#not unlike a crumbly brick

[got-eggs]

If you were a character in a book, how do you think an author would describe you?

Unsure, soft-footed, reserved, apathetic, laid back

Brash, sarcastic, prone to lash out, dramatic tendencies

Intelligent, burnt out, lazy

Willing to give, odd

Short, twig armed, odd nose, flexible

Dark clothed, scarred, dark hair

Emo??? Goth???, tired

Young, ambiguous

Multifaceted

[igotanidea]

The great birthday mess up : Damian Wayne x Reader

Request: Yes! Reader planning a surprise party for Dami and him thining she's going to break up with him so he does it first.

Thank you anon! ;) made some changes to the requests hope you'll like it either way :)

***

„I don’t understand…” the words coming out of Damian’s mouth was the perfect example that hearing and getting were two completely different things.

“What’s there to not understand Y/N?. I’m breaking up with you. Sounds pretty simple even for your little brain.” He shrugged and turned to the window in their shared apartment so she wouldn’t see the strain on his face and clenched fists.

“But-“

“Please don’t go all whiny on me now. Just take my decision with dignity.

“I don’t understand—” she said again, as if that was the only sentence she could say in shock coursing in every cell in her body.

“Of course you don’t.” the tone he was giving her was ruthless, unlike the rapid beat of his heart calling her name with all the emotional power it could gather.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” as pathetic as it was, she almost downgraded herself to begging for an explanation with that sentence

“I’m just breaking up with you! Now will you leave me alone? I really do not want to see your face anymore.”

Well that was true, cause seeing her sad face was making his resolve crumble.

And It hurt. It hurt to tell her all those mean things.

Especially because Damian did not even wantto act like an asshole.

He did love her like a fool, he used to laugh at. If anything, he could just fall at her feet (as long as no one  saw) and beg to forgive him.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t because she was the one who stopped loving him first.

***

Three weeks ago, “command center” at Wayne Manor.

“Ok, people, listen up! We’re on a mission of-“

“Is she for real?” Tim whispered turning to Dick who was holding back a laugh. If the boys knew that Y/N would take planning Damian’s 24th birthday in such a serious manner, almost putting on a war paint, one of them would bring a fancy camera to memorize it.

Instead it was only Jason taking photo after photo of the girl-in-command in her makeshift uniform and with indicator in hand.

“Get it off my face Todd!” she cried out trying to shove him off, but failing at dealing with the brick Jason was.

“Not a chance. You look ridiculous. And all that for the demon’s spawn? My god! He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Careful or I’ll think you’re telling me a compliment.”

“Compliment? No, no. It’s merely an observation of your poor choice in men. Both your boyfriend and those gathered here…”

“HEY!” Dick reacted almost immediately. No way he was going to let anyone, even his adoptive brother shit-talk him “I beg your pardon! I believe Y/N has an exquisite taste in men!”

“Just because you are here?” Jason mocked, giving Dick a smirk.

“Oh-my-god….” Y/N rolled her eyes throwing hands in the air “Could you please stop that…? I got a whole presentation about ideas for the party and –”

“A presentation?” While Dick and Jason did not give the girl any attention, at the mention of possible slides Tim became awfully animated. “What kind of slides? How many?”

“Oh-my-god…” She muttered again, this time covering face with hands gathering herself “God give me patience for those man-children.” One deep inhale and exhale on her part and she was ready to proceed. “SHUT UP!!” she yelled at the top of her lungs “SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!”

None of the men has ever seen her like that. Reddened on the face with fury in eyes and clenched fists. Clearly just a thought of Damian was making her spin out of control.

“Y/N--?”

“I’m about to tell you how it’s going to go from now on.” She hissed with an unobjectionable tone. “First, you’re going to sit on your pretty asses.” her gaze travelled to Dick knowing the attention in this particular moment will make him listen “Second, you’re going to stop throwing veiled insults.”

“But-“ Jason tried to chime in and object.

“I don’t fucking care if your inner Chandler Bing is coming to voice, you shut it or I will.”

“I’m not scared of you Y/N. You are just a –”

In a blink of an eye she was next to him, with one finger on his neck.

“You got about 100 vascular plexus in your body and so it happens I know how to put pressure on all of them.” She hissed before pulling back and taking on an innocent look “now, will you keep quiet, Jason?”

“I’m still not scared…” he muttered leaning on the doorframe with a frown and pout of a kicked puppy.

“Thank you very much. As for the plan, thirdly, you’ll stop asking me about my PowerPoint thing and actually watch it.”

“I’ve been dying to watch it the whole time!”

“ Shut up Tim!” came from three pair of mouths.

“Hey! Why am I being the only one yelled at by everyone? It’s harassment! Not fair!”

Y/N exhaled deeply, making a mental note to herself to never get those boys in men bodies in one room ever again and started explaining the details of her surprise party. Clearly, even despite knowing Damian’s family for a while she did not expect it would be this hard to get boys to cooperate.

However, per aspera ad astra, she managed to present her idea of a gift, the attractions and all the surprise party.

Obliging the boys under the  pain of sudden and unexpected death, or at least mutilation, to keep their mouths shut.  And since she was the girlfriend of a teenage assassin – this time no one dared to say a word.

***

Obviously the surprise party included working on it undercover. Therefore Y/N was spending more time with Jason, Dick and Tim to the detriment of her hours with Damian. Sneaking around. Dismissing or getting off lightly of answering his questions.

And he got suspicious, it was Damian Wayne Al-Ghul after all.

The young boy, spend hours and days fighting his natural urge to follow her when she was walking out the apartment with no explanation. Tie her to the chair, light the lamp in her face and force the information out of her.

But she was his girlfriend, not a villain.

So, getting too much into his head he came out to one plausible explanation – she was slowly letting him down. Not cutting the tie right away, because that was not who she was, but discouraging him.

“You’re going out again?” he asked, capably hiding the disappointment seeing her putting on shoes and jacket.  Quickly he put the bouquet of flowers he bought for her behind his back, almost crushing the innocent buds, while simultaneously wondering if calling off reservation at her fav restaurant for the fourth time this month would get him kicked out of the VIP list. “I thought we could have a night out and—“

“Sorry, babe.” She smiled apologetically pecking his lips, grabbing the bag and already one foot out the door. “I gotta go do this thing that I told you about!”

“What thing---”

“Don’t wait for me, I’ll be back late. See you around buddy!”

Buddy?!

Did she just--? Holy fucking shit. Now Damian was sure, she stopped loving him.

And since he couldn’t watch her walk out his life like that, it was him, who was going to walk out of hers.

***

She run.

She run as fast as she could, hoping that if by some miracle she got into Flash’s speed the last fifteen minutes conversation with Damian would just turn out to be a dream. Or maybe she’ll find herself back in time, making sure it never happened in the first place.

What did she ever do to him to be treated like that?

Working her ass off to prepare a party? Using all her abilities to get people to help? Miraculously finding Damian’s friends from the past and even getting Jon to attend?

Fuck this shit! Fuck the life!

And out of all day’s in year he choose his own birthday to break up with her!

Fucking piece of shit, demon’s spawn, undeserving of a single second of the last 6 years she gave him.

Jason was fucking right as tragic as it sounded.

She burst into the Wayne Manor, where the boys were hanging the last decorations and immediately started ripping the garlands off and throwing tableware off the table.

“Y/N!!” Dick jumped off the ladder and rushed her direction, but it was Jason who reached her first. Almost tackling her to the floor, fighting against the rage of nails, teeth and screams coming out of her mouth.

“Stop it!”

“LET FUCKING GO OFF ME! THIS PARTY AIN;T HAPPENING UNLESS IT’S OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

“Better be careful with those words, cause in this family you get more than one chance at life.” Jason chuckled

“LET FUCKING GO!” she was struggling against his iron grip while Dick and Tim kneeled next to them

“No.” Jason responded calmly. “No, I’m not letting go off you.”

“None of us do, Y/N.” Tim added, moving a little bit closer, careful to not get a shoe in his face or something like that.

“What happened?” Dick asked calmly “come on, it can’t be that bad…”

“He broke up with me…” she sobbed. Not angry or furious anymore, but fully immersing in sadness. “Damian broke up with me…”

“HE WHAT?!” Dick yelled almost ready to start ripping off the decorations himself, successfully held back by Tim slapping him in the back of his head.

“She just told you. Can’t you see how shaken she is. And your making her say it again just for the sake of it? Get yourself together, Dick.”

“Sorry…”

“I don’t know what happened! I tried to talk and—”

“Talking to Damian about feelings, huh! Great idea Y/N.”

“GRAYSON!” Tim yelled slapping him again.

 “Sorry…”

“I hate to break it to you guys, but it seems like the man of the day has just arrived.” Tim moved to the window where he saw the reflection of the car lights.

“WHAT!?”

“Don’t yell at me! Bruce brought him! It was your plan Y/N!!”

“Oh so one time Bruce could be late he’s actually on time?!”

“Again-stop yelling at me!”

“He cannot see me here! Not like this! Not crying cause he’s going to think that I –“

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAMIAN!

“—care….”

The ending of the sentence was not supposed to escape her mouth, but not caring about her intentions it did. Maybe it was the shock of Bruce entering Wayne Manor with his youngest son, almost convinced the surprise party was already prepared and they could celebrate.

Instead the two were met with four people, caught like deer in the headlights, crying y/n, Jason on the floor holding her for comfort, enraged Dick and a little scared Tim without a plan.

As far away from their usual selves as possible.

“Are we too early or—” Bruce started, but before he could finish the sentence, the nearby ladder started to totter, hooking over the poorly hanged b-day banner and –

“NO!!” Dick yelled and rushed towards it, but tripping over Jason’s leg, fighting desperately to gain back balance and stepping on Y/N’s hand in the process. She yelled and it scared Tim who took a step back, crashing into Dick. Seeing all that Jason rushed to his feet trying to catch the material that was already falling down, dangerously close to the table and the candlestick. In the commotion no one noticed Alfred the cat, who obliviously entered the room, only to almost be flattened.

As the poor animal rushed to Y/N’s side, making her reach arms to give cat some resemblance of shelter, Dick finally managed to grab the banner.

“I got it! YES! Once more I am the one to save the day and--- AH!” he slipped on the floor cause clearly Alfred the cat left a remnants of his fear there, sliding all the way up to the table.

“NO!” Y/N yelled trying to save any of the dish that was already flying to her face.

“NO!” Jason cried out trying to snatch the decoration, getting tangled in it.

“NO!” Tim shrieked as the candled set the tablecloth on fire, that quickly spread to the leg of his trousers. And as the stimuli activated already downloaded plan in his brain, he reached for the extinguisher, profusely spraying everything (and everyone) with white powder.

Disaster.

Y/N, Dick, Jason and Tim were now all on the floor. Dirty, injured and/or humiliated, turned into giant, living, walking snowmen all on Bruce and Damian’s eyes.

“Not again….” Bruce whined.

“Happy birthday Damian!”

“SHUT UP GRAYSON!” the rest of three organizers yelled getting off the floor feeling worse than ever.

“What is all this?” Damian asked with a slight frown. “Or rather… what was all of this.”

“This is your—” Dick started

“AHHHHH!”

“Y/N, we know you are frustrated but please try to calm down—”

“This was supposed to be your stupid birthday party you idiot!” she yelled stumping towards Damian “Hear me?” he poke a finger into his chest. “Your. Stupid. Birthday. Party.”

“My- my what?” Damian stuttered grabbing her wrist only now realizing what day it was. Honestly after the morning break up with Y/N he couldn’t care less about the clock or calendar.

“Your—”

“Wait, wait. Hold back. Is this why you were acting so suspicious?”

“sus-suspicious? Is that what you thought?” her eyes grew wide once more and the steam to hit him blew off instantly

“You were just planning and preparing a party?” Damian asked realizing how much of an idiot he was.

“Yes”!

“So you didn’t stop loving me?” the hint of hope showed up in his eyes

“So you did not stop loving me?” Y/N repeated.

“How could I ever—”

She never gave him a chance to finish that sentence pressing her lips to his, not caring who was watching. And if anyone dared to tease, Damian’s katana would be used for something. And the knowledge of locations of nerve plexuses in the human body.

“Um….” Tim muttered feeling a little awkward in the situation. “Should we--?”

“Mhm. We should.” Dick agreed and noiselessly, like silently as befits a vigilante they fled the room.

***

Meanwhile, Damian and Y/n were sitting on the window sill amongst the mess of a b-day party.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way I planned—” she sighed.

“You kidding? It was the best thing ever.”

“Because you got the gift in clearing the misunderstanding between us?” she smiled and interlaced their fingers.

“no! because of watching my brothers making fools out of themselves.”

“Damian!” she patted his head.

“OUCH! Ok, fine! Fine! It was because I got you back!”

“This was forced, such confession doesn’t count!” she feigned offence.

“Well technically, we never really broke up, so I couldn’t get you back.”

“Well, technically-“ she tried to find a smart way of the situation, but he cut her off.

“Well, non-technically, you got cake in your hair. And on your face And in your lips. And I haven’t even tried that treat. So how about we stop talking so I could get a chance at it?”

He liked the cake.

A lot.

@keidylovestacos @nocturnal-onlooker - I'm taking the liberty of tagging you guys :)

[dragonpropaganda]

The Architecture of Rain World: Layers of History

A major theme in Rain World's world design that often goes overlooked is the theme of, as James Primate, the level designer, composer and writer calls it, "Layers of History." This is about how the places in the game feel lived-in, and as though they have been built over each other. Here's what he said on the matter as far back as 2014!

The best example of this is Subterranean, the final area of the base game and a climax of the theme. Subterranean is pretty cleanly slpit vertically, there's the modern subway built over the ancient ruins, which are themselves built over the primordial ruins of the depths. Piercing through these layers is Filtration System, a high tech intrusion that cuts through the ground and visibly drills through the ceiling of the depths.

Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets, the friendly local ghost, tells the player of the "bones of forgotten civilisations, heaped like so many sticks," highlighting this theme of layering as one of the first impressions the player gets of Subterranean. Barely minutes later, the player enters the room SB_H02, where the modern train lines crumble away into a cavern filled with older ruins, which themselves are invaded by the head machines seen prior in outskirts and farm arrays, some of which appear to have been installed destructively into the ruins, some breaking through floors.

These layers flow into each other, highlighting each other's decrepit state.

The filtration system, most likely the latest "layer," is always set apart from the spaces around it. At its top, the train tunnels give way to a vast chasm, where filtration system stands as a tower over the trains, while at the bottom in depths, it penetrates the ceiling of the temple, a destructive presence. (it's also a parallel to the way the leg does something similar in memory crypts, subterranean is full of callbacks like that!)

Filtration system is an interesting kind of transition, in that it is much later and more advanced than both of the areas it cuts between. This is a really interesting choice from James! It would be more "natural" to transition smoothly from the caves of upper subterranean to the depths, but by putting filtration system in between, the two are clearly demarcated as separate. The difference in era becomes palpable, the player has truly found something different and strange.

Depths itself is, obviously, the oldest layer not only of subterranean but of the game itself. The architecture of Depths has little to do with the rest of the game around it, it's a clear sign of the forgotten civilisations that our friend Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets showed us, there's not actually that much to say about it itself, it's mostly about how it interacts with the other layers of subterranean.

That said, Subterranean is far from the only case of the theme of layers of history. It's present as soon as the player starts the game!

The very first room of the game, SU_C04, is seemingly a cave. It is below the surface, the shapes of it are distinctly amorphous rather than geometric. (well. kind of, it doesn't do a very good job of hiding the tile grid with its 45 degree angles.)

But let's take a closer look, shall we?

See that ground? it's made of bricks. The entire cave area of outskirts is characterised by this, the "chaotic stone" masonry asset is mixed with brickwork, unlike the surface ruins which are mostly stone. This, seemingly, is an inversion of common sense! The caves are bricks and the buildings are stone. This is not, however, a strange and unique aspect but a recurring motif.

This occurs enough in the game for it to be clearly intentional, but why would materials such as bricks be used in otherwise natural looking terrain?

The answer lies in the "Layers of History" theme. This is in fact, something that happens in real life, and it's called a tell

To be specific, a tell is a kind of mound formed by settlements building over the ruins of previous iterations of themselves. Centuries of rubble and detritus form until a hill grows from the city. Cities such as Troy and Jericho are famous examples. The connections to the layers of history theme are pretty clear here, I think. Cities growing, then dying, then becoming the bedrock of the next city. The ground, then, is made of bricks, because the ground is the rubble of past buildings. The bones of forgotten civilisations, heaped like so many sticks!

[c0smiclatt3]

DAN HENG: TELLTALE HEART.

☾₊ ⊹ TAGS: sfw, fake dating, friends to lovers, mentions and descriptions of blood, death/burial, and war, this could really just be its own fully blown fic idk what im doing here, this is definitely the start of ~something~ i just dont know what

wc: 2.2k

Dan Heng should have retaliated harder when Himeko had suggested this idea in the first place, but he made his stance very clear: he wasn’t cut out for this type of mission and it would likely end badly. But Himeko had only giggled from behind her teacup as she lifted it to her lips, the passing star systems twinkling mischievously behind her like the glimmer in her eye.

“Loosen up a little, Dan Heng,” she almost seemed to sing. “It would do you some good.”

“Surely you and Welt—“ But Himeko cut him off with an almost motherly tut. Dan Heng raked his mind for alternatives, but he worked with the data bank long enough to know this much: the Queen of this planet, a devotee of the fallen Idrila, had lived for a long, long time and had developed an almost perverse interest in the love affairs of humans to pass the eons. After all, what more ridiculous premise in the face of the endless onslaught of time and her immortality than some false promise of ‘forever’? Yes, human love was dramatic - and amusingly pointless. And the Queen revelled in it. Relished in it. Once upon a time the search for Beautiful Love was her devotion to her Aeon, a gift bestowed to her by Idrila themselves: to sustain herself with the heartbeats of her planet's people. For every heartbeat on the planet to resonate through her. The Beautiful Love, then, was something she too would know when she found it. But with the death of her God her mission was but an aimless pastime.

So Himeko and Welt, like two scheming parents, sent you and Dan Heng down to win her graces and grant you two access to the elusive secrets of her court. The goal was simple: put on a show. And make it good.

The two of you had been travelling alongside one another on the Express for a while, but as far as you both were concerned, nothing that would help this mission at all existed between you two. To be sure, you were friends, but that was about all there was to it. If anything, there was an almost brotherly feeling you got from Dan Heng, like a sibling eternally fussing over you or irritated by you or exasperated by you or all of the above all at once. You joined the Express crew before March. Dan Heng had already been there, and so you were his first companion closer to his age.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

When you joined the Express they picked you up from a war-torn planet, one of the only survivors and cowering in a corner of a ruin. Dan Heng remembers a fear in your wild eyes unlike anything he could comprehend. When you lifted your head you looked like prey meeting the eyes of the hunter, and you were ready to run. He remembers your hair matted in blood — whether your own or somebody else’s he couldn’t say, nor did he want to ask. He found you huddled with your knees to your chest. He remembers the way you feebly sprang from under the crumbling brick pile you called a ‘shelter’ and swung a glass shard at him like your life depended on it — perhaps in another situation it really did. Fresh blood poured down from your palm as the shard dug into your skin, your fist closing tighter and tighter around it, but you were running on pure adrenaline and fear. He ducked effortlessly as you cried out, either in fear or to muster the last of the strength left in your malnourished body. He grabbed your wrist, so brittle and weathered away by Gods-know-how-long you’d been on your own he almost feared he broke it. He could feel your hammering pulse in your wrist.

“Hey, hey,” he said, softer than anything he’d said before in his life. “You’re okay.”

Those eyes - gray like storming clouds, gray like the sky before it opened up to rain down fresh water, falling from the sky like liquid nectar from the gods, your mouth opening to drink what little you could gather. You didn't even realize you had been caught in a trance until he spoke again.

"Are you alone?"

If this stranger was your only hope you would take your chances. Before you could even open your mouth, the next thing you did was crumple to the ground and you fell with a soft thud. What you remembered after that was waking up on the Express, and those steely gray eyes you put your trust in peering at you over the infirmary bed, the infirmary lights so bright you took a moment to adjust.

"Do you remember your name?" he asked. You tried to form the syllables on your tongue but they only sat there, heavy and unmoving. A reminder of an identity that hurt too much to remember. Your mother calling you downstairs for breakfast. The children waving cheerily to you on the streets on your way out for the day. The old shopkeeper down the street in the evenings sneaking you a free sweet through the window to reward you for a long day's work. My name... You swallowed and shook your head. From across the room Welt smiled softly in encouragement more so than amusement.

"That works just fine. Namelessness is quite on-brand for us anyway."

You turn to look at your reflection in the medical equipment to your side. What you were greeted with was your entire face wrapped in bandages, wound over your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin, something like the burial rituals performed on corpses back home. The sight horrified you as you reached up to try to claw the bandages off. Dan Heng reached for your wrist again.

"Don't. It'll only make it worse."

He pitied you. He really did. To be taken from such extreme circumstances and slowly coming to your senses like this, you were like a caged animal cowering back against a corner. Like each time he drew near you would hiss and retreat or snap back at him.

There was no use trying not to cry. This young man had already seen you at your worst. You hung your head low as he held your wrist and wept and wept and wept.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

The Express gave you a purpose, and Gods knew you needed one. You joined without a second thought, and it took months for you to regain some semblance of normalcy. You slowly crawled out of your shell. Pom Pom was too strange for you to get used to. Welt and Himeko, as nurturing as they were, were always a bit too keen to converse for your comfort.

Dan Heng was different. He let you sit in the same room as him without a need to talk. Your afternoons were spent in mutual but comfortable silence. The clicking of keys. Tapping of tablets. The occasional shuffling as he rolls his chair across the room to reach for a book. On days like these you huddled in a corner on a cushion, knees to your chest and a book in your lap. The next morning there would be a new book or two on your stack you didn't recognize from the evening before - a silent recommendation left behind by Dan Heng after noticing the books you seemed to take a liking to. Neither of you acknowledged this, only keeping to your routine.

When you lifted your head as he pulled something up on a data bank screen he always noticed and promptly explained what it was before ducking his head back down. Some rare plant species. Photographs of a temple on a faraway planet. He filled your head with knowledge of the cosmos, and it was amazing to you how boundless the universe really was, imagining that all this was just beyond you during those days on your home planet. He would be lying if he said he didn't find the little shine in your eyes endearing when you listened to him, and he appreciated finally having someone to talk to.

Considering all the records burned with your home planet, there was little Dan Heng knew about you. That was their business on your planet, really: to retrieve some lost records and fill in some blanks, but all they were able to recover was you. Welt and Himeko encouraged him to talk to you as a means to perhaps procure something productive. That was his work after all: collect, transcribe, record. It had always been a routine to him before, but with you it was something different. Watching you, Dan Heng saw the life and death of your planet in your every breath, your every sleep and wake. With your room beside his, he would hear how you cried in your sleep on occasion, tossing and turning and groaning names you wouldn't recall when you woke again. On occasion he pressed his ear to his wall, wondering if he should at the very least knock on your door. By the time he worked up the energy and the resolve, your nightmares grew less frequent.

This much he salvaged from your dazed mumblings: your homeland fell, and when it burned it blazed. And while it did, the Aeons watched it flicker away like another star among billions. You listened to his stories. You used them to replace all that you left behind you. Quiet nodding turned into soft “what’s that?”s, which turned into sneaking a snack in the corner, which turned into the two of you tussling as he tried to shove you out of the room (“Crumbs! They'll get all over the books!” he huffed. “No!” you protested, kicking and yelping until Himeko arrived to put a stop to it), which turned into you stepping into full-on mischief, some ghost of what you had before everything changed. March’s arrival didn’t help much, and soon Dan Heng took it upon himself to wrangle the two youngest (?) members of the Express crew. In a sort of way you two grew up together. In that sort of way, Dan Heng was fond of you.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

So when invited before the Queen you two bowed and you let Dan Heng do the talking, spinning the tale as effortlessly as he spun the stories of the cosmos for you: two outlanders, both faring from different planets, seeking temporary transit as they fared among the stars in search of their pasts together. This much was true. This much was enough to pique her interest. In her territory she could feel the thrumming of your heartbeats, and in her romanticism failed to detect that it was the thrill of deception - and not of some budding romance - that explained your quickening pulses. And you two knew each other just well enough to sell it the right way - you just had to keep it up for long enough.

You two knew each other just well enough that on your first day wandering alone in the local village you scouted the area for libraries, reliquaries and ruins. It wasn't until sundown, when you returned with a map marked out with all the locations to hand to him, that you realized you hadn't even considered what you might want to do yourself.

You two knew each other just well enough that when he returned from said libraries as per your recommendation he returned with a novel by an author you liked - an edition they hadn't yet bought for the Express.

And you two knew each other well enough that later that evening he knew exactly what was happening when he woke to hear you crying in your sleep. What you dreamed of, he didn’t know. But he could piece together enough of an idea.

“Hey,” he whispers, slowly sitting up from his mattress on the floor. “Hey…”

With the window curtain open and the moonlight on your face he could see your brows knitting together, the line of your lips curling into a pained expression as you twitched and groaned. For a moment he felt a little awkward, unsure of what to do with his hands, before he got up and walked to his bag. He knew when you had nightmares you wandered the Express train. And he knew when the main cabin was empty you put a particular record on the record player. He tinkered with his earpiece for a moment and inserted them into your ears. Your lips softened into a relaxed smile. He let out a breath and slumped on the floor against the bed frame.

The intention, romantic or platonic, mattered little. What mattered was the quickening and softening of your heartbeats were felt and duly noted, and the Queen invited you two to her ball, your shot at passage to her court. You had been surprised when the invitation came so suddenly. You held the card, embellished in a rose patterning around the edges, signed off with the Queen's curling signature.

"That was a lot faster than I thought it would be," you tilted your head, turning it in your hands. Dan Heng looked at you, sitting on the edge of the bed from across the room. He hid his face away behind his book. Only he had an inkling why this might have happened, but that he would never say.

writing masterlist | bot masterlist

☾₊ ⊹ AN: this started to go somewhere but i ended up hating it so i've just decided this is a prologue for something that might be longer but im just not sure what lol. i just needed to get this out cus it's been sitting in drafts for way too long and the idea of working on it for a minute longer makes me want to curl up and die. i hope u like it tho!

[frissy]

Earth42! Miles Morales x fem!Reader

ATSV SPOILERS

(Edited) ——— (Part 1) (Part 2)

• fluff to angst

• tw: mentions of death

• google translate used, so excuse any mistakes

• short! • Miles loves to spoil you

• little bit OOC, Miles has a soft spot for you

• not proofread!!

”Where next, mí amor?” He grabbed your hand.

You and Miles were out on a date, and he was spoiling you.. like a lot.

But you’re not complaining though.

He’s gentle with you, which is unlike his apathetic and cold demeanor.

But you are his [name]. His world, his love. He would do anything for you if it ended up withyou safe and happy.

“Miles.. isn’t this a bit much? We’ve been out all day and you’re carrying so many bags.” You looked at him, slight confusion in your eyes.

He has bags all around his arms. He didn’t let you carry anything. He didn’t want you to, he heave you major princess treatment.

“nonsense, mí amor… it’s never too much when it comes to you.” His grip on your hand got tighter.

You had no clue where Miles got all this money from, it’s kind of concerning to you. But he’s not gonna tell you, so you just go with it.

“oh.. okay then.. how about.. uh.. the jewelry store?”

“Of course.”

He went the rest of the day spoiling you, and being affectionate.

”I love you, [name]. Mí amor… mí vida… mi bella querida.“ he kissed your cheek. Wrapping an arm around your waist.

.

Everything was great, it was all fine. Nothing bad could happen, right? .

.

Your date was later over, he went home while you went to work.

That’s when everything went terribly wrong. .

.

Meanwhile…

.

.

Miles was slouching on his couch, he was thinking about you, and how much he loved spending time with you… then, he saw the news channel. It was live.

The whole world stopped for him. There was a crumbling building… and it was falling to you.

That’s when he saw his dad too. He had ran to you, attempting to help, but it was too late. Miles watched it all from the TV. .

He was crying. He hadn’t noticed. But he did when it all sunk in… you were dead. His darling, his world. Was dead.

.

All he could do now was beg for you to walk through the apartment door, coming to see him again with a bright smile on your face.

He was waiting for his dad to come home, with dinner in his hands from Miles’s favorite restaurant.

He would never witness either of those ever again. .

As soon as he could, Miles and his uncle Aaron made a tribute to you and his dad with graffiti on the brick wall on the roof of the apartment complex. .

.

His father was smiling in the portrait. In his police uniform…

JEFFERSON DAVIS: BELOVED HUSBAND, AND FATHER.

.

You were also smiling. But Miles’s had painted a halo around your head. You were his angel after all, but now you were truly an Angel.

[NAME, L.NAME]: BELOVED FRIEND, BELOVED DARLING.

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED

[zipper-ghost]

From chapter 2 and 3 of my fic where Kim and Harry go to a gay club for a case

You can read the uploaded chapters so far here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55229812/chapters/140088478

First part of chapter 3 is under the cut. Waiting for my friend to finish beta reading it for consistency and general unhingedness before I post it.

The smoking section is a small square patio with exposed brick walls on all sides, a couple of chairs, and a trellis with a brown drying vine. A string of fairy lights drapes the walls and provides the barest illumination. Kim is relieved to find it empty. He can still feel the bass of the music inside through the walls. Lighting his cigarette he leans against the exposed brick wall and inhales a lung full of smoke. 

He reaches for his notebook which isn’t in his jacket. 

Tonight is more stressful than Kim expected it to be. It’s been nearly a decade since the last time he’d been at a gay club and he’s no longer used to the atmosphere. He can’t believe he used to find the loud music and crowds fun. 

Harry is having fun, at the very least. As Kim expected, he is very popular. 

“I can’t believe him,” Kim mutters. It annoys him, more than he likes to admit, how pleased Harry is at getting attention from those two young boys. They are twenty-five at most. 

Kim exhaled the smoke through his nose, the scent of chestnut engulfing him. He glanced down at his hands, for once without driving gloves. The skin is tight against sinew and bone, with blue veins visible underneath. He isn’t young anymore. He isn’t spritely, wide-eyed, enthusiastic, adventurous, or full of wonder. Kim isn’t sure he has never not been jaded. But now he gets pain in his back and neck randomly and he can’t sleep as easily as he once could, he can’t drink as much without getting terribly hungover. 

Kim shouldn’t be surprised that Harry is enamored with them. He always had a thing for young, pretty, whimsical things- people unlike Kim. 

Kim takes a deep drag of hot air and then watches his cigarette balanced between his fingers thoughtfully. His body relaxes, and the jittery feeling in his hands eases. A part of his dreads going back inside and seeing Harry dancing with Lucas. 

That boy has no shame, rubbing himself against Harry and mewling like a kitten. Kim could never- 

Kim shakes his head. He’d never want to act like that, crawling all over Harry and shamelessly flirting with him for all the world to see. 

Of Harry’s many flaws, the one that bothers Kim the most is how clouded his judgment becomes under the fugue of sexual attraction. It was bad when Klaasje used Harry’s obvious attraction to her to manipulate him but somehow this felt worse. 

It’s different when it’s a woman, Kim can’t compete with that. If Harry can love a man why not him? 

Kim groans, he wants to slap himself. It’s not a competition, he isn’t competing for Harry’s attention. 

Again he reaches for his notebook. He wants to get this jumble of thoughts out of his head. He wants to write everything down and burn the pieces. 

He knows he shouldn’t like Harry like that, he shouldn’t want Harry. Harry doesn’t see him like that. 

They are coworkers, partners, and friends. They’ve saved each other, again and again. Kim shouldn’t want anything else, anything more. It would make work complicated. 

One cigarette might not be enough today. 

Kim tilts his head up and looks at the sky. The city lights drown out all but the brightest stars.

It’s hard not to find Harry loveable. For all of Harry’s tragedy and dysfunction, when he says something deeply insightful and intelligent he leaves Kim in awe. When Harry’s eyes are full of joy as he exposits about some newly acquired niche fact, when he glances at Kim for approval and reassurance, and when he looks so pleased to make Kim laugh, when he looks at Kim like he hung the stars in the sky, Kim feels his resolution crumble. 

Sometimes Kim catches a heated look in Harry’s eyes, a predatory hunger that borders on longing, Kim wonders if–hopes maybe Harry too desires him. 

But Kim can’t be certain. He can’t trust his eyes, or his judgement clouded by desire. He can’t ever risk being wrong about this. 

If tonight was any lonely sleepless Saturday night, Kim would be in the safety of his bed spinning inane fantasies, where Harry, unable to contain his desire pushes Kim against a wall, or on the hood of his kineema and kisses him. Harry’s kisses are terrible at first; wild and messy. 

He’d tear off Kim’s orange pilot’s jacket and push his hand under Kim’s white t-shirt. Kim takes off whatever mismatched outfit Harry is wearing, ripping seams and buttons in the process. Harry growls Kim’s name in his low gravelly voice and leaves bite marks and bruises on his wake as he trails kisses down Kim’s body. Kim knots his fingers in Harry’s hair as Harry takes him into his mouth. He'll lick the tip and stroke the rest with his hand too intimidated to take Kim down his throat. 

Kim will guide him and praise him and Harry will do his best to please Kim. 

Kim sighs out a lung full of smoke, again grateful to be alone. 

Then, as if his thoughts manifested it, Harry burst out through the doors.

Unconsciously, Kim licks his lips when he sees Harry, the wisps of his fantasies still lingering in his mind. 

“Kim, he’s here!”

“Who?” Kim takes another drag from his cigarette, barely paying attention to Harry’s words. He watches Harry’s lips, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Kim wants to reach out and touch his face, feel the roughness of his beard between his fingers, making out the crooked shape of his jaw beneath. Harry is more handsome each time Kim sees him. Kim wills himself to look away.  

“Who else!” Harry whispers-shouts at him. “The suspect. Red hair and a tattoo on his arm, exactly like the witness said.”

The suspect, of course. Kim half hoped he wouldn't appear tonight but it is good. They are here for a case, not to flirt and fantasies. 

“Alright,” Kim says. His dark jeans are tight and unforgiving, constricting his half hard cock. He straightens his posture in hope of some relief without making Harry suspicious. “What do you suggest we do?” 

“We should go talk to him.”

Kim taps his cigarette to shake off the ash. 

“That’ll be risky, we might scare him off. We should just watch him for now.”

“But he is here! Now!”

“We can’t be 100% certain it is him. The witness didn’t give his name, just a vague description. We need to confirm he knows the victim and was with him last night.”

“We can do that by asking him,” says Harry. 

Kim narrows his eyes. “No, not you. I’ll do it.” 

“What?”

“Your interrogation techniques are effective but we can’t let him know we are interrogating him. I’ll talk to him, you’ll scare him off.” Kim admires Harry’s wild, throw anything against the wall until something sticks method but it has a high chance of scaring people or pissing them off. Neither option they can risk tonight. They need the name of the suspect at the very least, ideally confirmation that he knew the victim and met him last night. 

“I wouldn’t,” Harry insists, furrowing his brow. 

“Yes, you would,” Kim says firmly. “I’ll go now, wait a few minutes before coming out.” 

God, Kim wants to kiss him. He wonders if Harry would be shocked or pleased. If Kim slips in his tongue would Harry suck on it?

Kim walks up to Harry and places his half-smoked cigarette between his lips. 

Harry’s eyes widen as he searches Kim’s face, bewildered, trying to figure out what he's thinking. But he accepts the cigarette in place of Kim’s tongue, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette. 

“Finish this for me alright?” Kim says. 

Harry nods dumbly. Kim itches to kiss Harry now, to breathe in the smoke from Harry’s lungs. Harry staggers back and leans on the brick wall for support. 

Kim goes back into the club before he does something he shouldn’t.

Close up on their faces incase Tumblr chews up the quality again 😭

[toms-cherry-trees]

Fires of Harrenhal || AemondxReader/AlysxReader

Summary: Secrets and deceive always find their way through the stone halls

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: Angst I think? Betrayal. Character death. Very mild NSFW. Canon divergene from both book and show. Mention of war crimes and murder. Idk how else to do this without spoiling. No beta reading I have no one to beta for me

Author's note: Never. EVER in my life had I written something so long. And it has me very anxious. Also I don't know what this is exactly. It is not angst, nor fluff. I don't know. Enjoy!

A gentle drizzle fell from the overcast skies. Fine droplets of water collected on the braids in her hair, beading in her eyelashes, rolling down the curve of her neck to the swell of her breasts. The fabric of the green gown slowly soaked, and the air around her chilled, but she did not feel the cold. The measly mizzle could do little to match the frost spreading through her bones, born from the very depths of her soul, turning her to ice from the inside out.

His emblazoned cloak still hung loosely from her shoulders, heavy and comforting, even though the warmth of his body had been long lost to the rain. His scent lingered, smoke and leather, a faint hint of spiced wine; and something else which is entirely his own, indescribable and unexplainable, but it evoked danger. And death.

Words befitting to the place she stood. Harrenhal had been long cursed, ever since Harren the Black mixed blood in the mortar which kept the bricks together. Ever since the Black Dread torched down the fortress with the King and his sons inside. The passing of the years only added to the jinx. Death and misfortune followed whoever dared to settle within the crumbled and slagged walls. Entire houses and lineages exterminated, most recently house Strong; from the eldest man to the babes in the cradle, put to death by Aemond’s command. All of them but one.

A Strong bastard, from all people. 

Aemond’s infatuation with the wetnurse stunned those who bore witness to the affair, and speculation soon arose that the so called witch of Harrenhal had laid an incantation on the Prince, for otherwise it could not be explained that such proper and devoted man, always guided by rules and correctitude, devoted of the Faith, could so brazenly take a lover, an unworthy one at that, while his beautiful, perfect, dutiful wife awaited for his return at King’s Landing. No, Aemond could never.

But he could and he had.

Alys hadn’t been the first one. Others had been fleeting affairs or pleasures of one night, both before and after their wedding. Ladies from the court, his mother companions, town girls, even the occasional maidservant that caught his eye. But unlike with Aegon, they all came willingly, ensnared by the mystery of the one eyed prince. All of them forgotten as soon as dawn broke through, their silence bought with gold or jewels, and a cup of herbal tea drank under the watchful gaze of a maester.

She didn’t let their existence bother her too much. Always keeping her head held high and her gaze ahead, haughty, beautiful and proud. Aemond took great care to not leave a trail of bastards in his wake, unlike brother dearest, and never flaunted them in the open. No, before the court he only had eyes -eye- for his wife. A gentle hand on the waist, glances across the table, a kiss on the hand when they parted, and one in the forehead when they reunited. A most perfect and devoted husband, whose mask fell as soon as the doors closed behind him.

Some days she wished he would openly hate her, because at least it would prove him capable of any feeling towards her. Instead, he only offered her an impenetrable barrier of indifference bordering cruelty. Aemond would walk the Godswood with her, barely rewarding her with a hum of acknowledgement when she tried to engage conversation of any sort. She tried to show interest in his heritage, but he said she would never understand the history without carrying Valyrian blood. When she suggested meeting his dragon, he retorted that Vhagar didn’t take kindly to strangers, citing false concerns for her safety. 

Even the bedding he treated like a chore to be dealt with. Methodical, efficient, and dreadfully boring. He laid with his wife as little as possible, just enough to avoid any whispers or bad talking. He would send a servant to inform her in advance that he would visit her bed so she could be “prepared”. A quick affair, his body always on top, not a sound heard other than the occasional creaking of the bed, done. He rolled over and fell asleep before she had finished cleaning herself. Hells, she didn’t hold great expectations of the act, but for a man who took so many lovers she hoped for a bit more effort. 

When he became Regent, the weight of the borrowed crown awoke something deep within him, something that had always been there, dormant and expecting for its moment of glory. An obsession with control and power. He became possessive. He had to have her in sight at all times. If he sat the throne, she stood right next to him. When he held council, she acted as cupbearer, but only to serve his cup and his cup alone. If Aemond decided to sit in the library until the hour of ghosts going over scrolls and maps, she had to be there, dutifully waiting by his side until he decided to retire for the night.

They no longer slept separately, since he simply had the maids move all her belongings to his own chambers, while also disposing of things he decided she no longer required, like her childhood dolls, books of fantasy or any gown not made in green and gold. He also kept her diary in the drawer of his desk; it had to be back there every night without fail. She did not know if he read her entries, but decided to not risk it and write only about things he would like. The hours became long, since he allowed her to speak only with people he approved of; very few had earned that trust; and those who did she would rather not speak to. Even her servants had been swapped, her maids and guards replaced with former attendants of the Queen, more loyal to the Dowager than they would ever be to her.

Aemond’s departure for Harrenhal came as a relief, his presence having slowly grown into a suffocating weight on her chest and lurking shadow on her back. As soon as Aegon could rise from bed again, he sent his brother to retake the dilapidated fortress from their uncle, although she suspected it more to be a cock show off; to remind the people that even though the Greens had less dragons, they still had the biggest one.

Aemond requested his wife to accompany him, but Aegon swiftly refused. A warzone is no place for a lady, he said. She did not trust his intentions, but given he could barely do anything other than speak and drink, she felt confidently safe in the newfound solitude, dividing her time between accompanying Helaena, prayers with her good mother in the sept and her own recreations, in which she could now indulge fully, free of her husband’s criticism.

Bliss, however, proved to be fleeting. One day Aegon summoned her while she broke her fast, to his bedchamber of all places. The alcove smelled stale, a combination of souring wine and the sickly scent of various medicines and tinctures, all mixed with the pungent stench of something unidentifiable decomposing somewhere. Perhaps the putrefaction within finally caught up to the surface, and Aegon himself had begun to rot from the inside out. Which wouldn’t surprise anyone, given his current state.

The open letter in his scarred hand and the knavish smirk on his lips gave her a bad feeling. He sat unabashedly naked in his bed, his immodesties hidden only by a sheet soiled with something indescribable. She tried and failed not to look at the ruggish and reddened skin marring his left side, the movements of his arm clumsy and stiff as if Aegon had been coated with tar. Although that probably would have been a kinder fate than his armour melting into his flesh.

When her eyes met his own, she saw a twinkle of delight sparkle on them. A sick pleasure earned from her evident discomfort at the sight of himself.

“Your dearest husband summons you to his side, now that Harrenhal is back under our command. And I, ever the benevolent brother, will allow it”

Suspicion gnawed at her insides. More so when she tried to take the letter from Aegon’s hand, and he kept waving it teasingly out of her reach, displaying surprising agility despite his wounds. Right before she could snatch it away he tucked the paper under the sheets, in a place where he knew she’d never reach out, even under threat of death by dragonfire. His smile reached his eyes for the first time in months as he dismissed her, pleased like a child who got away with a prank.

Sleep refused to come to her that night, forcing her to toss and turn as she went over the day. She didn��t trust Aegon more than she’d trust a dog guarding a roasted pig. Aemond summoning his wife at his side would not be inconceivable; the brother who fulfilled his duty to the Crown and now demanded his prize. But Aegon’s willingness to let her go told a different story. Nothing entertained him more than toying with his little brother, and what better way to do it than denying him access to his wife only because he could.

An ulterior motive had to be there for the King to grant such freedom. Something she could not yet see.

Aegon even arranged her departure himself. A messenger went ahead so everything would be arranged for a proper welcome. The retinue, albeit reduced, included fine soldiers and swordmasters, all dressed in plain cloth and without pomp. Ser Criston himself joined in on the journey, wishing to also meet up with Aemond to discuss war strategies and their next moves. 

Green and gold banners and soldiers in formation awaited them in the immense courtyard upon arrival. The whistling of the icy wind through the cracks in the masonry made sounds like the fortress wept and howled, the souls of those who died within the walls using the wind to disguise their lamentations. 

The steward and a knight led them inside, up the Kingspyre tower and towards where she assumed her husband awaited. Large double doors of blackened wood stood slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of light into the hallway. The steward pushed the door open and announced Criston and herself. Both stepped into a large dining room, a table laid out with a feast to feed a dozen. Yet only two sat at the table. 

Aemond presided over the supper, at the spot of honour in what could only be described as a throne. In his lap sat a woman of milky skin and raven curls, cherry lips pulled into a seductive smirk, her elegant fingers carding through Aemond’s silky tresses. The bodice of the woman’s silk gown had been unlaced, one breast out of the garment and firmly captured in Aemond’s mouth.

She didn’t have time to see Aemond’s face before Criston pulled her away by the arm, his broad form standing between the disconcerted woman and the indecorous scene. But she made eye contact with the black haired woman, the woman who sat her husband’s lap, the woman whose fucking tit he suckled like an indefence infant. Green eyes bore into her own, resplendent and alluring like emeralds. The last thing she saw before the door slammed shut was the woman winking at her, as if they shared a secret.

Everything made sense now; the scattered pieces falling into place perfectly. Aemond had never written. Why would he, when he had a woman keeping his bed warm and his needs fulfilled, a woman whom he craved like a drunk craves a drink. Someone, no doubt a carefully placed spy, had surely written to Aegon to report the affair. And the King, in pain, scarred and woefully bored, allowed himself some entertainment. Soon enough he would be doubling over in laughter at the picture of his perfect brother caught with the Strong bastard’s tit in the mouth.

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife in the days that came. In order to preserve her own dignity, she had to act as if nothing had occurred. She broke her fast every morning with Aemond and Criston, not a single word spoken besides the usual morning greetings. Aemond could not look any of them in the eye, especially not his fatherly figure, who had never gazed upon the prince with such disappointment before. The silent treatment hurt Aemond more than the cut of a sword, that much was evident upon his face. But his wife didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him; in fact, she rejoiced in his shame. She wanted Aemond to feel at least a fraction of the silent disgrace she carried with herself. She wanted him to be the one who had to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

He hadn’t even tried to come to her chambers, aware of the reaction that would await him if the thought so much as crossed his mind. Which is why the knock on her door, late on the seventh night, came as a surprise. On the other side stood no other than Alys, the so-called witch, wearing the same gown of that first day. The wife tried to slam the door shut, but not fast enough to keep the woman out. Alys entered the chamber and sat near the fire, her skirts spread around her as she stared into the dancing flames. 

Before she could hurl insults and perhaps something more tangible at the whore, her voice echoed through the alcove. She had never heard Alys talk. Sweet and velvety, every word slipping past her plush lips in a mellow murmur. Even though they stood away from one another, the witch’s words resounded in her ear like a close whisper.

“You are unhappy”

Not a question. An affirmation.

“Unhappy because your husband doesn’t love you like he loves others. Because he refuses to show you care and adoration like you always dreamed of. He doesn't know how to cherish you, and you think you deserve better. You know you do”

Every fibre of her being urged her to scream insults at that brazen whore, to drag her by those perfect curls of hers and push her out the window. Yet she found herself unable to move or speak. Because, deep down, Alys had only said the truth. As if with just one look, she had been able to read her deepest thoughts and laid them out plainly in a way she never could. Tears pooled in her eyes, but her prideful nature kept her from letting them out. Crying in front of her husband’s mistress was a disgrace she would never recover from.

Alys stood, eyebrows knit together and features contorted in what could only be described as pity. Her soft, motherly hands cupped the younger woman’s cheeks, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her thumbs. They stood like that for a moment, the tension dissolving into a comfortable silence as they assessed one another. At last, it was the wetnurse who broke the spell.

“I have seen your life in the flames. Not even diamonds shine as bright as your future”

The witch gave her a brief kiss on the lips and walked out silently, her steps silent in the flagstone, leaving behind a flabbergasted woman. 

After that, Alys came to her chambers every night. And for some reason, she didn’t turn her away, not even once. Maybe because she knew, deep down, that the woman could not be blamed for Aemond’s weakness of mind. Because her words had struck a chord inside her. Because if not her, she had no one to turn to at the moment, alone and isolated in a place where everyone bowed to Aemond’s bidding.

Maybe because she found herself enjoying Alys’ company more than she ever did his.

She found in the witch a friend she never had in the Red Keep. They strolled through Harrenhal together, Alys narrating the story behind those walls, and the lives born and lost there. She taught her about medicinal herbs and plants, knowledge forbidden to them as women. Alys had a voice suited for melancholic songs, and she would sing to the lady as she brushed her hair at night before bed, and before returning to the Prince’s rooms. Shared between two spouses who refused to look at one another, and whose only thing in common was their infatuation with the Rivers woman.

The arrangement felt ideal for her, having found in this odd circumstance the closest thing to happiness she had experienced since the day she recited her vows in the Sept. But Alys kept pushing for reconciliation between her and Aemond, urging her to salvage the feeble bridge of their marriage before it sank into the abyss. She felt unwilling, finding great comfort in not being forced to endure his presence. But Alys brought forth a greater problem, a problem which grew by the day under her dress.

“It is only you who can help me, my girl. One day he will tire of me, and me and my babe will be put to death, just as he did my entire House. He had the infants smothered in their cribs before the eyes of their mothers, and the women bury their children with their own hands before their heads rolled. What do you think he will do to a bastard born of another bastard?”

Panic and rage bubbled in her stomach at the thought of losing Alys. She had been witness to her husband’s cruelty during his time as Regent, which only grew after being given free will at Harrenhal. Servants lashed at the faintest of errors, maids with their heads shaved and fingers broken. Executions on the daily, followed by new servants being forcibly dragged from their homes to Harrenhal to maintain the cycle. Anyone who tried to flee ended with their head on a spike and their body fed to Vhagar. It seemed like the curse of Harrenhal had slipped into Aemond’s mind, filling him with blackness and slowly pushing him to the brink of destruction like many before him. And it disgusted her to no end.

No, she could not allow herself to lose Alys. She needed her like she needed to breathe. She needed those motherly hands braiding her hair, that sweet voice entoning the saddest melodies ever written, the scent of her skin embedded in her pillows to soothe her into sleep as nimble fingers caressed her hair. 

For her, she would try.

That night Alys came to her chamber as usual, Aemond with her. Husband and wife stood face to face at last, infelicitous and tense like their first night, their unspoken words lingering heavy in the air. Alys moved to stand behind her, hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. Soft fingertips tracing the curve of the neck, up to the crown of the head and then down to the collarbones; calmness spread through her veins like a salve, warming her to the tips of her toes. Alys’ lips caressed her ear, her words seeping into her brain like smoke and clouding her thoughts.

“Trust me”

Trusting Alys came as easy as breathing. Even as she undressed the lady slowly, taking her time to undo the laces of the bodice and the clasps in her skirts. Peeling away silk, lace and linen, baring soft skin and feminine curves. Aemond’s pupil widened with lust as he stood spectator, witnessing his mistress caress his wife with the greatest love and care. Kisses brushing down the neck and collarbone, gentle hands tracing the curve of the hips and the descent of the thighs, moving over forbidden places as warm lips met into a shy and delicate kiss; tongue against tongue, small sounds of delight escaping through. 

When Alys finally passed her into Aemond’s embrace, she whined in protest. Aemond didn’t know how to touch her. His coarse hands were clumsy on her flesh, too harsh where she wanted featherlight, and not enough effort where she wanted more action. When her husband laid her on the bed, nestled between her thighs, Alys sat at the head, kissing, teasing and fondling while Aemond chased his own pleasure amidst grunts and pants. Alys’ hand snaked down her body slowly, between the breasts and past the navel. She screamed her climax into the woman’s neck, legs instinctively wrapping around Aemond’s hips as he too found his release.

The routine repeated night after night, for weeks on end.

And the more they did it, the more she found herself wishing it was just her and Alys; Aemond’s presence having gone from a necessity to a nuisance. His wife no longer wanted him to touch her, and only withstood on the promise that it would be her favourite witch the one to rip the highest throes of ecstasy from her body. This no longer was just about securing Alys’ safety; she wanted her safe and sound, by her side. Forever. And as she said, one night long after Aemond had left them, only one way they could secure such idyllic future for themselves.

The news of the fall of King’s Landing had reached them not long ago. The relief of Aegon’s disappearance alongside his children could not placate the terror Aemond felt at knowing his mother and sister remained at the Keep, now prisoners of Rhaenyra and her mad husband. Aemond wished for nothing more than to climb Vhagar and torch down the Crownlands, burning the last leaf on every tree to retrieve his family. But he stood put, on Alys’ command.

“You do not need to chase the war, my Prince. It shall come to your door through clouds of storm”

So they sat and waited, as day after day passed with sunny and clear skies, the God’s eye reflecting the blueness, waters calm and inviting. A fortnight after Alys’ vision, the night chilled and the wind picked up. She stood behind the lady, a silver comb in hand as she untangled her hair before bed. Her scent filled her nostrils and eased her fears. Picking up her uneasiness, she brewed her tea, which she fed her slowly, one spoonful at a time.

“All will be well, my child. Our troubles will vanish and our futures will be clearer than the waters in the God’s Eye”

That night Aemond didn’t come. That night belonged only to Alys’ and her little lady. To taste in the seclusion of the chamber what would be theirs for the rest of their lives.

The next morning, grey clouds hovered over Harrenhal, the breeze carrying the smell of rain mixed with sulphur. The high pitched dragon cries echoed in the mountains around the keep, alerting of the approaching danger. Aemond emerged from the tower, a vision of black and gold in his armour, his sword hanging from his belt and a cloak with the three headed golden dragon in his back.

First he bid Alys farewell. She whispered secret words in his ear; whatever she said, it made him set his jaw and tighten his fist around the hilt of the sword. Then he moved onto his wife. He had shown himself warmer and more loving since Alys’ intervention, blissfully unaware of his wife’s feelings. He cupped her cheek in one hand and kissed her like never before, humming against the softness of her sweet lips. She fitted his helmet over his head, tucking the silvery white braid away. The first drops fell from the clouds, and he unfastened his cloak to wrap around her shoulders, providing warmth and safety.

“I shall see you at the end” He murmured the words against her hairline, placing a tender kiss upon her brow.

And with that Vhagar rose to the skies with a deafening screech, the flapping of her leathery wings sending gushes of warm wind around Harrenhal’s dilapidated towers, the empty halls and vast chambers echoing with eerie wails that forewarned the battle to unfold. On the opposite side of the God’s Eye, Caraxes appeared as well, high pitched roars and puffs of smoke sent as a warning, his misshapen body cut over the greying clouds. Once more, dragon against dragon would clash in the sky, and tears would be shed in the wake of their fire. 

Any witness would assume Aemond had the upper hand, the deformed and younger Blood Wyrm being no match for the considerably larger and more experienced war dragon. But dear Alys’ visions had never failed her, and they wouldn’t betray them now. Nor would the gentle poison she had concocted for the occasion, spread across the wife’s lips just moments before she kissed Aemond farewell, not strong enough to kill, but the right dosage to ensnare the senses and befuddle the mind. 

Calm, deliberate steps took her to the top of Kingspyre tower, her path illuminated by the blazing glow of the fire coming in through the windows, the skies tinted in bright hues of red and orange. The wind blew warm and strong as she approached the ledge, ground trembling beneath her feet, reverberated by the clashing of colossal bodies. For a brief moment she feared for her own life when they flew too close to Harrenhal, but the vision had been precise and showed no threat to her life. 

Her hands rested on the stone, ancient dust sticking to the sweat of her palms; heartbeat quickened in anticipation. As predicted, in perfect synchronisation, both dragons widened their jaws. Caraxes pierced Vhagar’s throat, while she tore his wing to shreds and slashed his belly open. Both beasts spiralled downwards, locked onto one another. From afar she couldn’t tell, but it seemed as if a small, black blur fell from Caraxes’ back. Whatever it was, it was soon obscured by the spray of water that rose from the Eye as both dragons sank, the gout as tall as the tower she stood in. When the lake finally settled, all that marked the spot of such a great battle were bubbles and steam rising to the surface, and then silence. A silence like never before had existed.

She remained rooted, hands on the stone, eyes fixed on the middle of the lake until the last bubbles popped under the raindrops. She did not move from her lookout post. Not even as the rain fell stronger, droplets hitting her skin like icicles, aiding into the ruined shell of the freshly grieving widow she pretended to be. 

A knight came to her, nervous and apologetic, calling her attention with a sharp clearing of the throat. She looked up, rapidly blinking away unexisting tears, and dabbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Composed but frail. Dignified even in the face of loss. He waited for any sort of acknowledgement, and when none came, decided to speak.

“We share your sorrow, my Lady, and our thoughts are with you. This has washed ashore, and we thought you may want it” The soldier’s voice did little to sway her, and she didn't even grace him with a look. 

The heavy, loaded silence between them was broken by the soft tapping of female slippers and the rustle of stiffened skirts. A brief exchange of hushed words later, the knight left the rooftop; she remained silent and still until she could no longer hear the metallic clanking of his armour. 

Alys stood by her side, dark curls fluttering freely in the wind. In her pale hands, resting lightly atop the curve of her swollen belly, was Aemond’s helmet, still in pristine condition, not a scratch upon its surface. The older woman stared at it for a few moments before placing it in her hands. It felt final. Like closing a tedious book, or awakening from a bothersome nightmare. The last word in another chapter of history. A chapter written by their own hands.

Alys called her name, moving to stand behind her. A soft kiss pressed at the nape of the neck, slender fingers running down the length of her spine soothingly, making her shiver pleasantly. The smell of sandalwood, lemongrass and honeysuckle engulfed the girl. 

“It’s over” Her words tickled her ear “His name will not be called again, and no good thoughts will be evoked upon his memory”

Another kiss behind the ear, hands on her breasts, pulling her flush against her body “I know your thoughts are troubled, my child, but the right thing has been done. His fire burned too strong, and he would have brought the realm to ashes, including you and me”

Her words were soothing. She was right; Alys was always right. Aemond would have been their demise. They did what they had to protect themselves, and protect the realm. A kinslayer could not be trusted; it had been his nephews before, and any day would be his brother and anyone else who stood between the sapphire Prince and the Iron Throne. He had to be stopped.

“My only regret is that he died not knowing it was me. The one he would have never suspected. I would gladly give all my family’s gold for the chance to tell him, even if it meant paying him visit in the Seven Hells where he belongs”

The neckline of her gown was pushed aside, plush lips leaving a trail of kisses down her neck towards the collarbone, hands sliding down from her bosom to the hips, digging into her flesh.

“Worry not your little head, my girl. That does not matter anymore. His bones will rest forever at the bottom of the God’s Eye. And whatever you wished to tell him, you will soon be able to pass the message along”

Alys and her cryptic words. She loved to speak in riddles and rhymes, unnerving those who heard them and didn’t know better. She only smiled and nodded. 

And then the helmet rolled down.

Her hands remained mid aid, fingers curled around nothing, every muscle tense and trembling. She looked down past them towards the crimson stain growing upon the fabric of her bodice, and the sharp length of blade protruding from between her hips, coated in a red so deep it seemed black, viscous drops falling from the tip onto her husband’s last possession.

The scream died in her lips as the dagger was twisted and dragged upwards, effectively slicing her open like a squeaking boar. But she had not made sound, nothing aside a choked cry of agony as the weapon was brought down again, ensuring the cut along to be neat and thorough

“I truly didn’t want things to end like this, my sweet flower” Same gentle voice and soothing tone, words dripping venom and malice mixed with honey and sugar. Her index traced a slow line from her neck down to the point where the hilt of the dagger was pressed against her back, the carved handle still firmly grasped in her hand

“I truly enjoyed our time together, and you could have been so much more. You have the guile and the guts to match, and your mind is a most resourceful place. You could have achieved greatness, and with my nurturing, no one would have been able to stop you”

Both of her tender, motherly hands placed upon her lower belly, right under the fatal wound. The blood soaked her hands, red on white, and she gasped almost excitedly, basking on the feeling of life spilling on the stone. She did not know how her body was still standing. Perhaps it was the witch’s doing. Dragging on her demise, enjoying the wicked pleasure that came along with having power over someone else’s life. 

She made a shushing sound against her ear, tenderly rubbing her abdomen in circles as the first tears finally poured from her eyes.

“I see it all, you see. Everything and more. I have seen what lies ahead of you. Trust me, I am sparing you from a lot of pain and grief”

The edges of the world faded to black, vision narrowing until all she could see was the dagger. That and  the puddle of her own blood growing at her feet. 

“His blood cannot carry on beyond the confines of Harrenhal. Only this cursed place can halt the strength born of his offspring. But there can be only one”

Her voice sounded distant. The last thing the lady saw was the courtyard, far down but growing closer as her body felt weightless in the air.

“Only one son can be born”

[hellinistical]

Minors dni. Reblogs highly appreciated.

Tw: cannibalism, fingering, oral (fem receiving), non-con, sub-reader, afab reader, stalking, kidnapping, blood, descriptive body horror, unprotected sex,

gojo, sukuna, childe, rafayel, xavier, knives.

Wc: 2.8k

He didn't mean to stalk you.

He didn't intend for it to go this far.

But he definitely didn't want to stop.

Behind the bushes in front of your window, he watched.

Watched you clean. Watched you eat. Watched you sleep.

What a pretty thing.

His fingers curled around the Japanese knife in his hand, but he took a deep breath, goosebumps rising on his skin as he imagined it all: First, the knife in his hands would glide through the skin on your cheeks, right by your lips. He'd give you a kiss and a permanent smile, digging his thumbs into the raw dermis. He'd take the two pieces and taste them. Would it be warm and savory? Maybe a bit tangy? The blood would surely be. Maybe he'd take a strip from your thighs next. The fatty areas would surely be delicious. But no, he wanted this to last longer, see where it went.

⁛⁛⁛

He saw you again- at the Walgreens this time.

He knew when you went to pick up your prescription- the one for the migraines. The anxiety. So he grabbed a job. Just as a cashier, nothing big, nothing special. Just enough to make small talk.

Though you'd usually only come for your medication, sometimes you'd grab yourself a treat. Press ons, the ones with the French tips. Maybe just for a day, for a party. Chocolate, the one with the hazelnuts. Never minded which brand it was, so long as it satiated that sweet tooth.

He remembered the thought he had that first day, when he imagined you. Bare, splayed out in the table, his hands in your blood, a toothpick in his mouth.

He wondered if you'd be as sweet as the chocolate you bought.

⁛⁛⁛

When you spoke to him the first time, it was with a sympathizing tone. Did he make up a sob story for the masses? Was it highly unlikely? Yeah, but he was just a stranger, so who cared? You gave him the benefit of doubt, and he bathed his mind in it.

You leaned in closer, only to read his name tag really, but he made his move anyways, pulling you into a little dip, as if he were wanting a dance. And he did. But the way his name rolled off your tongue, he needed it.

That was what he got this job for.

So he quit the very next day.

⁛⁛⁛

You asked him out. A small date, just to the movies. He found out you liked horror.

He remembered it.

⁛⁛⁛

You've been feeling…off lately. Like you were being watched, even in the bathroom. Your anxiety rose, and so did your stress.

So did your migraines.

⁛⁛⁛

You were running. Just a morning jog, something to clear your mind. But your adrenaline was pumping. You couldn't think straight.

The feeling- that stupid feeling that you were being watched! It crawled up your legs, your chest, gripling your heart before it got to your brain.

Then it was dark.

⁛⁛⁛

How did you get here, with your fingertips begging for clearance on the edges of the protruding, crumbling brick wall? With stale air, heavy with a metallic scent?

His breath was hot on your skin, trailing up your neck to your jaw to your ear. His right hand rested under your breast, the left on your hip, holding your backside against his pelvis.

"Pretty thing, what do you want?"

His voice was teasing, the hand on your hip now playing with your waistband, his cold fingers threatening to dip past the fabric, to graze your probably more-than-warm skin.

Your grip falters, but before your chin can scrape against the brick, his hand is on your throat. He catches you lightly, the pads of his thumb, index, and middle squeezing your skin gently.

A dry chuckle leaves his lips, the hand under your breast moving to your ass.

"Little love,"

You know to stay quiet, that if you were to even swallow hard his grip would tighten.

Goosebumps litter your skin, and you feel an odd thrill from it all; the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you still your body, your vision hazy but the knife on the table is still very much within his reach.

His hair is soft as it brushes against your shoulder when he leans over. Lips pressed to your skin, they whisper silent promises, not threats. A hand pulls on the waistband of your underwear, and it’s promptly pulled down, a harsh smack landing on your ass. You bite back a yelp, humiliation stinging as tears prick at your eyes. He chuckles, groping the fatty flesh for a moment before resting his hand on your waist, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

“And to think you tried to run- although I suppose praise is in order…you managed to surprise me.”

You feel something. Something cool and wet and gliding down your backside; spit. It goes down the curve of your butt, but he takes his hand, smearing it down to your folds, his thumb pushing past for a mere second before pulling away. He licked his thumb, and an airy laugh left his lips. His thumbs move down to your hips, pressing into the dips as he leans onto you, pushing your stomach into the bricks even more. It hurts, your chin is probably scratched, and you're cold, but damn it, you don't feel shame as you feel your knees shake in anticipation.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to actually believe that I was the pizza guy. Then again, I suppose having the prop did help. But still, you didn’t even question why the box wasn’t warm. Say…”

His voice trailed off as he pulled you away from the wall. Turning you over onto your back, he grabbed your chin softly, a faux kind smile on his face.

“You seem pretty flushed out, Y/n. You got goosebumps all over you.”

Taking your wrists with one hand, he guided you to the table, sliding the knife carelessly off of it as he laid you down on it.

"I wonder- and you can speak this time baby, I won't do anything, promise… I wonder if you're actually enjoying my touch. Maybe not the situation- I'd hope not the situation cause then you'd be a little fucked up- but maybe the touches." He giggles again, and you feel your stomach churn.

"I'm not fucked up."

"Oh? So you like my touches then?"

"I didn't say that."

It's like he can't stop laughing, and it seems mocking as he gets onto the table halfway, hovering over you.

He leans close to your face, close enough that you can see all the small blemishes on his cheeks.

"You didn't need to. I can feel it."

As if to prove a point, his hand goes to your thighs, sliding to your labia. Your legs instantly close around his wrist, thighs clamping down. He disregards it though, instead just pressing a kiss to your lips swiftly as he pushes two fingers into you to the knuckle. He swallows your gasp, the hand that was supporting his weight sneaking behind your neck, pushing you deeper into the kiss, the two fingers in you making a scissor motion widely, slowly.

Your eyes couldn't get any wider, truly. It was comical, how he managed to do just what he imagined: get you splayed out, bare and ready.

Though his appetite was gone, another one was readily introduced, and he gladly welcomed it.

He leans to kiss you again and you turn your head away, but he chases your lips anyways taking one, two, three kisses from you. He pulls his fingers out of you, disregarding the involuntary whine that left you as he licked his hand clean again.

You try to clamp your legs shut for good this time, but he forces them open, cupping your heat, pushing his palm where your clit was.

You all but hiss, back arching off the table before he pressed his free hand into your stomach, pushing you back down into the wood.

Your skin was ridiculously soft, and he thought about just how truly thin the layers of the skin were…. Why if he could just-

No, he couldn't. He needed to save this.

Instead, he nips at your neck, exhaling slowly.

"You know, I've been watching you- you probably knew that, right? You're a smart girl. I know; I've seen you study. You work hard, it's admirable. A shame there won't be any more of that."

His pinky and thumb separate your lips, and he pressed his index and middle finger in, not waiting for a response.

You didn't notice it till now: his skin was oddly cool, a stark contrast from your hot skin.

Mouth falling open, you inhale sharply, refusing to cry, to give him a sense of what you think would give him satisfaction.

His fingers go at a leisurely pace again, curling occasionally, searching, searching…ah, there it was. That spot.

He grins into the crook of your neck as he feels you tense up.

"That easy, huh?"

He doesn't allow you to talk, too busy abusing your cunt. Feeling the drool slide down the corner of your mouth to his cheek, he giggles again- that damned giggle.

You reach for any purchase, anything but him. Wincing as splinters dig into the skin of your hands, you don't ignore the pain, wanting the distraction from the man above you. Your heart beats faster, and he hears it, taking it as an opportunity to have the hand on your cunt move to rub up and down your slit.

Your lips part, your eyebrows try to meet. It was too many sensations; the fear of what was happening, the pain from the wood digging into your skin, the pleasure from the unwanted persistence of him. And that smile he wore.

There was something unnatural about it.

But whether you were more scared of him or the fact that you were enjoying this…that was what terrified you. Maybe you were fucked up.

But something surprising happened.

He stopped. You stopped.

"If you want me to stop, all ya gotta do is say so."

His hand almost retreats before you protest.

⁛⁛⁛

It's the first good look he has at your cunt. It's glistening, and pretty, and that feeling of hunger rises again. He salivated.

Swallowing thickly, he pushes himself off the table, opting to wrap his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge, bringing your legs to his shoulders. He bites your thigh, pressing his nose into it. The smell is dizzying. Sweat, arousal, and something else he can't quite name. But he loves it all the same.

His attention goes back to your pussy, and he levels with it, hot breath fanning over your folds.

Again you pull back, and again you're pulled back.

A low moan vibrates through him, almost muffled as he presses his tongue flat, licking a long stripe between your folds to your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves. You try your best to be quiet, small whimpers and pleas escaping every now and then. It spurs him on, his tongue curious, messy as spit and juices mix, the sounds coming from the combination disgustingly hot. Your walls clamped down onto his tongue, and his eyes rolled back.

He knew to save you.

His mouth wraps around your more than puffy clit, and as if he were making out with it, he sucks it hard before releasing it with a delightful pop, only to grab it with his teeth, biting gently. And again he brings his fingers, burying them again into you. A chuckle escapes him as you spew obscenities. He pulls back for a breath.

"I watched, you know. Your fingers… they weren't cutting it. You need this. You need me…you do. You really do…"

The pads of his fingers are rough, you can feel the callouses against your walls, but you can't seem to care.

A knot was forming in your stomach, and when he pressed his hand down right below your naval you choked on your breath, releasing.

With a content sigh, he drank you, a sheen of what was left resting on his chin when he rose up.

Tired, nearly overstimulated, you push yourself up, wary.

"Enough, you, I won't tell, I swe-"

"Shh, shh, shhh." He pressed a finger to your lips. You can taste yourself.

Rising back to his feet, he stands, unbuttoned his pants. Your eyes widened and you backed up, only for him to grab your ankle hard. It would bruise, his grip stronger than you expected.

"I'm not done. Stay still."

His tone briefly reminds you of the knife on the floor.

Your mind is still reeling, your legs still twitching from the abrupt orgasm. But he ignores it all, slipping himself out of his briefs. It's too fast, all of this. Too much, when his grip on your ankle hurts. Too much, when he twists it hard, no doubt spraining it as he holds it high to his shoulder, your other leg around his hip. Too much, when he swallows your scream with a kiss, pressing the head of his cock into you.

He shudders, the first sensation of your walls around him euphoric. He felt a high, and he had half a mind to just taste more of you right there.

The knife was on the floor though, and he was too engrossed to be bothered to grab it. Instead, he bit into your calf, his cuspids breaking the skin. Oh, how he loved that look on your face. The bleach eyes, the tears, the snot cause you can't stop crying…it was beautiful to him. All of it.

Warmth flooded his mouth the same as it engulfed his cock, but he wanted more. So again he bit, tearing the bite in your calf a little wider, the piece he managed to rip off resting on his tongue. It was like veal, or pork. Sweet, savory, firm. He moaned at the taste, swallowing slowly, savoring the remnants of the flavor that rested on his tongue. You mewled, terrified, excited, tired as his hips began to move.

It was awful, yet amazing. Contradictions and hypocritical all at the same time. It didn't matter to either of you, not when he pushed into you further, his shaft dipping in and out as you spread for him. Your clenched tightly, almost too much so before he tells you to relax, as if he hadn't just taken a bite from you. But you try. You really try. But it's not until he gets to the hilt that you release the tension. He grins, teeth faintly red from your blood. You can see a part of your skin in his mouth, but you don't have time to think, not when he thrusts in, and out, in, and out again and again.

He looks at your face, your slack expression making him giddy, more so than he's been the entire night. Something tugs at the back of his mind, telling him to take what he wants.

So he does.

He takes, and takes, and takes till your convulsing, eyes nearly rolled to the back of your sockets, bloody and drained, ready to meet your maker. But he's not satisfied yet.

Close, but not yet.

You look at him, pleading for him to let go, but it's impossible to, not when you look so pretty like this.

Hands on your hips with a bruising grip, your ankle is swollen, medical attention disregarded as it rests on the edge of the table, your leg off his shoulder. Your fine leg is still on his hip, your heel digging into the end of his back, right above his ass. You arch your back, becoming desperate to finish this already, but you know that's not your purpose right now.

"Can't…" He starts between skipped breaths, the adrenaline finally catching up to him, "can't believe no one's had the thought… they're all blind. All of them- you... you're perfect. Pretty, delicious. Sustainable. The rest... They're animals."

You didn't get it, too busy chasing a high you might not get.

He moans, leaning down into you, his arms on either side of you, his face pressed into your stomach. He'd surely go crazy from you. He was close, you both knew it. The way his movements became uncoordinated and sloppy, it was all telltale signs.

"When I'm done- I'm coming back, and don't you forget it. 'Kay?"

You nod yes. Of course you do.

And even if you didn't, he'd take it as one.

His balls tightened, and he felt it, the familiar sensation of release. Except instead of being on pictures of you, it was in you. He bit into your stomach, his arms slipping underneath you, pulling you closer as he came deep into you. You gasped, your palms digging into his shoulders, attempting to push him away, but he would not let up.

He laughs, loud, rambunctious, victorious.

And bile builds up in your throat. You swallow it back, demanding yourself not to throw up.

Salty tears stream down your face, but he ignores it. Soft, he pulls out. Happy.

And before you can get up, the knife is in his hands.

[katyawriteswhump]

(vampire) nesting season—steddie microfic, steddie holiday drabble.

WC: 388. CW: none. Rating: M. Tags: vampire eddie, vampire au, established steddie, angst, fluff, non-explicit bloodsucking, dark undertones.

For @steddieholidaydrabbles spring pop-up event, and @steddiemicrofic March prompt, ‘pin.’ Also for @sidekick-hero and littleskit on Ao3, who kindly requested more vampire eddie/human steve fic… Sorry, I haven't had time to get a longer fic going this month. In the meantime, hope you enjoy this companion piece to A deep and dreamless love (also on Ao3)😉 This fic can also be read standalone without reading the companion fic.

....

The gigantine crash from the backyard awoke Eddie. It was dark, he’d overslept. Was Steve in danger?

Eddie rushed to the yard—his cold dead vampire heart thudding—and stopped by their storm-shelter’s opened trapdoor. Beneath, bricks and debris buried the ladder: “Steve?” 

“Who else, genius?” Steve sounded muffled.

“Thought you were spring-cleaning?”

“I am! Use your vampire super-strength to shift this fallen crap NOW.” Steve coughed, doubtless on the dust. As Eddie cleared the fallen-in roof from the ladder, a sumptuous scent hit. Blood! He prayed Steve wasn’t pinned down, hurting, bleeding badly…

After shifting the final rubble, Eddie sighed with relief. Steve looked okay, mildly dirty, his hair decorously wrecked. Black fabric swathed the walls, at which Steve now pointed:

“Stabbed myself pinning up silk.” He sucked his finger. “No major bleeding—don’t freak out.”

“You could've been killed.” Eddie tentatively looped his arms around Steve, grateful for the usual precautionary scarf covering Steve’s delicious throat. “Sure you’re okay?”

Steve glared: “Do I look hurt, idiot.”

“You look…” Edible. “Adorable.”

“Dumbass crumbly basement. Ruined my surprise present.”

“Uuuuuh, whose present? And why the slinky-yet-hazardous subterranean boudoir?”

“Christ, you’re slow tonight.” Steve threw himself onto a sea of black cushions, tugging Eddie with him. “Longer spring days equal less nighttime with you. I built you an underground vampire nest, so we can…”

He pulled Eddie into a messy kiss, knees hitching round Eddie’s hips, forcing Eddie closer yet. Eddie kissed back—groaning, rutting, basking in Steve’s pulsing heat. His soul yearned only for Steve. His body hankered to drain Steve’s veins dry.

Shiiiiit, I need breakfast.

Eddie tore himself free. Steve laughed, dabbing wet lips, luxuriating on the cushions. A squirming mouse ready to be pinned by a cat? Steve’s fingers lovingly threaded Eddie’s hair, thumb caressing Eddie’s cheek. “You like?”

“Love it, Babe, but…” 

Eddie grimaced. Temptation burned. Steve simply ripped away his scarf, revealing Eddie’s many previous bite-marks on his neck. These never healed, because: “You’re peckish, huh?”

“Holy shit, Stevie. If I can’t stop drinking, you’re totally trapped here.” The truth tolled like a death knell: This is no nest. You’ve built a goddamn tomb! “Unlike you, I’m noooo hero.”

Steve rolled his way-too-trusting eyes, and pressed Eddie’s face into the scrumptiously thrumming curve of his throat. “Jesus, bite me already.”

Eddie’s fangs erupted and pierced Steve deep.

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. vi

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 6/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Genre: Smut + Fluff Rating: M (18+) Word Count: 6k+ Summary: This Valentine’s Day looks a lot different than the last one. AUs: Older brother’s best friend, fuck buddies that hate(d) each other CW: Reader is AFAB & queer, Jimin is so soft omg, ✨vulnerability✨, so much kissing wtf who am i?, nipple play, fingering (v), unprotected sex (p in v), DID I SAY SOFTNESS? A/N: Thank youuuuuu to everyone that stuck with me and these two idiots until the very end 💕 If you get lonely now that this is over, check out the rest of my masterlist. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors and ageless blogs will be blocked. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

It was odd, starting over with someone you’d known longer than nearly everyone else in your life. Jimin wasn’t a stranger by any means; he’d always been present, life running parallel to yours, but you’d never truly seen him up close. 

Not accurately, anyway.

When you were younger, the pedestal you put him on kept the sun in your eyes. You’d have to squint to see his shortcomings, but you never did. Maybe that was one of yours, willful blindness. As far as you knew then — or, rather, as far as you bothered to look — Jimin had none. All he had was a bright, white light.

After that pedestal crumbled and Icarus took a swan-dive to the sub-basement of your expectations, the shadows down there warped the flaws you finally recognized. A trick of the light, they exaggerated every shitty thing you thought you saw and made them all worse. Scarier, even. Worth hating.

Once you finally allowed him to exist on equal footing, you realized that Jimin wasn’t made to be viewed in such high contrast. He wasn’t the monochromatic figure you’d mythologized, not two-dimensional. In reality, he was a prism refracting a thousand different, complicated colors that you hadn’t been giving him due credit for.

The first shade you discovered was the one that broke your brain the most.  Jimin — the only person you knew that never responded to anyone’s calls or texts — wasn’t actually as solitary as he seemed. Really, the only thing he hated more than being by himself was having to admit that fact to anyone, especially you. 

So, instead of calling to invite you along on his errand runs, he started showing up at your door to ask, “You’re not busy right now, are you?”

And just like that, without meaning to, you learned his routine. Another shade.

Every other Sunday, you’d wake up a little earlier than usual. No matter how tired or hungover you were, you would crawl out of your bed, into your well-functioning shower, and make yourself presentable. Then, when you no longer looked like a hobgoblin, you’d sit on your couch with your tea.

None of it was a conscious decision — waiting in the nearest seat to your front door, angling yourself so you could keep an eye on the driveway — at least, not at first. In fact, you didn’t even notice what you were doing until your newly-acquired therapist pointed it out.

“It sounds like you’re making space in your life for him, brick by brick.”

You laughed it off when she said it, but as weeks flew by, you finally had to concede that she was right. She was right about something else, too: you hadn’t been viewing yourself fairly, either. 

“Cellophane can be iridescent, too, if you hold it right.”

Whatever shades of your own that you uncovered, you gradually learned to let Jimin see, too. He picked up on all of your intricacies much faster than you did — because of course he did — and unlike you, he didn’t stumble upon revelations by surprise. He didn’t muddle through your less-pretty shades by trial and error, like you did. To the contrary, he had an unexpected knack for anticipating your reactions, and he planned accordingly.

Everything he did was purposeful, from his choice of words to his actions. Like exhuming his phone from his pocket — “only because it’s you” — to let you know if he was running late to plans you’d made. It was rare that he didn’t show up on time, but whenever he couldn’t, he’d call to promise that he really was on his way. And he always was, no matter how shitty the weather was, or how much he might’ve wanted an extra hour of sleep.

Jimin and all his shades showed up for you.

On Christmas, when Seokjin’s part-time girlfriend threw a dinner party without knowing what the fuck she’d signed up for. You were three-quarters through a bottle of wine before you were pulled in to take over meal preparations with Seokjin; and although Jimin was mostly useless in front of a stove, he was good at fetching whatever you’d need next without you having to point to it. He was even better at keeping your respective glasses full, which felt even more important. Washing dishes after the fact wasn’t all that bad with him there, also drunk off his face, drying them.

On New Years’ Eve, when Jimin was too sick to join the bar crawl but still set an alarm to wake up and call you — right at midnight. You stepped out onto a snow-slicked sidewalk in order to hear him, disappointing the hell out of the girl whose lips wanted to kiss you into the new year. You ignored her pout, ignored the chill in the air, and focused on the way Jimin’s raspy voice had dropped an octave. He was asleep when you swung by shortly after with a box of tissues and a bottle of decongestants, but that didn’t matter; his spare key wasn’t well hidden, either.

And again — now — on Valentine’s Day, when you both decided to blow off Seokjin’s deranged, annual Parent Trap scenario.

Sprawled out on his couch like you owned the place, you scrolled idly through Netflix’s home page with your face scrunched. The hand not holding the remote dipped down into the bag of kkokalcorn chips resting on your chest.

“You’ve got an identity crisis in your watch history, Jimin,” you yelled out to him, hoping he’d hear your teasing clearly from where he stood in his kitchen. “I’m having trouble believing that you’re not actually a middle-aged white woman.”

At this, he stopped rummaging through his refrigerator and stood straight up to glare at you. His eyes and mouth all flattened into matching, straight lines.

You rattled off your findings, nudging him further. “The Notebook, Sleepless in Seattle —”

With every title you dropped, so did one of Jimin’s heavy footfalls. He was halfway to you, scowl growing, in the blink of an eye.

“10 Things I Hate About You?” You snorted. “Little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

Standing at the other side of his coffee table, he parked his hands on his hips and scoffed. “My choices are being criticized by an entire adult with corn-chip witch fingers? Are you kidding?”

Sheepishly, you pulled your hand from the kkokalcorn bag. He was correct; you had stuck your fingertips in the openings of the funnel-shaped chips. You wiggled them at him with a coy smile that made him roll his eyes. Satisfied, your mouth claimed the chip perched on the tip of your index finger.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the flash in his eyes just then was fondness.

You held the bag out to him, careful not to disrupt the rest of your manicure, and smiled to yourself when he accepted your offer. He tilted the bag and dumped a few of the chips into his open palm. With a small smile, he mused, “Haven’t had these since we were kids.”

That wave of nostalgia must have caught him in a riptide because he went quiet in a way that made you pause. You were about to speak up — to say what, you weren’t sure — but you promptly shut your mouth. Index and middle fingers now extended, he held out his hand to make a peace sign. Each fingertip had a small cone sitting crooked on top.

Jimin laughed unexpectedly, which almost made his already-crinkled eyes disappear completely. “Kinda look like little wizards.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the thumping in your chest just then was fondness.

After shaking your head to clear those thoughts, you realized that the little wizards weren’t holding the glass of hard cider he’d gone to his kitchen to refill. You pushed yourself to your feet with one hand and a playfully exaggerated groan, popping the remaining chips from your fingers into your mouth at once.

“Leaving already?”

He should’ve known better than to ask you a question while your mouth was full, but he didn’t. The explanation he received was therefore unintelligible. Head cocked curiously to the side, lips slightly parted, he tried to connect the dots. Just as soon as he started, he gave up and trailed after you.

Jimin didn’t stop until you did, right in front of his refrigerator. He was so close, in fact, that you accidentally hit him with the door as you pulled it open.

“Oh, shit!” You muttered, shutting the door again quickly.

Wincing, your gaze flitted over to assess the damage you’d done to the outside of his bicep with the metal corner of the door. On instinct, you reached out to run the pads of your fingers over the faint red mark blooming there. Goosebumps spread in the wake of your touch, but you didn’t feel that same phantom chill. Just something electric that sparked against your fingertips.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He said gently. “I don’t bruise like you do.”

In the moment of silence that followed, you felt compelled to lift your eyes but not your hand. Unless you were imagining things, he leaned into your touch, just slightly. Not enough to see, but enough to feel.

It’d crossed your mind a thousand times since you walked through his front door. With that throwaway statement, Jimin confirmed he’d been thinking about it, too — about who you both were on this date last year. About the way you’d only ever let him treat you roughly because anything sweeter threatened the distance you were trying to keep. About the bruises given with no chance to kiss them better.

You weren’t that person anymore, and neither was he.

“Jimin,” you started.

It was the farthest along in your sentence that your voice would let you go. 

After the million baby steps you’d taken in his direction and the healing you’d allow yourself to do, you were still scared to show your cards. Now, you’d seen him in technicolor. Now, if you fucked things up, you’d never be able to go back to black and white.

What if you fuck things up again?

Jimin sensed your hesitation, but he didn’t accept it. Instead, he closed the distance so slowly that your hand wasn’t disrupted from where it rested on his bicep. His hands found you just as easily. One made its home at the small of your back while the other cupped the side of your face. 

With a whisper lighter than air, he asked, “If I kiss you, will you let me?”

His eyes flitted from yours, to your lips, then back again.

“Or will you kamikaze dive into my kitchen table?”

Your reply was even softer than the question posed. “Only one way to find out.”

If the uptick at the corner of his lips told you anything, it was that he intended to.

Cautiously, as if sudden moves would startle you, he pulled your body flush against his. His other hand tilted your face upwards, thumb gently tucked under your chin while the rest of his fingers rested in the space just below your ear. His touch kept your body present even when the sensation of his kiss threatened to sweep your feet out from underneath you.

Plush pink and delicate, his lips molded to yours like they were specially designed to do just that. Like cracks giving way to let the light in, you opened yourself up for him. Licked into his mouth, eager to learn the parts of him you’d missed in all the time you’d shut him out.

And if you listened — really listened, over the moan he swallowed from you — you could’ve sworn you heard all the silly pages of your childhood diary flipping furiously. Scribbled to hell and back with a glitter gel pen, each one noting that this is what you wanted, this is what you wanted, this is everything you wanted.

The eternity in that kiss wasn’t long enough. Eventually, he broke the contact, pulling a disagreeing gasp from you when he pulled away. Your lips buzzed from the sudden loss of pressure — that, or they trembled without the warmth of his mouth. Either way, he was gone too soon. 

The hand you had resting against his bicep slipped down to the center of his chest to tug at the fabric of his t-shirt. Unable to nip that growing neediness in the bud, you frowned. 

“Jimin,” you sighed. You had nothing to follow-up with. His name was the totality of that thought.

Several moments of silence came next. His brow furrowed, like he was trying and failing to find something less vulnerable to say. He couldn’t. When it slipped out, his eyes searched your face for a reaction.

“I want to be soft with you.”

Any time you’d been together before, it was carnal, dripping with unarticulated hurt. He didn’t want that, not this time. You didn’t have to guess why.

Though the level of desperation you both felt now was familiar, the underscore had changed. Jimin wanted to touch you carefully because he felt fragile — so did you. If either of you moved too quickly, too roughly, you ran the risk of upending the balance you’d found. Like you, Jimin seemed to know that this was delicate.

You lifted your hand from his shirt and placed it on top of his where it sat above your jaw. Gently, your fingers wrapped around his and lowered them so you could intertwine them properly. Then, without a word and without letting go, you led him out of the kitchen into the small hallway.

This was the first time you’d crossed his house without sprinting and violently shedding your clothes as you went. It felt like you were seeing it all for the first time because, in a way, you were. 

You’d never noticed the framed photos lining the walls of the hallway, or the subtle notes of grey in the white paint behind them. In all the time you’d spent there before, it’d never clicked that this house was a home. Everywhere, there were hints of him — his interests, his achievements, the friends you’d never met — sitting so blatantly in places you’d previously ignored. 

Jimin apologized when you stepped over the threshold into his bedroom. “My plan was to clean it tomorrow.”

He smiled sheepishly as his free hand carded through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Doesn’t do you any good today, though.”

“I don’t mind,” you hummed in reply, shutting the door slowly behind him. “My plan was to do laundry today, and — well, you’ll see how that worked out for me.”

You kept your fingers interlocked with his while you surveyed his room. Like the rest of the house, you’d been in there countless times before without truly seeing any of it. Apart from the bare minimum clutter he’d needlessly apologized for, every surface was thoughtfully decorated. Even the absence of some keepsake or trinket on his shelf was purposeful. 

He keeps space.

Propped on a stand near his dresser was his guitar, which you didn’t even know he still played. Of course he does, you thought, he’d have been an idiot to throw that talent away. 

You were smiling long before you noticed you were doing it, even more so when you clocked where it sat. Just like it did in his childhood home, the guitar was positioned directly across the room from his doorway — the first and last thing he’d see when he came and left. 

Carefully, you reached out and trailed one finger over the tuning pegs. It all felt forbidden, but stupidly, you felt compelled. You spent a lifetime aching to touch him. For reasons you couldn’t explain, his guitar was no different.

Watching you caress his guitar made his pulse race harder; you could feel it where your wrist aligned with his. If nothing else had changed, you suspected that he still didn’t let anyone lay a finger on it. Jimin always insisted that he did all the maintenance himself because he didn’t trust the technician at the local music shop to be careful enough. 

To your surprise, it didn’t appear to be anxiety spinning circles in his stomach as he watched you. He spun you around, and it was clear from the look in his eye — the unshakeable desire he felt to touch you that same way.

You wondered what he was thinking while he studied your face in silence — if the months he’d spent trying to teach himself to hate it had blurred your features; and if he saw them clearly now.

The smattering of freckles across the bridge of your nose which swept over the tops of your cheekbones — even though it was winter, and you hadn’t seen much of the sun for weeks. 

The small scar interrupting your eyebrow, which you’d gotten when both of your families went camping together a million years ago. He’d sprinted across tide pools to help you back to your feet, reaching you long before Seokjin could catch up.

You didn’t know if it was a conscious decision now, but he leaned down and placed a kiss there the way you wished he had back then. 

“This isn’t still illegal, is it?” He murmured against your skin.

Unable to breathe, let alone speak, you shook your head so subtly that it couldn’t reasonably be counted as movement. Your next move was bolder, though: You unzipped your sweatshirt, shrugged your way out of it, and let it fall at your feet. 

With a quick glance down, you remembered what you were wearing and cringed with your whole body.

Neither of your socks matched; your sweatpants had a hole near the crotch; and your sweatshirt’s sole task had been to hide the ratty, old MapleStory t-shirt that you stole from Seokjin when he went off to college.

A certifiable mess in a self-imposed dry spell.

Jesus Christ.

“Laundry day,” you blurted out in explanation, though he hadn’t asked. He wasn’t laughing, either — not reacting in any way to roast you the way you expected him to. Still, the tips of your nose and ears burned with embarrassment. “I didn’t plan for… this.”

His index finger dipped under the hem of your t-shirt and his thumb mirrored the way it traced the stitching. 

“I kind of forgot that you own shit like this.” He replied softly, looking more pensive than usual. “Never see you in sweats.”

It was a fair point.

Jimin had slept next to you on three occasions — when the rules permitted — and you always woke up the same way you’d fallen asleep: completely naked. Somehow, it felt even more intimate for him to see what you wore when you went to bed without him. The silly, branded t-shirt probably said more about you than your bare chest did.

You realized that you’d never seen him in his current state before, either, with black joggers hanging low on his hips. His fluffy, air-dried hair didn’t sit smoothly the way it normally did. You wanted so badly to run your fingers through it, but there was a stronger compulsion to reckon with:

His shirt was ripped at the hem, not quite covering the lower inches of his torso.

Unthinkingly, your hand reached out so your fingers could rest against the skin there, midway down faint the trail of hair that dipped under the waistband of his pants. So much warmer than you, he shivered at your touch. You paused, self-conscious, then glanced up at him with eyebrows raised.

Is this okay?

You didn’t have to ask out loud to get an answer. It came as a whisper — “cold hands” — and it was accompanied by a smile that made your knees weak.

He nodded towards the other side of his room and said, “C’mere.” 

The hand that previously held yours found it again. Fingers slipping easily into the spaces between yours, he led and you followed. 

The crisply folded sheets contrasted completely with the effortless coziness of the rest of the space, but they didn’t stay that way for long. With his free hand, Jimin gripped the comforter and tugged it loose. It fluttered and fell freely back down over the bed.

Sighing reflexively, you slipped into the opening he’d created within the blankets. Every fiber smelled like him — clementine flower, orange blossom, water lily and orris — and now, so would you.

Jimin waited for you to scoot over before filling the space next to you, tilting his body inward to keep his eyes on you. His bent knee pressed against your outer thigh. It was chaste, especially when you considered the thousand other ways he’d touched you, but it had you vibrating in place, nonetheless. He probably felt it when he leaned in and kissed you for the third time, fingers sliding into your hair.

Tangled in him, your intrusive thought won out. Loose, it flew like a ping-pong ball around the inside of your skull: He can probably feel all that dry-shampoo, too. 

Like he was begging you to focus, the tip of his tongue flicked across your bottom lip and stole a whimper. Your lips parted eagerly against his to accommodate him; both of you starving for every bit of tenderness you’d refused to let him give before. 

As he poured more of himself into that kiss, the hand in your hair ran slowly down the length of your neck, over the slope of your shoulder, and down the curve of your torso. It stopped on the top of your thigh, warming you through to your bones. For the first time, his fingers didn’t dig harshly into the doughy flesh he found there. Now, his feather-light touch left you buzzing instead of bruised.

With every second that passed, your tingling spine struggled more and more to hold you upright. Noting the slight shift in your posture, Jimin guided you — still lip-locked — to rest your head on his pillows. It wasn’t until you tilted your head slightly to the side that his lips left yours; dipped down below your jaw to pepper the exposed skin there with unbearably soft kisses.

Each one made your pulse race harder than the last, pulled needy little breaths out of your mouth.

“Sound so pretty when you sigh like that,” he hummed against your throat. “Might have to kiss you like this forever if this is what it gets me.”

You’d been underneath him more times than you could presently recall, but never like this. Until now, you never understood how a person could say they loved you without any words at all, but you heard it. More than anything, you felt it in every brush of his lips — in the static crackling around you, charged with every little, languid line his tongue left behind.

The only thing distracting from your swelling heart was the wetness pooling in the bikini bottoms you’d hastily thrown on in the absence of clean underwear.

Fucking laundry day.

The sole consolation was the fact that the blend of polyester and elastane was better suited for a flood than any lace you would’ve consciously selected.

The breath behind his words tickled and surprised you, derailing your train of thought.

“Is it against the rules to tell you how beautiful I think you are?”

The circles he drew against the fabric of your sweatpants had you hypnotized, but you still managed to reply, “No more rules. Except — Oh, fuck.”

You mewled at the sensation of him suckling at the spot where your neck joined your shoulder. 

“Except that you can’t ever stop.”

His lips curled into a smile against the love bite he’d so carefully crafted. 

“I won’t,” he murmured before placing a kiss in the same spot he’d marked. “But I may need an intermission to get these incredibly chic clothes off your body. Kind of feels sacrilegious, though, I’ve gotta say.”

Your eyes flickered over to him, eyebrows raised. He pursed his lips to keep from smiling, forced the straightest face he could muster, then traced his fingertip over the rip in the crotch of your sweatpants. Sounding downright reverent, he explained, “They’re holey.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” You dropped your head back against the pillows with a groan that didn’t outgun your laughter. “Straight to jail for that. Seriously, that’s a federal crime.”

When your eyes stopped rolling and settled on him, Jimin was already looking down at you with amusement sparkling in the deep brown of his irises. He said nothing, opting instead to kiss you — for the fourth time — as a farewell before pulling away entirely. 

The spot next to you went cold as soon as he sat up, but — bravely — you didn’t complain. You watched with your bottom lip pinched between your teeth. He grabbed the end of his haphazardly, perfectly cropped t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. 

Your only instinct was to reach up to his bare chest and trace every plane of it. To your dismay, Jimin intervened. Fingers at the hem of your top now, he stared expectantly at you until you stretched your arms above your head. That stupid, stolen shirt was guided up and off before it was discarded somewhere unseen.

Jimin’s pupils dilated immediately, gaze sweeping over your bare chest like he was beyond grateful that all your bras were at home, drowning in your washing machine. Uninhibited, he leaned forward. The delicate, cuban-link chain of necklace tickled the skin of your stomach while he placed an open-mouthed kiss in the space between your breasts. Cool to the touch, you shivered for more reasons than one.

When his tongue flicked out over one erect nipple, all you could offer was a breathy sigh, brain scrambled to hell and back. He seemed to draw inspiration from this — him and his goddamn mouth promptly switched tactics. Mimicking you, he looked up at you from under his lashes and blew a warm stream of air over your other nipple.

You were full-out whimpering underneath him. “Shit.”

“Yeah?” He smirked before taking the pebbled bud into his mouth and sucking softly, eyes still locked on yours. 

Can I cum from this?

Oh god, I really might cum from this.

His mouth’s ministrations continued while his hands swept gently down the curves of your waist. That is, until they reached the elastic waistband of your sweatpants. Abruptly, Jimin stopped and sat back onto his calves.

You didn’t have to ask. Jimin’s eyes widened in tandem with the grin on his face; and you knew what he’d discovered. Smiling now with all his teeth, he tugged playfully at the knotted tie sitting above your right hip, keeping your bikini bottoms in place.

He snorted incredulously, “Be fucking for real.”

“Stop.” The word was elongated as you whined. It was useless, but you swatted at his arm. “I told you — ”

“I know, I know. It’s laundry day.” Fuck, his affection for you was written all over his face. “Incredible — truly, I have no notes.”

You buried your face in your hands to hide from him, but he didn’t let you. Just like he did that time on your couch, Jimin pulled your hands away from your face and held them in his own. This time, when he kissed you, you didn’t tear yourself away from him. Instead, you did the opposite. You grabbed the sides of his face in your hands and leaned into him.

With his hands now free, he was able to push your sweatpants down the rest of the way without extricating his lips from yours. Those fucking bikini bottoms went with them when he slipped the fabric over your ankles and tossed them blindly over his shoulder.

Mouth moving hungrily against yours, his hand hovered over your cunt, radiating warmth. You fought to keep your last shred of patience but lost, shifting underneath him to beg wordlessly for his touch. He obliged. His middle finger dipped between your sopping folds until it found the swollen bead of your clit and spiraled over it.

“Fuck,” you moaned into his mouth. He swallowed it, kissed you so deep your mind went blank.

The slow pace he’d chosen normally would have driven you mad, but instead of coming across as a taunt — or a punishment — you got the impression that he was basking in your arousal. That he was taking his time, savoring you and the million ways your body craved his.

When you pulled back, your lips were kiss-bitten and palpably swollen. He must have felt your quickened breath against his own lips. They autonomously curved into the tiniest sliver of a smile. 

Watching him watch you, it was clear that Jimin loved you like this — wide-eyed, unguarded, inviting. He loved you generally. You knew that much for certain as he gazed down at you, and you were so fucking thankful that neither of you had to keep pretending otherwise.

Whatever trance he’d fallen into ended when you whispered, “Please.”

Though your plea wasn’t much more than an exhale, he didn’t need to be told twice. Momentarily, he stood; and as he did, your own hand dipped down between your legs. He stepped out of his joggers with his focus trained on you, staring spellbound while you touched yourself in his absence. Wet enough to drip.

If you had to wager on it, you’d bet that he could’ve stood there all night observing, listening to the way you moaned as you slicked your own fingers, but the darkened tip of his cock was weeping like he wanted you badly enough to ache. Completely incapable of spending any more time as a bystander, he fell to his knees between your legs. There, he guided them further apart with his hands.

Desperately, you grabbed one of his hands from where it sat on your knee and pulled him so that he was leaning over you once again. You wanted to feel the way his breath caught as he entered you, bare chest pressing into yours while he filled you. Needed him — just him — all the time.

Forearms now pressed to the mattress and fingers in your hair, he caged you in. His forehead came to rest against yours when you reached into the space between your bodies and dragged his tip through the mess he’d made of you. That faint squelch was obscene enough in the quiet of his room. It couldn’t hold a candle to the groan that escaped his chest when he finally entered you.

“Holy shit.” He exhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Your walls enveloped him, squeezing tight enough that no question remained about where he belonged. “Fucking missed you.”

That initial, perfect ache threatened to blind you, but it wouldn’t have mattered with the way your eyes screwed shut — too overcome with want to do much more than breathe. Slowly, inch by inch, his cock stretched you until he bottomed out. It was the closest thing you’d ever had to an out-of-body experience.

“Missed you,” you mumbled.

Well beyond fuck drunk, you bordered on incoherent. A kiss on your forehead lassoed you, brought you crashing back down. It was redundant, but he murmured, “Come back to me.”

You blinked up at him in a haze.

“Want you to look at me.” 

He sounded shy, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard him, and you didn’t need any further explanation.

Eye contact had never been on the table before, deemed early on to be far too fucking intimate. If this is what he wanted, you decided, you’d never take your eyes off him again. Especially not when he looked at you the way he did then, like you hung the fucking stars in the sky.

You countered, “Kiss me.”

And he did, like he might never get the chance again.

No amount of closeness could’ve been enough, but you settled for wrapping your legs around him. With his range of motion now limited, he grinded against you; the curve of his cock rubbed against that secret spot behind your pubic bone. 

Bones? Do you still have any of those?

Every tantalizing, slow thrust made it harder for you to remember why you’d ever required harshness when his gentleness now was infinitely more intense. It was so much better — being loved by him rather than hated.

Desperate fingers left half-moon imprints on his back, which was beginning to slick with sweat. The spaces between your whimpers lessened while the pressure in your abdomen began to build. Jimin had you teetering at the edge of the world, and you told him so with your lips at his ear, “Please — I’m so close.”

His forehead creased, and you watched in real time as determination etched itself into his features. He was perfect — beautiful — and he was close, too. You clenched; he cursed, “Fuck.”

You looked up at him through fluttering lashes, silently begging him not to stop. Not now, not ever. Stay.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Jimin murmured, burying himself deeper with every thrust. “You know that, right? How much you mean to me?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He watched your face as you came — when your eyes rolled back, and your head tilted against his pillows. Your legs loosened their binds around him as they shook, gasping moans tumbling out of your open mouth. His pace didn’t falter; his presence deep inside of you only elongated your orgasm.

Bliss.

You were still fluttering around his length when your eyes finally drifted open again. Not even through your first aftershocks, his panting breaths alone could’ve pushed you headfirst into a second orgasm.

His gaze had dropped at some point to see the way your cunt clung to him with every backstroke. He must’ve felt you staring, though; he looked back up at you, pupils blown wide. That was all it took to dot stars along the edges of your vision.

Back arching up off the mattress, you gushed around him once again. Mindless babbling — consisting only of his name and expletives — fell clumsily off your tongue. It caught both of you off-guard when your shaky voice managed to plead, “Wanna feel you cum — please. Want you to let go for me.”

Only after you begged him did his thrusts become desperate, reckless. There was the unmistakable sound of your wetness and skin colliding with skin, and then there was the low moan that built in the seat of his chest and broke free. Face buried in the crook of your neck as he came, the heat of his breath on your skin was rivaled only by the dizzying warmth of his release spilling into you.

He struggled to hold himself up while his spent cock still twitched inside of you. If you were being honest, you adored the way his weight pinned you against his mattress. Maybe, you thought, you could stay there forever.

Eventually, an exhausted voice came from the curve of your shoulder, almost too muffled to hear.

“How is it —” Jimin panted. “— That in the hundred times we’ve had sex, it never felt like that?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Tingling fingertips ran lightly and lazily across his shoulder blades. The hint of hesitation bubbling in the pit of your stomach cautioned you not to speak your thoughts out loud, so you stared at the ceiling above you and willed yourself to be brave.

Your voice threatened to give up on its way out.

“Nobody’s ever fucked me like they love me before.”

He mustered all the energy he still had to turn his head and look at you. At first, you couldn’t tear your eyes off the ceiling to look back. Make space, you begged yourself; and so, you did.

With his chest resting heavily on yours, you wondered if he could feel the way your heart skipped a beat at that eye contact alone. The glimmer in his eye informed you that, yes, he could. 

“Better get used to it, then.” He punctuated his thought by pressing his lips to your temple. “‘Cause that’s what you signed up for.”

You smirked, “Oh? Was there a contract?”

You might’ve kept teasing him if he didn’t tilt your head to kiss you properly — and fuck, you were melting all over again.

“Sealed with a kiss, no less.” He leaned down to nip affectionately at your earlobe. Mouth at the shell of your ear, he purred. “Like any deal with the devil should be.”

“Goddamn.” You whistled. “Promoted from menace to devil already. Congratulations.”

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled out of you and forced himself upright to his feet. Before you could even ask him to, Jimin leaned down to kiss the lips you’d poked out into a pout. Your voice was uncharacteristically needy as your question slipped out.

“You are coming back, right?”

“Nope,” he hummed against your lips. You leaned away from him with your jaw dropped incredulously. “I’m taking a shower and I’m taking you with me.”

That was the only warning you got before one of Jimin’s arms slipped under the hinge of your knees, and the other disappeared behind your back. You screamed. Instead of flailing — a one-way ticket to the floor, you imagined — you threaded your arms around his neck and clung to him as if your life depended on it.

“Pardon me,” you sputtered. “But what the fuck is happening right now?”

“Shhh — pipe down. I’m keeping a promise.”

You stared at him expectantly. For a moment, he ignored you and continued quietly on his way towards the bathroom. It wasn’t until he reached the threshold that he paused with a sigh.

The look he shot you then was far more earnest than you could’ve expected under the circumstances. One that said he saw you, not through you, and he wasn’t going to look away.

Jimin said it breezily, like it cost him even less than the air it took to vocalize it: “I am not letting you down again.”

A pinprick of tears stung the corners of your eyes. You fought like hell to keep them where they belonged. It was such a stupid joke — made so lightly — and it still held more weight than anything you’d ever heard.

Eyes swimming despite your resistance, you sniffled and laughed. “Not, like, literally, though — right?”

“Aw, baby.” He kissed your temple again, cooing. Part of you hated it, but the rest of you swooned. “Don’t test me.”

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[chaotic-orphan]

Noble Consequences

“You see now?” Villain yelled across the street, a building levelled behind them. Smoke and dust partially obscuring them from moment to fleeting moment. They were panting, twin trails of blood making lines down one side of their face. They stepped forward, or more, limped forward, their usually pristine coat in tatters.

Superhero watched them move, only very distantly aware of the sirens in the distance and the chaos on the street. Unlike Villain they were frozen in place, looking at the place behind Villain, at the rubble, at— at Hero’s apartment block. Their mind couldn’t comprehend that fact. It wouldn’t let them, certain that their brain would crumble as quickly as the bricks and foundation of the apartment block did. Destroyed right in front of their eyes.

“You can’t save them,” Villain screamed, still hobbling over to Superhero’s statue-like form. “They don’t care about you, or me, or anybody or anything!”

Superhero’s mouth opened, as if to reply, but any words escaped them. Surely… surely Hero wasn’t home at the time, surely… they were alright. Somewhere else. Far from here, having coffee or dinner or something. Something normal, living people did.

Villain was in front of Superhero, grabbing their shirt in both hands and shaking them. “Supervillain is a monster,” Villain howled, voice broken and filled with heartache and fury and pain. Superhero’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, struggling to work properly. “Look at what your kindness did! Look at where your second chances got us! Hero is dead because of you.”

“No,” Superhero mumbled, the words clogging their throat as they shook their head. “No… no, no, no, no. Hero is… Hero’s not—”

“We have to kill them, Superhero.”

Superhero tore their gaze from the rubble to Villain in front of them. “W—what?”

“We have to kill Supervillain, or they won’t stop.”

Superhero bristled, putting a hand over Villain’s and pulling them off, stepping back and their legs buckled and hit the floor. “No… no, no. No, no,” Superhero repeated, like a fucking tape stuck on loop.

Villain dropped to their knees with Superhero, supporting them as they fell. Thick wet tears rolled quickly down Superhero’s face as the first firetruck pulled up onto the scene.

Villain grabbed Superhero’s face, tilting it to face Villain again. “We have to kill them, Superhero. Promise me.”

Superhero didn’t respond.

Villain shook their head again and screamed in a guttural, heartbroken voice: “promise me you won’t stand in my way. For Hero… they…”

A sob ripped from Villain’s throat cut them off and once they started, Villain couldn’t get them to stop. Their grip on Superhero loosened as they fell forwards, loud, pained cries of agony wracking their body as they wept.

Superhero wrapped their arms around Villain and let them cry on their shoulder, holding them tightly, like Hero would’ve if they—

Superhero blinked, and sniffed and said: “okay, Villain. We do it your way.”

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Introspection

Summary:

Astarion trying his best to work out his inner turmoil, and the growing genuine feelings he has for Tav.

MY AO3 - Luna-Noya-Na

In the soft glow of the campfire's dancing flames, Astarion sat perched upon a weathered log, his figure partially cloaked in shadow. The flickering light cast intricate patterns of illumination upon his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his face and the elegant curve of his collarbone. His normally aloof countenance bore the weight of contemplation, a trace of vulnerability evident in the furrow of his brow and the slight downward tilt of his lips.

He couldn't help himself... Astarion's gaze lingered on Tav, his thoughts swirling in a tangle of emotions he hadn't quite anticipated. It was all too unfamiliar, long forgotten… like the smooth rhythm of a beating heart he once had. Now dead and unmoving in his chest.  He had always prided himself on his detachment, his ability to keep his distance and protect himself from getting too close to anyone.

But Tav was different, and that scared him more than he cared to admit.

The nights spent together, the battles fought side by side, and the moments shared in the quiet corners of the camp had all woven a connection between them that he couldn't ignore. The more time he spent with her, the more he felt his walls crumbling, brick by brick. 

As he watched Tav, he couldn't help but marvel at the strength and determination that seemed to radiate from her. She was unlike anyone he had encountered before, a captivating blend of courage and vulnerability. He found himself drawn to her presence, her laughter becoming a melody that resonated deep within him. Yet, with each tender moment they shared, a surge of panic gripped him. The vulnerability he felt around her was unsettling, leaving him exposed in ways he had always avoided.

Astarion's internal battle raged on. There was a shadow of doubt that whispered in the back of his mind. The curse that bound him, the thirst that gnawed at his insides, it was a reminder of the darkness that dwelled within him. 

His chest clenched with a mixture of desire and trepidation. He yearned to confess his feelings, express his remorse, and articulate all the emotions wriggling havoc in him. He wanted to bridge the gap that seemed to widen with each passing day, yet the fear of rejection and the fear of hurting her held him back.

He feared that by letting himself fall for Tav, he might also expose her to that darkness, to a side of him that he desperately wished to keep hidden. That side of him, tainted, abused, tortured by years of servitude to Casador.

Yet, as he observed the way Tav interacted with their companions, the kindness she extended to even the most unlikely allies, he couldn't help but wonder if she might see past his affliction. Maybe, just maybe, she could be the light that tempered the shadows within him. It was a battle within himself, a struggle to come to terms with his emotions and to decide whether he was willing to risk his own heart, and Tav's, for a chance at something he had never allowed himself to have.

Astarion knew that the path ahead was fraught with danger, for them and for their entire world. 

Lost in his thoughts, Astarion's gaze remained fixed on Tav. At that moment, all he could focus on was the person before him and the unspoken connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. The campfire's dance continued, a silent witness to his introspection, as he navigated the delicate thread that connected his past to an uncertain future.

[yumeaoka-chan]

I Want It (all come true)

a/n: Idk man. I'm trying🥲🤚 I'm more active on Ao3 so yeah.

Relationship: Hobie Brown x Silk! Fem! R

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: You let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling in mild annoyance as you looked over your shoulder. You glared at the building next to you, knowing he was there from the way your heart seemed to lurch into your throat. It didn't matter if you found him (extremely fucking etheral) a little cute. You needed time to process everything…alone.

Or, the Hobie x Silk! Reader fanfic nobody asked for. (Title based off of "I Was Made For Loving You" by KISS)

Tags: Cursing, implied sexual tension, reader is AFAB, reader is implied black but there's no physical description of her(besides clothing, tattoos, and accessories), maybe smut in near future??(not sure, very unlikely)

Chapter 1

Wonderful. Just perfect. It wasn't enough that your day at work had been utter shit, two of your four clients being an absolute pain to deal with. Not to mention that you were running on sheer fumes at the moment. No lunch, no breakfast, and no meds for the raging headache that was beginning to form. It still wasn't enough, the universe seeming to hold no pity for you.

Running through the dark streets of London, your heart hammering in your chest. Rain was heavy on your skin, jacket clinging to your body as you dashed and cold water splashing your calves with every step. You grit your teeth in mild annoyance at not being able to find a crowd to run into. Well, it's not like you didn't already know the streets would be scarce. The only ones out in this weather would be people who just got off work or those who were stupid and drunk. The thunderous sounds of footsteps behind you made your pulse quicken, your legs working harder to escape the group of men.

You zipped and darted between buildings, ducking and jumping over fences. It did little to deter your pursues. Curses tumbled from your lips when you ran smack into a brick wall, nose stinging from the impact. With a groan, you turned back to face the group of armed officers. They leered at you, batons and shields held up menacingly. A placating smile was what you gave in response.

“Enough”, one of them gumbled while pointing his baton at you. “We've got you surrounded.”

“Listen, guys, I already told you that I'm not one of the rebels! I just got off of work!”

Partially a lie, but they didn't need to know that. The man just sneered and gestured to your everything, suspicion lurking in his eyes.

“Look like one. Sure do dress like one. Plus, you ran. You wouldn't have ran if you had nothing to hide.” He had a point. Tattoos, piercings, and the clothes on your back don't really help your case.

“I'd have ran regardless”, you scoff before letting out a sigh of exasperation. “You're literally hounding me! Just… let me go… And nobody gets hurt…”

The officers laughed loudly, with disbelief on their faces. One came up to you then, quick on his feet and raising up his baton. With wide eyes, you move your head just as he swings it down. Your senses go haywire, the officers closing in on you and spelling danger. Eyes narrowed, you dodged a punch on your right before backing away from a slap on your left. With great strength, you pushed the one in front of you away, his body flying backwards a few feet. There was no time to mind the harsh cracking sound his head made when he fell onto the asphalt. Reflexes quick, you dodged a hit aimed for the back of your head and promptly kicked the one responsible in the chest. He let out a yelp as he slammed hard against the opposite wall.

One managed to grab a hold of your hair, giving it a harsh yank. Your head snapped to the side, a gasp of surprise at the sharp pain. Teeth bared and frown deepened, you whirled around to punch him. Your fist collided with his jaw and made him crumble to the ground, a hiss of pain leaving his lips. Eyes darting about, you looked for a way to escape. There really wasn't one and your hope for these people to leave you be was diminishing, the officers you hit getting back up with a vengeance. The feeling of cold metal smashing against your nose had you reeling, your eyes rolling when another smack was made across your face.

Warmth oozed down the side of your face, your ear throbbing and ringing harshly. You felt hands in your hair again and you angrily tried to pull away before, suddenly, the pain in your scalp was gone. A loud whoop sounded out in the alley before a flash of red jumped before your eyes.

“Oi, oi! Mind if I join the party?”

“Damn you, you Spider Punk…! Stay outta this!” One of the officers shrieked at the tall figure before you. A deep chuckle left your masked savior before he promptly kicked the man in the chest.

“It's Spider-Man. Get it right, mate.” Before you knew it, the officers were all down. Perhaps it was the fact you had just been wacked by metal batons or the heavy rain, but the fight ended much quicker than you had expected once your savior showed up. Chest heaving and head pounding, you wiped at the blood dripping down your nose. A groan as you realized your nose ring had been knocked right out, huffs of irritation leaving you. You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the way colors swam behind your eyelids. Senses suddenly going haywire, you opened your eyes and turned around right as the webbed hero was about to tap your shoulder.

He tilts his head as he stares at you and you suddenly feel something tugging at your stomach. Like a string pulled taunt, like your heart was about to crawl its way up your throat. It wasn't unpleasant and yet it unnerved you. You stared at the masked man longer, observing how tall he was, how his lanky form towered over you. The rain on your skin felt warmer now, the red oozing down your ear barely registering. Your world honed down to nothing except the man in front of you, even your breathing seemed in tune with his.

A loud groan of pain from one of the decommissioned men pulls you out of the trance, your gaze falling down to your feet in embarrassment. That was…awkward… Clearing his throat, your savior spoke softly, his voice deep and warm. It sounded like the richest of coffees, the smoothest of chocolates. You mentally kicked yourself for hitting on someone you haven't said a word to yet.

“Not a good idea for a bird to be walking alone so late. What'd they hound you for…?”

You take a deep breath and shrug, somehow very aware of his presence. The smell of leather and cigarettes was faint from him, the rain unable to completely wash it away.

“Dunno… Just got off work from the tattoo shop and they started hounding me. Bastards…”, you mumble, wincing a bit as you gently poked at your nose. If it wasn't for your enhanced body, your nose would've been good and broken by now. It was times like this that you thanked that godforsaken spider for biting you. Spider-Man gave a small chuckle and shook his head, the sound making goosebumps raise on your skin as you practically ogled him.

“They always bully the ones that look cool. ‘S alright if I walk you to the hospital, birdy?”

His offer makes you blink in surprise before grimacing at the mention of a hospital. You shake your head and let out a sigh.

“No thanks. You can walk me to my place though.”

Spider-Man nods, placing his hands in his pockets and gesturing for you to lead. The walk back to your apartment is… nice, considering you just got out of a fight. The heavy downpour slows to a light drizzle as you trudge on, making it easier to see each other better. You silently observe the way the spikes on his mask glint under the streetlights, the way his many pins and belts jingle as he walks. The way his guitar, decorated with several well worn stickers, sways on his shoulder. There's a necklace around his neck, the dog tag drooping low on his chest. He walks like he has not a care in the world, a laid back stride that makes the trip home seem longer. Not that you're complaining. Every second near him feels right, like some piece of a puzzle you'd never known was missing but couldn't do without.

“Working at a tattoo shop, huh…? You an artist?” The sudden question makes you look up at his face, the eyes of his mask big and boring into you. You nod with a smile before lifting up the sleeve of your jacket. An image of a cracked skull with a small bouquet of flowers growing from out of one of the eye sockets was inked into the skin of your forearm.

“Sure am. Did this myself just two weeks ago.” You won't admit how you preened yourself just a bit when Spider-Man gave out a low whistle, seemingly impressed. Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer in order to get a better look, his face just inches from your own. What on earth was wrong with you? Getting butterflies over a man you just met, like you're back in grade school?

“That's bloody impressive, birdy… Got any clients already lined up?”

“Why? Lookin to get some work done?” You ask softly, eyebrows raised in slight amusement. You couldn't help but notice how much closer you were to your apartment, disappointment coiling in your stomach. It was strange, but you liked his company even though this was your first time meeting him. Spider-Man gave a small chuckle before nodding.

“Maybe I am. Gonna be my artist, birdy?” The question makes you huff out a chuckle, the slight flirty undertone not going unnoticed by you.

“Wow… Is this how it always goes? Spider-Man likes flirting with the people he saves, yeah?”

Your teasing words make him stutter, the eyes of his mask widening in surprise. The sight makes you smile as you peer up at him. You watch as he awkwardly shuffles his feet, fingers absentmindedly strumming a string of webbing in his hands. When he'd gotten that out, you have no clue. It almost sounds like a beat, a rhythmic plucking of his fingers on the small string.

“Ain't really flirting, innit? Just a simple question… Unless you want it to be…?” He mumbles softly, low to where you almost didn't hear him. There's that tugging sensation again in your stomach as you look up at him. Your breathing stills as he tilts his head down at you, a small tingling sensation beginning to stir beneath your skin. It's buzzing, the sensation. It's urging you closer, making every nerve in your body sit on edge. From the very tips of your fingers to the tips of your toes. Even your teeth tingle.

The webslinger looks like he's affected too, shuffling closer to you slowly. You can feel the heat from his body being so close to your own, can even hear the beat of his heart. In the back of your mind, you wonder whether or not he can hear yours, hear how it weirdly enough sounds just like his. Fingers still pluck at his string of webbing as he stands before you. Then, he's lifting up a hand. Slowly, carefully, as if he's afraid he'll frighten you. The tip of his index finger just barely brushes against your cheek before goosebumps appear on your skin.

The tugging in your stomach is a violent pull this time, so forceful that you have to close your eyes just to reign yourself in. His hand holds your cheek like you're made of glass, so fragile and delicate are you. You've never felt a touch so soft, leaning in to his hand more even as the fabric of his suit itches your skin. You want to feel it bare, uncovered and free to press on your own. He's so close that you can hear his soft breathing, almost swearing you can feel his breath through his mask. If only he'd take off the mask completely…

A sudden succession of loud barks snaps you out of your stupor and you gasp, yanking yourself away from Spider-Man. You never even noticed that you had arrived at your apartment, too caught up in whatever weird attraction you had for the masked man in front of you. Shaking your head and arms, trying to will away the buzzing beneath your skin that kept screaming at you to practically jump his bones. You'd done something awkward again. The universe really wasn't on your side today, you thought. Spider-Man turned around and placed a hand over his mouth, a small chuckle of disbelief escaping him. The webslinger seemed just as confused about what transpired as you.

“U-Um… So… Sorry about that. That was weird. Yeah…” You mumbled, glaring down at the pavement to will away the frantic beating of your heart and the embarrassment that threatened to swallow you whole. You spared a glance behind you to your apartment when you heard more barking. Lady, your pit bull, happily stared back at you through the window. Her tongue lapped at her nose as she looked at you, tail wagging back and forth. You're not sure whether or not you're grateful for her convenient interruption.

“No, no, it's cool”, he said quickly as he turned back to look at you. “I mean, yeah, it was weird. But not all of that was on you. Ain't nothin’ to apologize for, birdy.” You give him a small smile before clearing your throat. He glances behind you at your apartment before gesturing to it with a nod of his head. “This your place, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks for helping me back there and walking me home. I wish I could give you something…”, Just as he was about to protest, you held up your hand. “Wait here! Uh, please.” Spider-Man sighs and holds his hands up in surrender before nodding his head. You grin before rushing into your apartment. Lady was quick to run by your side as you bypassed her to get into the kitchen.

Carefully, you took out the large pan of alfredo you had made last night out of the fridge and a couple cans of beer. You were quick to place a large portion in a to-go container and warm it in the microwave, not wanting to give him cold food. You thought it was the least you could do for practically trying to jump him after the poor guy saved you. Especially this late at night. Once it was done, you placed it in a plastic shopping bag, along with a fork and the beers. Snatching a bag of leftover dinner rolls and stuffing that too inside the plastic bag, you hurry back outside. Spider-Man stands there with his hands in his pockets, head down as he whistles a tune.

He looks up when he hears you approaching him, smiling widely before glancing down. You follow his line of sight to see that Lady had followed you outside. She barked and walked up to the webslinger, tail wagging happily. He chuckled and bent down to pet her after she sniffed him, his red suit a stark contrast to the tan and white fur. However, you're too caught up in the fact that you can now see his lips. His mask is pulled up just enough to show them off and what a nice pair they are. Full and plump, lip ring shining under the streetlights. You swallow hard as the persistent thought of how soft they possibly are flits around your head. You shake your head in an attempt to will the thought away.

“So you're the one who was makin’ all that noise, eh? Nice to meet you, girl.”

The pit bull barked before nuzzling her head against his leg. You chuckled at the sight before handing the bag to the masked man. Standing back up, he takes the bag from you with a grin. Heart beating fast, you can't help but think how perfect of a smile it is.

“Oh? What's this?” His question had you scrambling, trying to remember that you didn't come out here in hopes of yanking that mask off of him and kissing him senseless. Yeah, something was really wrong with you. With a sharp intake of breath, you frantically stutter over your words.

“Alfredo I made last night and some beers. I figured I should repay you somehow. Plus, I imagine swinging all day and night makes you hungry. Oh, wait, do you drink beer? Sorry, I should've asked. I-I can get you something else if you'd like-”

“I drink beer, birdy”, he interrupts your rambling. That same smile on his face as he chuckles softly. Again, that tugging sensation. “Thank you, really. Been a while since I've eaten a warm meal like this. I'll let you know how it tastes.”

A nod and a smile is all you give in response. With one more pat on Lady's head and a nod to you, he's off. Jumping and swinging through the air and off into the night, what remains of it. Once he's far gone, you let out a breath you hadn't known you'd been holding. The tugging sensation in your stomach has finally ceased, your body now under your control once more. You ignore the small nagging emptiness that appeared soon after his departure. Looking down at Lady, you let out a loud sigh and walk back into the apartment. Lady follows you, the pendant on her blue collar jingling.

“It's been so insane today, Lady. You just wouldn't believe it”, you groan to your dog loudly as you shuffle back into the kitchen. The pit bull whines softly as if she understood your situation. As much as you'd like nothing more than to flop down onto your bed and sleep like the dead, your next duty awaits. While, yes, you were bitten by a spider that gave you powers similar to Spider-Man, you didn't do much fighting. Not to say that you couldn't fend for yourself or fight when necessary. You just used your powers differently. To mend wounds, to steal medicine to aid the hurt in recovery. You also cooked and delivered meals to the less fortunate families in the poorer district.

While not as flashy or as loud about helping rebel against Osborn and his regime as Spider-Man, you did as much as you could behind the scenes. After portioning the large pan of pasta in several smaller pans and bagging them up in duffle bags, you gather the rest of your supplies. Gallons of water and medicine you stole two weeks ago. Slipping into the suit made from your own webbing and putting on your mask, you filled Lady's bowl with food before grabbing the supplies and leaving your apartment.

The cool night air whips your face as you swing through the city, twisting and turning through the air. There was something peaceful about this time of night, of knowing it was only you and the quiet of the city. As you zipped past buildings and rounded corners, your mind drifted off to thoughts of Spider-Man. Of how strange it was that your whole body reacted so voraciously to him. Not once had you ever crossed paths with that man, neither as regular civilian you or fellow Spider you. Well, until today it seems. It unnerved you a little, how much you had craved him at that moment. And it didn't seem like he was all that opposed to the idea either, seeming just as affected as you.

Shaking your head free of those thoughts, you gracefully jumped down and landed in an alleyway, your feet hardly making a sound. The sun was just barely peeking up over the horizon, sky turning a lighter blue. You fixed the bags on your shoulder and walked around the corner, smiling softly when you met eyes with a little boy. He grinned at you happily, excitement shining in his green eyes. The boy runs up to you and you bend down to greet him, arms wide open and letting out a small oof when his body collides into yours.

“Gromit! How's it been, little man?” You say with a giggle as you wipe the dirt from his chubby little cheek. He pouts up at you before sticking his tongue out.

“It's not Gromit! It's Benny!” The boy huffs, making you giggle. He always did hate the little nickname. You playfully ruffle his dark curls, raising an eyebrow as you pull out the lump of play doh out of his hair. At least, you're hoping it's play doh.

“Of course it is. But, I think Gromit suits you. Now, go be a good lad and tell the others I'm here.” You chuckled as he pushed your hand off of his head before running off to wake up the rest of the small community. This cutoff alleyway was home to many of those who lost everything once Osborn took over. To some of the children here, it was all they've ever known. You protected them with your life, hiding them away from the officers and any of Osborn’s regime that dared come close. Several more children came running up to you, ages varying from four on up. You spotted some of the adults walking up to you as well, weariness perched on their shoulders and decorating their faces.

“Morning you all! I've got enough for everybody, okay? No pushing!” You called out to the kids who tried forcing their way closer to you. Reaching in your bags, you handed out small snacks to the children, grinning as they excitedly took the treats and munched on them. As the kids left one by one, you handed the pans of food and bottles of water to the adults. A chorus of “Thank yous” and “bless your heart” were showered upon you as you dished out the supplies. One of the women, an elderly lady named Rosie, walked up to you then. Rosie was basically the unofficial leader of the small community, making sure everyone was properly taken care of and that the children were properly nurtured.

“Thank you for always helping us, dear”, she utters softly while placing a hand on your shoulder. You smile before it slowly falls, unable to not see how sadness shined in her eyes. Hesitant and uneasy, you look at her knowingly.

“It's Mama Kay… Isn't it…?” You grit, voice solemn and low. Rosie nods slowly, her lips twisting into a frown. Wordlessly, she leads you deeper into the alley. You follow behind quietly, a lump forming in your throat as you pass by the numerous melancholic faces of the people. Mama Kay was the elder, a woman who's temperament ran hot. The first time you met her was before you'd gotten your powers three years ago.

You were getting harassed by an officer, his advancements on you unpleasant and unwelcome. He'd followed you all the way into an alley, cornering you and demanding your full attention. Mama Kay had been the one to intervene, hitting him in the face with a sack of potatoes and kicking him right in the balls. She had quite a lot of energy for an old woman, grabbing your hand and running away as fast as possible from the scene. She was the one to teach you how to stick up for yourself, the one to introduce you to her community, the one to cook you a meal so delicious that you'll never get the taste of it off of your tongue for as long as you live. The only one to learn of you gaining powers and truly accepting you with them, telling you to use them for something greater. Mama Kay was a force to be reckoned with and never tolerated any disrespect. A woman who was respected unconditionally.

The woman before you now was frail, more bone than anything. She laid on a makeshift bed of cloth and cardboard, her breathing faint and barely perceptible. Her dark skin pale, almost gray and stretching over her boney features. The sight was enough to make you tear up. Rosie patted your shoulder before leaving you there, letting you be alone with her. With shaky fingers, you pulled down your mask. A rough, gravelly hum left Mama Kay's lips, withered lips curling up into a strained smile.

“There's my girl…”, she croons, trembling hand reaching over to rest on your own. Tears start to blur your vision a bit. “Sorry, love. Looks like cancer is winning this one. The fuckin’ wanker…” Mama Kay wheezes, smile turning into a scowl before she lets out a soft chuckle. You shake your head, a scoff escaping you.

“Can't believe you've got energy to cuss, Mama”, you grumble as you try to reign in your wobbling lip. The elder lets out a wheeze of a laugh before coughing. Her sputtering alarms you but she just shakes her head and squeezes your hand. You grip hers like a lifeline. When she settles back down, you can see the exhaustion in her. It makes her grip loose in yours, makes her eyes droop low and her breathing heavy. Biting at your lip, you frantically blink away the tears that threatened to surface. You could tell she didn’t have that much time left. A month at best. Mama Kay just sighs and weakly squeezes your hand.

“Can't get rid of my personality. Shit, I still got plenty of fight left in me. I ain't leavin’ you just yet, love. Promise you that.” She smiles and pushes at your arm. “Go on, now. You done seen me. Now go before the sun fully comes up. We ain't the only ones needing help, remember?”

A chuckle escapes you at those words. Of course she'd be more concerned with you helping more people right now. You stay there for a bit longer, despite her feeble protests. You talk to her, updating her on your life and your job. After kissing her forehead and handing Rosie some medication for the others, you leave. Your heart still aches for Mama Kay, knowing that she doesn't have long to live. But, you keep your eyes forward, knowing that she'd nag you to death for lamenting over her situation and not focusing on living life to the fullest.

“Oi! Think I just spotted me a fit birdy!”

The loud yell has a cheesy grin appearing on your face, your eyes rolling as you turn to face the Spider jogging up to you. You feel your heart jumping, leaping into your throat at his close proximity when he finally stands before you. That same tugging in your stomach that you've not quite gotten accustomed to yet. You raise an eyebrow up at him, tugging your jacket onto your shoulder.

“You do know that you don't have to keep walking me home every night, right?” You ask him, a teasing lit to your voice. Spider-Man shrugs and places his hands in his pockets, leaning in a little towards you. It makes your heart flutter just a bit.

“Sure. But then how would I get more of your cookin’, hm? Afraid ‘m a growin’ boy, birdy.” The amusement in his voice is clear, making you roll your eyes again. This was the fifth time he's walked you home from work, nevermind it being the eighth time he's ran up to you in general. For some strange reason, he kept coming back to you, almost like he was searching for you everytime. There was a faint notion that it had to do with whatever peculiar attraction you both had for each other, the connection you both felt undeniable. You both ignored it, though. Tried to will away the gnawing urge to touch and bury yourselves into one another.

There was no way you were going to be this consumed about someone whose face you'd never seen, you thought. Hell, he didn't even know your name yet. Perhaps you should tell him. Or, maybe, this might be the last time you meet with him so there would be no point. You let out a small chuckle at the ridiculous thought, already knowing that it was far from the last time you'd ever meet him. Walking with Spider-Man was easy now, comfortable and almost second nature. He listened as you prattled about dodgy clients that would try to run without paying. A particular story of you purposely messing up a non paying customer's tattoo by tattooing the word “dick” in bold text on their arm has the webslinger practically keeling over with laughter, loud guffaws and shaky gasps leaving him.

“How on earth did you manage that”, he asks while wheezing and trying to reign in his laughter.

“The bastard told me he wasn't paying for my ‘shitty job’ while he was in the chair. Then he goes and falls asleep. He was bloody askin’ for it.” You say, a proud smirk on your lips as you remember the man's screech of rage when he woke up. You had also drawn a picture of said word underneath it, furthering his rage. That was a good day, despite how it had started. Spider-Man lets out a few more chuckles before shaking his head.

“You're really somethin’, birdy”, he mutters softly, so low that you almost didn't catch it. Once you make it home, you warm him up some food and watch as he swings away, your heart no longer pounding in your chest like it always seemed to do when he was around. You go back inside and plop down on your couch with a groan, Lady clamoring up on the couch and laying her head on your lap. You give her a scratch behind her ears as you gaze up at the ceiling, thoughts once again drifting to the webslinger. He was always on your mind now, it seemed. No matter what you did, he always found a way to invade your thinking process.

The sudden ringing of the phone jerks you out of your thoughts and you reach over to grab it off of the coffee table. Pressing the phone to your ear, you clear your throat.

“Hello, Y/N speaking.”

“Oh, good! Knew you'd be up.” You roll your eyes at the voice that greets you. With a tired sigh, you prop your feet up on the coffee table.

“Ugh. What do you want, Reni?” You grumble, clearly not in the mood to talk. As much as you loved your best friend of six years, you weren't exactly in the right headspace to deal with anyone at the moment, your mind still drifting towards thoughts of the Spider that made your heart lurch into your throat.

“Don't be rude. Anyways, there's some new cool band playing at The Underworld on Saturday. I'm picking you up at seven. Wear something hot!” Her words have you stuttering to speak and before you can utter a word, she hangs up. You scowl and fling the phone back onto the hook. There was no getting out of this, knowing Reni. She'd hunt you down and tie you up if you so much as turned your nose up at the idea.

You rub at your eyes, trying to will away the throbbing headache beginning to form before looking down at the pit bull in your lap. She gazes back up at you, tilting her head a bit in curiosity. Pouting, you place your forehead against hers and cup her face.

“I don't wanna go out, Lady. I'm too tired. But, it might help get my mind off of him, right? What do you think…?”

Lady softly nudges her nose against yours and lets out a small yip, like she's encouraging you to go out and have fun. Her tail wags happily, smacking against your arm as she further climbs on top of you. Giggling, you move back and pet her gently.

“Perhaps you're right. I deserve a fun night out. And, truthfully, I am curious about this new band.” With a kiss on the top of her head, you stand up to fill Lady's bowl with kibble. A night out is just what you need. Especially of it helps you think of other things besides Spider-Man for once.

[undergaunts]

Etched Into Stone

Sebastian Sallow x Ominis Gaunt

Summary: In the Summer of 1893, on their last day at Hogwarts, Sebastian and Ominis return to the Undercroft, one final time.

Rating: Explicit (Top!Ominis and Bottom!Sebastian)

Word count: 5.1k

Read below the cut, or on AO3 <3

There’s a lump in Sebastian’s throat, that catches on every word he says.

He can just about thank Imelda for being a good friend and an even better captain, before the words die on his tongue, and she pulls him into a hug.

He can just about tell Garreth to keep going with those damned potions, he’s got enough hair on his head, he can afford to lose more if they keep going wrong, before his lip wobbles, and Garreth whacks a hand across his back, and thanks him for being a good pal.

He can just about walk down to the library, returning the last book he took out, and thank Scribner, the old hag, for not murdering him at any point, before he feels his eyes well with tears. When she thanks him for sharing her love of books, and wishes him luck in the future, he has to take a minute in the stairwell, willing the droplets to not overflow.

It’s entirely bittersweet. Every face he sees reminds him of a moment in the last seven years; every cruel or kind word said, every rivalry or friendship, every mistake or good idea.

He wants to bottle the place. Wants to keep it on a shelf in his bedroom, that he can open when he really misses it. Take a sip, a whiff. Wants to remember every square inch of the castle, every blade of grass and every broken brick. All the boring lessons, all the broom flights, all the detentions. The cold winters, and warm summers.

Everything.

At dinner, he stays unusually quiet. Listens attentively to Headmaster Black and his rambling speech. To Professor Weasley, thanking them all for being such a pleasure to teach and know. Professor Ronen and his comical sentences and pride for his brilliant Slytherins. Garlick, Hecat, Kogawa. Even Sharp stands up to wish them all the best.

Sebastian has to clench his jaw. Some of the girls are crying. He can faintly hear Leander saying “I don’t want to go,” in a shaky voice - so unlike him, always far too sure of himself - and just as he feels on the verge of crumbling in front of the entirety of the seventh year, there’s a hand on his thigh that brings him back to Earth.

“Don’t cry.” Ominis squeezes, nudging his shoulder against Sebastian, and offers him a gentle smile.

Sebastian tries to apologise, but his words come out in a mumbled mess, which makes Ominis laugh - breathy, mostly concerned, trying to cheer him up but making Sebastian’s heart pang even more.

“I know. It shall all be alright. Just please don’t cry, or you’ll set me off.”

Of course, that has entirely the opposite effect, because Sebastian sees the glimmer of saltwater in Ominis’ milky eyes, and with a rather dramatic, choked sob, buries his head into the blond’s chest and bursts into tears.

Ominis shushes him, soothes him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses his cheek to the top of Sebastian’s head. He holds him in such a way he had only ever done once before, back in their sixth year, and it is so delicate, so intimate, that it makes him cry harder.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything when he feels Ominis shiver a little, hears him sigh shakily, or even when he feels wetness on the top of his crown. He just slips his hands under Ominis’ robe, and pulls him in closer by his shirt.

They eat. It’s mostly silent. They’re trying to take it all in. There’s the occasional hiccup, a laugh, a cry. Someone knocks their plate to the floor, and can’t muster the correct thoughts to use Reparo. Instead, they just wail.

Some of Ominis’ hair has flopped forward, out of place, from where he’d tucked his face against Sebastian. He’s tempted to reach out, and rearrange it for him. But under the enchanted ceiling that sparkles with stars, he looks more lovely when he’s a little messy.

Once dinner has finished, everyone returns to their dorms, solemn, in realising this is their last night there. The last time they will walk from the Great Hall to their common rooms. The last night going to sleep as Gryffindors, as Ravenclaws, as Hufflepuffs, as Slytherins.

Ominis doesn’t use his wand. It’s tucked into his back pocket. He slips an arm through Sebastian’s, the other hand gripping a hold of his bicep, and lets him lead the way.

They get ready for bed. Clean their faces, brush their teeth. Change into their pyjamas. Ominis stays seated on Sebastian’s bed, as one of the other boys tells them he’s heading off to America the following week. Another boy says he already has a place at the Ministry. Another is joining his family farm.

They ask what Ominis and Sebastian are going to do.

“Begin our life in Feldcroft,” Ominis aims a knowing smile at Sebastian he speaks. “And see where we go from there.”

The other boys in their room don’t mind when Ominis stays in Sebastian’s bed. Don’t mind as Sebastian pulls Ominis closer, and kisses his cheek, jaw, neck. They’re already all snoring by the time Sebastian is pressing his knee against Ominis’ centre, drawing delicious, torturous sounds from him, and definitely don’t hear Sebastian whispering “come with me”, before pulling Ominis out of bed.

There aren’t any prefects. No one patrolling the corridors. No one to turn them back. No one to stop Sebastian’s plan.

He has Ominis by the hand, fingers intertwined, slotting perfectly together.

They walk. And walk. And keep walking. Past the Kelpie statue, past the Viaduct entrance, through the Defence Against The Dark Arts Tower, down the stairs, past the Rhinoceros skeleton - he knows the way like the back of his hand - until Sebastian pulls Ominis beneath Hecat’s classroom, to the all too familiar entrance of the Undercroft. The faint ticking of the door alerts Ominis, and he frowns, tugging Sebastian back, before he can wave his wand and allow the entrance to swing open.

“What are you doing, Sebastian?”

“Taking a trip down memory lane, Ominis.”

Ominis huffs. Loudly. Sebastian can almost see the steam coming from his nostrils.

They haven’t been in the Undercroft in a long time. Not together, at least. The good memories had been plagued with bad, and it soured each visit. It used to be their place; their secret hideaway, the place they’d sworn to always be friends, the place they grown close and the place they’d become entirely one for the first time.

But it was also the place they argued. The place they had fought, the place they ended everything, the place Ominis almost lost Sebastian entirely.

Despite the anger, the hurt - it was Sebastian and Ominis. It was their Undercroft. And they'd probably never see it again.

“Please?” Sebastian’s voice comes out in a shaking whisper, all too desperate and wanting, and Ominis huffs for the second time.

“Alright. Just for a few moments.”

Sebastian smiles. He grips Ominis’ hand ever tighter, and pulls his wand from his pocket, waving it across the entrance, just like he had been shown to do all those years back by the blond himself.

They are silent, as they make their way down through the dusty corridor. Sebastian drops Ominis’ hand, only to lift the metal gate up, and drop it back down once they are both inside.

It hadn’t changed much, since the first time Sebastian had ever stepped foot in the place. Only now, it felt much smaller, as he had gotten bigger. He often imagined the generations of Gaunts that had made this place their own; scheming, plotting, studying and dreaming, only for their ancestor to bring an outsider in, tainting the place forever.

Did it matter? Sebastian only liked one Gaunt. Only cared about one. That family tree began and ended with Ominis, in his mind.

The place wasn’t tainted. Maybe, just maybe, it was cured.

“Do you remember playing Gobstones here with Anne?” Sebastian asks. He steps further into the room, whilst Ominis lingers by the entrance. “I don’t know how you did it, but I only ever remember you losing twice.”

“Thrice,” Ominis corrects him. “Anne would never let me lose. And would never let you win. Only if you were having a good day would I lose the game entirely.”

“That’s why people were calling me Stinky Sallow throughout second year.”

Ominis laughs through his nose at the recollection. And then he laughs again, this time harder. The sound comes from his mouth. “You know, I’d entirely forgotten about that. Perhaps I should start calling you that again.”

Sebastian glares. “Perhaps not.”

“And do you remember trying to learn Confringo? We singed each others eyebrows off and everyone would not stop teasing us,” Ominis sighs as he thinks about it, before lifting his hands and running his fingers across his the dark hairs on his forehead. “I still don’t feel like they’ve grown back properly. What do you think?”

“They’re bright pink now, you know.” Sebastian teases. The look of horror on Ominis’ face is brilliant - but it quickly fades.

“Don’t jest.”

“Alright,” Sebastian steps back to Ominis and reaches for his hands, pulling him into the centre of the room. “They’ve grown back just the way they were before. Still just as lovely.”

Ominis huffs, allowing Sebastian to pull him in close. Sebastian presses his body against Ominis’, holding him around his waist, as Ominis rests his arms around Sebastian’s shoulders.

They’ve both grown. Admittedly, Ominis more than Sebastian, much to his chagrin. He’s now a good two inches taller, and still slender. He looks less tired. Less worried. Less gaunt.

Sebastian may be shorter, but his shoulders are broader, and the puppy fat from his cheeks has melted away. His jaw more chiselled, and his muscles more defined.

They’re both different, but not enough for the innocent first years they once were to entirely disappear.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Sebastian asks.

Ominis frowns. “That wasn’t here.”

“No,” Sebastian agrees. “That was back home in Feldcroft, if I remember correctly. But it did eventually lead us to the next thing we did here.”

Ominis hums, as he casts his mind back. “I definitely remember that. It was horrible.”

A gasp. “Hey! It wasn’t that horrible!”

“It was. Neither of us knew what we were doing. I couldn’t walk after and you cried the whole way through.”

Sebastian scoffs. But Ominis is entirely right. They had had no idea what they were doing. They’d both guessed what needed to be done, and Sebastian had even learned a lubricating spell that had helped, very slightly, as he hadn’t really conjured enough. He had been so terrified he was going to hurt Ominis that he couldn’t stop crying, and despite Ominis’ reassurances that he was fine, that it felt good, he still couldn’t stand up after without his legs wobbling, a pain shooting up his back and his body crashing back to the blanket they’d laid on the floor.

It had been horrible, but still, “You did come back for more,” Sebastian reminds him.

Another smile cracks at Ominis’ mouth. “You’re right, I did. It got better after that. A lot better.”

Barely a second passes, before the two lean in simultaneously, pressing their lips together. Ominis tastes like mint, and smells like cypress wood. It’s intoxicating, especially when Ominis slips his tongue past his lips, and nudges against Sebastian’s. Ever willing, his mouth opens with a subtle groan, allowing the others’ tongue to enter and explore.

Wandering hands follow. Sebastian easily slips his hand under the fabric of Ominis’ pyjama shirt, finding soft skin as he makes his way up, lifting the fabric until it bunches around Ominis’ chest.

He can feel Ominis’ hands in his hair, grasping, pulling, and he groans again, only this time a little louder, and a little more desperate.

Sliding his hands back down and around Ominis’ hips, he lets them dip below the waist of his pyjamas, onto the malleable flesh of his behind. Ominis whimpers against his lips, fingers tightening in his hair.

Before long, Ominis swaps pulling at his hair for palming at the outline on the front of his pyjama pants. Sebastian curses, the much needed pressure feeling all too good. But as always, he wants more, wants Ominis to wrap a hand around him, wrap his lips around him, wrap himself around him. So he stops grasping at his ass, and pushes his own pyjama pants down, just enough so he springs free, allowing Ominis to slide his slender fingers along his length.

“Eager, are we?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond, just guides Ominis to curl his hand around him. They’ve been doing this long enough, that the rhythm that falls over them is easy and perfected. Sebastian tries to return the favour; to dip his hand beneath the fabric of Ominis’ pants, but there’s a tight grip on his wrist, and a shake of a head.

“Not yet.”

Sometimes, Sebastian thinks he might be dreaming. Thinks he might’ve conjured Ominis up in his mind, might’ve only imagined this boy, always so beautiful, and perfect, and willing. He must be just a daydream. He’s not seen someone like this, never loved someone like this, and certainly doesn’t think he could ever - would ever - love anyone else as much as he does Ominis.

He thinks that, even more so, when Ominis drops to his knees, pulling Sebastian’s pyjama pants down to the floor with him, and presses a delicate kiss to his tip, along his shaft, before taking his entire length into his mouth.

The string of curses that leave Sebastian’s mouth are entirely foul, and make Ominis laugh around him, but Sebastian is entirely too turned on and blinded by lust to care.

He’s watched Ominis do this a thousand times before. Fisted his hand through his blond locks and thrusted into his mouth. Let him gag and moan and give up control. Pull away looking perfectly used and hungry for more.

But today, Ominis stands - well, kneels - his ground. He grasps at the backs of Sebastian’s thighs, trying to hold him still, digging crescent moons into the soft flesh there.

Then, one hand disappears. Sebastian would certainly not have noticed, if not for the pop Ominis makes as he pulls away for a second, muttering an incantation of some sort.

And then he feels it. It sends a shiver down his spine - it’s warm and wet at his entrance, and it’s barely a moment before Ominis has his mouth back around him, and a hand creeping between his thighs, pushing them apart, under his balls and -

“Oh Merlin,” Sebastian gasps loudly, his voice echoing around the room. “What - when-“

Then he moans, cutting his entire string of thoughts in two, as he feels Ominis slip one of his fingers inside him. Delicate, teasing, past the ring of muscles, slowly and surely, making Sebastian’s knees wobble and almost give way.

Ominis is still moving his head as he slowly opens him up, and Sebastian doesn’t quite know what he should focus on. The little moans Ominis is making, vibrating against him? The slow thrust of his finger opening Sebastian up?

It’s dizzying. They’ve done this before. Not much, though - Sebastian could probably count the amount of times on his hands - because his obsession with being inside of Ominis often makes him forget just how amazing Ominis being inside of him feels.

It’s not long before he feels another finger slide in alongside the first, nudging him open, curling against him, and -

His knees actually give way this time, as Ominis’ fingers brush against his prostate. Ominis name is on his lips over and over again, as he grips on his shoulders, trying to keep himself upright.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Ominis soothes, as he moves back on his haunches, freeing both hands to hold Sebastian steady. He grasps for his wand again, which has now rolled away a few feet. But he manages to find it, and waves it, bringing a blanket and a cushion floating towards them. They turn in the air for a moment, before the blanket falls flat on the ground, and the cushion drops into the centre of it. “Can you lay down?”

Sebastian nods, willing his legs to work (which they do, thankfully, now Ominis isn’t touching the ball of nerves inside of him). He rests himself on the blanket, bum settled on the cushion.

Ominis nestles himself in between his legs, dropping his wand beside them, still on his knees, as he traces his fingers gently and slowly across Sebastian’s stomach and thighs, before pushing Sebastian’s legs up and back, and returning to his previous task.

Sebastian sucks in a big breath, as he feels Ominis’ fingers inside of him again. They work him open, this time focusing on preparing him - the real pleasure can come later. He watches Ominis’ determined face, gasps as he covers his shaft again and almost too gently begins to stroke him.

Viewing Ominis feels entirely inappropriate, like he’s in the pages of one of those pornographic books that a couple of their fellow students had snuck into school way back when, and had been showing around before they were confiscated. Like he was part of the scenes in the book that a lot of the boys had gathered around, laughing at: the one with two men, that Sebastian had taken one look at and had to run to the toilets before anyone had seen him and the state of his britches. The one he had thought about for weeks after. The one he had dedicated himself to reimagining, replacing the faces of the men with his and Ominis’.

It’s almost laughable - they’ve had sex enough, this isn’t something new that Sebastian still feels ridiculously naughty doing. But the way Ominis’ mouth is hanging open, and the way he swipes his thumb over the tip like an utter expert, and the way he has slipped a third finger inside and is making way for himself, it’s just pure, undiluted pornography.

And then he’s gone. Ominis withdraws his fingers, making Sebastian whine at the emptiness. He pushes himself up on his elbows, trying to get a look, and sees Ominis waving his wand into his hand, producing a good amount of lubricant, before wiggling himself out of his pyjama pants. Sebastian all but drools at the sight - Ominis lathering himself in the clear gel, hard, so very hard, prepared to take him as much as he wants, however he wants.

“Ominis,” Sebastian chokes, unable to stop the name falling from his lips. Ominis looks up, eyes vaguely focused in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian tries to find the words. Instead, he weakly croaks out a “Please.”

Ominis doesn’t waste another second. His wand clatters to the floor, as he moves back in, closer, spreading Sebastian’s legs wide, pulling them around his hips, lining himself up with his entrance, and gently pushing himself inside.

Sebastian grips at anything. At the blanket, at the pillow underneath him, at Ominis’ thigh, his back, his shoulders. The feeling of being entirely full is suddenly very real, as Ominis presses his way in, until it feels as though he can’t push in any further.

Then they both still. One deep breath. Two. Three. Ominis splays his hand over Sebastian’s stomach, the other holding on to his thigh. “Alright?”

Sebastian nods. He’d like to say more, but he knows it’d only come out as a moan.

It’s signal enough for Ominis, and he begins to move. Pulls his hips back, allowing Sebastian to take a breath, then slides back in, opening him up further. He’s gentle. Delicate. At least, for now. There’s a tenderness to Ominis’ lovemaking that Sebastian often forgets. He knows what he’s doing. He knows to start slow, to build it up, to take his time and make everything fall together in the end.

Sebastian often rushes into it, so focused on the end result that he can lose himself in the process. It’s not always that way - he can be in the moment - but maybe they should do it like this more often.

Maybe he should say that. He tries to, but the words come out in a gasp as Ominis rolls his hips in such a way that hits just the right spot, making him lose track of all his thoughts.

Instead, he lifts his hips as far as he can, allowing for a better angle. Ominis grunts, looping his arms under Sebastian’s knees for leverage, hiking him up further, pushing in impossibly deeper. It’s obvious he wants to let go; to rut into Sebastian like an untamed animal, but he stays steady, maintaining the rhythm, digging his nails into the flesh of Sebastian’s thighs just to hold himself back.

Sebastian finds purchase on Ominis’ hair, dipping fingers into the soft strands, pulling him down to press their lips together. They slide together, tongues flicking and tasting, teeth clashing a little as Ominis moves his body back and forth.

He removes a hand from under Sebastian’s thigh, and moves it towards his length, stroking it at a matching speed to his thrusts.

“Ah,” Sebastian gasps, eyes rolling back in his head, the feeling of the gentle caress of both his prostate and length almost too much. “Ominis, yes.”

“Does it feel good?” Ominis asks, twisting his wrist at the same time he pushes in deep. He already knows the answer. “Do you like it when I have you like this?”

Sebastian’s lower lip shakes. “Y-yes. Just need-“

“Or would you like me to go harder, push so far into you that you could never forget I was there?”

Sebastian whines at the filthy words. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, please.”

And that is the moment Ominis turns. Always seeks permission. Always ensuring it’s what Sebastian wants.

And Sebastian always wants it.

Ominis pulls out, and pushes Sebastian away, manoeuvring him until he’s on his hands and knees, ass in the air and then he’s back inside again, slamming himself into Sebastian, barely giving him a moment to breathe, to think, before everything is consumed by Ominis.

He’s all over him, externally and internally. Drawing images on his eyelids and on his brain. Skin and flesh moulding to each other, souls connecting, the very fabric of their being becoming one. Sweat combining, hearts pounding at the same tempo - Sebastian could swear their veins were entwining, blood pumping from one into the other.

Ominis presses his stomach flat against Sebastian’s back, mercilessly rutting into him as his breath hits against the shell of Sebastian’s ear. A practised hand snakes round his neck, but doesn’t squeeze.

“You - mm - you feel so good. So good. Just for me, isn’t it?” Sebastian nods, and then Ominis’ grip tightens. “Isn’t it? Tell me it is.”

“Just for y-ah! There, there, right-“ Sebastian can feel consciousness slip away from his grasp for a second. The combination of Ominis’ grasp, his words, and the constant nudge against that spot inside of him, makes him almost tumble over the edge. So Ominis sits back, removing his hand from the others’ neck, trailing fingers down freckled skin until he settles against Sebastian’s thigh.

“Tell me,” he hisses.

Sebastian swallows, hard, gasping as Ominis slows. “Just for you. No one else. No one else, ever. Only you. Only - please, please Ominis, don’t you dare stop.”

Ominis curses. His hands move to Sebastian’s hips, pulling him back against him, before restarting his rhythm, slamming their bodies together, causing Sebastian to cry out in absolute pleasure.

“Don’t. Tell. Me. What. To. Do,” Ominis punctuates each word with a stab of his length, and Sebastian groans each time.

Sebastian considers talking back. Telling him that he’s doing it anyway, ever obedient despite being in charge - but he bites his tongue.

He’d hardly noticed his arms shaking, palms warm against the wool. But when it registers, he lets his cheek drop on to the blanket, arms dropping alongside him - only for a moment, as Ominis feels him weaken, and takes both of his wrists and pins them behind his back, using the leverage to somehow push in deeper.

Sebastian could come from this. No hand touching him, only Ominis using him, taking him...

“I swore I’d never tell anyone about this place. Swore it was a secret. Centuries. But then you - you, Sallow, I had to have you, had to show you, had to give you every piece of me, didn’t I? You knew it, used me, in so many ways. Do you love me, Sebastian? Do you love me, or are you just using me?”

Sebastian whines. It’s a ploy, he knows it. Ominis knows he’d kiss the very ground he walked. Rip the clothes from his back and freeze to death if it meant keeping him warm.

But it still gets him. Still makes him think back to the times when they hated each other. When they fought. When Sebastian almost lost his mind. When Sebastian almost lost Ominis.

So he plays along. He knows what Ominis wants to hear, and knows he’d give him anything, absolutely anything, if it made him happy.

“I love you, I love you. Not using you. It’s only you, Ominis. Always has been.”

Ominis drops his wrists and pulls Sebastian up, so he’s sat high on his knees. Presses them together, yet doesn’t stop thrusting. Wraps a hand around Sebastian and pumps, hot breath in his ear as he speaks.

“I love you,” Ominis hisses. “You’re mine. Mine, Sebastian. All mine. Always.”

And Sebastian comes, a sky of stars smattering across his eyelids, waterfalls of curses and jumbled words spilling from his mouth. He almost doesn’t hear Ominis moan his name, hips stuttering, coming deep inside of him.

Sebastian drops back onto the blanket, hands just about bracing his fall.

They are still and silent for a moment, both trying to catch their breath. Ominis is the first to move - he doesn’t pull out, instead helps Sebastian to lay down on his side, following close behind, tucking himself against Sebastian’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Sebastian can still feel his heart hammering, and can feel Ominis’ doing the same. There’s a pair of lips pressing light kisses along his shoulder, and he smiles. Tilting his head to look at Ominis, he sees his hair is partially stuck to his forehead, and his cheeks are red. Lips kiss-worn and a shine of sweat cast across his skin. He looks positively beautiful.

“Alright?” Sebastian asks, once they’re both settled, and Ominis nods.

“You?”

“Great,” Sebastian says with a smile. “That was great. We should do that more often.”

Ominis chuckles. “I’d like that. Soon. We’ll have plenty of time for it.”

“Mm,” Sebastian agrees. “I’m not saying it should always be that way. But definitely more than we do at the moment.”

“I’d hope not,” Ominis draws a pattern into Sebastian’s skin. It lulls him a little, and he has to focus on keeping his eyes open to stay awake. “I like both ways. But I agree, I should take charge more often.”

Sebastian snorts. “You’re always in charge,” Ominis grumbles, and Sebastian can’t tell whether he’s agreeing or disagreeing, because his eyes are fluttering and he looks ready to fall asleep. “We should head back. Get some rest.”

Ominis grumbles again. His eyes reluctantly open, yet he tightens his arm around Sebastian.

“Come on,” Sebastian laughs, prying his arm from him and pushing it away. “You need to move, you’re still inside of me.”

“Ah, yes,” Ominis smiles, wriggling his hips a little. “That’s precisely why we should stay. It’s rather comfortable. Feels nice.”

“For you, I don’t know how long that will last for me.”

Ominis still doesn't move. Sebastian decides he must be the one to move first, or Ominis never will. So he pulls himself forward. They both groan as Ominis slips out. Sebastian rolls over, onto his other side, so he can face Ominis.

He presses a kiss to the others lips. It’s soft, and they both smile into it, pressing their foreheads together once it’s done. There’s no hunger, no want or desire. It’s just love. Just the feeling of contentment, of knowing, of understanding.

Because, despite everything, they had found each other. Despite everything, they had fallen in love. Despite everything, they had come back to each other. Despite everything, there was forgiveness and trust. Despite everything, they had a future.

Despite everything, they were still them.

Ominis’ face becomes sad, suddenly. Sebastian pulls back to look at him, his hands lifting to cup the others’ face, concern blooming in his chest. Had he said something? Done something? But then, “Do you think we’ll ever come back here? To the Undercroft?”

Sebastian ponders, tongue darting to wet his lips, then admits his true belief: “No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you really ever want to?”

Ominis sighs. “Not really.”

“I think,” Sebastian strokes his thumb across Ominis’ cheek, across the moles that are more beautiful to him that the constellations in the night sky. “One day a little witch or wizard will find this place, and they will bring their little witch or wizard friend and show them this underground hideout. They’ll spend the best parts and of their time at Hogwarts here. Maybe they'll fall in love. Maybe they'll just be friends. They’ll probably think they’re the first ones to find it, though, until they find something scratched on the wall to disprove that.”

Sebastian sits up, and crawls towards his discarded pyjama pants, to where his wand is. He waves it a few times, pointed across the room, where, on the wall behind an unused blackboard, some words appear, etched into the dark stone.

“What did you do?” Ominis asks. Sebastian doesn’t respond to the question.

“Let’s go.”

Ominis doesn’t argue. They redress, initially pulling the wrong pyjama pants on - Sebastian's far too tight and Ominis' far too loose - and begin to laugh, before swapping round. Once fully clothed, Sebastian guides Ominis over to the blackboard, pulling it away from the wall, and allowing Ominis to feel the etching.

Ominis tears up as he feels each letter, each word, as Sebastian reads it aloud to him. After his fingers finish tracing the final symbol, he pulls Sebastian into a tight hug, embracing as if it would be the last time they ever did, despite this really only being the beginning.

And then they leave. For the last time, beneath the gate and through the dusty corridor, out of the entryway and back to their dorm.

They don’t look back.

[vixenpen]

Rapper’s Delight Hobie X Black Fem Reader (1970s coded)

This is for my biggest fan @kyankyannnn

This is what a Black girl from the Bronx talks like @ohsanghoe and @kyankyannnn since it was so confusing before! 😂 anyway, this was HELLA fun to write! Hope y’all enjoy 😉

You gazed around at the brick faces of Camden’s shops and the graffiti peppering random surfaces with awe and fondness.

This was your first time in Hobie’s hometown, and it felt at once familiar and foreign. From the grey and brown square buildings to the peeling, painted signs adorning their façades, the neighborhood was so distinctly working class; you half expected to see a hotdog vendor or a bodega.

“Y’alright, America?”Hobie asked, quietly. His large hand rested on your arm.

“Oh! Yeah, I’m cool.” You replied.

“Not scared yet are ya?” Smiley, the dimpled bassist of Hobie’s band asked. His signature toothy grin lit up his medium brown face.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “Feels like home.”

“Let’s see if you’re still singin’ that tune when we take you to The Sub.” Silas, the perpetually stoned drummer, added.

Despite its name, The Sub, was in fact not a late night spot to get sandwiches. According to Hobie it was one part basement club, one part speakeasy. Not unlike the warehouses the DJs threw dance parties in back in your hometown of the Bronx New York.

It was beyond trippy having another spider friend in the same timeline as you. The Spiderverse often either felt vast and disconnected or—whenever you were in the spider society— claustrophobic and overwhelming. So it was a major relief when you’d met Hobie, aka Spider Punk, another spider from Earth-138. The two of you had immediately hit it off being the same age, nineteen, and major music lovers.

The punk scene was practically non-existent in the Boogie Down Bronx and the same was true of the brand new hip-hop/rap scene of your home. But you were curious to see how these London cats got down, so when Hobie had invited you to Camden for an extended stay, you’d enthusiastically agreed. Hopefully New York could behave itself for a few weeks while you were gone.

Being that you weren’t a full time member of the spider society, Hobie had mopped some tech to make you a watch giving you the opportunity to transport to his place with the press of a button.

As you and the band headed to The Sub, you took note of the rest of the crowd, who were mostly dressed similarly to Hobie and his bandmates. Ripped skinny jeans, leather vests studded with silver spikes, chunky stainless steel jewelry and so much spiked up hair you were almost certain you could see a trail of hair spray and pomade in the air. There were a few people who were more casual in band tee’s or Jean vests, but you in your sparkly bell bottoms and matching top certainly stood out. Especially with your bouncy afro compared to the—mostly white—girls with their immobile Mohawks.

The Sub was actually a record store called: ‘Subwoofer Record Shop.’ It was closed to the public, but a trail of punks were all rounding the side of the building to the alleyway.

“Man, I’m psyched for tonight!” Smiley enthused. “Y/n, you gotta be front row and center cheerin’ us on, yeah?”

“I gotta be front row and center to see around these people’s hair.” You joked.

“Hey, that fro a’yours ain’t exactly flat, innit?” Hobie grinned, tweaking a tight curl near your ear. The motion made your cheeks burn.

“Picked to perfection.” You countered, playfully, ignoring the way your heart revved.

The boys led you down a flight of crumbling, concrete stairs where a handrail wrapped in multicolored Christmas lights and a surprisingly bright street lamp led the way. At the base, grungy looking characters in black leather clothes and heavy eyeliner smoked and chatted in tight circles. Their scary expressions immediately brightened when they saw Hobie and his crew.

“Oi, dickheads! ‘Ow the ‘ell are ya!” A tall, rail thin guy with an electric blue mohawk exclaimed, slapping hands with the band as they crowded the floor by the doorway.

“Ah, ya know! Nother day nother disaster.” Hobie greeted him.

“Right ‘bout that, mate.” The blue haired guy chuckled. “Oi, Si? Ya still on earth with us?” His accent made the ‘th’ sound like an ‘f.’

“Always an never.” Silas waved a joint between his ringed fingers. You had no idea when or where he’d gotten it.

“Can’t wait to hear you blokes blow the house down t’night.” A girl with fire red hair that matched her kilt exclaimed.

“S’gonna be one helluva a show, that’s for sure!” Smiley replied.

“See you all in there.”

The exchange had been so snappy you’d gotten whiplash just listening to it. The boys let themselves in with Hobie holding the door for you, a soft smile on his face.

“Welcome to The Sub, America.”

You gawked around the shockingly huge room. It had a black floor, a wall to wall stocked bar, darts at the far end and an elevated stage at the other. The walls were decorated with band posters advertising past and future shows. Some had been ripped off, others looked freshly tacked on. A wall of records hung from a shimmering curtain behind said stage and a gaggle of musicians were tuning up in a discordant symphony of riffs and scales. Colorful stage lights bathed them in hues of red, blue, and purple.

“Holy shit.” You marveled.

“Pretty cool for a group of weirdos, right?” Hobie whispered beside you. You could hear the casual excitement in his voice— clearly pleased at your reaction.

“Dynamight!” You exclaimed.

“C’mon, let’s grab a seat up front.” Smiley suggested.

Being that mosh pits weren’t uncommon in the space, “up front” actually meant at the end of the bar closest to the stage. The space surrounding the stage, was clear of tables and chairs in case of moshing.

The band on stage currently began playing and you were immediately impressed with their sound. They were a tight unit.

“Who are these cats?” You asked, Hobie.

“The singer’s name is Chris and the drummer is Byron.” He replied.

“I mean what’s the name of their band?”

“Oh, they ain’t a band, love. Chris sings folk music and Byron usually plays keyboard with a jazz quartet.”

Your head swiveled toward Hobie.

“You mean they’re not a band? And they sound that good together?”

“The drummer’s a bit slow on the pickup, but they’re all solid.” Hobie shrugged, swiveling in his stool until his knees kissed yours.

“Ok, Mr. Musical Savant.” You mocked a posh accent. “But you have to admit, they’re pretty tight together.”

“No doubt, but they won’t compare to our sound.” Hobie replied matter of factly.

 “Ohh? Big talk, Slim Jim.” You smirked, giving his shoulder a gentle punch.

“Yeah,” Hobie’s hazel eyes danced with amusement as he fixed you with his humorous half smile. The one that secretly made your heart race. “With the flavor to match.” He winked.

You thought you’d melt off the stool. Your mind raced as you tried to conjure up a response, but before you could Smiley interrupted.

“Oi, when you kids’re done whispering sweet nothin’s, the stage is clear.”

The pair of you swung your head in Smiley’s direction. You could swear you saw a bashful, almost embarrassed expression flash across Hobie’s chiseled features, but he was smirking in a blink.

“Sure, sure.” He replied, standing along with his bandmates. Before he made the short trek to the stage he turned to you. “Be right back, yeah? Dun let any creeps try an pull one over on ya.”

“London,” your voice lowered as you leaned forward on the stool. “You took the girl outta the Bronx not the other way around.”

Now it was Hobie’s turn to look stunned. He scanned your face and seemed about to say something before Silas tugged him away.

“Let’s go, Romeo!” The stoned bassist quipped.

You giggled as Hobie shrugged.

“Don’t talk to strangers, y/n.” He playfully warned.

As the band climbed on stage a piercing wolf whistle sounded in the crowd along with a loud smattering of applause. It was clear Hobie’s band were well known amongst this crowd.

“Ri’,” Hobie chuckled. “Look, we got a friend here, yeah? She came all the way from America so you blokes better make us look good!”

“Even if we suck!” Silas added, sitting down at the drum set.

The crowd laughed. So did you, a fond smile lingering on your lips.

With that introduction out of the way, the boys began tuning up. Immediately, you noticed a different between their sound check and the slapdash ensemble that’d gone before them. You sat up, admiring your friend bathed in hues of blue and purple that seemed to caress his high cheekbones and emanate from his deeply melanated skin. The sight was enough to make a flush rise up your neck. You crossed your legs and propped your chin on your fist. The boys started out the gate swinging with a piercing guitar riff that hyped the crowd, followed by Silas’ bombastic drums.

The crowd went crazy, and you lowered the drink you’d gotten in awe. Wow, so this was what Hobie got up to in those unpermitted shows? Back where you were from, there were black rockstars, certainly. Jimi Hendrix,  Betty Davis, Prince, but you only knew a couple cats who played rock like Hobie. Bad Brains and a little band out of Detroit called Death.

Still, you couldn’t deny, the band’s sound was tight. Loud, but tight. Hobie’s fingers were flying. The rest of the band was amazing too, but you couldn’t take your eyes off your fellow comrade. You’d never seen him so in the zone. His expression was relaxed, but his entire body was locked into what he was doing. His head bobbed with the rhythm of his guitar.

“Woowoooo!” You whooped, bouncing in your seat. The cheering got Hobie’s attention and he glanced at you with a smile.

When the band was done, the room practically shook with applause and cheering. You jumped from the stool to join the noise.

“Jeez, how’re you blokes gonna act when we really start playin’?” Smiley joked, making the crowd laugh.

Hobie lifted the hem of his shirt to dab his forehead, and you could have sworn you heard the entire female demographic of the audience swoon. Not that you weren’t one of them.

“Ri’,” Hobie spoke up, “but I wanna introduce our girl. A friend of ours who came all the way from America to  visit.”

“Gwen!” Someone shouted.

You snickered. You almost forgot Gwen hung out with Hobie on a regular basis.

“No, not Gwen.” Hobie chuckled. “This is another friend. She’s in the music scene too.”

I am????

You thought.

“An’ I think she should come up here an’ join us, how bout you lot?”

The crowd cheered again. Your eyes widened.

What. The. Fuck?!

No way were you going up in front of this crowd. Everyone in there looked like they could kill you with their bare hands. Was Hobie crazy?

You sank down in your seat, but Hobie gestured to you broadly.

“Y/n, come up’ere. You know we ain’t gonna let ya off the hook.”

You looked around as if trying to find who he could be talking about, but all heavily made up eyes were on you as the punk crowd cheered you on.

“Yeah, c’mon y/n!”

“Be a sport!”

“Show us how they do it in America!”

Then the crowd began chanting your name. A thousand British accents practically singing “y/n, y/n, y/n!”

You could only gawk at Hobie whose pierced brow was quirked as he smiled slyly at you.

‘Come on’ he mouthed, holding out a ringed hand.

‘Seriously?’ You shot back?

‘Seriously.’ Hobie confirmed.

You prayed the moment would pass, but with everyone cheering you on and Hobie smiling gallantly at you like some knight in shining armor, you didn’t think you were getting out of this one. So with a quick ‘Ima kill you,’ to Hobie, you downed the rest of your drink and slid off the stool.

The applause got louder as you joined the band on stage, grabbing Hobie’s hand.

“Wow, umm, ok.” You chuckled nervously. “Look, I’m not from here, so my music probably isn’t gonna be you guys’ speed.”

“Try us!” Someone shouted from the crowd.

Alright. You would. You turned to Hobie with a half baked idea in mind. Time to bring a little Boogie Down to Camden.

“Yall know Rapper’s Delight?” You asked the boys.

All three members scoffed, almost offended at the notion that they didn’t.

“Yeah, love, we know Rapper’s Delight.” Hobie replied.

“You lead the way, y/n, we got ya covered.” Smiley winked.

“Alright, I guess ima kick yall something outta my hometown. Cool?”

The crowd responded favorably. You turned to the band, heart hammering nervously, and nodded.

Silas counted the band in.

“One.. two… one, two, three!”

Silas picked it up with the drums and Smiley quickly came in with the bass. Hobie was last.

God you were nervous, but man, the beat was way too funky to stay still so you bounced along. And when the beat gave way you started with the unmistakable intro of: “I said a hip hop the hippy the hippy to the hip hip hop and ya don’t stop the rock—“

But instead of biting Sugar Hill’s flow completely you decided to freestyle like the cats back home.

Now I know that you know that you ain’t eva heard this befo’, but layback and relax and let me kick you this flow.

Cuz in the boogie down, groove comes naturally to us and if you wanna be down and get down wit’ me now, you need proper influence. Boogie down B-town is where it really be happenin’ and I’m deliverin’ from Bronx and straight into Camden.

“Oooohhh!” The crowd chanted.

You laughed through your freestyle. Surprised by how much fun you were having. The crowd was jamming and the band was grooving right along with you. By the time the dance break came along, everyone was grooving along with you.

With an outro you thanked the crowd and were practically drowned out by their applause.

You slotted the mic back onto the stand only to be scooped into a hug by Hobie who spun you around. You laughed.

“That was amazing, y/n!” He exclaimed.

The rest of the boys joined you turning it into a group hug.

“Still wanna kill me?” Hobie asked.

“Yes!” You tried to glare at him, but your smile was too big. “But you made me sound good so I guess I’ll let you off the hook.”

Hobie laughed.

“I’ll take it.”

[synintheraven]

✵pairing: sihtric kjartansson x fem!reader

✵summary: the journey to Tamworth/Mercia begins, Sihtric and reader explore the land as he becomes slightly more approachable.

✵tw: mentions of violence/kills, nothing really :p

✵word count: 1,3k

characters info | part one | part two

We left at first light, riding slowly as we followed the river and the sun emerged from the sea. The green, muddy waters of East Anglia glimmered with the weak light of the morning and the wind brushed the reeds growing in our way, promising a bright day.

But we were soon to leave East Anglia and cross into Mercian territory. Where the small islands covered by the changing tide would be replaced by lush hills and large farm lands; for Grantebridge’s territory was vast and covered by orange-coloured trees, with a handful of churches and poorly fortified villages scattered throughout its higher ground.

—Right there, where the hills are greener, that’s Mercia. —He explained, riding by my side as he pointed his finger towards the Monastery’s tower, hiding behind trees in the far distance. —And we’re to cross it to its northern border, to the Ragnarsson’s camp in Tamworth.

I sensed Sihtric’s mood was different that autumnal morning. Seeing as the fresh wind blew on his face and swept the fur cape over his shoulders, making sure to keep pace with my horse as he stayed close to me. —Have you been there before? —I asked.

—We sailed to Mercia when we heard Danes were attacking King Burgred’s fortress, but we didn’t stay long enough to participate in their war. —He explained with a frown, probably remembering that journey.

—Why not? —I said as his eyes searched for mine, puzzled. —You could’ve taken a lot of plunder from a Mercian King.

—It wasn’t our fight. —He took a deep breath then let out a sigh. —We came here to escape Harald’s ambition and Halfdan’s pointless appetite for war, not to terrorize Saxon kings.

—What are you fighting for then, Dane? —I emphasised the word Dane, aware of how unlikely it was for a Dane to follow Norse lords blindly.

Sihtric took a few moments to answer, watching the heron birds resting along the river’s edge and the smoke filling the sky over the nearby villages, his hands holding the reins tightly as the sun reflected on his silver rings. —I’m fighting for Yggr, and for a spot of land where we can make our own lives. —He said with a hint of doubt in his calming voice, thoughtful.

—So, are you really going to follow Yggr as your Jarl forevermore? Or are you to set sail to unclaimed lands and become a Lord yourself?

—I will follow him, —He paused to look at me again, ever proud of his own words. —but should the Nornir decide I am to be a Lord, then so it will be. 

We had reached a crumbling round tower, surrounded by dried trees and yellow grass. Yet it wasn’t the work of Roman giants, its muddy bricks suggesting the damp weather and time had destroyed the structure way before the Romans arrived.

The fog seemed to have lifted from our position, revealing distant cottages and the small church among reeds that sat on Mercian land. It was a reminder that we had quite a long way to go still, but in two days’ time we would reach Tamworth and join the brothers.

Our mission was to gain their trust and discover their plans for Britain, as we hoped to ensure they would leave East Anglia at peace for Yggr’s small clan; though as long as Wessex riches remained clear of Danes, the Great Army would stay away from our camp.

I watched the old stone bridge crossing the river, the ravens circling above the remains of a burnt farm. Complete disaster taking over the land all the way to the west, to Alfred’s Kingdom. Imagining the green hills, ancient roman walls and clean docks, without a single Danish longship navigating its waters.   

And so I let out a sigh, aware that we would be forced to march against Wessex if we were to convince the sons of Ragnar of our shared ambition.

—What’s on your mind, Stavanger? —Sihtric interrupted, suddenly catching my attention as we crossed the river.

—Wessex. —I lied, still hoping to find the man who killed my family, feeling as if a hole carved itself through my chest as we spoke. —I heard its churches are full of gold and silver, yet no Dane has ever made it close enough to prove it.

—He’s the King, —he added with a smirk, looking away for a moment. —and he’s managed to keep our kin out of his land. You can’t do that without silver, and certainly can’t raise an army with nothing but empty words about Gods. —The tone in his voice had turned deeper as he explained, sensing the worry in his words.

—Have you killed many Saxons?

—Some, —he paused, probably feeling the unease in my voice as well. —but only when it was necessary.

It was the way of our people: to kill for food, shelter, livelihood and our families. But the Saxons saw a group of evil creatures killing anything and everything standing before them, ignoring that some of us weren’t after a hard, wooden throne.

Some of us were fleeing a mad king and others, like me, were only seeking the end of an old story, knowing no other feeling than that of resentment and vengeance.

We had reached a thin muddy road, following the way of the hill in between bushes and dried grass.

The land around us was deserted, with no more than a bunch of trees leading towards Theotford and a few foxes wandering around the yellowish hill. At the highest point, half covered by the fog, lay a marvellous stone structure. But, no longer beside the river, the view from higher ground revealed a long abandoned ruin, another one of the Roman’s great work.

Torn walls, broken columns and muddy tiles with curious patterns; a place once full with life, but now was home to old vases, smudged paintings on the walls and sculptures of Goddesses.

Yet despite the weather’s destruction, the place remained of magnificent beauty and calm, so we allowed the horses to rest as we explored the area.

It surprised me to realize no one had turned such a place into their home, seeing as the curved roof, made of bricks and stone, still protected one of the buildings against the weather.

—I’ve been here before. —Sihtric added as his eyes were fixated on one of the marble sculptures, running his fingers over the cold skin of its stone legs. —Yggr wanted to turn this place into our camp, but the river is quite far from here and we didn’t want to leave some of our crew behind to guard the ship.

—I’m sure you men would’ve enjoyed all these naked women painted on the walls, though many would’ve been easily distracted by them also. —I teased with a smile, making it obvious that I was talking about him too.

—I prefer women of flesh over these stone ladies. —He explained awkwardly, unable to hide his smile while he looked at me. —Yggr couldn’t keep his hands off one of the tall angels near the entrance, said he regretted it wasn’t a real woman. —he raised an eyebrow as he beckoned towards the tall arch, which I guessed was the entrance of the Roman ruin.

—Angels? —I asked intrigued, though in truth I was trying not to let out a laugh, his curved lips giving away that our Jarl probably wasn’t the only one touching the poor statue.

—They have wings like birds and the Christians think they’re holy creatures, apparently. —He explained dismissively.

—So you and Yggr desecrated their divine creature, then.

—No, I didn’t! —He chuckled with a fake frown, taking distance from the statue before us. —I accidentally broke one of its fingers, but Yggr did the inappropriate touching.

—I hope you remain very appropriate with me, then. —I teased jokingly, watching as his broad smile turned into a smirk and his face turned red.

Bonus facts (again)

Grantebridge/scire: modern Cambridge, both Sihtric and reader have to ride through most of the shire to cross into Oxenefordscire (modern Oxford) and later into Ledecestrescire (modern Leicester), where Tamworth is.