as I need. I do not ask for the lives of your people lightly. I come here not as a king demanding allegiance, but as a fellow leader seeking partnership. I can not stand alone against this darkness.” He swallowed and sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I will fail without your people.”

Oropher studied him for a long moment, his sharp eyes seeming to weigh every word, every nuance. When he spoke again, there was a subtle shift in his tone—a glimmer of respect, though tempered by caution.

“Very well,” Oropher said. “I will consider your words, Gil-galad. We will meet in one week to discuss my decision. But I must be plain: my first duty is to my people. Their safety, their survival, will always come before any vow I make. To you or any other.”

“Understood,” Gil-galad replied, his voice steady. “And my duty is to all the free peoples of Middle Earth. It is my hope that our duties align.”

Oropher inclined his head, the faintest trace of a smile flickering across his face. “You speak well, Gil-galad. I will…consider carefully.”

–

Oropher’s private chamber was modest compared to the grandeur of the Woodland Realm’s throne room. Soft beams of light filtered through latticed stone windows carved in intricate patterns, casting delicate shadows on the polished floor. A small round table of pale wood, polished to a mirror-like sheen, stood between Oropher and Gil-galad, who had taken their seats across from each other. A pair of silver goblets, untouched, rested on the table, filled with a pale yellow wine that neither seemed inclined to taste.

We act like it’s poisoned. …. Or maybe we both fear getting drunk. 

The fist fight would be remarkable to behold. If I was able to remember it afterwards.

Oropher’s face was unreadable, his piercing gray eyes fixed on Gil-galad as though trying to discern the measure of his patience. 

“I have considered your proposal,” Oropher began, his voice cool but deliberate, like a blade drawn carefully from its sheath. “And I have decided that I will join your alliance. I speak for King Amdír as well, by his leave.”

Gil-galad inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, though he knew from the cadence of Oropher’s voice that there was more to come.

There is always another request. 

“However,” Oropher continued, his gaze unyielding, “I must make one condition. We request two of the palantíri from King Elendil to be entrusted to us until the Shadow is defeated. We will then return the seeing-stones to the stewardship of Men.”

The words settled heavily in the chamber. Gil-galad betrayed no surprise – there was none to betray. 

So Ristarion had spoken true. 

Gil-galad folded his hands atop the table and leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but firm. “Two palantír ,” he repeated. “That is a significant request, King Oropher. Though I understand their value, such a condition will not be easily met. I will take this request to Elendil, but I cannot promise you what another king might agree to.”

Oropher nodded, as if he had expected this response. “I understand, but I make the request not lightly, nor out of greed. My halls are secluded, and my people live apart from the wider affairs of Middle Earth, as do Amdír’s. We can pledge warriors to this fight, but they will join us on the field of battle at the cost of protecting our people here . Should the Shadow march on Greenwood – should a band of wayward Orcs cross our borders –  we may find ourselves isolated, cut off from aid before it can even be summoned. The palantíri would allow us to call for aid swiftly, to remain connected to you, to Elendil, or to all others who would stand with us to defend our walls against Sauron.”

Gil-galad studied him for a moment. That argument was unexpected. 

Not power. Not loyalty. Not Sinda vs. Noldo. 

But instead, the chance to call for aid. For help.

“Your reasoning is sound,” Gil-galad said slowly, inclining his head. “Though…now that you have shared your request, I must also discuss an issue that has come to my attention. Lord Ristarion mentioned your request for two palantirí — long before you voiced it here. And, he claimed, for much different reasons.”

Oropher’s eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flashing across his face. “And what, pray tell, did Lord Ristarion, son of Remmirath, claim?”

Gil-galad chose his words carefully – so carefully, he knew, that Oropher would notice exactly how careful he was being. “Ristarion claimed you and King Amdír demanded the palantíri because you did not trust a Noldor king to act in the interests of your people and you required a show of faith. He insinuated that your condition was born from distrust based on the shared history of our people and a lack of history between our people and Men.”

A shadow of anger passed over Oropher’s face, his jaw tightening. “So Ristarion dares to use my name to stoke division between our peoples,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You have been High King of the Noldor for three and a half thousand years, Gil-galad, and you have not yet gone back on your word. Wounds exist and trust is fragile, yes, but you have honor in my eyes and the eyes of my people.” Oropher clenched his hands. “How convenient for Ristarion to twist my intent into a weapon of distrust. I would have thought better of one who sits on your council.”

Gil-galad inclined his head, his tone measured but edged with the same irritation Oropher showed. “Ristarion has been a thorn in my side, stirring discord where unity is needed. His actions are his own and not representative of the type of counsel I value. That is why I came to you directly – I did not believe we had so little trust between us.”

Oropher leaned back slightly in his chair, the tension in his posture easing a fraction. He sighed and nodded. “Indeed. I am…angered to hear my words have been misrepresented to you, High King. The palantíri are tools of connection, not instruments of power. I would use them no other way than to protect my people and Amdír’s while we and our bravest warriors are on the field of battle with you. Shoulder to shoulder.”

The sincerity in Oropher’s voice struck a chord in Gil-galad. For a moment, he saw not a leader, but a man who feared for his people. His family. A man burdened by the same fears and responsibilities that he himself carried.

“I understand,” Gil-galad said finally, his voice softening. “And I agree. However, my agreement with you does not alter much, unfortunately. Elendil is the rightful steward of the seeing-stones. While I cannot declare what he will decide, I will present your reasoning to him as faithfully as you have shared it with me.”

Oropher inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression softening slightly. “You honor me with your candor, Gil-galad.”

Oropher rose first, his robes flowing like water as he moved. “I will await word from you regarding King Elendil’s response. Until then, may the stars watch over you.”

“And you,” Gil-galad replied, rising as well. “Let us hope our actions today shape a better future for all our peoples.”

As Gil-galad left the chamber, doubts lingered in his mind. But so did hope. The Woodland king was no less proud or cautious than he had expected, but beneath that pride was a leader who cared deeply for his people—a leader not so different from himself. 

King to king . 

//

The coastal winds carried the tang of the sea as the sun dipped low over the Gulf of Lhûn, casting a warm light upon the freshly hewn stone of the White Towers. Gil-galad stood at the base of the tallest of the towers, his robes of deep blue catching the breeze. Beside him, Elendil looked up at the bricks of the tower.

“Your vision for this place is taking shape, High King,” Elendil said, his voice deep and resonant. His eyes lingered on the soaring spire and the scaffolding that clung to its side like a delicate web. “A beacon for our peoples.”

“Indeed,” Gil-galad murmured, his gaze sweeping over the workers. Elves moved gracefully across the site, carrying stone and smoothing mortar, their movements precise and purposeful. Among them, a lone figure with hair tied back, stood directing the flow of work.

“Master Elaniel,” Gil-galad called, his voice carrying across the construction site.

She turned, a smudge of dust across her cheek and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “Erein– ah, uh, yes, High King. How may I assist you?” she asked, her boots crunching softly against the gravel as she approached.

She will never become used to calling me High King. He bit back a smile at the thought.  And at the memory of the names she had called him the night before. 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Master Elaniel, this is High King Elendil of Arnor and Gondor. He has come to see the progress of the White Towers. High King Elendil, may I introduce Master Elaniel, Chief Mason of Lindon. It is her vision and skill that guide these stones into place.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Master Elaniel,” Elendil said richly. “Your work speaks for itself. The craftsmanship is remarkable.”

Gil-galad fought to contain the fierce pride bubbling up in him at the impressed look on Elendil’s face.

Elaniel bowed slightly. “Thank you, High King Elendil. The vision belongs to our High King Gil-galad. I simply ensure the stones hear him.”

“King Elendil has asked for a tour of the keep,” Gil-galad said smoothly, turning to Elaniel. “If you have time to oblige us, Master Elaniel?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, her tone crisp. She motioned for Elendil to follow. “This way, my lord. I would show you both Elostirion, the tower built to hold the palantír .”

Elaniel led them through the wide arched entrance, her voice clear and confident as she explained the design. The air within the keep was cooler, the walls still raw stone in places.

“The keep is the heart of the tower,” she began. “Its foundation was reinforced with quarried granite, brought in from the hills near Mithlond. The lower levels will house supplies and quarters for the keepers of the palantír . On the upper floors, we’ve constructed chambers with narrow windows to allow light but minimize vulnerability for the winding staircase. If you’ll look here…”

She gestured to a staircase carved directly into the stone, its steps wide and shallow. They ascended, the sounds of construction below fading as they climbed higher. Elaniel pointed out the viewing platforms and defensive advantages of the design, her tone even and professional.

Finally, the three arrived at the topmost chamber. The wind swirled around them, carrying with it the faint sound of waves breaking against the cliffs. Elaniel gestured to the circular room. “This is where the palantír will be housed. The chamber is warded with protective runes, etched into the walls and keystone. It is designed to preserve not only the seeing-stone but the sanctity of its use as it points toward Tol Eressëa.”

Elendil stepped to the center of the room, looking out through the narrow windows at the expanse of sea and land. “It is a place of strength and clarity. I am impressed.”

“Thank you,” she replied simply, bowing her head. 

Elendil nodded. “You honor us with such work, Master Elaniel. You’ve given us much to admire.”

“High King Elendil,” Elaniel inclined her head once more. “If you have no further questions, I will leave you and High King Gil-galad to speak.” After both men bowed their heads to her, she left, her boots echoing lightly as she descended the stairwell.

The two kings stood in silence for a moment, the wind tugging at their cloaks.

Elendil crossed his arms, leaning casually on the stone parapet, a smile on his face. His keen blue eyes were piercing. “Gil-galad, my friend. You are troubled. Why have you brought me here?”

Gil-galad sighed, his hands folding into his robes. “I have had difficult conversations with Kings Oropher and Amdír. Oropher, in particular, has requested a sign of good faith from the realms of Men — as well as a means of protection.”

Elendil’s eyes narrowed. “And what is it King Oropher asks?”

“He wishes for two of the seven palantirí to remain under his and Amdír’s care,” Gil-galad said quietly. “He states it is not for himself but for his people, to provide safety to their smaller realms as they dedicate their warriors. They wouls use the seeing-stones to call for aid.” 

Gil-galad hesitated, his shoulders shifting uncomfortably. “I understand, however, that this request is…not small, by any means. The seeing-stones belong to you and were earned by the faithfulness of your forefathers. I understand if you can not fulfill this request, but I am compelled to bring it to you. As one king to another.”

Elendil’s gaze still focused west as though he could see the sea. Perhaps, with his keen eyes, he could.

“From your vantage point, do we need their support to win?” His voice was no more than a whisper, and he had not yet turned to Gil-galad. 

Gil-galad’s reply came swiftly, his voice low and confident and disappointed. “Yes.”

Elendil was quiet for a moment, leaning into the wind. His sharp blue eyes surveyed the land. 

“Can you secure their loyalty without the stones?” he asked quietly. 

Gil-galad looked out as well, the wind stinging his eyes as he gazed at the horizon. 

The moment was quiet. But it hummed like a harp string. 

Gil-galad did not want to show divisions in front of Men and their kings. He wanted to show a unified front. To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his kin against the darkness, as the Valar would want. To show these Men the true strength of being Firstborn . To show Elven glory and valor and might stretching back before the waking of the sun. 

But something stopped him. 

Elendil was offering the lives of his people. Their brief, bright, precious lives. 

And Gil-galad would not return that sincerity with a lie. 

King to king. 

“No,” he replied, his shoulders slumping. “I can not. I can assure you of my loyalty, but I can not speak for Oropher, even if he receives the palantirí . He seems earnest and I know you have his respect, but…I…” 

Gil-galad searched for what to say, his heart sinking with heavy understanding as he finally settled on the truth of it: “I do not speak for all the elves of Middle Earth.”

Time slowed. 

The moment shimmered. Flickered. So many choices, so many lives, so much hung on this moment. So much so that Gil-galad felt as though the air hummed. He thought the noise was so loud it could shatter glass.

Elendil did not seem to hear it.

Nodding as the wind blew his hair over his eyes, Elendil finally turned to meet Gil-galad’s gaze. Blue and brown, locked together.

“A ship can sail against the wind by tacking back and forth,” Elendil finally declared. “We will change our course. Oropher and Amdír will have their seeing-stones in return for their vow to join us. Their choices are their own, but the Valar will remember.”

And as if Varda herself had been singing her displeasure and was now satisfied, the humming stopped. Gil-galad could not understand it, but he felt something deep within the bones of the world change. 

The sound of crystal being unbroken. Of a cry being pulled back. A spool of thread unravelling only to be wound again, whole and untangled. 

Time moved forward. 

Relief flooded over him, and he knew it showed on his face. Gil-galad could barely contain a grin, but forced his voice to be steady. “Thank you, King Elendil. The trust you show our people will not be forgotten.”

Elendil smiled in reply, clamping a friendly hand on Gil-galad’s shoulder, his voice warm. “We will provide a matched pair so they can communicate with each other or with Lindon, depending on their wish.” He smiled, blue eyes crinkling impishly as they turned back to the tower keep. “I do feel I should mention a minor issue with the sizes of the stones, however…”

// 

He was trying to focus. Truly, he was trying. The stack of papers on his desk was nearly two hands high by now.

And yet. 

He could still feel the way she touched him. The way she invited him to touch her. The feel of her lips as her body fit so perfectly against him. 

And that will be the legacy of King Gil-galad, of whom the harpers will one day sadly sing. All the peoples of Middle Earth fell to darkness because I can not stop thinking with my di–

A soft knock at the study door pulled him from his thoughts. He padded over to the door, already knowing who it was, and greeted her warmly. “Elaniel.”

“You’ve been here too long,” she remarked as she stepped inside, her tone soft but edged with gentle reproach.

“I’ll leave when the world stops falling apart,” he replied dryly.

“Then you’ll never leave, at that rate,” she shot back cheerfully, crossing the room toward the fireplace. Her gaze lingered on the papers cluttering his desk before she turned her grey eyes back to him. “How long will the journey to Gondor take?” she asked, leaning slightly against the edge of the desk.

“A moon cycle,” he said, allowing himself a long sigh. “Perhaps less if the weather is kind.”

“And how often is the weather kind to you?” she teased, a small smile blossoming across her face.

He chuckled, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Rarely.”

Moving behind him, her fingers lightly brushed his shoulder. “You’re tense,” she observed casually.

“One of my commanders insisted on bringing me yet another argument about resource allocation which, when discussed more, turned out to be a reporting error. An hour of my time over an incorrect number on a scroll. Then Ristarion –”

“Ah-ah,” she interrupted, her hands settling gently on his shoulders. “I’ll allow no mention of that heconna while I’m here.”

He sighed, leaning slightly into her touch. “You’re wiser than I, then.”

“And that is the burden I must carry,” she teased.

Her fingers began to knead the tight muscles of his shoulders, and Gil-galad closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. She lightly kneaded at the knots in his neck, earning a soft sigh from him. Elaniel leaned in closer, her hands sliding down the front of his robe as she hooked her chin over his shoulder. “Better?” she asked after a moment, her voice low and close to his ear.

He meant to murmur in agreement, but the sound came out more like a growl as she started slowly planting kisses along his neck. Her lips made their way down to his shoulder and back to the corner of his jaw. Nimble hands worked underneath the collar of his robes and she ran her fingers across his chest before scraping her nails against his nipples, turning them to stiff peaks. His eyes fluttered shut and it was his turn to reward her with small sounds of pleasure. 

Responding very enthusiastically, she breathed heavily as she kissed his neck again, working her way up to trace the outline of his ear with the tip of her tongue. He moaned again, eyes shut, head falling back against her. 

And that seemed to add fuel to whatever fire was lit inside her. 

She moved into his lap, pulling her skirts up to expose far more of her legs than she needed, to bracket his hips. Heat coiled low in his stomach as she straightened on her knees, bringing her head higher than his to kiss him again. He took advantage of it, pulling her closer to kiss her collarbone, to strive to kiss her neck, to cup her breasts. 

Her hips rolled again and his hands met her, grabbing her by the back of her thighs to rock her against him in a slow — so temptingly slow — rhythm. 

She stilled and he followed her lead, but he failed to bite back an undignified whine, reluctant to stop. “Have you ever heard the old Teleri proverb: Dartha nedh i rhîw, an ir lín i ethuil ?” 

Wait in the winter, for your spring will come. 

Gil-galad narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is that not a proverb about revenge?”

She pretended to think for a moment, reaching out to play with the collar of his robe, loosening it wider and wider to expose more of his chest. He fought back the urge to shudder as her hands roved across him lightly. Maddeningly, she kept rolling her hips on occasion – out of rhythm and randomly, he noted with irritation and want. 

“Mmm. Not quite. The Sindar often think of it more as…returning a favor. Balancing our scales.”

“Oh?” he asked softly, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. 

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed in reply, hands still gliding over his now-exposed chest. Her eyes were bright. “Ereinion, I think you’re still very tense,” she whispered, flashing him a wicked grin. Her hands moved down his abs. “Yes, I’m right, I can feel it. Very tense. I would like to help you relax.” Elaniel found a steady rhythm again with her hips, finally rutting against his lap.

The heat coiled tighter in his stomach and he fought the urge to grip her by the back of her thighs again. He was fully hard and half naked, his robe falling open. “If this is how you wish to spend your evening,” he echoed her words.

Her voice dropped low, but he heard lust and authority creep into her tone. She leaned close, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear as she whispered breathily. “Oh, this is exactly how I wish to spend this evening.” 

His cock twitched. Her lips were swollen and red. His hands had tangled in her hair at least twice. She was well on her way to looking … 

Well, he liked it. 

And then, she hummed against his temple and suddenly moved, leaving his lap. He bit back a sigh again and closed his eyes. 

Why is she always leaving my lap…

Standing next to him, she nudged his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her. Elaniel’s face was suddenly smooth and formal, her hair tucked back, and she flicked her hands down her dress. 

What the –

“High King! An urgent message from the commander of the Eastern Armies, my lord.” The voice outside the door echoed loudly, and the expectant look on Elaniel’s face suggested this was not the first time the message had been announced. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. Elaniel was unsuccessfully hiding a smirk. She looked fine. He looked debauched and he knew it. 

Trying not to let irritation seep into every movement he made, he stood and rearranged his clothing before moving to answer the door, peeking his head out into the hallway. “Yes,” he demanded with more annoyance than the poor guard deserved. 

“Commander Arminas has called the full war council to meet immediately, High King. He believes Sauron’s forces now gather for war and prepare to march for battle within the day. Arminas has begun to muster all troops in Lindon for your command and urgently requests your presence in the council chamber.” 

And with that, the guard bowed and left quickly. 

As he closed the door, several thoughts flashed through Gil-galad’s head. Fifteen more minutes. Arminas…I will repay your timing, truly, you have my word, Commander. Mustering all troops – he thinks we must move quickly and does not wait to discuss it. A true threat, then, for his instincts are sound. Elendil waits for us at Amon Sûl, and so does Galadriel and the Northern Armies, but this is far sooner than we expected to march from Lindon. 

Their eyes met, brown and grey, and something broke in his heart. 

Elaniel reached out, her hand lightly gripping his arm, her demeanor shifting to a seriousness he had never seen in her – at least never while they were alone. “I will meet you in council, High King. I will prepare to offer my leadership to Lindon.” 

She left quickly, giving Gil-galad a moment to collect his thoughts. 

The forces of Lindon would march tonight. And he would march with them. 

And she would stay. 

//

The great war chamber of Lindon hummed with energy. Maps of the realms were unrolled across the central table, weighted at the corners with heavy stones, and the faint scent of wax and parchment mingled with the sharper tang of polished steel. Commanders moved purposefully about the room, their armor catching the flickering light of the braziers. The air was heavy with the sound of orders given and received, quills scratching across parchment as plans were hastily amended. Tactics had been agreed upon, but now came the administrative headache of moving thousands and thousands of troops toward a battlefield.

Gil-galad stood at the head of the chamber, his polished chest plate gleaming in the golden light. Aeglos was cradled in his arm but almost forgotten – he leaned against it as he looked down at the maps on the table. To his left stood Elrond, already dressed for battle. To Gil-galad’s right was Elaniel, clad not in armor but in sturdy traveling garb, her hair bound up in her normal bun, a short sword at her side. She watched the proceedings with sharp, unyielding focus.

At the far end of the table, Lord Ristarion sat with his arms crossed, his own armor accented with the greens and silvers of his house. His face bore the expression of someone who had come prepared to start an argument.

Ah. So nothing has changed, it would seem. 

Gil-galad struck the stone table lightly with his hand, bringing the room to attention. “Thank you all. We stand on the precipice of war. Lord Elrond and I will ride at the head of Lindon’s forces within the hour to Amon Sûl, where we will liaise with Elendil and Galadriel’s armies. During our absence, Lindon cannot be left leaderless.”

The room quieted, save for the faint murmur of a scribe taking notes. “Master Elaniel will serve as regent until my return.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the room. Ristarion’s voice cut through the noise. “High King…” He rose slowly, his hands clasped before him in a show of deference that rang hollow. “With all due respect, this is a… surprising choice. Master Elaniel is a skilled stonemason, yes, but she is not a warrior or a leader. Nor is she a noble of long standing. Surely there are others better suited to lead Lindon in a time of war.”

Elaniel’s eyes flicked to Ristarion, her posture unyielding. Before she could respond, Elrond stepped forward, his tone measured. “Leadership in Lindon is not dictated by titles. It is dictated by wisdom and the ability to guide our people. Elaniel has shown that ability, and as you can see,” Elrond waved an arm around the table, “She has the support of the healers, guards, and commanders gathered here who will provide her counsel in our absence.”

Ristarion inclined his head toward Elrond, though his lips tightened. “Yet I must speak what I have heard from others, my lord. There are whispers among the people—questions about her loyalty. They say she is Sindar, not Noldor, and wonder if her heart truly belongs to Lindon.”

Elaniel stood at that, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the table, her gray eyes a tempest. The sight of her fury tugged at the knot in Gil-galad’s chest and it took a moment before he realized he had gripped Aeglos more tightly than before, his knuckles turning white.       

Elaniel’s voice was sharper than the spear. “Do they wonder? Or is it you who wonders, Ristarion?” She spread her hands. “I must confess before you, before this council and before the Valar, I did choose to be born a Sinda, despite my parents asking for my preference several times during my conception. ‘Daughter of a Noldor prince’ was on offer, but, I regret to say, I rejected the opportunity. Much to my parents' dismay.” 

A small chuckle from Arminas, who had already half-drawn the dagger on his left hip. Halion somehow laughed loudly and grunted in agreement at the same time – not subtle, that one . Even Elrond had to hide his smile behind his hand, breaking the tension on his face.

Elaniel pressed on. “But please, Lord Ristarion, yes. Let us litigate the meaning of my parentage. Let us question my dedication to the people of Lindon because I was born in a different realm. Despite having built the fortifications of this realm and working with every leader we have allied with. Despite having planned the travel and troop routes, supply lines, and routes of retreat."

Arminas all but gestured at her to keep going from the corner of the table, rapping his fist on the stone in encouragement. His eyes flicked to Gil-galad, a smile blossoming across his face.

"Lord Ristarion," she sighed softly, her voice low and dangerous. "I am sure many here must agree with you, since you seem to know their minds so quickly. I beg them to speak alongside you, for I very much wish to hear what they know about myself that I do not. And if the lords at this table are too cowardly to stand with you, then that is your burden to bear, unfortunately. I recommend you remain silent until someone is bold enough to second your motion.”

More amusement flittered through the crowd. Gil-galad felt anything but��amused. Elaniel put up a good fight, yes -- she had a fury that was wondrous to behold. But she should not have to engage in this fight at all. 

Predictably, Ristarion ignored her, addressing Gil-galad directly. “High King, it is not merely her lineage. There are… rumors that the influence of a simple stonemason clouds your sense of duty. She has snared you, king. And we will all fall because of it.”

The room fell silent. Elaniel’s gaze did not waver, but a bright flush rose to her cheeks. 

       Simple stonemason. 

             Simple.       

                    Stonemason.

                         My duty.

                              Simple.

                                   Duty.

                                        Simple.

                                             Stone.

                                                   Mason.

                                                       Clouds my 

                                                          sense of 

                                                                duty?

                                                                     simple.

Gil-galad’s anger, held in check for so long, finally broke free. The thread snapped. More than one thread. Every thread. 

He frayed past repair.

He stamped away from the head of the table loudly, the armored plates on his thighs clanking against each other, Aeglos in hand. Pulling himself up to his full height — a half-head above most elves — he glared at Ristarion, who at least had enough sense to drop his gaze.

“High King, I meant no disrespect to you personally—”

Gil-galad ignored him, walking past the man to stand before Elaniel. Turning toward her, his broad body blotted out the rest of the council chambers. It was no longer a meeting room preparing for war. 

It was just Elaniel and Ereinion. 

“A king goes wherever the need is greatest. So would his queen.” 

Her eyes sparkling, she teased him, ”What was that, again?”

“Queen,” he repeated firmly, meeting her gaze. 

It was a statement and a question. 

“Mm. A frightening title. But, I suspect, a requirement.” Elaniel cocked her head at him, an adorable, madding look crossing her face as her cheeks burned bright red. “I find I have conditions before I would claim it.” She clasped her hands in front of her, eyebrows lifted, looking all the world as though they were going to finalize a simple construction contract. 

He wanted to gallop and she was coaxing him to be still, to talk through a decision at the one time in his long, long life he did not want to wait one second more. 

He knew it was intentional. 

And he knew he would let her. 

“Of course. Name them, Master Elaniel,” he said quickly, his tone slipping to one of a politician as he shifted Aeglos over his shoulder. 

He knew her well, and he knew how this conversation would end. 

The joy was in getting there. 

“I will lead Lindon as regent. But no — absolutely no, and I am being incredibly plain in this , Ereinion — absolutely no…curtsying, no…crowns.” She crinkled her nose. “Impossible at a worksite.”

“A circlet,” he countered. 

“Small. Formal occasions only .”

“Agreed,” he said, a half smile on his face at their not-quite-a-game.  Their tone was light, but he knew the lines they were drawing were not.  And she had failed to define both ‘small’ and ‘formal occasion,’ which gave him room to negotiate – or at the very least tease her – later. 

“If there is nothing—“

Elaniel held up a hand. “Additionally. You have managed the needs of this realm for thousands of years by yourself, and have proven to be a capable and dedicated leader. I’ve watched you do the paperwork, and I am not helping you with it beyond this. A favor I extend during war only.”

Gil-galad waved a bracer-covered arm. “Ah, that was never in doubt. I will secure another herald when I return. Any other requests?”

“I will attend events, but please do not ask me to be a politician. I am as likely to offend as I am to charm any dignitary you receive.”

“I confess I mourn for their loss, as your charm is a thing to behold. As is your offense, for that matter.” He pretended to sigh in surrender. “Agreed. But you must attend these events so I may admire the aforementioned circlet.” 

“Small circlet,” she corrected him with a raised finger. 

“Small circlet,” he murmured. 

Her eyes sparkled. “Then we have reached a consensus. Please, proceed.”

Gil-galad spoke the words quickly, his impatience at full gallop now that she had let him loose. 

“Manwë, see me. Varda, hear me. Carry my solemn vow to Eru Ilúvatar: I bind my fëa to this woman until Arda is remade.”

Elaniel laughed – a loud, excited sound of joy – before following him. “Manwë, see me. Varda, hear me. Carry my solemn vow to Eru Ilúvatar: I bind my fëa to this man until Arda is remade.” 

And something in them both felt known.

Agelos fell to the polished stones as Gil-galad crushed Elaniel — his wife — into a bruising kiss, pulling her flat against his body. His armor clanked again with the force of the impact. He was frenzied, hands on her waist, in her hair. Free from the restraint he imposed on himself for so long, he continued to gallop. He lifted her up to kiss her and fought a deep, primal urge to carry her from here and make her his in every way. 

But duty hammered in her chest just as loudly as in his, and she managed to pull back. Her eyes were glinting, lips red and swollen – Valar, her lips – and he craned to catch her beautiful mouth again before he saw a nearly-imperceptible shake of her head. She tapped her nails on his chest plate, which he had long ago learned was her request for his full focus.

And he suddenly remembered they were in a room with his closest advisors. Elrond was hiding a grin. Halion was not hiding a damn thing, and he looked delighted. Arminas….well, he looked like he was mentally taking notes, to be honest, in between sneaking glances at Alenya. 

Gil-galad found himself growing increasingly irritated that he had a sense of decorum. And that all. these. people. were in this room.

I find I do not care about decorum. This is my council hall, my palace and my wife. They can leave. 

They should leave before I take her on this table in front of them.

Finally facing Ristarion, Gil-galad’s tone turned brisk and business-like. “We have wed in front of the One, as you have witnessed. Elaniel is both Chief Master Mason of Lindon and High Queen of the Noldor.” He could sense, rather than see, her crinkling her nose at the title, but it did not concern him. She was High Queen. His High Queen. And he would remind her of it later. 

There is more than one way to help her acclimate to the title…and to giving commands…

Gil-galad tilted his head toward Ristarion. “Any arguments regarding her lineage, her capability or her right to lead are now quelled. Are there any other concerns from our people that you feel compelled to raise, Lord Ristarion?”

There was only silence.

“I am pleased to hear it. Lord Elrond wishes your advice on some…important matter, I’m sure. I give you leave to attend to it.” 

Gil-galad’s eyes flicked to meet Elrond’s, whose face had blossomed from a hidden grin to a mix of delight, annoyance that he was chosen to distract Ristarion, and something that faintly communicated, I told you so, in a very self-satisfied way. Gil-galad pretended not to notice. 

Instead, he spoke loudly to the rest of the council, his hands never leaving Elaniel’s hips. “We ride for Amon Sûl in an hour. Prepare your soldiers. Quickly. Council is dismissed.”

As the council hall emptied, Elaniel moved away from him – whywhywhymustshekeepleavingme – and leaned down to pick up Agelos, its blade sliding on the stones with a metallic note. She pretended to inspect the blade edge and nodded with exaggerated satisfaction before handing him the weapon.

“That was not a very respectful way to treat an ancestral weapon, husband.” 

“If dropping it will break it, then it is not a very formidable weapon, wife,” he replied with a smile, gripping her hips again to pin her against him, Aeglos cradled in his shoulder. He teased her gently, leaning to whisper close to her ear so only she could hear. “Half an hour, and we could…” 

She laughed quietly and he felt a shiver run through her as she moved her hands across his chest plate, resting on the buckles fastening it to his shoulders. Her fingers played with the strap. “It would take at least half that time to take off the—”

“So I shall leave the chest plate and bracers on— ” His voice came out as a growl next to her ear. 

“— And once I have you, you will need much longer than an hour to satisfy me as thoroughly as I demand,” she replied, swatting at his shoulder. “You have many responsibilities this evening.”

Gil-galad kissed her again, pulling her up on her toes before fully releasing her. “When I return,” he chuckled, “please do consider my offer about the bracers.”

“Yes, morconinya , your bracers will be on my mind for months,” she laughed, hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. After a moment, her voice sank low, her eyes soft and sad. “Go now, so that you return to me all the faster. I will watch the stars for us both while you’re gone.”

A moment passed between them, and he knew she was right. That this may be the last moment they had together and that he had to leave her. Married for an hour and then parted for…

He didn’t let himself finish the thought. 

“Even when we are apart, our stars will be the same. I will always watch with you. ” His fingers grazed her cheek once more. “ Namárië.”

With a final kiss, he left her reluctantly, attending to the multitude of needs required to move an army as large as Lindon’s as quickly as he now demanded – food and supply lines, housing, healers and commanders and quartermasters and horsemasters and weapons masters and more. Each coordinating a hundred, a thousand, elves at once to prepare for the march to Amon Sûl. There, they were to meet with Elendil’s army. Elendil’s very mortal army, who needed more food, more water, more rest than Gil-galad’s. 

The siege against Sauron would be long. The battle would take years. They would win. But the effort to wage this war had truly just begun. 

And he did not know when he would return.

An hour later, he had mounted his horse, Aeglos in hand. Gil-galad cast a final glance back at the gates and saw a lone figure standing at the top of the wall.

It was Elaniel. She raised a hand in silent farewell as Gil-galad led his soldiers out of Lindon. He could see the tears streaming down her face, shining like gold in the light of the rising sun, as he rode east. 

//

Author's Notes:

It’s a fix it, folks!

Elendil’s quip about the sizes of the seeing-stones is a reference to something not often shown in adaptations – some of those palantir are b.i.g. The one in Amon Sûl was likely the size of a small car or so. It was described as larger than one man could lift, while many other stones were the size we see on screen. In my mind, the stones Elendil has proffered here are from Amon Sûl and the master stone of Osgiliath (also described as a bigg’un). I believe these stones are paired, which would allow Oropher to set up a “family text thread” so to speak between his kingdom and another of his choice. These stones were both lost eventually, so moving them to Oropher’s domain does not alter their use later.

Dartha nedh i rhîw, an ir lín i ethuil or “Wait in the winter, for your spring will come” is fully made up – it’s likely incorrect Sindarin construction, is likely not constructed like a proverb, and it potentially doesn’t even make sense as a proverb used in this context. I needed an excuse for her to stay on his lap and tease him in more than one way. I am but a simple writer, dear reader, here to offer whatever humble aid I can.

My version of the Eldar's wedding oath, specifically “Manwë see me, Varda hear me,” is inspired by a line from the amazing Haladriel series Oathbound by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo): https://archiveofourown.org/works/45771712

//

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

[oh-stars]

Doodles

Hurt

a Stobin Month 2024 prompt | 539 words | CW: off-screen injury | Rating: G

--

“Does this make me old now?”

Robin rolls her eyes as she sits down beside Steve. She sets her markers down in the crease of her thigh as she twists to face him on the couch. “You’re not old.” 

“Me five years ago would never fumble this hard,” Steve huffs. He goes to cross his arms, but the big, bulky cast on his left hand stops him. He glares hard at it before offering it back to Robin. 

She hums a thankful noise and uncaps the first marker. 

“Just no dicks, please,” Steve sighs, leaning his head back. “I cannot go to work with dicks on my arm.” 

“Who do you think I am? Eddie?” Robin rolls her eyes again . “I would never draw a dick on your arm.” Boobies, however, are a different story. She makes them small and at the top part of his cast where it’s most likely going to be obscured by his shirts and jackets. 

Steve pouts. “I just cannot believe I fell so hard I broke my arm during a game with a bunch of old men.” 

“Aren’t they all under forty?” 

“Yeah, but this,” he gestures to the cast, “proves that I, the youngest of the group, is old and therefore, so are they.” 

“Come back to me when you get your first gray hair, then we can talk.”

“Why would you put that on me? Do you want me to die young? Jesus Christ, Robs,” Steve practically screeches, running his free hand through his hair. 

She just smiles and starts drawing little flowers randomly on the plaster, trading out colors every now and then. He got a bright neon green, so the darker colors are really popping against the plaster. 

For about thirty minutes, Steve just watches the ceiling fan as she doodles on his arm. She’s not leaving room for anyone else to sign, and maybe that’s selfish but Steve’s hers so she’ll do as she pleases, thank you.

Robin looks down at the mostly covered work and sighs. She decides to leave two openings for Dustin and Eddie to sign – the only two of the party who live in Chicago with them right now – but covers the rest. If she left any more openings, Eddie would doodle dicks and nerd shit while Dustin would use Steve’s arm to write equations or something. At least she’s drawing stuff he actually likes. 

There’s baseballs and basketballs (which she realizes may be a sore subject right now, so she put those where they were least visible) among the flowers and little music notes sprinkled in. She even drew a bottle of hairspray in the crease of his elbow. There’s a symbol for every job they’ve worked together: an icecream cone for Scoops Ahoy, a VHS tape for Family Video, a book for that bookstore they love, coffee mug from the brief time they tried to be baristas, a donut from the bakery that Steve still works at full-time and Robin helps out on the weekends, a pawprint for the pet store Robin convinced him to try, and a bone for the museum where Robin was a tour guide (and now does research at full-time) and Steve worked in the gift shop. 

And in big letters, going down his arm, she’s signed, “I love you dingus ❤ Robin.” 

“How’s that look?” 

Steve looks over it with a fond smile, the first since he reluctantly called her from the gym this morning. “It’s perfect.” 

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

[ghuleh-witch]

Fandom: Ghost Rating: Explicit Warnings: none for this chapter Relationships: Cardinal Copia x Female!Reader Additional Tags: one-sided enemies to lovers, eventual smut, dom!Copia, AU, witchcraft, no beta Chapter Word Count: 2137 Summary: After it's discovered you are a witch, you seek refuge at a satanic church. The strange Cardinal that let you inside didn't seem to like you even though you had no idea why. One thing you did know though, you wanted him to like you. Ao3 || Masterlist Chapters: 1/?

Chapter One

It was pouring as you ran through the inky moonless night. Your dress hem was clutched in your hand as you ran, boots pounding through wet leaves. You could hear the hoofbeats gaining on you, your only salvation being the difficult task of navigating through the trees. Your lungs burned as you leaped over a fallen log. Resting wasn’t an option if you wanted to live.

And you really wanted to live.

In the distance, you could see the glow of warm lights coming through windows. The small cathedral you were aiming for was just ahead. You’d be safe there, you were told. As you burst onto the grounds of the church, you let out a cry of relief. Just a little bit more to go.

“She’s going to the devil's church!” One of your pursuers yelled. “Get her before they let her in!” 

You willed your legs to run faster, the hood of your cloak finally falling from your head, giving away your identity. You frantically pounded on the wood when you reached the massive oak doors. “Please! Please help! Please let me in!” You cried out as you looked over your shoulder. Four men on horseback holding torches were getting closer. 

“Goddess, please don’t let me die,” you prayed, and as though your deity were listening, the doors swung open, and you were falling inside. You heard the horses' neighs and cries as their riders pulled them to a halt, and your hands made contact with the stone floor. You groaned as the doors began to close and thump shut. 

You push yourself up onto your knees and look around. The atrium of the cathedral was large. The ceiling high above you seemed to disappear into the darkness, the light of the candles not reaching the top. Despite the coolness of the air outside and the stone enclosure, it was actually very warm and inviting. You then looked at the figure in front of you. There were two; a man and someone you thought might be a man, but you couldn’t tell. They could have been a demon with their black attire and silver horned mask. The man, though, was dressed in a black cassock and beret with the shape of a bat wing on top. He had a prominent nose and mismatched eyes, one green and one white, surrounded by black paint. A thin mustache sat neatly trimmed above his black-painted upper lip. He wasn’t what was considered conventionally attractive by society’s standards, but you thought he was quite handsome. He was looking down at you with a mix of curiosity, apprehension, and distrust.

“Welcome to the Ministry of the Unholy Ghost,” he said with an accented voice. “Normally, we’d have some formal introductions, but you were banging on the door for help, so I have to ask, who are you?” 

You gave your name as you got to your feet and smoothed your dress out. “Thank you for letting me in. Someone told me this was a place I could take refuge.”

“I suppose it depends on why you need refuge,” the man said, his eyes roaming over you with scrutiny. 

“I’m a witch,” she said. “I was outed by a man I thought I could trust after I refused to have sex with him. The witch hunters were sent after me, and if they catch me, I will be burned at the stake.”

“And why didn’t you go to your coven for help?” The man questioned.

“I couldn’t risk exposing them as well,” you said. “One of them told me of this place and said you’d shelter me.”

The man looked over you with an assessing gaze, as though he were trying to decide if you were telling the truth or not. You shifted almost nervously.

“We will shelter you,” he said after a moment. “I am Cardinal Copia. You may call me by that or just Cardinal, and this is Aether.” He gestured to the strange masked figure next to him. “Welcome to the Ministry.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

“Come on,” Copia said. “Let’s get you warmed up, and I’ll have the kitchens bring you something to eat while I speak with our head of the Clergy. We’ll need to ask you some questions and find you a place to sleep.” 

You nodded, your mind racing with a thousand questions as Copia beckoned you to follow him. He led you down a hall to an empty dining hall with a fire blazing in the hearth to warm it and candles hanging from a wrought iron chandelier to give it light. He gestured for you to sit. “I’ll have a ghoul bring you something, otherwise I will return in a moment.”

You nodded again, sitting down on a long bench at one of the two wooden tables as Copia turned his back to you and walked out of the dining hall. A minute later another silver masked figure was walking into the hall with a tray in their hands. They sat the tray down in front of you, and the aroma of stew wafted up to your nose. 

“Thank you,” you said before dipping a hunk of bread into the stew and savoring the hearty flavor. The figure poured you a glass of water before nodding in acknowledgment and leaving. As you ate, your eyes flicked over to Aether who was standing near the fireplace watching you. She shivered in unease, not sensing a single sliver of humanness in them. Demons, definitely demons, you thought as you continued to eat the stew. You were surprised. It was a satanic church after all. They were known for their pact with demons. You had even met a few witches who worked with demons in their craft. It wasn’t something you ever explored. You much preferred to work with your goddess, Hecate, and the spirits of the natural world around you. 

Just as you finished the stew, the cardinal returned, and this time he was with a man and an older woman. The man had black hair and the same mismatched eye color and shape as Copia. You assumed they were related somehow. His eyes were also surrounded by black paint as well as his upper lip. He wore black pants and a black button-down shirt and walked with a swagger that said he was the leader.

But you knew he wasn’t.

No, it was the woman who was the leader. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had the same green eyes and nose as Copia. She wore dark-colored robes, and she held herself with grace and confidence. Her presence radiated power, and you knew this wasn’t someone to cross.

Copia said your name and gestured to the two new people. “Sister Imperator, head of the clergy, and Papa Emeritus the third, the current figurehead of the church.” 

“Please, call me Terzo,” the other man said. 

“The cardinal said you have come seeking refuge?” Sister Imperator questioned as she looked you over. 

“Yes,” you answered, pushing your dishes to the side. “I was outed as a witch and am being hunted by the witch hunters.” 

“And you didn’t want to expose more of your coven by going to them for help,” Sister Imperator assumed.

“Yes.”

“What kind of witch are you?”

“Eclectic,” you answered. “I practice with what resonates with me and what I’m drawn to and worship a singular deity, Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft and magic.”

“And you’re a real witch? Not one of those who travel town to town claim to predict the future and sell fake love potions?”

You knew the type of people she was talking about. You’ve seen those women come to your village calling themselves healers and tricking innocent people into giving up their hard-earned coin for fake remedies. You cupped your hands in front of you and reached down into yourself for a tiny kernel of magic, envisioning what you wanted them to see. A ball of purple flames formed in your hands. It was warm and pleasant, but if wielded with foul intentions, it would be deadly. You closed your fingers around the flames and disappeared as though they were never there. Sister Imperator looked satisfied. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of Terzo and Copia. Terzo looked impressed and Copia looked bored, like he had seen it all before. 

“Very well,” Sister Imperator said. “You may stay as long as you want, but in exchange for sheltering you, I want you to work with the Cardinal and come up with a way to bolster the protections of this place. We don’t have any actual witches within the Ministry at this time and with the locals becoming restless with our presence here, we need to make sure this place remains untouched by those who mean us harm.”

“That sounds fair,” you agreed. You didn’t expect to stay there without having to pull your own weight. 

“Excellent,” Sister Imperator smiled, clapping her hands together. “Very well. We have an empty room you may use and we’ll have a ghoul get your measurements so we can get you some clothes.” 

“Thank you,” you responded. 

“If you’re done eating, the cardinal will show you to your room.”

You nodded and without another word, Sister Imperator walked out of the dining hall with purpose in her step. You looked from the door to the two men in front of you.

“So, you’re a witch?” Terzo questioned. “Haven’t had one of you crawling to our doorstep before. I thought you all could take care of yourselves?”

“We can. I just trusted the wrong person,” you respond.

“Shame,” he said. “That person was an idiot then. Don’t worry, we’re trustworthy here…well mostly.”

You saw Copia roll his eyes and bit back a laugh. “Yes, he was an idiot,” you said as a wave of exhaustion hit you now that you were warm, fed, and no longer running for your life. “I think I’d like to go to bed now.”

“If you will follow me,” Copia said, making his way toward the entrance of the dining hall.

You got up and followed after him, trying to keep pace with him. “Thank you again,” you said as you drew up next to him. “I appreciate it.”

He said nothing as he led you down the hall and then up a set of stone stairs. He led you to a door at the very end of the corridor lit by candles. He opened the door to a dark room. “This will be yours. There is a shared bathing chamber two doors down. You will share it with the other women on this wing,” he said, stepping aside. “Meals are at eight, twelve, and six. Quiet hours are from ten at night to seven in the morning. In the morning, one of the female ghouls will come find you and fit you with clothes.”

You nod. “Thank you,” you said again despite his seemingly clipped tone. You were starting to get the feeling that he didn’t like you, and you couldn’t figure out why. “Sister Imperator said we’re to work together? When should we meet?”

“I will let you know,” he said, stepping back from her. “Until then, good night.” He turned, cassock swishing as he walked back down the corridor.

You watched him disappear around a corner before stepping into the dark room. With a speck of magic, you produced the purple ball of flames again to light your way. You saw a bed, a chest of drawers with handles atop it, and a vanity with a wash bowl with floral patterns. The large window overlooked the forest you had come from only an hour before. The room was surprisingly large, and you made a mental note to ask if you would be allowed to set up an altar in your room. You lit the candles on the dress with a spell, flooding the room with a warm glow. You were pleased to find bedding already on the bed and fresh water in the pitcher by the wash bowl. There were also clean towels in the top drawer of the dresser. 

You stripped out of your dress and hung it over the footboard of the bed. In just your cotton chemise, you pulled back the covers and slid in between the cool sheets. You already missed your coven sisters and wondered if they were all safe. Your mind then turned to the strange Cardinal that allowed you entry into the church. You raked your mind, searching for something you said or did that might have offended Copia. For some reason, he just didn’t seem to like you. Any other time that wouldn’t have bothered you. You didn’t need a strange man to like you, even though you wanted him to...

[theblackestvalkyrie]

#2 - Hulk - Oneshot (Pipe Game Series)

Pairing: Hulk (Bruce Banner) x Giantess!Reader

Summary: Hulk comes back from fighting in the arena and you couldn’t help but get turned on by his performance. Unfortunately, he takes “Hulk Smash” a little too literally. 

Warning:  Kind of awkward smut, dubcon, rough sex, hulk’s fat girthy cock, sex positive reader, unrealistic cervix fucking, pissing/piss kink, painful sex, accidental/surprise orgasm, slight somnophilia, size difference, NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN

A/N:  Keep in mind that there is no Bruce in this fic. It’s strictly Hulk in this one. Comic fans, y’all know they are NOT the same person like the movies try to make it so really, they should be in different tags but whatever. Unfortunately, the rating was 5/10 but I personally think he’d be a 9/10 just on size alone 🤤. Reader is sex positive Is that coded for whore? Maybe lmao. Don’t be offended as I am a proud whore myself and is also a giantess (when compared to other species). Kind of like Bilquis from ‘American Gods’. If you know you know 😏. I took this one too far and a bit off track but I am pent tf up sexually so please be easy on me lol.

PG Chapters: Tony //

Based on this post.

https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchbaby300/pseuds/theblackestvalkyrie

The crowd was electric. Their enthusiastic cries and cheers echoed throughout the arena rising and falling with the wins and losses of warriors as they fought for their lives in the arena. On any other night, you’d be on the prowl looking for someone to bed or drink with but tonight was different. The new champion was fighting tonight.

You licked your lips at the thought as you watched his enormous green figure leap around and smash through the opponents put in front of him. He had hardly debuted and fought just a handful of times but ‘The Incredible Hulk’, as he was introduced before fights, was someone who was quickly making a name for himself.

The Hulk wouldn’t be the first champion you had approached sexually but judging by how thick he was all around; he might just be the last. You couldn’t contain your sexually charged thoughts as you watched him from the seat of your aircraft hovering above the arena.

 Tonight would be the night you would make your move. You had been planning and plotting the entire week while also remaining celibate. Going without sex for a week while not ideal, would be doable but that one week stretched into a month as your schedules never seemed to align. But tonight the stars aligned. You had no scheduled fights and Hulk only had one match scheduled. So, you suffered through the entire thing squirming with legs crossed and slightly out of breath from just watching Hulk fight. Your clit mashed desperately against the seat, pelvis tilting back and forth in wanton desire.

You gripped the steering wheel to stop yourself from shoving your fingers where you needed them the most. The fight predictably ended in Hulk’s favor with the crowd and the Grandmaster going wild. Waiting was the hardest part. It would take some time for him to make his way back to his quarters which gave you plenty of time to land, park, and make your way to his room. You arrived just a few minutes after he entered his apartment you didn’t bother knocking. There was no privacy on Sakaar.

The red and white theme of the room just screamed Hulk. Trophies, both gifted and taken from his opponents by force, littered the floor and made up what little furniture he had. His room even had a full bar of high-end quality liquors and other mind-altering beverages on a fully stocked cabinet.

The Grandmaster's favoritism was blatantly obvious.

There he sat, a warm washcloth draped over his face, arms draped across his heated bathing pool, not a care in the world. You let your eyes trace downward towards his muscular thick chest and the sparse dark chest hair growing there trailing down his abdomen and obscured by the water.

In an effort to make yourself fully known, you let your footsteps become louder making more noise. Immediately he sat up alert and uncovered his eyes watching you like a predator. You and Hulk had never interacted up close but had seen each other in passing so were familiar yet complete strangers to each other.

“You did so well tonight, Hulk. I wanted to help you relax after such a hard job. Will you let me help you? Will you let me be your tool?”

Silence sat between you both as Hulk tilted his head in deep contemplation. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as his dark eyes pierced right through you.

“Hulk owns you?”

You could have come on the spot at his response. This was better than you could imagine. He must have thought you were one of the contracted sex workers the Grandmaster employed, and why wouldn’t he when you showed up with no underwear, a sheer bodycon dress, and zero inhibitions? Having a sexual tryst for a night was good but having someone sexually own you was a new level to you entirely.

“Yes.” No hesitation on your part.

“Strip.” A forceful command that left no room for argument.

You eagerly shed the thin soft fabric of your dress letting it pool around your feet. You could feel his eyes roaming your body studying your perky hard nipples and the intricate design of your pubic hair.

“Come” He gestured waving a wet hand out of the water and splashing water around without a care in the world for the surroundings. The first steps up to the pool were nerve-racking. While he made no move up to come to you, you could see him shifting around in anticipation.

It only made you more excited at the fact that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

Once you were fully into the warm pool the water settled above your belly button leaving your breasts dry and fully on display. You stopped a little shorter than an arm’s length in front of Hulk wondering if this was too close. It was almost comical to be worried about personal space when you entered his room without permission on the basis of fucking his brains out.

Hulk’s hand rose out of the water and cupped your right breast in shameless desire. He looked to be studying your chest like he had never seen a pair before caressing them with a gentleness that betrayed his size. A sweet silence settled between you two as you enjoyed his soft touch but at some point, you started getting tired of the sweetness.

You wanted to get fucked through the floor.

In a move of pure seduction, you slipped a hand under the water and straight to his cock stroking smoothly thanks to the lubrication of the pool.

Your fingers brushed the fat mushroom head as you took in his size. The head was hot even under the warm water and you struggled to wrap your fingers around it. His entire length measured from the tips of your fingers to the end of your elbow and then some. So many nights of struggling because you were a giantess. Nights of accidentally killing men unlucky enough to get sucked up into you during sex and men too scared to partake after hearing the rumors. It all lead to this glorious moment.

Hulk took his cue from you and slipped his fingers between your legs as well just discovering and exploring to his heart's content.

“You a virgin big guy?” You purred squeezing his length lightly.

“Maybe.” He huffed, half in annoyance half in arousal.

You giggled wrapping your other hand around what you couldn’t reach with the other hand still pumping him but adding a little twist to your wrist.

“Will you let me take care of you?”

He nodded and that was all you needed. Apparently, this was all he needed before standing in the deep pool. The water glistened and rolled off his muscles and down his happy trail to the deep v- cut of his pelvis exposing him in all his glory.

Your mouth started watering at the sight of his curved length. It was even better than anything your imagination could conjure up.

His weeping cock head spread precum along your cheek and lips as Hulk prodded your mouth open with his member.

“You suck me.”

You were granted a few seconds to take in all his splendor up close before his swollen head was banging on the back of your throat in inexperienced thrusts. Even with your hands gripping his hips in a death drip didn’t slow him down and you doubted much would deter him from the warmth of your throat.

You could feel your vision going spotty the darkness calling you and you flailed in panic a little. Hulk pulled himself from your throat and you gasped and coughed for breath ignoring the way the mix of saliva and precum dripped down your chin and throat obscenely.

Hulk lifted you over his shoulder and lumbered out of the pool to his trophy bed smacking your ass once and then dumping you on the bed saturating the sheets from your soaking wet bodies.

Unceremoniously he split your legs wide and ground his bloated cock tip into you bumping the nose of your clit and sliding back between your slick lips to your taint and back up again. Sawing back and forth in slow calculated movements.

Back and forth.

Back.

And.

Forth.

“We fuck now.”

He wasn’t even looking at your face but between your legs at his lewd movements. It was like you weren’t even in the room.

Yes please.” You squealed gripping the sheets in anticipation.

He moved then splitting your vaginal opening bigger than your fist. The stretching burned like nothing you had ever felt and you wondered in the back of your mind if this was how giving birth felt.

“Please wait…...Too big… Please….”

He ignored you and continued to push past any tight resistance living up to his title as champion and hit the opening of your cervix. You cried out as his thick girth split you immediately regretting ever approaching Hulk. Thankfully Hulk had enough thought to stop when he hit the doors of your cervix.

His large green hands gripped your hips and overlapped around your smaller figure. You might have been bigger than everyone you came across but Hulk made you feel small this very moment.

The room filled with the wet squelching sounds of your pussy getting hammered all you could do was spread your legs and hold on. You couldn’t keep up with his pace and the fact that it was bringing equal parts pain and pleasure confused you yet brought a feral arousal like you had never known.

“Gods, slow the fuck down!”

Your flailing was starting to annoy Hulk so he pinned you down with his arms and whole body pressing you into the mattress breathing into the side of your face.

“Don’t fight it.”

Babbling in delirium as he worked you over on his shaft like a cock sleeve with reckless abandon. Again the fat tip of his cock was banging at the doors of your cervix nudging you open with every hit. You were helpless to stop him from taking what he wanted.

You could feel the beginning strings of your orgasm knotting up and building. You couldn’t even form words. Falling over the edge with a sob you could feel yourself releasing liquid all over the bed.

Holy shit you just pissed yourself.

You didn’t even have a chance to catch your breath or feel embarrassed as you continued to piss all over the Hulk yet this did nothing to deter him. In fact, it incensed his primal urges and made him go harder smacking into you at a bruising pace as he chased his climax.

Another orgasm hit you by surprise making your vision spotty. Your tightening walls were all the Hulk needed to slam past the opening of your cervix filling it with the swollen crown of his cock and continuing to pump into you sloppily as he came. Drooling into the sheets you faded into a blissed-out darkness.

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

Coming to, the first thing you could sense was the wet squelching of your pussy still getting fucked. Unable to do anything but watch yourself get fucked in the reflection of the window. Fucking against the window so everyone can see. The Hulk growled possessively into your neck as he came into your stretched-out cervix with a groan.

“Mine…….Mine….”

[theharrowing]

An Ghealach

Field Linguist Jimin Park travels to a remote island called An Ghealach off the coast of Ireland to research and document an endangered language, just in time for the community’s Beltane festivities. What he encounters is both horrifying and mesmerizing beyond his wildest dreams.

🌑 Jimin x Female Reader 🌒 word count: 9k 🌓 speculative horror, gore, major character death, dub con, smut, nsfw, 21+ 🌔 warnings: 🕊 dead dove! creepy folk horror themes (shapeshifting, human sacrifice), unable to tell dreams from reality, gore (mention of entrails, mention of bleeding someone dry, cutting palm and drinking/smearing blood), dubious consent (use of magic to put into a trance & coerce), angst, infidelity (mention of an engagement), smut (voyeurism & exhibitionism, oral & vaginal sex, a bit of ass eating, rough sex, holding of throat, blood licking, a little biting, forest sex, a need to be cum inside of), nickname "pet", major character cloning & off-screen death. 🌕 note: hello, and welcome to my fun little Beltane horror fic! appearance of reader in this fic shifts, and is therefore described. sometimes she has pale skin, other times dark, purposefully left vague aside from hair and occasionally eye detail. this story is a bit rushed because of yoongi concert week and final exams happening in the same month; i had a lot of ideas, but the time just kept creeping up and up and up, and here we are, at the end of May!

🌖 i also made a lot of shit up in terms of the magic, left a lot of shit vague, and did not worry much about whether things make any sense, so...go into this with a grain of salt; this is not meant to reflect any real Beltane rites or rituals, even if certain things (like the maypole) sound familiar. it is also not meant to depict a real place or a real dialect of a language. the Gaelic words are meant to feel wrong and strange because this place is wrong and strange. (a friend of mine who is Irish & a linguist helped me with the words; i promise you, the intent is to feel wrong.) enjoy!

🌗 mc goes by the name Rí; Jimin's pov appears in italic paragraphs

🌘 written for A Spring Offering Collab! check out the other works! 🌑 beta read by @neoneunnajimin 🌒posted may. 2023 | read on ao3

Cross his heart, hope to die Hang his entrails, bleed him dry

He is Here. He is here. Heard, have you? He is here.

The women of the island chirp and coo at one another, heads tilted inward, as if sharing a profound secret. Their voices are low but lilted with excitement, and the language in which they whisper is old – nearly extinct. 

Your footfalls crunch through grass that has hardly seen rain – unseasonably dry, despite the air holding onto a thick, shrouding dampness. Soon, the sun will stay risen for more than eight hours, and, if this summer is bountiful, the clouds will open up and shower your island with abundance. 

Seen the man, have you? They whisper, unused to men from outside the confines of the island; unused to skin darker than porcelain. No outsider has stepped foot permanently on this land since your father had, all those years ago; only mysterious strangers who last as long as the holiday allows. 

Strange, his name is. They whisper. And the sun, his skin shines with deep hints of its rays. 

"Girls," you call in a tongue that whisps through your lips, wind fluttering between delicate petals, ancient. "Our manners, let us not forget."

"Our manners, Rí," the women respond in a chorus, pulling their expressions straight, only to begin giggling the moment they think you are no longer listening. 

Bright orange hair falls in tight curls to your shoulders, which are exposed to the sunlight. You wear a white long-sleeve chemise that rests mid-bicep and is tied loosely in the front over perky cleavage. Your emerald green bodice sits under-breast and opens to a long emerald skirt that falls to your bare feet over a hoop skirt made of layers of cloth. 

Your girls are dressed much more simply in white chemise dresses and underpants. Some wear modest green or burgundy bodice dresses, and some wear plain white or black cloth shoes. 

The propellers on the white aquatic plane whirr as you approach, and you hear two male voices speaking loudly over its engine. One man, dressed head-to-toe in a white pilot uniform, docks with the help of four of your women, and he exits the small aircraft. 

After a pause, another man appears wearing a tan blazer over a white tee that is tucked into fitted blue jeans, with a black leather belt and black boots. Around his neck, a white kerchief is tied, and his hair is coiffed delicately off his forehead, casting a beautiful wave of silvery-blond that hardly blows in the winds coming from the sea. He looks as if he is dressed for a weekend getaway to somewhere far more exotic than here, and you find it absolutely adorable. He is more petit than you anticipated – average height and slender – but what stands out the most is the man's face. 

Even from this distance, the man is breathtaking. His full lips pout as he straightens himself out, and he seems surprised and apologetic when the girls begin to assist with his things, pulling suitcases from the plane. 

At his shocked expression and attempts to communicate with precious creatures who do not speak a common tongue, you make your way forward, holding your many skirts in hand so your feet do not trip. As soon as you approach and begin to shout to the girls to be careful, the man's eyes lift, lips part, and you watch the moment he notices you, deeply breathing in and holding it while you speak. 

"Girls, girls," you call in the ancient tongue, "handle gently."

As his things are brought to the pier, the man begins to organize them. Everything is on wheels, and he must deem a certain suitcase more important than the others, taking it by its extending handle and dragging it to dry land first. There is a short set of steps between the path and the pier, and you walk down and reach a hand out to offer help. 

"Thank you," the man mutters, seemingly uncertain whether you are one of the many who do not speak English. 

"You must be Jimin Park," you say, reaching for the handle and watching as recognition and relief paint his pretty features. 

Up close, Jimin is a thing out of fairytales. Wide, dark eyes glance curiously at the landscape, and each curve of his face is soft and delicate, despite his profile being sharp lines. An anomaly of beauty, carved with careful hands. 

Jimin guesses at your name and you nod, flashing a sweet, welcoming smile – you had been the one corresponding with him before his arrival. He must relax, because as you begin to tug for his suitcase to lift it up the three short wooden steps, his hold loosens, and he eventually allows you to take it, only letting his gaze linger a moment before he turns to grab more of his things. 

You help him with his belongings – four black cases in total – and each of you take two to wheel down the dirt path past the open field, along the edge of the woods that peeks out into the village, to the inn that sits ahead, to the left. Although your home is in the woods, you have prepared a room in the inn, sharing a wall with Jimin.

The village is quaint. There are a few homes at the far end of the walk, along a stretch of foothills. A town hall rests between the homes and the inn, and there is a small store room holding onto all imported wares, farmed goods, and hunted items. To the right is all forest until the cliffs open up to the vast ocean, and on the other side of the wood, village elders live out their days, never minding what you and girls do on this side, so long as their bellies stay full and hearths stay ablaze. 

"Have you lived here your entire life?" Jimin asks slowly, annunciating each word with precision. There is a hint of his own accent giving the English a very pretty lilt. 

"Nearly," you respond, eyes slowly wandering from the inn, sweeping the small hints of village that come into view, landing on the forest. "My parents arrived when I was little, but my mother was born here. The island is in my blood."

"And you are the only person here who speaks English?" Jimin asks, voice a bit shaky and hesitant.

As you turn to gauge his expression, you find hints of anxiety. You wonder if Jimin is not the kind of person who likes to seek the help of others; if, perhaps, you will have to be assertive in offering assistance with everything he may need. 

"I am," you respond with a smile, "which means you and I are going to become quite well acquainted, Jimin Park."

Over dinner on the first night, Jimin opens up about growing up in South Korea and attending university both at home, and in the United States. As girls come to fill your plates with more cured meats, he notices that they call you Rí. 

Jimin is an inquisitive fellow, whose pretty dark eyes are wide and curious – and somewhat glossy after two cups of honey wine – and you smile with feigned shyness, nodding your head demurely when he asks you about the nickname. 

"It means king," you tell him with a grin.

"Ah," Jimin responds with a growing smile of his own. "So are you their king?"

With a chuckle, you shrug and say, "I suppose I am. We have elders but they live on another part of the island. I'm the one who takes care of the girls."

"And the hunting and farming?" Jimin asks. 

"Much of our bounty is from the autumn equinox," you admit shyly, vaguely. "We had an abundant winter."

"Wow," Jimin responds curiously. "Good weather last year?"

It was luck that two cops came snooping around the island just before Samhain; their blood was the perfect offering to the old gods. With their entrails strung up, dangling from the trees, and slowly drip-draining into the grass below, the skies shined favorably through the cold season, and wild animals practically skittered and galloped happily into your traps. 

"Yes," you respond simply, smiling fondly at the memory of the two transmuted squirrels who were sent home in the men's stead with nothing to report on but normal goings-on, on the island. 

Magic of that caliber works best on the holidays, when the passages are open and the power from the other side covers your island like a rich fog, sparking it to life with intrinsic energy. A shame you used that power to create two men of the law, but the last thing your little homestead needs is more blue-capped guards snooping around for their missing men. 

With the perfect specimen for this year's festival sitting beside you, your excitement shimmers, vibrating under your skin and making the air around you feel charged. You had hoped that, being as young as he is, you would be sent someone without a spouse, making it easier to fall under your spell – buying you a little time before having to clone the poor guy and send him back. 

A shame that this season's sacrifice not only comes with a gold engagement band around his finger, but is so dreadfully pretty that you almost lament the thought of watching the light drain from his eyes. 

But the land is hungry, and feed, she must.

“Cross his heart, hope to die. Hang his entrails…will he have pretty entrails, do you think?” you sing-song, lifting a handsome red squirrel in both hands, holding it eye-level to inspect. It had come to your window at the stroke of midnight, cheery and pliant. 

An offering from the land. 

A host. 

“What a shame I can’t just keep him for myself,” you muse, considering the fact that you were able to transmute two men before. “Perhaps I will have to make a second clone, this time. Can you bring me a friend?”

The sound of thumping is what wakes Jimin up. At first, he thinks it may be a tree branch tap, tap, tapping against the window. But as sleep falls away to wakefulness, he realizes the sound must be coming from the other side of the wall. 

Your wall.

Falling asleep was difficult, in the first place. Something about the island, and especially the inn, feels incredibly ominous, like there is a presence looming just out of the peripheral, never fully seen. And the scent that you carry – spiced cloves and fresh bouquet of wildflowers – lingered in the air, filling his head with thoughts of you. 

Now, as he blinks through the darkness, he wonders if he had slept a wink, at all. 

Jimin rolls over, attempting to ignore the sounds in favor of getting more sleep, noticing in his brief moment of wakefulness that it is still pitch black outside. But then he hears it…humming…low and inviting, causing all the little hairs on his arms to stand at attention. 

Somewhat mindlessly, Jimin pushes the thick quilted blanket away and climbs out of bed, heavy-lidded and barely aware of his surroundings in the mostly-empty room. Golden lantern light glows in through the window, allowing him to see ahead of him just enough to make a clear path toward the sound.

In his dreamy haze, Jimin imagines voices whispering – beckoning him forward. Come to me, they say, tangling and slipping over one another, mostly incomprehensible flits of lips, teeth, and tongue, spoken too softly to truly be fully heard. 

Jimin places his hands against the wall, presses his ear against the wood, and listens. The humming continues, muffled delicately by the layers that separate it from him. Is it Rí, he wonders.

As he continues to listen, his eyelids flutter closed. The thumping sound is rhythmic and soft, and the humming has shifted into something more sensual. Moaning, perhaps? Whimpering, even? He feels entranced by it and presses harder against the wall, feeling the cool wood against his cheek gradually heat, until his breath huffs out sticky-warm against it.

Come to me, Jimin, he is certain he hears in a voice that can only be yours. Don't be shy.

He feels drunk and loose-limbed, rubbery and pliant, and he sways his hips to the inviting song, dragging his blunt fingernails over the wall. The humming – the moaning – it intensifies, drawing his breath ragged, forcing small sounds of his own to come falling past his lips. His body feels electric – charged with a current that runs ultraviolet through his bloodstream, desperate for more, picking up hints of spiced clove and musky floral notes.

With a crescendo of whimpers, the thumping quickens and abruptly ends, and Jimin gasps, waking from his stupor, stumbling listlessly from the wall and wiping drool from his face. His head feels hazy as he blinks and turns, taking in the dark room and wondering what kind of dream he was just having. 

In the quietude of the night, he stands still and listens. Had he imagined hearing something before? Was it all a dream? Only the scent of the trees below his cracked-open window fills the space, but he inhales deeply in search of something more. 

Silence settles, heavy but somehow light, and he sighs, runs a hand through his damp silver-blond hair, and returns to the bed, trying his best to ignore the ache in his pants – hard and neglected. 

"Not tonight," he whispers, scolding himself. Not over the thought of you. Not when he has someone waiting for him back home. 

"Sleep well?" you ask at the sight of Jimin exiting the inn. 

He wears a black tee tucked into black fitted jeans, with his black belt and shiny black leather boots, and you smile to yourself, both over the simplicity of it all, and from how much he stands out in a place like this. 

Although denim is not frowned upon in the village, and is worn often by the elders on the other side of the island, the girls love to dress up in renaissance-reminiscent clothing and make believe that every day is a fairytale. After all, on An Ghealach, it can be. 

You are modestly outfitted in a white chemise dress that is cinched at the waist, with an undershirt to hold your breasts in place, and simple cloth white shoes. Your straight, black hair falls waist-length, braided intricately away from your face, letting the sun hit your deep-golden skin. 

"I slept alright," he responds, voice rough from disuse. 

Jimin smiles softly, and you check for any glimmer that he has noticed the shifting of your appearance, of the outside of the inn, of the stone path that stretches around the forest edge. When Jimin smiles and asks if there is anything he can do to help set up for Beltane, seemingly unaware, you nod and lead the way. 

"All there is to do today is prepare the land, which the girls have under control," you inform. "We can discuss phonemes in the meantime, if you have your equipment handy.”

With a wide smile, Jimin pulls a small recording device and notebook from his back pocket and holds them up. "Always prepared."

You chuckle and mutter, "Perfect," continuing along the path to the field where the girls are cutting the grass with old, metal devices on wheels, and gathering all the prettiest weeds and wildflowers to fashion into crowns.

Jimin makes good company, curious and open-minded without asking too much. You can see in the way he watches the girls that there is so much he would like to know – can read each question that flits over his eyes, only to be blinked away. Where did they come from? Why do none of them speak English? Where are the men? These are questions that just hang for brief seconds at the tip of his tongue but that he never works up the courage to ask.

Perhaps he knows it is best not to know. Perhaps some part of him is aware of the horrors that might lurk behind the corner of posing one question too many. 

The two of you spend the day discussing vowels, consonants, and syntax. His grasp on modern dialects of Irish Gaelic is enough that he instantly begins to draw similarities between those and the older language spoken on the island.

And as the sun moves from burning hot overhead to sinking beneath the horizon, moving your studies into the inn's tavern, you find yourself scooting close on the bench while offering more honey wine to your eager, beautiful guest. 

Jimin has never sleepwalked before. In fact, he tends to lay so still that often, his neck and limbs are sore the next morning, popping as he stretches in an attempt to get the blood flowing adequately. 

So when he opens his eyes to find himself standing barefoot in the woods, hands outstretched toward the trunk of a tree, he yelps and jumps backward, nearly fumbling to his butt. 

“What the fuck,” Jimin mutters to himself as he glances around, eyes becoming more alert. 

The woods are nearly pitch dark, save for the bright glow of the waxing gibbous moon shining through the trees. What luck, he thinks, that the clouds are scarce tonight. 

Although there is no foreseeable path, the ground appears mostly clear of thick brush. Jimin turns and makes his way out, careful not to step too hard, gently shuffling his bare feet outward with each step, avoiding sticks and rocks as best as he can. 

Fear simmers just below Jimin’s skin. He attempts not to spiral, telling himself that he could not have possibly walked far. His blue flannel pajamas are warm, but thin enough that the chilly night air would likely have woken him quickly. And so, onward he presses. 

A flickering yellow flame glows through trees ahead, just to the left, and Jimin lets out a deep sigh of relief as he changes course. Although he is pleased to be making his way back to civilization, his new worry is being disruptive as he walks back through the old, creaky inn. He does not want to disturb Rí, who he imagines must be asleep at this hour. 

Despite the island being mostly covered in dense forest, the night is surprisingly quiet. Eerily so. Even in the daytime, insects and rodents are lively to the point of seeming cacophonous. How is it possible for everything to be so…still?

The sound of a particularly loud stick snapping – not underfoot but ahead – has Jimin tensing and freezing with fear. He holds his breath while his shoulders raise to his ears, trying his hardest not to be detected, until smoked clove hits his senses, and—

“Jimin!” you call softly, certain that his fear has spiked nearby, radiating like heavy, bright fumes between the birch trees. 

And then you hear it, a soft, delicate voice, calling a tentative, “Rí?”  

Ah, so the pretty thing is just ahead, and your plan to at least get him into the woods has worked without a hitch. You wonder what it was that snapped him out of his trance too soon. Next time, you think to yourself. You still have one more night to get him into the passage of his own volition. 

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, feigning worry and exasperation. 

“Ah—“ Jimin begins, voice sounding somewhat closer. “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Is that something you do often?” you ask, holding the lamp higher. 

Jimin’s pretty face comes into view, peeking from between a thin birch that separates you, and you smile wide and welcome, taking in the blend of fear and affection that wafts from his pores and surrounds you. 

“No,” he responds softly, eyes wide and curious. “Never.”

“Strange,” you mutter, momentarily stuck in time and space from him standing so close to someone so dreadfully beautiful. 

“Yeah,” he says soft as a whisper, blinking heavily before standing straight and rounding the tree. 

You also straighten out and take two steps backward to give him room. When Jimin appears before you, your eyes drop to his bare feet, and you frown, making a mental note for the next time. 

With skin shades darker and hair shorter than earlier, you wonder if Jimin catches onto the new appearance. But his face gives nothing away. So the spell is just as strong, even if he broke the call of the other side just before entering the passage. Interesting. 

“How did you find me out here?” Jimin asks as you turn and lead the way back to the inn, searching the shifted dirt path for a believable excuse. 

You slowly lead the way toward the inn, and Jimin quickly falls into step beside you. When you walked outside to follow your guest just moments ago, you had left doors open and lights on intentionally, and you raise a hand to point in the general direction of the building. 

“I came out of my room and your bedroom door was wide open," you say. "The front door, as well. So I grabbed a lantern and ran outside; I figured you could not have gone too far.”

“Oh,” he responds, already sounding ashamed even from one syllable. “I’m so sorry.”

With an insistent shake of your head, you say, “Not at all. I am just glad I found you.”

“What if an animal, or—“ Jimin begins, but you cut him off. 

“There is nothing on this island that we fear. Closed doors are only such to keep the cool air out where it belongs. In the temperate months, doors and windows are left wide open.”

You are the witch of the wood, after all. Nothing that lives and breathes on this isle exhibits an ounce of free will if you wish it otherwise. Which reminds you… Slowly, you will the creatures of the night to stir – a scurry here and a dance of wings there – gentle enough to keep Jimin from noticing. 

Except he does notice. You can practically feel each hair on his body stand at attention the moment a squirrel is heard clawing up a tree, and you take a step just a little too far to the right, bumping into him softly with the hope of providing a bit of a distraction. 

"S-sorry," Jimin mutters, rubbing his hands on his blue pajamas. He seems nervous. Cute. 

"Lost my balance," you respond, shaking your head with a gentle chuckle. "It is past bedtime, I am afraid."

"Sorry again for the trouble," Jimin says as you reach the inn, passing through the threshold and stopping just at the foot of the stairs. 

You turn to Jimin and give a soft, sympathetic gaze. 

"It is no trouble at all," you mutter sweetly, smile saccharine. "I'm just glad I was able to find you."

Jimin hums, nods, and says, "It won't happen again," with a light bow of his head, then makes his way up the stairs, dirt-dusted feet falling quietly on each step until he is down the hallway, past your room, and closing his door softly behind him. 

The look of wonderment on Jimin's face really is something. As you walk through the small town, past the stretch of woods in which you found him last night, he keeps turning his gaze back to the trees. Is he wondering what it is he was doing there when he woke up from sleepwalking? Is he curious what drew him to that spot? 

You watch his micro-expressions as his brows knit and he wets his lower lip with just the tip of his tongue. He had been mid-sentence before, trailing off the moment you approached the spot through which he emerged. 

Jimin's gaze drifts to you, and he seems shy suddenly, cracking a soft smile while blush rises to his cheeks. Once you pass the wooded area and come up to the opening of the field, he seems a little more present. 

"Sorry," he mutters, and you continue to study him, noticing how his shyness seems to steadily build the more you watch him. 

"Has something caught your eye?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder toward the line of trees. 

A dark mist pulsates between the slender, white and brown trunks and branches, beckoning with tendrils that billow out and evaporate – yearning for the pretty man with the soft smile. Soon, you want to tell it. Be patient. 

"Ah," Jimin mutters, scratching the back of his head with his face scrunched as if searching for a memory. "I guess I feel a little strange about sleepwalking last night. How did I end up in the woods, of all places?"

You hum in understanding and say, "The wood calls to us all, I suppose."

Without giving Jimin much time to dwell on your words, you hold out your hand and point him to where, in the center of the open field, some of the girls are setting up a maypole, and others are building a tall triangle of logs in the center of a stone circle. 

Jimin takes out his small recording device and field notebook, and you begin to describe the scene before you in a mix of English and the ancient tongue, carrying your studies through the evening and into the early night.

In the woods again. 

Jimin stares down at his hands covered in dirt and wonders how he has managed to sleepwalk two nights in a row. He stands with his shoulders slumped forward, bent slightly at the knee with an arm outstretched as if he was reaching for something before waking up. In front of him is the u-shaped opening between two thick tree trunks. Or is it the same tree? Jimin cannot quite tell – too difficult to parse in the dark – and he tucks the information away to ask Rí about later.

He would be freaked out, only the smell of the wood – rich, earthy, and damp, with the sweet, musky smell of blooming flowers – feels calming now that he is confident that he can find his way back. He takes a deep breath and resists the urge to wipe his hands on his pajama pants.

The walk back to the inn is short, and although there is no path where he is, a golden lantern glow flickering past the thin birch trunks guides him. As twigs snap underfoot, he notes that he took the time to put his sneakers on before sleepwalking, relieved to not be barefoot again.

Jimin thinks he can hear faint sounds of voices – whispering, or, perhaps, chattering. Maybe singing. The island inhabitants certainly are an interesting bunch. He supposes that being far from modern civilization and with minimal technology would make people behave a little strangely. With Rí being the exception. 

Something about you seems…different. And not just because of your appearance. There is an aura about you that feels almost otherworldly. Perhaps in the way you carry yourself. Jimin finds himself intrigued by you...he wants to know more…

"Right there," you sigh in a tongue as rich and ancient as the soil, tilting your head back to reveal more of your neck, switching to English. "Feels so good, little pet. Don't stop." 

His kisses are tentative and shaky, but he grips onto your hips with purpose, pressing his chest firmly against your back to hold you steady. Golden lantern light flickers through the curtains, one long, bright glow of a lamp that hangs just below your window, signaling that your friend is awake and that he has not entered the passage. 

The woods are calm tonight, seeing Jimin swiftly return to tilled earth without interference. It is only a matter of time before he breaks through the forest edge, and you huff impatiently. Tomorrow is your last shot; you will need to beckon him with a blood ritual. 

You reach for the ties on your chemise and begin to pull them open, but your pet takes over, raising his hands to deftly do the work while his lips and teeth drag over your neck, sending a small but steady tingle of arousal through you as the sticky-sweet huffs of breath warm your skin. With the top undone, his hands freeze in place, and you yank the fabric open, exposing your breasts as they fall past the thin white material. 

"Touch me," you sigh, needy. "Touch me the way he desires to."

On your command, his hands cup your breasts eagerly, fondling your nipples until the skin is pebbled and sensitive, making you hiss with pleasure. Your dress falls down one shoulder and he sinks his teeth gently into the skin, sending a flow of electricity through your body, exiting in the form of a moan. 

You tremble and tilt your head further to the side, giving his mouth more room to explore while his hands fall lower, attempting to gently lift the cotton layers of skirt and farthingale hoops before impatiently taking handfuls of the garments and shoving them up, over your hips.

Clear of the woods, Jimin moseys along the path, in no rush to return to his room, enjoying the crisp but warm night air. Something about tonight feels ominous, and he tips his head toward the sky, noticing a bright moon shining back. Is it full, he wonders. It must be, given the way it glows past the thin sheets of cloud, illuminating his path even more so than the lantern light that hangs from the inn. 

As he approaches the inn, Jimin glances up, noticing light coming from one of the windows on the second floor. He wonders if it is the room you stay in, and what you might be doing awake at this hour.

Gravel and dirt crunch underfoot, quiet and calming as he walks down the path. Shadows seem to dance over the window above, and Jimin finds himself gazing upward. Briefly, he thinks he sees the appearance of palms pressing into the window, halting his steps. But the glass is frosted, and he cannot clearly see through. 

Shame travels up Jimin's neck as he gets his bearings, realizing he had been trying to peer through someone's window. He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air as he presses forward. 

Voices continue to chatter and sing, but Jimin does not see where they are coming from. Rather, the sounds seem to be lifting and floating with the wind, settling around him on all sides only to slip away into the night. Despite feeling fully awake mere moments ago, shivering against a chilly gust that blows his hair into his eyes, there is a heavy sense of drowsiness that begins to tug at him, pulling him forward, as if willing his feet to take each new step, craving his bed. 

The man behind you grips your hips tightly, then sinks to his knees, sliding his hands down to your ass as he lowers. He grabs firmly and spreads you, causing you to fumble forward and place both hands against the glass. Below, Jimin glances upward, attention caught by the movement. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this – breasts exposed and mouth parted with surprise. 

Perhaps it is the way eagerness and curiosity emit from Jimin, or how your own excitement from being touched has mewls and gasps falling from your lips, but the man digs his tongue eagerly into your ass, slurping and sucking over your hole, sending a steady wave pleasure and arousal coursing through you. 

"That's it, pet," you whimper, nails scraping down the glass as you get your bearings. "Don't stop."

The man attempts to bend you further, tongue trailing down to your cunt, in search of your clit, but bending more would be too precarious, especially with the layers of material gathered, making it tough to move. He shuffles back instead and takes you by the hips to spin you roughly, causing you to yelp as you attempt to get your bearings and not fall over. 

When you look down at the man – the imposter that was spawned from the flesh and blood of a mature red squirrel, crafted perfectly to look just like him – you gasp. 

His plump lips are slick, glistening, and soft, reddened by the dim lamplight, and his short, silver-blond hair is a mess as he stares up with an eagerness that has you burning with desire. Ordinarily, you keep the clone for a bit; play with them a little until you have to wash their memories of you and send them home. But staring down at an imitation of Jimin just makes you want him – the real deal. 

“Please,” you mutter, breathy and aroused. “Don’t hold back.”

The imposture rakes his blunt fingernails up your thighs, sending a shiver through you that escapes with a gasp, and he leans forward, eagerly lapping over your cunt with his tongue. It feels charged and galvanic – a hum that vibrates in your bloodstream on a low but steady frequency. 

As your head lolls back you hear a gentle footfall on the bottom step. 

Jimin finds it odd that your light is on at this hour. He hopes that somehow his absence from the inn has not awakened you again, and he does his best to tiptoe up to the landing. 

It is soft, but he hears what sounds like a moan coming from your room, and he freezes, foot suspended in air just before your doorway, which is cracked open two enticing inches. A sliver of golden light casts a streak against the otherwise dark hallway, and Jimin feels a pull to it, eager to have just a tiny peek.

A whimper of the words please don't stop has the hairs on his arms standing tall. 

Come to me, Jimin, he thinks he hears the voice say lowly, inside his head. Don't be shy.

Jimin wills his feet to move – exerts all the force he can muster into taking three more steps ahead. And then he stops in the light that shines from within, and he looks.

Surely, he must be dreaming. There is no other way to explain how he is standing in the doorway to your room, watching as a man who has his exact same hair and body type devours you. Your legs are spread, one ankle over his shoulder, toes outstretched as you hold him close, and your bare breasts heave as you pant softly and beg him not to stop. 

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to watch. As your fingernails dig into the wooden edge of whatever the look-alike has you pressed against, you unravel from his mouth. His sounds are lewd and wet, slurping and humming in a low tenor that Jimin recognizes as his own, and arousal stirs between Jimin's legs. He grants himself permission to touch, just this once, gently grasping onto his erection and squeezing it over his pants. 

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to whimper from the warmth of his palm, eyelids flitting from pleasure as he listens to the man who looks just like him eat you out. He wonders what you must taste like – wonders if you would let him crawl in there on his hands and knees and try for himself. 

The man stands, turns his head slightly to the side, and wipes his hand over his mouth, leaving a trail of slick behind. The jaw, the nose, the shape of the brow – he is a spitting image of Jimin. How Jimin is in two places at once, he does not know, but he keeps his eye on the man who undresses in a flash, displaying his own tattoos exactly where he remembers them, flexing familiar taut muscle that he has spent years building and maintaining. 

When you wrap your leg around his hip and pull him close, your eyes find Jimin, gazing over his look-alike's shoulder, and he gasps, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. You shift before his eyes, hair turning black and then orange and then blonde, and he begins to question how you are supposed to look; he cannot remember your hair, nor eyes, nor skin, but nothing he sees now feels incorrect. 

"That's it, Jimin," you moan, eyes trained on him, looking over the look-alike's shoulder, and causing his aching cock to twitch in his pants. "Don't stop."

Jimin squeezes his eyes closed tight, and when he wakes up suddenly in his bed, he gasps for air, covered in sweat. The heat from what he presumes had to be a dream covers him like a blanket, and he cannot stop himself from relieving the ache between his legs. 

Guilt and shame do nothing to stave off just how hard he cums thinking about you. 

"Just this once," he tells himself, whispered softly like a prayer. "Just this once."

Today, you have returned to the long, orange curls, with piercing green eyes. Shadow and light morph your skin tone with each passing step, as the full strength of the island's magic fills you from the crown of your head to the tips of your fingers and toes. When Whitman waxed poetic about the body electric, could this have been his meaning? Certainly not. 

Beltane begins today. 

Around the maypole, you and Jimin will dance, with a belly full of cured meats and a heady concoction of honey wine laced with blood and a generous dash of magic. But first, you must greet your sleepy guest, and you tiptoe to his bedroom door dressed only in a thin, white chemise dress with light blue embroidered hems, and rap your knuckles three times against the stained wood. 

"Just a moment," Jimin mutters from the other side, sounding sleep deprived. 

What must he have dreamt about after stumbling like a lust-sick zombie back to his bed to the sight and sound of his clone fucking you breathless? Did he come to in a cold sweat, gasping for air? Did he touch himself thinking of you?

When Jimin opens his door, he is dressed in a loose-fitting white cotton shirt hanging over matching cotton pants. Along each hem is an embroidered design of light blue rounded flourishes that match those on your dress, and on his feet are plain white shoes. You offered the clothing to him last night, to be worn for today's festivities, and you are pleased to find him outfitted in the attire. 

His silver-blond hair is somewhat disheveled, and he has a hint of bags under his pretty, deep brown eyes. As he takes in your appearance, his petal-soft lips part, and you watch as his eyes linger here and there, as if tracing the faint outline of a memory, for split, fleeting moments. 

"Good morning, sunshine," you tease, adding, "May the fires of Beltane light your path," with a gentle bow of your head. 

When you glance up once more, Jimin is still staring, curious eyes glowing with a new spark that seems entranced and somewhat foggy. Here but also not. You allow him to stare until he begins to blink and shake his head, and then he smiles softly and returns your greeting with a hint of blush darkening his cheeks. 

"Merry Beltane, Rí," he says with a slight bow to his head. "May the fires of Beltane light your path."

At the breakfast table, down in the decorated inn tavern, Jimin laments having no pockets for his recorder and field notebook. "What if there are things I want to make note of?" he pouts so cutely beside you. 

"Today is a day for celebration," you insist, dropping a generous serving of spiced honey into his tea and scraping the wooden spoon against the porcelain just enough to make Jimin stir where he sits. 

"For celebration," he responds in a tired, malleable haze.

Lust and curiosity pour from Jimin, covering him in a rich cloud. Each time you speak, his body shifts ever so slightly closer, gaze lingering on your lips and throat, flitting down to your breasts. Shameless, the way he does not seem to care that you take notice.

"My dear, did you sleep poorly last night?" you ask, trying not to tease, pretending not to notice the way his cheeks darken further and he heavy-blinks again and again.

"I had a dream I woke up in the woods again," Jimin responds, slowly reaching for his tea and raising it to his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he breathes in the sweetened chamomile and spice. "And then…you were there."

"In the woods?" you ask, tilting your head with feigned curiosity. 

Jimin shakes his head. "In the inn. Your door was cracked open and I walked by. I saw you—"

Pulled from his trance just enough to mind his tongue, Jimin cracks a soft smile and lets out a breathy chuckle. 

"My dreams have never quite been so lucid before," he continues after a quiet moment. 

You hum in response and mutter, "Perhaps the magic of the wood is calling to you."

Jimin nods, slow and shallow movements, brows knitting a hair before he concedes to the notion. "Perhaps."

Jimin certainly is an eager man. 

Eager to drink from the wineskins and learn all the steps to the harvest dance and dangle colorful ribbons from nearby trees. Eager to join the girls around the maypole and cast his wishes and fears and desires into the tall bonfire which licks at the stars above. 

At nightfall, under the glow of the full moon, you slice open the palm of your hand with a stone dagger and allow droplets of blood to fall into his cup of magic-imbued wine. Jimin sits unaware, eyes glazed over as he watches nude bodies jump over the dying fire. You lick over your wound, tasting brassy warmth, and pass him his cup, which he grabs automatically to sip from. 

"Enjoying yourself?" you ask, leaning close. 

Jimin hums in response, downs his cup, and turns to you with wide, ever-eager eyes, hair sticking out on the sides from beneath a daisy crown. 

"What have you done to me?" he mutters after a long moment, and you giggle in reply.

"What do you mean?" you ask, watching as his eyes travel to your lips and back up.

"I feel…" he begins, eyes widening as he gazes at the celebratory scene before him, then back at you again. "I don't know. High?" 

Jimin searches your features, which shift in the flickering flame light, and he shakes his head lightly. "How do I feel so high?"

"Blood ritual," you respond with a grin, noticing as Jimin's face and scent alternate between fear, acceptance, and confusion – unsure where to land. 

"Blood ritual?" he asks, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.

With a nod, you lift your hand and begin to stand from the wooden bench, beckoning Jimin to follow you with your index finger. Blood trickles down from your palm to your wrist, tickling the skin. 

"Your hand," Jimin mutters as he stands in a rush, stepping forward to inspect your wound. 

"Follow me," you sing-song, taking large strides into the wood as the dripping red begins to stain your sleeve. 

"Rí," Jimin mutters sadly, following dutifully with his eyes trained to your wrist, reaching out with limbs that are just slightly too slow to grasp. "you're hurt."

As your footfalls snap twigs and the world around you darkens under the cover of trees and long rainbow ribbons, you press yourself against a thick trunk and reach your uninjured hand out to grab onto Jimin's wrist and pull him close. 

"Rí," Jimin pouts, "I can't—"

With a whispered, "Shh," you reach up and smear your spilled blood over Jimin's lips and chin, pulling a surprised gasp from his lungs. 

"You're mine now," you say, and Jimin nods as he lunges forward, slotting a knee between your thighs as his hands lift to your chin to draw you close. 

Jimin's lips are pillow-soft and tangy-sweet with blood and wine mingling deliciously. He moans as you open your mouth for him, and he eagerly licks inside, tasting and taking like a man starved. 

Blood smears across his neck and into his hair as you pull him close, and he gasps and moans between your lips as his hands begin to untie your modest cloth dress and push it down past your arms, past your hips, to the forest floor. 

"Need you," Jimin growls as his fingertips press harshly into hips and, waist and he lifts one of your legs to rest over his hip. 

He shoves his pants down and in one swift movement, spears you on his hard cock, stretching you with a pleasure-pain that has you sobbing into the night. Jimin fucks you in a rough tangle of balanced limbs, skin slapping desperately against skin, and you clench around him, working yourself up as pleasure unfurls in rich tendrils through your bloodstream. 

Once he cums inside you, there will be no going back. He will belong to you – to the land – and the passage to the other side will open up and swallow him whole.

But his hips still before he reaches his orgasm, and he pulls out and drops to his knees, making you whimper in confusion before clawing at the tree for stability from pleasure the moment he tastes you. Your eager pet was good at mimicking just how greedy and talented Jimin's mouth is, but pales in comparison to the real thing. Jimin hums and moans as his tongue laps at your cunt, devouring you while his fingertips sink into your soft flesh. 

How can you sacrifice something so remarkable? Will the lands forgive you if you keep this one, just this once?

Pleasure builds and breaks suddenly, and you cum on Jimin's tongue, gasping and sobbing into the cool night air as the trees flutter and rejoice all around you. The air is effervescent, filled with power, engulfing and billowing around you, reaching its greedy fingers for your sacrifice as you ride your high, trembling on his soft, kiss-swollen lips.

When Jimin stands, covered in a pink smear of blood and your slick release, he yanks his borrowed white shirt over his head and throws it to the ground. You pull him into a kiss, sucking his tongue into your mouth until only faint traces of your essence remain.  

"Please," you whine as you spin and grip onto the tree, rubbing your ass against his throbbing cock. "Please, Jimin."

Never have you needed to be filled with the seed of a sacrifice so badly; never has the oxygen coursing through your bloodstream shimmered opalescent for someone like it does tonight.

Jimin lines himself up with your entrance and wraps one hand around your throat, sinking himself in slowly while manicured fingernails dig into your hip. The pleasure is white-hot intense, quaking through you as you tilt your hips backward, desperate to feel full.

"So tight," he groans as he pulls out and snaps his hips forward. "Been wanting you so bad."

You moan as Jimin slowly pulls out and roughly thrusts in, asking, "Yeah?" when you find that no other words are able to form.

"Feels like I'm going fucking crazy," Jimin groans, slowly pulling back and roughly snapping forward, back and forward, back and forward. "These woods…the blood…what are you doing to me?"

Before you can respond, Jimin's grip on your throat tightens, and he fucks you at a rough, quick pace, forcing air to punch from your lungs as arousal and pleasure ebb and ebb endlessly. 

You scratch at the tree, ripping away chunks of bark while you lean your head against your wrists and try not to collapse under the treacherous, horrifying weight of euphoria as Jimin thrusts hard and deep, filling the night with the sounds of skin against skin and feral, animalistic grunts. 

The hand on your hip reaches down between your legs, and as the pads of Jimin's fingers swirl deliciously over your clit, he growls, "Cum for me" into your ear. 

Your walls pulsate and squeeze, and you follow his command, building and building your pleasure until you can no longer hold back, allowing the floodgates to burst as you cum once more. 

"Fuck, that's it," Jimin moans with a drag of his lips and teeth over your shoulder and neck. "Feels so good. So fucking good. I'm so close."

"Cum inside me," you beg, desperate, squeezing around him with every last ounce of willpower you have.

As if having a sudden moment of clarity pulling him from your spell, Jimin quietly mutters, "Wait…I can't," against your shoulder, dropping his hand from around your throat. 

"You must," you beg, petulance rising as Jimin's hips begin to slow and his whimpers die. 

"What are we…" Jimin mutters softly, "I shouldn't be doing this."

With an exasperated huff, you pull away from Jimin, letting his cock slide out, then spin, resting your back against the tree once more. Jimin's eyes are wide and afraid as he takes you in, and he begins to glance around as if searching for a way out. 

You reach the hand that remains covered in blood and drag it over one of your shoulders, scraping tiny pieces of tree bark against your skin as you tilt your head and say, "Have a taste."

Drawn by the scent of your blood, still under its spell, Jimin leans in close and drags his lips over your skin, chest lightly grazing over your hard nipples, and he hums as it fully takes over his senses once more. Jimin's fingers grip roughly at your hips, and you lift your leg, wrapping it around his hips and pulling him forward as you reach for his hard, slick cock and guide it back inside you. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close while you adjust once more to the stretch – your pussy feeling used and sore. Jimin licks over your skin and begins to move his hips, and when he straightens out and fixes you with his dark gaze, he appears equal parts entranced with bliss, and afraid. 

Jimin's eyes are somewhat absent of their full glaze when he thrusts forward, and you watch as slivers of doubt cast over his features. Although your magic is strong, the will of a man can be difficult to break, even on a holiday such as this, when the ritual is strongest. 

But as you squeeze around him and let your scent of spiced clove and musky wildflowers fill the air, Jimin's pupils blow wide, and he leans forward, dragging his lips and teeth once more over your bloodstained skin.

As he sets a steady pace and chases his high, Jimin begins to suck and nip at your skin, huffing moans and groans while holding your ass firmly in two hands. Your body is tired and sore, back scratched, and hair matted from rough tree bark, but the pleasure overpowers, building like the clouds of an impending storm, thick and foreboding. 

Cross his heart…

"Close," Jimin whimpers, and you tighten your leg around him, keeping him from pulling out as his hips thrust and quake unevenly.

"Come for me, Jimin," you command, sinking your fingernails into his shoulder while your other hand tugs at his soft, silvery hair and holds him close. 

Hope to die…

Jimin mouths at your shoulder and neck, digging nails into your hips so hard you wonder if the skin might break. And then, with a desperate, almost pained groan, Jimin's hips still and then shake, and he fills you with his release. 

Tendrils of fog wrap around each of Jimin's limbs, dancing over his throat, as the passage opens up and begins to swallow the two of you whole. Once he is on the other side, he can be prepared for sacrifice, and in the light of the morning sun, this land can drink of his blood. 

Hang his entrails…

"Good boy," you mutter softly, as Jimin's teeth clamp down weakly, and he sobs through his orgasm, pressing his body into you as it convulses and quakes. "You've done so well."

"What—" Jimin mutters into your skin, then moans deeply as his cock continues to pulse and drain. "I can't s-s-stop."

"Shhh," you whisper softly, stroking blood-slicked silver-blond hair and pulling him close. 

Jimin shivers as the smoke dissipates, skin sweat-sheened and shining in the bright moonlight, and you run your palms up and down his back. His body begins to give out, and he leans his weight into you, dropping slowly to the ground. Around you, the voices of the others – the inhabitants of this side – whisper, sing, and chant. As you assist Jimin to lay on the forest floor, exhausted from his journey to the other side, you kneel and then drape yourself over his chest, playing softly with his hair as you fall fast asleep. 

Bleed him dry…

Dawn breaks as you stand tippy-toe, dangling dripping tissue and sinew from branch to low branch like a holiday garland. 

"Pretty entrails, indeed," you beam as you take a step back, covered in dripping blood, to admire your work. 

"Merry Beltane, Rí," Jimin's rich tenor greets you, just before two strong, warm arms wrap around your bare waist and pull you into a back-hug, skin against skin.

"Merry Beltane, pretty," you respond, turning your head to the side just enough to greet him with a soft, chaste kiss. 

Upstairs, in the inn, a copy of the man sleeps soundly. Today is his last day on the island before his research is concluded, and you pull your nude, love-struck Jimin past the edge of the forest, where you will leave him with one last kiss before shifting the wood to appear normal and free of bloodied guts. 

You bow your head to the land and thank it for the bountiful summer you will undoubtedly receive, then turn your head to the rising sun, and beg it with eyes closed to allow you to be greedy and keep a pet, just this once. At least until the long days shift to long nights, and, on the precipice of Lughnasadh or Samhain, a new eager stranger comes along. 

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[08melancholie]

Green Neckerchief; Red Blood. — Micah Bell/Reader

tags: Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide Notes, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt, Emotional Hurt, Death, Character Death, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, yeah this is just very sad, Micah Bell Being an Asshole, Soft Micah Bell, he cries btw, The Author Regrets Nothing, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like micah bell, and reader (again. sorry. not really sorry but oh well), Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Dark, Sad, Sad Ending, Unhappy Ending

summary: You don't realise just how much you miss something, before you suddenly lose it with no way to get it back. Everything goes quiet and you feel a sense of longing for the noise she used to make; don't you, Micah?

a/n: this is how i deal with depressive episodes; i write about people missing me—and by people i mean fictional characters that don't even know i exist.. its cheaper than therapy ever was

words: 3,160 | AO3 LINK

'Housing O'Driscolls must have become an everyday for Dutch; first that Kieran kid, now her?', Micah thinks to himself as he looks at you from across camp, whether you'd be helping one of the girls with laundry; going on a job with some of the men; talking to Dutch—one of the only people who actually went out of their way to speak to you; or just sat around, he would have a problem with it. With you.

You were an ex-O'Driscoll, which in itself was giving you a horrible reputation in Dutch's gang, but it could somehow only get worse.

And that worse was the fact that you weren't just another O'Driscoll in his gang; but his own blood, a relative.

You were Colm's daughter, unfortunately.

You never understood quite how, but life always had to sabotage you, make every accomplishment extra hard to reach, and make sure you got minimal credit.

And you could never complain. Never.

Dutch, after a full week of thinking and contemplating what to do with you, seeing as you very easily ratted on Colm with truthful information that was very useful to him, decided he wouldn't have you killed nor just sent off wherever, and you were put on watch by another member for a while, to see how you did.

Dutch found you a fine addition to his gang, and urged everyone to treat you as such, even if it was hard to do for many. One of those who found it hard was Micah Bell.

He had a huge, undeniable hatred for Colm and all that followed him—which, in his eyes, included you. Sort-of rightfully, but still; you tried your damn hardest to make them all see differently, that you weren't like Colm O'Driscoll and his devoted followers, but it was all futile. People often form an opinion of you and stick to it, hardly ever changing.

Micah wasn't always horrible to you, though. He had his moments, sure—but he sometimes actually wasn't too bad. Maybe he was starting to see a little differently. At a very slow pace, but still.

Usually, you had no problem defending yourself against him or anyone else who spoke ill of you to others or straight in your face, like Dutch had urged you to many times, but today just hasn't been a good day.

You never had a fear of dying, nor did you really... enjoy living, so to say. This life felt forced and was unkind to you at almost any moment it had a chance to be, but it was getting almost ridiculous by now.

You were on the edge of breaking down at any moment, trying to take a moment for yourself and sitting down at one of the tables, just for Micah to seat himself opposite of you.

"There you are, O'Driscoll girl."

You were dreading the conversation he was about to initiate, as if there wasn't enough on your plate already.

Don't cry, yell, or be upset... stay calm.

"Micah..." You look up from the brim of your hat reluctantly, but instead of the usual annoyed or cocky look you always gave him, for the first time, there's something else etched into your facial expression; a deep sadness he's not ever noticed, a melancholy look to your eyes.

His look of annoyance and disgust slowly faded into mild surprise as he looked at your expression, not having ever seen it before. "What's got your panties in a twist, O'Driscoll?" He asks, leaning over the table slightly.

You sigh and rub your sore eyes with your thumb and index fingers. "Do we have to do this today?" You mumble weakly, your mood entirely different and visibly more down than ever. "I really just... don't have the energy for your antics right now."

Micah raised an eyebrow at your response, tilting his head slightly. "What? You tired of me already, girl? You think you have a choice here, little O'Driscoll scum? Because you don't—you're in this gang, but you're not part of it. "He then paused in his speech, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Tch, 'ya look like you're about to start crying."

"..Okay, Micah." You quietly reply back and just go back to what you were doing beforehand; sharpening your knife under the table.

He watched you with narrowed eyes, noticing the way you seemed to be taking your frustration out on the poor blade in your hands, sharpening away your emotions. He let out a scoff and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, that is real nice of 'ya . Ignore me—veeery mature."

You slide the knife in your hand over the steel block in the other one, mumbling back before going silent again, no means of either protesting, denying or defending yourself today; not like it ever helped or stopped what the others did. "Sure."

And Micah just... goes silent. What the hell was up with you today? You usually always had a snarky response or quip back for him, and look at you now; just sitting there silently as you press your blade on that damn block of steel. He, for some reason, doesn't want to leave it there. Oh, no; he can't let you have this one. "You gon' ruin the edge of that knife soon." He comments after a moment of silence. "Should learn to take your frustration out another way, maybe something a little less destructive."

You stay silent for a brief moment before replying. "Believe me, this is the less destructive option." You mutter without thinking and pause, before you just continue sharpening the knife once again. That totally didn't sound weird. You start to silently hope he ignores the comment, but of course; life throws you another broken ladder to climb.

There it was—Micah gave a soft scoff at your reply, but the look on his face said he was at least happy you were finally talking like you usually did. "Oh? And what is the more destructive option, huh?" He asks curiously, catching on the weird wording in your response to him.

You exhale a little sharply before mumbling your reply; of course he had to say something, of course he noticed it. "I misspoke, is all." You excuse yourself, a little poorly.

Micah looked at you, his eyes flicking between you and the knife in your hand every now and then. "No, I don't think you did, girl. You meant exactly what you said, and now I ain't gonna let it go; I'm curious." Of course, he has to pry all the more.

You keep your eyes down on the steel block, dragging your blade a little quicker and harsher on it, until you can't take it anymore. "You're annoying, Micah," You stand while holstering your knife, putting the steel block into your saddlebag.

But Micah isn't having any of that.

He stands up with you, just as quickly. "Now, where do you think yer going?" He's swift to circle the table to your side and block out your exiting point. "I want to know."

You try to push past him when he puts his hand on you; grabbing you by the upper arm. You inhale sharply and try to rip your arm away, to no avail. "Micah, let go." You order, and he just tuts at you, like at a bad dog. "I'm serious, piss off already. I don't want to deal with you today, I've got enough to worry about already."

And Micah, like his usual self, doesn't let up. "Why you actin' like this recently? You ain't wanna go anywhere, you're all miserable—and now, you don't even wanna talk to me. Hells gotten into you, O'Driscoll?" He asks, only letting go of your arm when you go to smack it away.

"Nothing, I'm just.. feeling different, I don't know." You reply, you've been confused about your feelings yourself, just as much. "And since when do I gladly talk to you, anyhow?"

Micah takes a step back, but stays close enough so you can't weasel your way out of the conversation. "Not necessarily talk, but 'ya do like to argue with me. Where's all that energy gone, hm?" He asks, placing his hands on his gun belt.

You start to contemplate speaking up, you know you won't stop if you don't say something now—even if its to Micah of all people. And yet, your mouth stays shut, like it has for the past entire depressing month. "I'm tired, too tired for your usual bullshit." You reply defensively, like usually.

"We're all tired, sweetheart. We just don't whine and complain like you do." His words set you off, like never before. The gut feeling of saying something—the actual truth and the meaning behind 'tired'—gets worse, but so does the thought of him just using it as gossip and fuel for more arguments. And so, you don't say anything about it.

You push past him, and he doesn't stop you this time. He actually gives a small mock-laugh, assuming victory in the argument that ensued. Oh, he's won, alright.

Not fifteen minutes after walking into your tent, you walk right back out, making a b-line for your horse. Micah's not far back, back to his usual activity of standing around and doing absolutely nothing. And, funnily enough, he's the last person you see before you ride off.

Guilt. It's been an hour too long, and you're still to return. There it was, that foreign feeling Micah didn't remember feeling at any point in his life. He didn't know remorse; guilt; regret. None of it. And suddenly, it was all he was feeling. And against his better judgement, he got up out of his bedroll, left his tent and got on Baylock. And with the horse, he knew where to go to find you. That, in itself, should have been a sign—he hated you, but knew just where you were when upset? Yeah, explain us that one, Micah.

Apologies. Micah doesn't know how to form a sincere word of regret, and he knows a quick 'sorry' wouldn't fix this, not in a million years. Hell, he might just piss you off more if he comes up with a shitty apology. On his way down the path to the spot you were most-likely at, Micah starts to form a coherent, sincere and actually worthy apology. 'Sorry for everything' turns into 'sorry for targeting you with my torment, for all the weeks of it you endured. You didn't deserve that', and Micah tries to add as much as he can to it, to make it sound good. By the time he's at—huh?

Dread. Why is your horse hitched up just by the path, when there's still at least half a mile to your usual spot? Wait, no.. it isn't even hitched. The saddle bag is messily closed, ravaged through. But you're not there, not even around the area, not close-by or nothing. Just where are you, girl? And like the cruel God intended, Micah will always recognise your voice—no matter if it's your contagious laugh, your or your pained yelp, followed by sucking air in through your teeth. His blood runs cold and his hands already draw his revolvers, and he follows the noise. He expects to find you at the hands of a wild animal, or worse, a man. Not at the hands of your own self, and your hunting knife deep in your forearm.

Fear. Red. The color stains the knife next to you, the blade and the handle. The grass is red, so are your hands and wrists. All is painted in the color of your gore, even the nature gets to share you, with the lake getting a few drips itself, too. And you let them all share, like the thoughtful girl you always were. Micah panics; despite the usual instructions saying not to, he starts to panic. "What the hell did you do to yourself?" He sinks to his knees next to you, and suddenly he gets to share, too. His hand clasps around your opened arm, low curses leave his lips. "Baylock!" Micah whistles for the horse. "Come here, boy!" It's a crime scene, blood on your hands, and on his own—rhetorically and metaphorically, oddly enough. You had dry tear streaks going down your cheeks, and you were barely able to hold him back, your hands grabbing at his coat sleeves as you could only gasp and heave, death at your doorstep. And with every ounce of your leftover energy, you focus on clinging to this man. "Left saddlebag, number.. seven."

Denial. You're cold to the touch. Your skin is a paler color than it usually is, even with the moonlight painting your skin a beautiful shade, it is not your usual one, and that scares Micah. "Why the hell would you do this, 'ya moron?" He spits, and for the first time in so, so long in his life, there's water in his eyes. There's tears on his cheeks, going down to his jaw. He's angry. Oh, he's enraged. Never at the right person, however. Micah always struggled with that one emotion; rage, anger. And right now, he's mad at you. Oh, but you're just a kid. You're young and dumb, and he can't put all the blame on you. "Don't go yet, please." It's as if you can't hear him anymore, when your grip on him significantly loosens.

Acceptance. You go limp on him, your little irises stop moving, but your blood still pumps out of your arm. Oh, it's so unfair. He promised you a ride on Baylock once, to make up for another argument where he got too worked up and called you a bitch right to your face—along with a colourful array of other insults that stuck with you, until you started actually crying in front of him. He promised you that ride, but this wasn't what he meant. He saw you in behind him, holding onto his shoulders while Baylock took you wherever your little heart desired. Hell, it could have been Europe; he would have done it, if he weren't such a fool. He never imagined it'd be you, leaning on him while lifeless as blood seeped down over him, Baylock's saddle and Baylock himself, his black and write pattern getting stained; stained by you. He presses your face into his chest and makes Baylock walk forward, back to camp.

Left saddlebag, number seven.

Your words replayed in his head, over and over until he couldn't take it anymore. He had taken your horse with, and stopped both to check your bags. Notes. Oh, you were ready for this, you poor thing. You came to this prepared, knowing the outcome and knowing what to do, scarily enough.

He gets the horses to continue riding as he unwraps the note with the number seven on it, and he almost breaks down right then and there. It's not a very long note, but the impact it'll have on Micah will haunt him to his very grave; your writing in it making him grip the reins harder.

Micah, don't blame yourself. ever. i don't want you to blame yourself, and i'm telling you to never blade yourself—and yet i still feel you will always put yourself at fault for how things transpired. well, don't. it's not your fault, and if you need somebody to pass the blame onto, pass it onto my ever-beloved father. not onto yourself, Micah Bell. banter with you was always fun, and i'll miss it more than you'll ever be able to comprehend. i know you never wanted it to go this far, and i forgive you. i always will.

i may be an o'driscoll by name and blood, sadly, but i would have loved being a van der linde by your side, and will hope to do so in another universe one day. you and me, dear friend—we'd make it.

but you will have to make it on your own in this universe, without me to bother and argue with over the smallest of things. and i know that you can do it, Micah Bell.

He read every word slowly, and he read it in your voice—while he still had an idea of what it sounded like. He rubbed your back with his hand comfortingly, as if you were still with him and could feel it. Whether it was comforting you or him, that will stay a mystery. For now, he's getting you back home to your real family; to the Van Der Linde's, where you rightfully belonged all along.

He didn't deserve the privilege to talk so sweetly about you on that dreadful day—your well-deserved funeral, where they lowered you to rest, finally. And to preach about how wonderful you were and what a life you lead, that was the worst thing they could have done to him. And yet they still made him despite every protest. Maybe that was his punishment from God, for that day and for what he did to lead up to it.

The world didn't deserve to hear you through him—or anyone else for that matter. Not any of the people in camp, but especially him.

They deserved to experience you. The raw, unfiltered, unhinged you.

"She liked to go fishing, but always released the fish if they weren't fully grown."

He remembers how you used to throw them back, one time when Dutch had you both blow steam off after a heated argument. He came fishing with you two to ensure you wouldn't try to kill each other, and mostly stayed on his side to do his thing. Micah asked you why you threw so many back, and you, the sweet thing you were, always said you felt bad for separating the small fish that wouldn't even feed Jack from it's home and family.

"She liked going hunting, but could never bring herself to actually shoot the animals, worried she'd miss and make them suffer, bleed out on the ground slowly."

Just like how your end came, squirming and bleeding from your body, in an excruciating amount of pain and sorrow as life left your eyes; movement left your body; soul left the earth.

"And in the end, she bled red like the rest of us did."

And Micah didn't need an example for that last one, when it was all over his hands. When he was the one to call your time of death. When he was the one to hold you in your last moments. It was all him.

He watched the dirt get sprinkled over your pale face, holding back tears. Who would have thought that one day, Micah would cry over an O'Driscoll?

Well, that's wrong—you were a Van Der Linde in his eyes.

Amen and rest well, little angel. I'll miss you.

Kudos on AO3 appreciated, as always !!! Okaaay, wow. This is definitely something alright, probably my most depressing fic to date. If this isn't your cup of tea, since it is much darker and more detailed than my usual angst fics, thats fine! I have more lighter angst coming as well :) stay tuned for that and a few more <3

[technically-a-writer-technically]

remember to do the biphobia/queer hangout post!!

i rlly wanna read it!!<3

Assumption Make an Ass Out of You

Prompt by @whomst-the-hell: steve always knew he was queer fic where steve keeps trying to invite himself to Queer Hangouts w eddie and robin and they keep being like “uhhhh this isnt really your scene…” until steve is finally like “listen i get it ok theres all this fucking stigma but you two are the last people i expected this from!” and eddie and robin are like “youre a very good ally and we appreciate it but the truth is you just cannot relate to some of our experiences and you need to accept that!” and then steve is like “woooaaaahhh hold on i think we’re having two different conversations. i thought you were doing that thing gay ppl do sometimes where they treat bi people like we arent really queer or whatever. did you guys genuinely think i was heterosexual? lol that’s embarrassing”

Gave it a spelling and grammar check before putting it on A03: Assumption Make an Ass Out of You - technically-a-writer-technically (RegularRainbow) - Stranger Things (TV 2016) [Archive of Our Own]

Eddie calls Robin: Birdie

Tags: Angsty, probably a bit ooc, they mean well, their tough love is tough though. Original Male Character/Steve Harrington. I tried learning 80s Slang for this, it lasted several hours and then I wrote this all-in-one sitting, so probably not 80s accurate, especially towards the end. Not beta read, we die like men.

1. Never met an Ally so Good

Tall, Olive Skin, Green Eyes, passed Steve a drink, something pink and yellow, blended ice, with a tiny umbrella and a cherry.

“I didn’t know what you were drinking, but I took my best guess” He said, smile bright as fluorescent lights. The guy was cute in a clinical type of way, clean cut, clean-shaven.

Steve smiled, took the straw from his melting ice in a cup, and gave it a taste, twisting the straw around his tounge. “Ah. Tastes Perfect,”

“Oh, you’re a real maneater aren’t you,” He slipped between Steve’s legs, resting his hands on either side of Steve, boxing him in, “Come on Pretty Boy let me take you for a spin.”

Steve smiled, red decorating the tips of his ears and nose. “Sorry, can’t stay that long gotta drive back to nowhere-ville”

“Alright, Just one dance then, and maybe your number?”

Steve bit the corner of his lip, and smiled “Maybe …” All doe eyes, looking up from under his lashes,“ … maybe you could kiss me?”

“Hey, why don’t you back off” said Eddie, stepping between the two, pushing the guy back with an extended hand.

“Really! I don’t see your name on him” The guy squawked, Steve hadn’t even gotten his name.

“That’s not,” was Eddie’s reply, he sighed “look I’m helping you, trust me, he’s just being nice.”

“Looks like a fucking Belle to me,”

Eddie tilted his head and fixed him with a look, throwing his hand up as if to shrug, and said, “He’s just too nice to tell you to go away.”

“Look there are better ways to get dudes off your guy, you don’t gotta lie,” Then he peeked behind Eddie to get a good look at Steve one more time, and with a wink, he said, “If you ever find yourself in need of French lessons you know where to find me.”

Steve giggled, twirling his straw. (Fucking Flirting.)

Then, Steve said, “You really didn’t need to do that Eddie, I was fine, he was fine.”

“No, he was not fine. He was hitting on you, Steve” Robin chimed in.

“Isn’t that, like, the point of all this. Aren’t we here to get hit on? Flirt a little,” Steve leaned in and whispered, “Wave the white flags, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but it’s not cool to lead people on Steve, especially not here.” Eddie said.

Steve winced a little, his smile falling slightly, before he picked it back up, “I mean, there’s no harm in flirting, I didn’t know you guys were gonna get all riled up because I didn’t want to take him home.”

“Look it’s not all about sex, this is about community.” Robin said.

Steve sucked his teeth, and took a swig of his beer, “Okay, uh, whatever, I’m gonna pay for my drinks, and uh, sit in a fucking corner I guess.”

“Grow up, King Steve” Eddie said.

“Fuck you, Eddie, King Steve thinks you should find your own ride home.”

“I mean, we should probably leave.” Robin said.

“No, Rob, if it’s gonna be like that, I’ll just wait in the car.” Steve said. He gathered his things, throwing his coat on, fluffing his hair up and out from under the collar of his a letterman style jacket.

Steve stepped out into the cool night air, face hot with fury. He sighed, trying to release the tension that had begun to build.

“Hey, Pretty Boy, I didn’t get your name before your guard dog cock-blocked.”

“It’s — He’s just a friend. And, Uh, It’s Steve, Yours?”

“My friends call me Ian,”

“Well, Ian, thanks for the drink”

“Really,” Ian said, and it was almost a laugh, “I just had the bartender throw something together, I don’t like that fruity shit, I mean not like that, I just don’t like fruit juice, from fruit,” His talking tapered out. “You’re super cute, and it kind of fries my brain. I mean those pants are too tight.” (Ian say too tight, like he doesn’t mean it, like those pants make him think of something else.)

Steve laughed and looked down at himself, before smiling back at Ian. “Still want my number?”

2. Lavender Menace

Steve dyed the bottom layer of his hair purple. The faintest shade of lavender, barely it, In fact, it was practically silver. But, still, he was sure that everyone who needed to know that it wasn’t silver, would notice. They would notice.

“Did you dye your hair, Steve?” Robin asked, leaning across the Book Store counter to get a good look at his peek-a-boo dye job.

Steve resisted the urge to shake his head and show off. It took a long time to get his hair all nice, he wasn’t gonna mess it up for five seconds of Rob’s appreciation, not after the stunt she and Eddie pulled with Ian.

“Joyce helped,” Steve said, and brushed his fingers through the thick of his hair to show off the dye, just a little bit.

“Don’t you think you should have gone with another color,” Rob said, “You don’t want people to get the wrong idea about you.”

“I —“

“The hoard has arrived,” Eddie declared, as Mike, Will, and Dustin ran in straight for the new comic book section. “Whoa, your hair.” he said.

“Yeah, my hair.” Steve felt the weight of a frown pull at the corners of his mouth.

“You sure that’s the right color?” Eddie grabbed a lock of Steve’s dyed hair, and twirled it between his fingers, “You let the toner sit too long, it’s all purple-y now.”

With a huff, Steve said, “I was going for purple-y”

“Yeah?” Robin said.

“Why?” Eddie said.

“Because I want people to know I’m down with Dorthy” Steve said.

“You shouldn’t have dyed your hair purple, though” Eddie replied.

“Yeah, I agree, I think it’s a bit much … you’ve gone a bit too far this time, and after the bar” Robin said

“W-What do you mean after the bar that was all you guys, I was just having a good time.”

Eddie sighed and looked away, throwing his head back, and disappearing down an isle. “You explain it to your pet jock, Birdie, my head hurts.”

“Look Steve, people don’t need to know you’re ‘down with Dorothy’ it’s better if your not loud about it actually, keeps everyone safer anyway.”

Steve gets hot in the face, bright white-hot red in the cheeks, breaks into a sweat, he’s so mad. Then he’s close to crying, clearing his throat some, but it’s closing in on him. He’s so furious, he’s near tears about it. Dancing around breaking into tears.

If they didn’t like his hair, they could have just said that.

“Whatever you say, Robin” he said, wetly.

“Steve come on, it’s not your life, it’s ours” was Robin’s reply.

He doesn’t speak to her for the rest of their shift.

When Steve got home, he dialed Ian’s house. Ian was there in five minutes flat (He lived 15 minutes away).

“Wow,” Ian said, “Your hair”

“Yeah, I know it’s awful” Steve said, the memory of his earlier conversations brought up sour thoughts.

“No, no, you look pretty, a real bodacious babe.”

Steve smiled, for the first time since he got of shift. “Shut up,”

“Kiss me about it,” was Ian’s reply.

3. Steve’s House Doesn’t have a Purple Door.

“You could have your party at my place?” Steve said, “My parents aren’t gonna be home for another like month anyway”

Eddie smiled at Robin,

“Plus, I’m great at throwing parties, you remember my parties.”

“I don’t think we,” Eddie gestured between himself and Robin, “Were ever invited to King Steve’s famous parties.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steve said, “But they were famous for a reason. Have it at my place, it makes sense. The venue is like 50% of a party.”

“I was thinking, no allies though” Eddie said, “Just queer deviancy,” Eddie brought the devil hands up to his head like ears and smiled at Robin. They fist bumped.

What they meant was no Steve it seemed.

“Hey, can you pick us up? Robin voice came through the phone loud, like she was shouting on her end of the line.

“From where?” Steve asked.

“A party,” Robin said, Steve felt her wiggle her eyebrows, and she giggled softly.

“I need the location?” Steve said.

“Oh, um, were near Byrock Ct,”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a few.”

Steve got in his car and drove to the Byrock Bar, with its purple backdoor. Ian took him there once, and they danced. Steve loved dancing, it was nice letting go.

This didn’t feel nice.

Robin and Eddie crammed into the backseat of his car, laughing, tipsy, and maybe a little high. Covered in glitter. Eddie had red lipstick on and smeared down his chin. Robin was wearing, glitter gloss and a silvery highlighter.

“You guys look like you had fun,” Steve finally said, before he pulled off.

“I thought you guys were gonna stay in tonight,”

“Steve,” Robin said, it seemed with no real purpose at all, except maybe to stop Steve from going on.

“No, I remember you guys saying that nothing fun was happening tonight so you guys weren’t going out, that’s what you told me!” Steve said, he was white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“Look, Steve, Birdie’s not gonna tell you, but sometimes we’ve got to leave poor ol’ Stevie at home.” Eddie said, kicking his feet up on the block of an armrest between the driver’s and passenger’s seat.

“Not every night is meant to include you, sometimes daddy’s got to come out and play” He said with a smile and a laugh.

Robin sputtered, “Ew, ew, I never want to hear you say something like that again.”

The drive home consisted of laughter and chatter between Eddie and Robin.

Steve pulled up to the entrance of Eddie’s trailer park, it was a short walk, maybe two trailers in was Eddie’s home. Usually, Steve drove him right up to the entrance, any closer and Eddie would fall into his home after opening the door.

“We’re here” Steve said, and put his car in park.

Eddie balked, “Really, are you being serious right now Stevie?”

“Shut up, don’t call me that.” Steve said, quickly, afraid he sounded like a petulant child, but angry enough that it didn’t matter much. “Get out of my car.” He said each word, one by one.

“Okay, King Steve, I’ll never ask for a ride with getting you your invite.”

“You’re a real fuck head, Eddie.”

“Whatever,” Eddie said, and slammed the door.

“That wasn’t fair dude,” Robin said. “How are we supposed to trust you if-”

Steve turned around, giving Robin a death stare, “Nothing, I don’t want to hear it, I, fuck Rob, I trusted you guys”

“Steve?”

“Shut. Up. Shut up.”

He dropped Rob off in front of her house, didn’t even pull into the driveway. He watched her get home safe, same way he did Eddie.

4. Steve’s Queer Agenda

Steve hasn’t been talking to them. He’s not gonna apologize first. And he’s not gonna speak to them until they apologize. Even if he felt like a bitch laying the silent treatment on thick.

Ian was rubbing his back, letting him lay all over him.

He mumbled into Ian’s lap.

“I can not understand jibberish.”

“Play with my hair, loser”

“Ooh, be nice.” Ian said, threading his finger into Steve’s hair.

There was a knock at the door, nice and sweet. Then another, practically knocking the door off its hinges.

“Okay, okay, coming” Steve shouted.

“Harrington residence, how can I help you?” Steve said.

Eddie smiled, pushing himself and Robin into the Harrington homestead.

Ian leaned up, peering over the sofa. He was looking for Steve, evident by the smile on his face, that fell quickly when he saw the culprits making Steve so, well, sad. Sad was the only way to put it. Beneath the quiet anger was hurt, and it hurt more than it made Steve angry. “Well, well, if it isn’t the terrible two-some”

“Bar guy?” Eddie said.

“Ian. My name is Ian.”

“Well, what are you two doing here because I don’t hear enough ass-kissing.” Ian said.

“Look,” Eddie said, looking from Ian to Steve “Maybe we all have the wrong idea,”

“Steve, I’m sorry we told you not to come out with us, and then had you come pick us up,” Robin said.

“Me too, I’m sorry” Eddie said.

“You’re a good ally” Eddie started.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” Steve interrupted. “Why even come if you’re just gonna fucking invalidate me to my face, what’s the point? I get it, I’m bisexual. I’m not gay. Fucking, Steve’s not queer enough to come out with us and get shitfaced. Whatever, call me whatever you want behind my back, but in my house? Really!”

“What?” Robin and Eddie said, practically in unision.

“Look, be biphobic somewhere else, okay. I don’t feel like dealing with this ever again.”

“No, no, I thought you were straight,”, “We,” Eddie gestured between himself and Robin, “thought you were straight.” Eddie practically tripped over his words, he was speaking them so fast.

“Are you fucking with me?” Steve said, “You thought I was straight.”

Eddie hesitantly nods, “We maybe thought you were straight.”

“Fucking, fuck you guys,”

“Yeah, fuck you guys” Ian said, repeated from the couch, laying down ergo he wasn’t visible anymore. “You made my boyfriend cry”

Robin looked horrified, “Steve, I didn’t know, I’m so so sorry. I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t have a community.” She quickly wiped away her tears, evidently determined not to cry right now, as she got red and sniffly. Robin walked toward Steve arms out like she was going to try to hug him. She was.

Robin said, “Can I hug you, Steve”

Steve, who had been trying to keep it all together, sniffled. He wasn’t going to cry if she wasn’t. He was supposed to be mad. He wrapped his arms around her, and buried his head in her shoulder.

Steve wanted to be angry, or he felt like he should be angry. Yet, he wasn’t, he was mad at them for making assumptions, for excluding him.

But, they were family. He’d been mad at them for as long he could, and then he’d taken to gray, blah, sadness. Not crying, but like trying to stave off a rainstorm. There was nothing he wanted to hear more than: we accept you.

It helped take the edge off. He could be mad about it later, take in all their forgiveness now.

“I’m really sorry, Steve, really, really, sorry” Robin said.

“We fucked up, Steve, I fucked up. I’m sorry too. I’m really sorry.” Eddie said.

“Now kiss,” Ian chimed in.

Steve laughed.