#sailing towards the flame

[wardogsong]

lou pulls back a toned thigh as far as she can before launching it forward into frank's chest. 'y'know my mother's dead, you dick.' lust has been replaced with anger. 'put me down or so help me.'

Frank feels more than he sees it coming, but even so he's not fast enough to either drop Lou or hoist and piledrive her into the cheap bed as he'd been planning. There's nothing to do but get the wind kicked out of him, stumble, and belatedly retaliate by flinging Lou off in the general direction of the crusty loveseat just ahead. He knows she's going to spring up fighting, but he's braced and ready for it. "Jesus Christ, y'r so full'a piss and vinegar it's a fuckin' wonder your bones don't dissolve. Welcome to the dead mothers club— build a bridge and get over it."

[vivwritesfics]

Easy Is The Way

He made it very clear that you would entertain his company, but little else. He would no fall for you, but he would not be cruel to you. He would be kind to you, he would care for you, but he would not let himself fall for you

Lucius Verus x reader (general Acacius's daughter)

Chapter One

"What did he do to you?" Your father whispered once you had gotten home.

"Nothing," you said quickly, shaking your head. "Father, he was not cruel to me. He did not lay a hand on me. He allowed me to rest." Your arms were crossed over your stomach, holding your sides as you looked at the floor.

Your father wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head. "I will put a stop to this," he whispered, a tear escaping his eye and rolling down his cheek. "Even if it ends me."

You swallowed, your mouth dry as you stepped back, as you walked away from him. The baths. You just wanted to wash. Wash away the Colosseum, wash away all of it.

Hanno. His home had been taken from him by your father. His life had been ruined by your father. His wife, murdered at your father's command. He had no reason to be kind to you, had every reason to wrap his hands around your neck and watch you die.

It was the revenge he so deserved. Take the life of Marcus Acacius' daughter, avenge his wife.

Something was going on with Lucilla.

As you bathed, you heard whispers. Things that the staff had overheard, that they were sharing amongst themselves. But they weren't sharing it with you. You tried to listen in as you soaked in the warm waters of the private baths in your home, but they were keenly aware of you.

The information was not for your ears, that was clear.

Your father was being secretive, quiet. Whatever was going on with Lucilla was shared between them, not for your ears. You gritted your teeth and tried to not let the frustration show on your face.

No matter what room you entered, it fell silent as soon you did. Even if you tried to creep, you were unable to keep yourself hidden. Your fathers trained ears were able to pick you up the moment your sandals hit the stone floor.

You couldn't hide that it frustrated you. Not knowing, being left in the dark.

The next day of the games. You didn't expect your gladiator to survive. But he wasn't your gladiator, was he? He was just a gladiator who happened to be kind to you.

Maybe the Emperors would make another example out of you. Maybe they would send you down to the Colosseum again if he won, send you to be his prize. You could spend time with him, get to know more about him and his home.

The colosseum was full of water. It looked beautiful, but you knew that it was deadly. Water full of sharks and, soon, the remains of gladiators.

Seated beside your father, you watched as the ships emerged. There was little you could hear over the cheer of the crowd, but Hanno's voice rang out. You couldn't make out what he was saying, but it was clear as day that he was leading his men.

Whilst everyone cheered, while the twin Emperors grinned down at the scene in front of them, the scene that had been carefully curated for their amusement and pleasure, you shut your eyes. The violence and blood and gore of men fighting men had already been too much for you.

This was another level of barbaric.

The same air of unease settled over Lucilla and your father. She held his hand, unable to breathe as the flaming arrows were shot towards the gladiators.

The sail was on fire as the two ships headed towards each other. Muttered prayers left your lips, not loud enough for anybody to hear over the noises of the crowd. This wasn't real to them. Some game to fill their afternoon.

The first gladiator fell into the water. You could only hope that the arrow piercing his armour got to him before the shark did. The beast grabbed him, tore him apart as the water around his body turned red.

Your heart beat erratically as you searched for Hanno. There he was, still commanding the gladiators. You released a breath, sitting back in your seat.

They used the ship like a battering ram, splintering the hull of the other one. Immediately, Hanno began running. He leapt onto the other ship, taking two men down with him.

Another man fell into the water. The sharp immediately grabbed him and dragged him to his death.

In a way you were grateful for the smoke that obscured your view. You couldn't see the danger, couldn't see the brutality happening before you.

You couldn't see if Hanno was stabbed. You couldn't see if he was tossed into the water and torn apart by the sharks. In a way it was a blessing.

But you didn't know what was happening. It had unease settling in your chest as you desperately tried to see what was going on. The glimpses, not long enough to see which gladiator was which, did nothing to settle you.

The ships moved closer, oars splintering against the Colosseum walls. They were in front of you now, close enough that you could hear every time their swords clashed, every grunt that left their lips. You couldn't look away.

Suddenly, you caught a glimpse of Hanno. He grabbed the crossbow and raised it as the other gladiators fought. For a moment, one moment where your anxiety had spiked so high, you thought he was pointing it at you. But his eyes were trained on you, he hadn't even looked your way.

Your father. He wanted to kill your father. If it wasn't for the gladiator that knocked into him, he would have. He loosed the arrow as the other gladiator touched him and the arrow embedded itself in Emperor Geta's seat.

You couldn't stop the way you gasped. For a brief second, while he picked himself up, he looked at you. Geta shouted. You didn't know what he shouted as you sat forward in your seat. Your father stood, pulling Lucilla up with him. It wasn't safe, that was clear.

Your father pulled you to your feet, but you shrugged off his grip, desperate to see more. Hanno would not hurt you, you knew that much.

Geta and Caracalla ran, their tails tucked between their legs. But your father was still, unable to look away from the gladiator that had threatened his life. Did he know that he was the real target? That the arrow was never meant for Emperor Geta?

"In the name of the Emperors!" The games master shouted, drawing out every word "The victor is Hanno!"

Macrinus stood, and you did the same. You raced out ahead of him, heading the way they took you the day before, when you being given as a prize, as a punishment.

They didn't stop you as you moved through the colosseum. Everybody beneath the colosseum cheered, beat their chests as Hanno as his army (because really, what else were they? They were willing to follow him to the ends of the earth) walked through.

You watched, hidden behind the men as they stopped. "Who did this?" Somebody shouted, but you couldn't see who. You didn't move around too much, desperate to keep yourself hidden until you could get to Hanno.

Nobody answered. The cheering stopped, all eyes on the gladiators that had just finished competing. The ones that had made it out of there alive, anyway.

"WHO DID THIS!"

"It was me!"

"I did it!"

"I did it!"

"I did it!"

There were shouts from every direction, making it impossible to pinpoint the true culprit. But you knew, you had seen it first had. It struct you then how close you were to losing your life at Hanno's hands.

"Geta will want retribution for all of you." He approached Hanno as each word left his lips, seemingly punctuated by his steps. "Did you learn to shoot the same place you learnt to recite poetry?"

"Be glad it wasn't me or that arrow would have found you." Hanno's deep voice echoed throughout the Colosseum. Low and deadly, reverberating through you. But the laughs of the gladiators drowned it out.

He turned away, moved through his fellow gladiators until his eyes landed on you. His eyebrows went up, but he said nothing as he grabbed you and tucked you into his side.

It wasn't a move of affection, a move to keep you safe from the other gladiators. "I was not aiming for you," he said quietly, the words meant only for you.

"I know," you replied as he sat down. "You were aiming for the general, weren't you?"

He nodded and your fingers worked to strip him of his armour. He sat still, staring up at you as you tugged the leather. His injuries weren't as bad as they were the game before. The wounds that Ravi had closed up previously had remained closed through the game.

"I don't blame you for wanting to kill the general," you whispered, rocking on your feet. You didn't realise that you were doing it until he grabbed the backs of your thighs to still you.

The both of you were still, unmoving as you stared at each other. Hanno blinked at you, searched your face. You didn't know what he was reading in your face.

You wanted to touch him, wanted to reach up and wipe the blood from his cheeks. You wanted to touch his shoulders, feel the muscles there. He could easily cage you in with nothing but his arms, and it would leave you feeling nothing but safe.

"You watch the games with him although you hate it," he said, eyes still searching your face. You didn't move didn't react. "You are there as punishment. Just as you are here as punishment."

You shook your head and let go of his armour, letting it drop to the floor. "Yesterday, the emperors sent me here to set an example for my father. To show him what they can do should he threaten to disobey. Today, I am here of my own volition."

You stepped back as Ravi approached, letting him check over your gladiator. But still, Hanno was looking at you. "Why?" He asked.

Swallowing, you looked at your sandals. Ravi glanced at you for a moment, only a moment, and turned his attention back to Hanno. Did he know who you were? He must have. You could only pray that he didn't reveal you.

"I had to know," you whispered, breath catching in your throat. "I had to make sure they hadn't killed you for what you have done."

It took you by surprise when Hanno laughed. He let his gaze drop to his lap as he continued to laugh. "I will not be slain by a Roman sword," he said and Ravi stepped away from him.

Standing once again, Hanno grabbed it. It wasn't harsh, pulling you close once again to lead you through the Colosseum. No other gladiator dared to look at you when Hanno, the champion, had a hold of you.

It was a night much like the first. This time, Hanno sat closer to you as you. Your words were hushed, whispered between the two of you. To anybody looking into his cell, it would have looked like a sweet moment, two lovers, sharing their affection between each other.

But it wasn't that. You spoke of Rome, of a dream that had died when Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla took power. The dream of Lucilla's father, of Lucilla. You didn't mention her name in front of Hanno, didn't mention the wife of the general.

Hanno echoed back your thoughts. He, a man from Numidia, had the same dream of Rome. A free Rome, a Rome for the people.

"You speak such fantasies," you whispered as you laid down on his bed, forced to lay against each other by the size of it. "You speak of it like you how great Rome can be."

He let his arms wrap around you, pull you close so that you weren't hanging from the edge of the bed. A more comfortable way to lay, that was how the both of you justified it to yourselves. He moved closer and you realised why when he started speaking. So quietly, you wouldn't have been able to hear it if his lips weren't pressed against your ear.

"I am from Numidia, yes, but I was not born there," he said to you, lips kissing your ear with every word.

Hanno gave you no more information. But you took in his words, a secret you would keep close to your chest. He brushed your hair back, laying your head down on his bicep. "Sleep now," he said to you, and you shut your eyes.

But you didn't sleep right away. "Hanno?" You whispered, shuffling closer to him. You opened your eyes as he grunted, meeting the one eye he had open to look at you. "What will you do once you are a free man?"

Hanno let his eye fall shut and furrowed his brow. "The Colosseum does not lead to freedom. I will die in there, killed by another man or worn down by exhaustion, struck down by an infected wound or a disease."

You felt yourself deflate, your hand on his bare chest. "I do not wish that for you." His lack of response, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips left you to believe that he had fallen asleep.

***

You were not there, not in his house. Not in the palace, either. Wherever you were, your father just had to hope that you were safe.

General Acacius was doing this for his wife. He didn't want you mixed up in it. There was no telling what the Emperors would do to you if they found out what Acacius was doing.

He prayed to the Gods before he set off to the Colosseum, his most loyal men following him. Cloaked and under the cover of darkness, they rode to the Colosseum. Acacius was privy to the Emperor's plans for their praetorians, where they were stationed.

It should have been safe.

His men surrounded him as they marched into the Colosseum, holding their torches high. They walked through the stone corridor, heading towards the gladiators sleeping quarters. He didn't know that you were there, sleeping soundly against the gladiator that had tried to kill him.

Suddenly, his men dropped, arrows embedded into their necks. Their arrows hit their marks, leaving only the General Acacius standing.

No.

The Emperor's guards were not supposed to be here. This wasn't right. How could they have known about a plan hushed between husband and wife?

A guard used his sword to push the hot from Acacius's head, revealing his face. He kept a look of defiance on his face has he stared at the guard. But inside, he was screaming.

Somebody had betrayed them. Because of that, he was going to lose everything. His wife, his co-conspirator, would be punished in much the same way he would be. Death.

You were innocent in all of this. You didn't know what Lucilla and your father had been planning, yet the Emperor's would punish you. Punish you to hurt him one last time before he was put to death.

Your life at risk because of him. He would never forgive himself.

a/n: i'm hoping to do just one more part for this mini series, but I am loving it, i must admit - also, do i change my blog theme to lucius?

taglist:

@barcelonaloverf1life

@lefroggie

@tsunchani

@bxm-1012

@nicolebarnes

@whoopie6995

@shelbyteller

@saragrx

@ariesandwolves

@biapascal

@rrrrussosstuff

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb fancomic: Luck of the Lamb

Part 1: Give Unto Me A Name

To say the name of the gods is to knock against the doors of their divinity. Such that they held their true names closely, for the call could surpass all barriers. Exchanging true names became a sign of partnership, trust, and perhaps even in some cases, union…

~Next~ ~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

"-and boil for eternity!" Narinder boomed, laughing to himself as he imagined Heket locked in a cauldron of oil. Chains tightened against his arms from his motions, and his laughter withered like a sail with no wind. He bowed his head and was quiet for a long moment, looking the Lamb in the eyes. "Return to your cult. Shamura is the last to hold me. Drive a knife in their heart, and at last I will be free... Go now. Please." He pointed towards the stone to teleport back, mind a mixture of rage, gloom, and loneliness. She nodded, excited by his sheer energy and power. But before she left she had a question. "...I have one request," she paused, hands wriggling in a sudden flash of anxiety. Shamura's words echoed in her mind, one burning like a forbidden flame. "I was told your name while on my mission, but I wanted your blessing before I dare use it... As your vessel, may I address you by name?" "You ask for so much little lamb," he chided. "Do not press the limits of our affiliation too quickly." He paused, humming thoughtfully, an ear flicking. Perhaps there was something to be gained here. "I will not give you the privilege without something in return." His brow raised, curious. "Tell me your own and you shall have mine." She hadn’t given her name in a very long time. It was hard to even remember it at all. Memories of her 'life' were almost foggy, stretching back hundreds of years from the time she'd spent in his service. From the depths she retrieved it, but more than just her name surfaced. Her father, pinned down with arrows bristling from his chest as he pleaded for her to run. Her mother, grabbing her wrist in a vice grip as they fled. The memory was so distant, yet felt like it had just happened. "Una. My name is Una." Her voice numb, barely a whisper. She blinked, shaking away the past and returned to meet his eyes. "Una..." He tasted her name on his tongue, trying to decipher what it meant. He hadn't been on the surface in hundreds of years, culture was entirely lost. "Very well then, you may refer to me as Narinder. But know that divine names have power. To use them can be a summoning, of sorts. Were you to use my name, I would know it. Your shred of divinity may share that, so guard your name well." Shadow covered his face, nothing but the faint light of three red eyes breaking past its veil. "Not all summons are made with good intentions..." He looked at the chains on his wrists, glaring with hatred. "Narinder," His name had a distinct flavor. Faintly reminiscent of the iron tang of blood, a faint chill lingering beyond the sound. She could feel the magic in it, sparks in her body, tingling and electric. While she knew she would only use his name in conversations with him and him alone, that didn't mean she wouldn't use it in private moments of prayer. Perhaps he would be just a little present in those now. She liked that thought, smiling and blushing despite herself. "Your name will be cherished and protected." "Good. Now Una, go rid this world of my enemies, slowly and horrifically please." He grinned, sharp teeth glistening from ear to ear.

Narinder watched her go, as she turned into an ethereal energy and vanished. The gateway was silent. The realm of death was not known for its liveliness. Aym and Baal stood stoic and unflinching, as if they had not heard any of the conversation. Slowly the tension in his body faded, feeling the familiar weight of the chains on his arms. Soon. Patience. Their next meeting would likely be after Shamura's defeat, and then everything would be in place.

"I look forward to our next meeting Una."

[the-californicationist]

thoughts on price w a lactation kink?? 🫣

Plenty. See Exhibit A and Exhibit B, if you will.

But, if you just want some thoughts... 😈

NSFW MDNI TW: lactation kink, breeding kink, sacrilege? but in sort of a Hozier kind of way...

I don't think that John Price has a lactation kink purely for the selfish satisfaction of watching your face twist into a complicated smear of shame and pleasure as he sucks the sweet, life-giving warmth from your swollen breast, using his jaw to knead your flesh, his tongue to help guide your nectar between his lips, sucking in long, deep pulls to drain you of your rich milk.

Price doesn't just get off on the little, desperate mewl you make when his thick beard scrapes the softest skin of your nipple, rolling the tip of his strong tongue around your pert peak, coaxing your body to let down even more of his prize. Even though he tries his best to stay focused on keeping a steady rhythm, your silky stream rushing down his throat makes his cock twitch and drool like a starving, snarling beast, hungry for its own hot supper.

No, he yearns for that one, singular sound. The siren's song of his heart. He wants to hear you breathe it in your lungs and form it in your mouth and let it escape like a dove from its dark cote, quiet and yet cooing right into his eager ears.

Your sigh of relief makes his dick pulse with a sort of sick pride. From all of your soreness and tender pain, the constant ache of bearing your decadent burdens, he is the one to deliver you to peace. He is the one to bring you comfort. Him and his hungry, suckling mouth are your sanctuary.

Price's zealous thirst is your release from hurt, from pressure, from the leaking rivulets staining your sheets, a bright, new-found freedom from being so overfull that it makes you want to sob, and it's that mind-wiping alleviation which makes you so pliant for him, so ready and willing to spread your legs just a little wider, love, so he can feed his prick deep into your sacred, sacral center; that throbbing, shining, nearly-opalescent shell which welcomes his girthy offering.

As you feed him, he feeds you. Your milk in his mouth, his dick in your cunt. Your keening, his grunting. Your gushing, his pounding. There is a war between you; an infinite entropy of gain and loss and take and give - a roiling, tumbling, undulating wave of pleasure and pressure, rocking you like a ship with slackening sails, soaking at the mercy of the tide.

As you feed him, he heals you. With every crave-wild swallow of your milk, he revels in your satisfaction. Price listens to the timbre of your moans morph from troubled and weary - the hiss of a breath - to sonorant and needy - the hum of a moan - and he hunts that relaxation for you like a lion on a gazelle, dragging it towards you in offering: your protector, your provider.

And yet... there is something else. There's a second shadow, a double exposure. There is something lurking beneath the surface of all of his heroism. Something dark and unmanaged, like a forest and its fire, the flames of his desire licking for you and glowing ever-closer.

You are his to eat. His. Like a snapping mutt with a fresh bone, he subsumes you. You are not just a fleeting fancy, a sneaky kink to enjoy and destroy; no, you are his obsession. His belly is full of you, his cheeks are full of you, his balls are full for you. You. You. You. Just you. Only you. There is nothing else but to suck and to fuck and to drink and to love and to breathe in the breaths that you scream out, gulping them in sharp gasps when he comes up for air, quickly to return to his plush, writhing meal, eating you until he is drunk on your creamy vintage.

Your breasts hang for him like fruit on the vine, heavy and ready to be plucked, and he drowns in the wine of your body. He is wet from you; your pussy's frothy come coating his cock, your sugary cream coating his throat, all of it innocent and white and sacred like an offering. And it is. Your body is his sacrament. He is on his knees as he bends over you, praying for your release, for your blessing, for that twisting clench of your trembling temple. Every thrust is a sin-stained reminder that his work brings about your joy. His effort delivers your delight. His feasting is your fulfillment. John is devout.

And when you're empty, when he continues to drag weak, lax lips over your devoured flesh, mourning the loss of his delicious font, he fills you back up. Price fucks his length into you with complete, shameless abandon, his body arching and sweating and tensing and laboring for you, bending like a bow to shoot rope after rope of sticky come into the deepest part of your shuddering, stretched quim. His mind races with lurid visions of your womb flooding with his seed, of planting a bountiful garden of life with you there, helping you cradle his gift inside of you by sheathing himself fully, letting not one drop escape.

It's the bath and the bubbles afterwards that make him hard again because there you are: sleepy, sated, and sighing so sweetly for him. He tries and fails to hide his flagging erection as he washes your body, covered in temporary tattoos of his teeth and fingers, massaging the muscles that held him so close during his feeding, the arms that cradled his head and hugged his shoulders, the legs that squeezed his hips and wrapped around his broad back, holding onto him and refusing to let go. It's the balms and the lotions, all to keep your skin soft and comforted, and he applies them liberally, rubbing you in soporific circles until you are as far from suffering as you have ever been, floating in a peaceful Eden of his own foddering.

Price admires you as he lays you beside him in his bed, tucking you close to him, letting his belly press against the small of your back, clutching your hip just so that he can rest his cock against your folds, reminding you, even in your sleep, that he is your safety and your source of mindless bliss.

And when you wake up in the middle of the night aching and full again, leaking from your heavy tits? Don't worry. He's always hungry.

[khywren]

Vis Medicatrix

pairing: Astarion/f!reader rating: 18+ MDNI word count: 5.5k tags/warnings: blood/gore, canon-typical violence, smut, piv sex, fingering, soft spawn Astarion

summary: “Y-you’re hurt, Astarion,” you insist with far less emphasis than you had intended, tearing your eyes away from his face with difficulty and looking towards the vials that still sit untouched nearby. “The potions – you should –” Astarion silences your protests with a kiss as his lips crash into yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he gives you a playful nibble. “Was,” he corrects with a growl. His lips move softly against your mouth, reluctant to part from you for even a moment. “I assure you that I'm feeling quite… invigorated now, darling. All thanks to you, of course. And what a delectable little treat you are.” ────────── Astarion goes down in a fight. Back at camp, he has some... ideas about how you might help him recover.

AO3 ┊ masterlist

The sounds of battle echo all around you, a flurry of steel, magic, and claws. The air sizzles with the distinct tang of the Weave as you cast spell after spell, hurtling bolts of fire and ice at the pack of gnolls that has descended upon your small party.

The four of you had quickly been overtaken and separated from one another; Gale and Shadowheart are somewhere out of sight, but you've managed to fight your way back towards Astarion, felling no less than ten gnolls in the process. The ground is littered with corpses; it's no small miracle that none of them belong to you or your friends.

The final gnoll wails as your flames sear its fur and singe its flesh, nearly burning to ash as its body finally gives out and succumbs to its injuries. Astarion's profile finally comes into focus, as does the massive gnoll he's currently face to face with.

The leader of the pack, from the looks of it.

You can't quite hear what Astarion says to it from this distance, but his expression twists into a grimace as he bares his fangs, daggers eager to slake their thirst with its blood.

A peal of laughter tears itself from the gnoll’s throat, a high-pitched, chittering sound that rings harshly in your ears. It bares its yellowed teeth back at Astarion, lips stretched thin over its stinking maw. 

With its paw raised, you watch as the gnoll takes a single swipe at him; Astarion's reaction is immediate, one of his daggers arching upwards in a flourish as he deflects it with expert precision. The beast rains blows down upon him in quick succession, and Astarion staggers back towards the edge of the cliff face behind him each time his blades glance off its claws.

The gnoll rears up once more, but Astarion has already anticipated the trajectory of its next attack. Its paw sails over Astarion's head as he sinks into a crouch with all the grace of the nimble predator he is, and he slices into its matted fur just as it stumbles backwards and narrowly avoids a more fatal wound. It snarls, undaunted, as it waits for another opening. One wrong move could send them both tumbling into the abyss below.

Panic grips your heart like a vise. The bolt of fire you summon in your palm sputters weakly, the last dregs of your magic all but exhausted. You will it to burn as hot as you can, and the flames lick your skin as you cradle it protectively in your palm.

You must aim carefully, you know, or you risk hitting Astarion.

Your footfalls are light as you approach the gnoll from its blind spot, downwind and creeping low to the ground as Astarion had taught you. Locked in its battle with Astarion, it doesn't seem to notice your approach – until the telltale cracking of a branch beneath your boot alerts its sensitive hearing. Its ears swivel in your direction, head whirling around to spot you no more than twenty paces away.

The lapse in judgment is all Astarion needs, and he slips a blade cleanly between the gnoll’s ribs with a single thrust, puncturing its heart. It howls in agony, the sound of it slicing through the air as easily as Astarion's dagger. As it stumbles back to claw at the dagger in its chest, Astarion's eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments, and you see your own relief mirrored in his expression.

Relief that fades the moment the gnoll surges forward and rakes its claws across Astarion's armor, shredding through the leather as if it were nothing more than paper.

You watch in horror as Astarion teeters forward and drops to his knees, bloodstained and broken. The effort of holding his body up is a task he no longer has the strength for, and he collapses into the dirt, motionless.

Rage explodes within you, white-hot and all-consuming. The fire in your palm is extinguished when you clench your fists and break into a sprint, manifesting what's left of your magic to get you to Astarion as quickly as possible.

With the aid of Misty Step, you blink into being behind the gnoll with a burst of crackling Weave, snatching Astarion's second dagger from the ground. It twists around on unsteady feet to face you, but its strength is already waning. The force of your initial blow buries Astarion's dagger into its flank, but it's not enough to quench your anger. Blood sprays into your eyes as you wrench the dagger free, blinding you momentarily before you wipe your hand over your face. Another blow to its chest earns you another wretched howl of pain; a third, which you aim at its throat, is what permanently silences it.

The blade slices cleanly across its neck, and a twisted sense of satisfaction takes hold of you as you watch it topple backwards, its heart finally giving out as it collapses into a crumpled heap at your feet.

Your lungs burn as you catch your breath, the adrenaline coursing through your body finally subsiding. It's then that you realize that Astarion isn't moving. You fall to your knees beside him, tears pricking your eyes.

Beneath what remains of his tattered armor, you can see how deeply he's been wounded, blood pouring from the gouges on his chest. The rich red of it looks ghastly in contrast to his marble skin.

“Astarion,” you plead, shaking him. “Astarion, stay with me!”

Your first instinct is to look for Shadowheart, and your stomach turns when you spot her far across the battlefield, back-to-back with Gale as they fend off a trio of smaller gnolls. There isn't enough time to get to her, and the thought of leaving Astarion, even for a moment, is unthinkable.

Reaching into your pack, you retrieve your last remaining healing potion, uncorking the bottle with your teeth as you tip Astarion's head back. His mouth falls open, and you bring the potion to his lips, trying not to dwell on the exceptionally pallid color of his complexion.

The crimson liquid sloshes over the lip of the bottle and into Astarion's mouth, and although he appears to swallow some of it, most of what you pour out spills uselessly down the side of his face.

Because he doesn't need to breathe, you can't tell if you've already lost him. You don't know if he's colder than usual or if it's simply a cruel trick your mind is playing on you. A sob bubbles in your throat, but when your eyes sweep over your trembling, bloodstained hands, an idea sparks to life within your frantic mind.

Blood.

Your blood has saved Astarion before – in far less perilous circumstances, of course, but that doesn't stop you from reaching for one of Astarion's daggers and wiping it clean on the front of your robes. The blade gleams like a silver tooth in the sunlight, poised to bite into your skin as you hold it over your open palm. You inhale a breath as you drag the blade across your skin, hissing through clenched teeth as a line of bright red blood blooms in its wake.

“Please,” you whisper, appealing to any god who might be listening. A few drops of crimson splash over Astarion's lips as you bring your hand to them, letting your blood flow into his mouth. You watch him, stilled by an overwhelming sense of dread. An ember of hope kindles in your heart as you feel his tongue sweep across the wound on your palm, his throat bobbing as he swallows your offering to him.

“Astarion?”

You call his name softly, watching for the moment his eyes finally flutter open. You've never been so happy to see those deep, swirling pools of ruby red as he looks up at you, exhausted but alive. You can't stop the tears that finally spill over your cheeks, embarrassed to be in such a state after everything that's happened. But none of it matters because he is still with you.

With shaky fingers, reach for his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Astarion's expression flickers across his face, settling somewhere between relief and amusement.

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs, voice cracking with the effort it takes him to speak. He licks the rest of your blood from his lips. “What did I miss?”

────────────────────

By the time you return to camp, freshly washed and dressed in a clean set of robes, the sun has already begun its descent over the horizon.

Most of your companions are busy milling about, attending to their nightly rituals, but Shadowheart’s absence must mean that she is still with Astarion. As you approach his tent on the far edge of the clearing, you hear a pair of familiar voices within, bickering loudly with one another.

“Will you – ow! Must you be so rough?” Astarion gripes, and you spot the distinct glow of Shadowheart’s magic through the dark red canvas. It dances like a moth around a flame, presumably guided between Shadowheart's hands as she attempts to heal Astarion's wounds.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were actually trying to finish me off.”

Shadowheart sighs audibly at him.

“Don't tempt me, Astarion,” she grumbles back. “Gods know it would spare us from your bleating.”

You can practically hear Astarion seething at Shadowheart from inside his tent. Overhearing the commotion, Karlach claps a hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle her snickering laughter, and even Gale seems to be having himself a chuckle as he watches the cookpot by the fire.

If Astarion still has the energy to complain, his wounds must be far less serious than you initially expected. Your shoulders relax, the tension ebbing away when you sigh with relief. You hadn't even noticed how worried you were until your jaw unclenches, leaving you with nothing but a lingering ache.

Shadowheart greets you as she slips outside Astarion's tent, her exhaustion evident in the dark circles around her eyes and her wan expression. What little energy she had left had likely been expended tending to Astarion, and you smile warmly in thanks.

“I've done all I can for tonight,” she tells you. “He's stable, but make sure he drinks the potions I've left him. I’ll see to the rest of his injuries in the morning, once I've recovered my strength.”

Fortunately, the rest of your companions have been spared a similar fate, bone-weary and bruised, but intact. You flex your fingers, the last vestiges of pain from the wound on your palm hardly more than a memory now. Shadowheart's braid whips around her shoulders as she turns towards the fire, enticed by the smell of whatever Gale's prepared for supper.

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you say. “I know Astarion appreciates your help, even if he's not the best at showing it.”

She nods curtly but says nothing more, leaving you alone outside Astarion's tent. Here on the outskirts of camp, the atmosphere is notably dreary.

You feel unexpectedly on edge as you lift back the tent flap and slip inside, uncertain what you will find. Seated on his bedroll clothed only from the waist down, his eyes soften somewhat as he glances up at you. Most of his chest is wrapped in fresh bandages, but their pristine condition tells you that his wounds must have closed by now. His movements are a little stiff, but beyond that he seems no worse for wear. There are a few remaining nicks and scrapes scattered across his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, but those, at least, are largely superficial.

You kneel quietly beside him, smoothing your skirts. 

“How are you feeling?”

Astarion studies you for a moment before he leans back on his hands, head tipped playfully to the side.

“Were you worried, darling? How cute.”

You narrow your eyes at him and scowl, huffing a sigh through your nose. Astarion finds your indignation highly amusing, a single fang flashing from behind his lips as a wide grin spreads across his face.

“I saw what you did to that gnoll, you know,” he says casually after a moment, a blatant attempt to redirect your attention. “Before I lost consciousness.” There's a strange sincerity to his voice, but the moment is gone when he sits upright and leans towards you, resting his face in his hand and balancing an elbow on his knee.

He looks exceptionally mischievous when he says, “I admire your enthusiasm, but I must say, your form was terrible. Might I suggest mastering a butter knife before you try wielding a real weapon?”

“I'll remember that the next time I'm saving your life,” you quip back, waving your hand at him dismissively. But his easy smile disarms you and diffuses your anger as it always does, and you find it hard to stay mad at him for long. If anything were to happen to him, you'd miss his teasing – a fact that you don't plan on sharing, lest it turn him into more of a menace than he already is.

A quiet calm descends over you both, and you feel Astarion watching you as you glance around his tent, purposely avoiding eye contact.

“Come here for a moment, won't you?” Astarion asks suddenly, patting his thigh. You shoot him a questioning glance but climb into his lap nevertheless, mindful not to touch him any more than you need to. He inhales sharply when you put just a little too much pressure on his chest, and you quickly apologize before resting your hands politely in your lap. His intentions become clear the moment he sweeps your damp hair behind your ear and exposes the smooth column of your throat. His fingers ghost over your skin as if he's appraising you, delicate and cool the touch.

 “May I, darling?”

Your heart flutters like a caged bird beneath your ribs when he slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, nails dragging slowly over your scalp. His fingers weave through the soft strands, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

You angle your neck for him, baring the faded twin scars that mark you as his.

“Yes, of course,” you tell him. “Take as much as you need.”

“Wonderful.”

Although Astarion typically enjoys the prelude to the bite as much as the act itself, tonight he's in no mood to be patient. His mouth slots over your pulse point, the rush of warm blood just beneath your skin coaxing a low groan from his cool lips. When his fangs pierce your throat, your breath catches, but he's ever-so-gentle with you as his tongue darts out to collect the first drops of blood that well to the surface.

You feel a change in Astarion's demeanor the moment he tastes you, the hand cradling your head tightening its grip and tugging you closer to him. He inhales sharply, face buried in your neck as he takes several greedy pulls of your blood, feasting like a man starved. Your whole body resonates with the groan that erupts from his throat, the wet glide of his tongue over the puncture marks in your skin coaxing a wanton noise of pleasure from your own.

Your bodies are pressed so closely together now that when his hips roll forward, you feel the unmistakable glide of his clothed cock as he ruts against you, seeking pleasure in more than just your blood. The full length of him swells against you with every swallow as your blood courses through his body, a fact that he is clearly eager to draw to your attention.

Your mind reels, overcome with sensation.

“Really, Astarion?” you admonish him, hands trailing gingerly over the bandages that wrap tightly around the sculpted muscles of his chest. “Right now?” But your voice is strained, despite your best efforts, a thinly-veiled protest at best.

“Why not?” Astarion murmurs salaciously against your neck, lapping at the last trickles of blood that spill down towards your collarbones. “I know you want this too, darling. I can taste it in your blood.”

Another quick thrust of his hips between your parted thighs almost makes you reconsider, but your errant thoughts snag on whatever modicum of sense you have left.

“That's not the point,” you remind him tersely, trying your best to look stern. Your face feels hot with the flush that slowly creeps up your neck and stains your cheeks a bright pink.

Astarion pulls away from you with one last press of his tongue against your flushed skin, purposely dragging a slow, wet stripe along the column of your throat. It's clear from the look on his face, all confident smirk and arched brows, that Astarion doesn't believe a word you've said.

“Isn't it?” he hums with a click of his tongue. An idle hand works its way beneath your skirts, and you lose all composure as his fingers dip between your thighs to find you wet and wanting. He can feel how soaked you are through the thin cotton fabric of your underwear, teasing you with purposely slow strokes of his thumb. You press your lips together into a thin line, but you can't hope to suppress the helpless little whine you make for him.

His eyes pin you in place, wine-dark and hungry. You're left with no option but to look at him as he watches you carefully, considering. “Or are we going to pretend that you're not aching for my cock already?” His voice is honey-sweet, rich and thick and sinfully decadent.

“It would be such a shame to waste all this blood, you know.”

His cock twitches eagerly against your stomach. You picture the way it would feel, buried inside your cunt as he thrusts up and into you, over and over again, the way he always –

“Y-you’re hurt, Astarion,” you insist with far less emphasis than you had intended, tearing your eyes away from his face with difficulty and looking towards the vials that still sit untouched nearby. “The potions – you should –”

Astarion silences your protests with a kiss as his lips crash into yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he gives you a playful nibble.

“Was,” he corrects with a growl. His lips move softly against your mouth, reluctant to part from you for even a moment. “I assure you that I'm feeling quite… invigorated now, darling. All thanks to you, of course. And what a delectable little treat you are.”

It's hard to argue when his tongue is doing such wonderful things to you, slipping into your mouth as he takes his time savoring your taste. He uses the hand anchored in your hair to tilt your head to the side once more, giving him better access. Satisfied with your compliance, he lets that same hand glide over your body, trailing first down the back of your neck before finding its way over the curve of your ribs and into the dip of your waist beneath the bulk of your flowing robes.

Warmed by your blood, his hand leaves you searing wherever it touches, little embers of desire flaring beneath his deft fingers as they dance across your skin. You are nothing more than kindling, ready to erupt.

The timber of his voice changes with the noise that rumbles in his throat, low and practically primal. Your body responds on instinct, hips rocking forward against the hand he still has pressed against your swollen clit.

The friction renders you delirious as your entire body sings in pleasure. The needy little whimper that tumbles past your lips only serves to strengthen Astarion's resolve, tugging the corners of his mouth into a wicked grin.

“Now,” he purrs, “be a dear and indulge me. Or don't, and leave both of us unsatisfied.”

You answer him not with words but with actions, capturing his wrist at the same time you claim his mouth in a clumsy, passionate kiss. He returns the gesture as you guide his hand up and over your chest, sighing with relief as he deftly unbuttons the front of your robes and palms your bare breast beneath. The fabric pools around your waist as Astarion slips the garment off of your shoulders, and you feel your nipples stiffen into peaks in the cool evening air.

Astarion takes his mouth off of you only for a fleeting moment, bending down to encircle a single nipple with his lips and flicking the taut bud with the tip of his tongue. His hands too, are busy bringing you pleasure, one tugging your underwear aside to allow him to slip a finger inside your waiting cunt while the other massages your unattended breast.

“More?” he asks with a voice like velvet, delighted by the whimpering moans that tumble unabated from your open mouth.

“More,” you repeat, arching your back in such a way that pushes you further still into both his hand and his mouth. A second finger joins his first, slipping past your entrance as he buries himself deep. You cry out, throwing your head back as pleasure wracks your writhing body.

Your hands fly to the laces of his trousers, fumbling to untie them. You lack the grace of his experienced fingers, but you manage well enough, hand wrapped around the base of his cock as it springs free from its confines. Astarion shows his appreciation by biting down on the tender part of your breast, hissing through his teeth as you begin to stroke him.

“Eager little pup,” he laughs. “Shall I tell you what I plan to do to you?” 

“Gods, yes,” you groan, admiring the way he feels in your hand, heavy, warm, and so deliciously hard.

“I’m going to fill you with my cock,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers out of your soaking cunt before pushing them back inside, purposely slow as he stretches you wide. “Just. Like. This.”

You see stars when he crooks his fingers inside you, teasing your most sensitive spot. His cock jumps in your hand when you moan his name, precome spilling over your fingers as you increase the pace of your eager strokes.

“And then,” he whispers against your ear, “I'm going to fuck you. Would you like that, my love?”

Your entire body is on fire, drunk on the scent of his perfume, the sensuality of his voice, the feel of him in you and on you. You reach for his face to kiss him again, equally desperate to lose yourself in his taste. 

“Yes,” you assert, running your tongue over a pointed fang. “Yes.”

Astarion’s fingers are moving inside you again, plunging deep within your heated core. Your cunt flutters around him, the inevitable precipice of your unraveling imminent. You mirror each of his thrusts with a stroke of your hand over the full length of him, mounting your pleasure together.

Through the haze of your delirium, a thought occurs to you.

“Wait,” you plead, “not yet.” Astarion's eyes find yours, narrowed beneath his lashes as he struggles not to bring you to the release both of you know you need.

“Bite me again.” Your voice is husky and dripping with desire, a flicker of mischief in your expression. “You said before that you can taste it, right? How badly I want you?”

You watch as his eyes flick to the puncture marks on your neck, ringed with the faintest trace of crimson from before.

“Don't you want to know what I'll taste like when you make me come?”

The hand Astarion slips behind your back crushes you against his chest, face buried against your neck to muffle his languid groan. Whatever pain he feels from his injuries is drowned out by the wave of desire that washes over him.

“Gods, above,” he hisses. His fangs graze your skin, a heady concoction of pleasure and pain. “Wicked woman.”

“Drink, Astarion.”

He sinks his fangs into you once more and you feel his tongue as it eagerly moves to gather the first trickle of your blood. His fingers resume their relentless pace, teasing that sensitive spot inside you with every upstroke. You release his cock, requiring both hands to steady yourself as you throw them around his shoulders and grind your hips desperately against him.

“Astarion.” Your voice is thin, strained from the effort of speaking as you find yourself once more on the precipice, an inferno erupting within you. He groans your name between pulls of your blood, the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.

When at last you let go, you release a strangled cry, dragging your nails down the expanse of his back as your cunt clenches tightly around his fingers. You can tell the moment he tastes the change in your blood, his body stiffening as he drinks more greedily than he ever has before. His Adam's apple bobs with every swallow, the blood loss heightening your euphoria even as you slowly come down from your high.

When your movements finally slow, Astarion retreats from your neck, chest heaving with shuddering little breaths. Your eyes catch his, soft and round and reverent, as he takes your face gently in the palm of his hand.

“That was…”

“Incredible?” you prompt. “I know. It always is, with you.”

It's rare to see Astarion at a loss for words, and you huff a satisfied little laugh, leaning forward to taste the remnants of your blood on his tongue as he slowly kisses you back. He tastes of salt and iron; in a word, intoxicating.

“Your cock,” you say drowsily, hand slipping between your sweat-slicked bodies. “You promised–”

Astarion whisks your robes away, lifting you by the hips and positioning you directly above his eager cock. His fingers glide over your skin, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear as he pulls them over the swell of your backside. You lift your legs to assist him, and he laughs affectionately at the dizzy little way you sway back and forth in his lap.

“My love,” he begins, hands holding you firm. “Are you certain this is what you want? We can always –”

Stubborn indignation surges within you, and you lean precariously to the side and swipe one of the potions Shadowheart had left for Astarion, uncorking it dramatically before downing the entire vial in seconds. The bitter taste makes you grimace, but you immediately feel your strength returning, a newfound vigor returning to your weary muscles.

“I don't want to wait if you don't,” you murmur softly against his lips. “And I want to make you feel good too.”

“You are insatiable,” he says affectionately, pressing tender kisses against your lips and the curve of your jaw, coaxing a long, satisfied sigh from you as you relax against his chest. “Very well, then.”

With your senses sharpened by the healing potion, the glide of his cock through your slick folds is the sweetest pleasure. Your wetness spills down your thighs, and you tremble in anticipation as Astarion's eyes rake up the length of your naked body and settle on your face. They flare like the fires of the hells themselves as he enters you, every delicious inch of his cock stretching you open.

Astarion goans as your pulsing heat envelopes him, mouth falling slack. With his hands on your hips, he seats himself fully inside you, reveling in the way your body molds to his shape.

“Hells,” he huffs, raising your hips up before slamming you back down onto the full length of his cock as he surges up to meet you. “I had… almost forgotten…” he mutters, near incoherent between thrusts, “how tight you are.”

“It hasn't been that long,” you laugh, your composure held together by little more than a single thread as he thrusts himself hard and deep. “Are you sure you didn't hit your head back there?”

Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically, but the wide, lopsided grin that splits his face betrays his true thoughts on the matter.

“I think I liked you better when you were helplessly moaning my name, darling,” he chides, sing-song as he rolls his hips deliciously against you. The blunt head of his cock repeatedly brushes over the spot that makes you whimper, and your eyes go wide before you throw back your head with a guttural moan of pleasure.

“That's more like it,” Astarion gloats. “Much better.”

Your hands meet the solid wall of muscle beneath his bandages when you push him away, and Astarion lets out a disgruntled yelp as his back hits the bedroll. You lean over him, smirking triumphantly.

“And I think I like you better on your back.”

Astarion opens his mouth to retaliate, but he gets no farther than that before you give your hips a languid little roll, his eyes immediately transfixed by the way your breasts bounce when your back arches forward.

“Keep doing that,” he hisses, hands digging into the softest part of your thighs, “and you can have me whichever way you'd like.”

You want to rest your palms on his abdomen to give yourself more leverage, and Astarion spots the way you hover your hands hesitantly over his stomach. Now that the light in his tent catches his body just right, it's easy enough to see he's still bruised beneath the bandages, and the last thing you want to do is cause him any further injury.

Astarion makes the decision for you, reaching for your hands and interlocking your fingers with his. With Astarion as your anchor, you set an easy pace, guiding yourself up and back down the length of his cock, with only the sounds of your soft moans and the wet slap of skin-on-skin between you. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, and you're not even certain he realizes how serene he looks beneath you, the softness of his smile and the affectionate little way he keeps squeezing your hands.

“You're beautiful, Astarion.” It's an effortless admission, as true as it is simple. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen, made even more astonishing by the way he gives himself to you so completely.

“Tell me something I don't know, darling.”

He's deflecting, of course, still uncertain what to do with such an honest declaration. He's heard it a thousand times before, but never as sweetly as the way you tell him.

“I mean it.”

Astarion's lips are still warm when you kiss him, and his hands slip from yours to cup your face. His forehead is sticky with sweat, pressed so gently against your brow as he sighs contentedly into your mouth. The journey to the swell of your hips is something he knows by heart, and he holds you firmly in place as he thrusts up into you, unwilling to deny himself the pleasures of your body for any longer.

Braced with your forearms on either side of his head, you let him piston into you, your entire body trembling as his cock slides home again, and again, and again. Astarion can feel the tightness in your core, the same way he can feel his own approaching release. When his fingers mercifully find your clit, you come for him again with a shuddering moan, face buried in his neck to muffle the sound of it.

Astarion tumbles headfirst after you, unable to hold himself back when the slick walls of your cunt contract around him. He spills himself inside you, pulling your body down on top of his chest to feel the rapid beating of your heart.

When both of you have stilled, you push yourself upright, sitting back on your heels with his cock still fully seated inside you. Astarion's expression widens at the sudden concern on your face, his eyes following the path of your gaze to the blood that's begun seeping through his bandages. 

“Well, that certainly can't be good,” Astarion sighs, wincing slightly as you prod lightly at the open wound. “You're not helping, darling.”

“I did warn you, you know,” you remark. “It's a shame you never listen to me.”

“If I had listened to you, where would you be?” Astarion counters with a fanged smirk. “Sprawled in your bedroll with a hand between your legs, lamenting that it wasn't my co–”

“All right, all right!” you shush him with a hand over his mouth, heaving a sigh. “I'm sure Shadowheart will be thrilled when she finds out.”

“You wouldn't dare,” he blurts. There is genuine panic in his expression now. He sits halfway up as if to stop you from marching out of his tent and announcing your sins to the entire camp, but you don't bother stopping him when he rests his hands on the small of your back.

“If you're trying to buy my silence, you'll have to try harder than that,” you tease, poking him directly in the chest. “And my services don't come cheap.”

“Oh, darling,” Astarion purrs, rising to the challenge. He twists the pair of you around so he has the advantage, pressing you down beneath him as he climbs over your body and leans down to kiss you again.

“I'm just getting started.”

[etz-ashashiyot]

Generally radicalized people are radicalized for a reason: their radicalization does something for them and/or they believe that their desire to reshape society in a way that they believe will fix things does something for them. The key to deradicalizing them, then, is to figure out what that need is and fill it with something else.

Most of the time, people don't actually want rivers of blood, they want justice for wrongs that they feel aren't being heard.

Most of the time, they don't actually hate [X] minority - they don't even know anyone of that minority! They hate the false strawman version of that minority that is completely detached from reality, but that's been sold to them as the source of their problems.

And most people are honestly kinda lazy, lol. They are not going to physically fight for their fucked up ideas unless either (1) they are backed into a corner and literally must, or (2) they get swept up as part of a larger mob where the bully mentality takes over and the few people leading it decide to turn it into a violent mob.

So you gotta suck the wind out of their sails.

This works best if they are in or adjacent to your own communit(ies), because you will have more insight into what this is doing for them.

For the goyische leftists that have been radicalized into Jew hate lately, it's a combination of things. It's a feeling of powerlessness as the world slides rapidly towards fascism and climate crisis. It's the ghosts of unaddressed colonialism that they are choosing to impose their emotional catharsis on this unrelated and falsely analogous situation to enact what they feel would be just in their own society on people safely half the world away. Why there? Well, it's because it's a very small area with all of the culturally significant places that they grew up hearing about from the Bible in church, so it carries emotional weight. Most importantly, both parties are small and neither party has much international power to stop them, so they are able to impose their own narrative on the situation and speak over everyone actually there. Anyone who tries to correct them is drowned out. And, it's the history of Soviet antisemitism that is baked into the DNA of most western leftist movements and which Jews have never had the numbers or power to force them to actually confront.

Jew hatred is extremely convenient and Jews have been murdered in large enough numbers that we are easy to talk over.

Now usually, when you start pointing these things out, and especially when you start pointing out how ineffective and self-serving their "activism" on behalf of Palestinians is, they are too radicalized to do anything but react emotionally. They will spit out talking points, but none of these things actually address any of the above. They usually just devolve into "but but, Israeli war crimes!!" like it's a talisman against accurate allegations of antisemitism.

Why won't they listen to reason? When you show them how what they're saying is literal Nazi propaganda with the swastikas filed off and "Zionists" being used as a stand-in for Jews while they simultaneously vociferously deny any connection between Jews and Zionism? Why won't they take any accountability for their bigotry? Why won't they, at a minimum, listen to the Palestinians who want peace even if they won't listen to Jews advocating for the same thing?

It's because then they would have to give up the major benefits that they've been reaping from this situation: the social capital, the excuses to act out, the glow of feeling totally righteous in their fury, the catharsis - and trade it for the extremely unappealing process of actually becoming a decent person and a better advocate for their cause. It's hurting people they don't care about and they have a whole lot of organizations and institutions and people with actual power who materially benefit from their misdirected anger stoking the flames, and helping them lie to themselves that they are actually helping someone besides themselves and the handful of true beneficiaries behind the conflict.

They are being used.

And in twenty years they'll wake up and realize that they spent their youth shouting Nazi and Stalinist slogans of hatred that only benefitted right-wing hawks on both sides who make actual money and power off this conflict at the expense of two persecuted minorities. But they will be ashamed and will bury that behavior underneath silence and excuses.

This happens in every generation, by the way. Every 70 - 100 years, people find a socially plausible reason to hate and kill Jews because it is easier than standing up to the people with actual power. We are people they know they can hurt, and so long as they lie to themselves about who they're hurting and why, it feels really good.

Overcoming that directly has never worked.

It doesn't work because catharsis and punching down or laterally feels productive and owning their biases and bigotry and developing practical long-term strategies is tedious and often feels like shit.

What I've seen real activists do is to address the need for catharsis, praise, and to feel useful in other ways, because they are often less attached to the specific lowest hanging bigoted fruit and more in the rewards it gives them.

If we want to see this change, yelling at leftists that they're being bigoted morons feels good (productivity! feeling a sense of reclaiming control and power from helplessness! catharsis! We are not immune to these human needs either) but it's counterproductive. You don't convince a toddler to give up the shiny dangerous toy by trying to just snatch it away - if anything, you've now cemented this as an epic struggle for all time against the cold, cruel, injustices of the parental controls. No, you have to give them a new, safer toy.

My position is that if we want to see movement on this, we need to suck it up, stop yelling at the radicalized, and start finding ways to help Palestine that both feel gratifying and are actually pro-peace.

And, for the true sick fucks who really do want rivers of Jewish blood (and if a bunch of Gazans are martyred in the process, oh well)? That's where we need our true allies to help us fight back the most. This type of person will never respond to anything but power, so they will back down if they feel that they are truly threatened. To get the rest of the fair weather friends on board, we need to show how these violent tantrums are actually threatening their new catharsis, gratification, and progress so that they aren't swayed by the bullies and instead want to guard their new emotional investment and moral high ground.

Ultimately, we all want to feel like we're the good guys. We want catharsis. We want instant gratification. We want to see movement. We want justice for the wrongs committed against us and those we choose to see ourselves in community with. Many of us have real-world serious grievances that are intractable and that we don't have the individual power to fix, but are intolerable as things currently stand. These people aren't special; they aren't different from us and we aren't different from them in those ways. The problem is that activism - real activism that actually moves the needle - will typically not give you that satisfaction or meet those needs, and most people don't have the mental space to meet those needs in a better way, so punching laterally becomes the quick fix solution. Meanwhile, the people in actual positions of power benefit from this gladiator fight.

And until actual activists reckon with that reality, we are going to see more and more of the same.

[catsteeth]

The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 4 ✿:+ Candle Flames

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, -, 5

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it. 

CW: SMUT, MINORS DNI, afab reader, thigh fucking, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, alcohol consumption, mention of death, mention of arranged marriage, LOTS OF VIOLENCE, blood, implied threat of non-con, 

Word Count: 4738

After you’d spoken to Loras, you’d felt even more alone than before. The talk offered no comfort other than the fact he didn’t want you dead. Sansa was fine company but she was something you felt the strong urge to protect. You put yourself in harm's way constantly just to prevent her from facing any pain.

Specifically one incident when you and her were walking with the Royal Party after watching the Princess sail away to Dorne to be wed off. It was hard to watch the crying girl sail away, especially when you’d been in her very place. 

It was easy to keep your eyes averted to such a sight when The Hound was there to accompany Joffrey. You kept your head low but your eyes stayed on him. You’d still had so many questions about the night you both shared, but now was not the time to ask. 

Later making your way back through the capital city you were sickened by the sights you saw. The Lannisters and Baretheons were supposed to be the wealthiest and most powerful houses. And yet the people of their cities sit in filth and starve. Starving over a war they did not want nor started. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to be even the least bit angry when the crowd began to shout vile things. However you found yourself slightly confused once you heard the words ‘bastard’, ‘incest monster’, and ‘brother-fucker’ being sworn towards the royal party.

However your confusion only occupied your mind for a brief moment before someone within the crowd hurled cow manure at the King's face. You felt a brief sense of enjoyment when you saw it hit his face, but it was soon replaced by fear when the King ordered for the execution of the entire crowd,

“Find the man who did that and bring him to me! Kill them, Kill them all!” The King shouted.

Foolish it was, he’d only a few gold cloaks, some kingsguard, and even less knights. Outnumbered by the hundreds of rioting starving people.

Sandor grabbed hold of Joffrey protecting him.

“What are you doing? I want these people executed!” Joffrey whined loudly

“And they want the same for you!” He shouted back

The city watch was quickly overpowered. And the High Septon that you and the royal party was traveling with was pulled into the crowd. You were horrified to witness him being pulled limb from limb, never seen such a thing in your life.

“Move, Move!” Tyrion shouted at you

As the Kingsgaurd were able to eventually carve somewhat of a path towards the entrance of the Red Keep, Joffrey, Cersei, and Tyrion were all rushed inside quickly. 

Before you could make your way inside you noticed your cousin Sansa being derailed and separated from the rest. 

You grabbed ahold of her quickly and pushed her into a Kingsguard who brought her inside. However once she was in, without seeing you they closed the doors. 

Alone.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

Inside the keep 

“You blind bloody fool!” Tyrion scolded Joffrey’s moronic behavior by hitting and cursing at him. “We’ve had vicious kings, we’ve had idiot kings, but I don’t know if we’ve ever had an idiot king!”

“You’re talking to a King!” Joffrey shouted back like an embarrassed child.

Tyrion raised his hand and slapped him “And now I’ve struck a King, did my hand fall from my wrist?” He shouted back, he turned around and noticed you were not there, “Where is the Arryn girl?” He shouted at the men. 

“Let them have her!” Joffrey retorted 

“If she dies her relatives in the North won't forget it! She’s cared for in the vale and might I remind you she shares blood with the Starks! You need her alive!” He shouted back before frantically calling upon all the king's men to return to save you. 

“Gather your men and find her!” He shouted to Ser Meryn 

“I only take orders from my king, imp.” Meryn responded coldy. 

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ 

Meanwhile as you attempted to hide in a dark hall, winding up in some kind of stable. You thought for a moment you’d made it there unnoticed and alone. However four men soon walked in behind you as you backed yourself against a wall. Your hand found his way around the handle of a small sharp shovel of some kind. The blade of it was sharp and flat. 

You’d not said a word, you knew if you shouted for them to get back or to fuck off it would be of no use. 

“Look at this little bird's eyes, she’s furious.” One of the men with short hair was mocked. 

“I’ve no gold, no silver, no bread.” You said in a low tone, firm voice. 

“Aye, but you’ve got something.” The taller man said with a crooked grin.

As that man began to take a step towards you, you grasped the handle of the shovel firmly and stabbed it into him. Between his neck and his collarbone. 

As the other men began to shuffle towards you, you pulled the shovel back out and pointed it at them as their friend fell to the ground holding his bleeding wound. 

The man with short hair managed to grab ahold of you whilst his other friend grabbed ahold of your wrist, yanking the shovel out of your hand. The man with short hair placed his hand over your mouth, in response you bit down onto his fingers so hard you were afraid your teeth would shatter. You could taste the blood rush into your mouth. 

In response to your bite, with his other hand he hit you creating a cut over your eyebrow. It threw you off just enough to make you fall back and into the other man's arms. 

The three men began to pin you down shouting vulgar remarks, as they did you kicking at them and scratching at them. Just as the one with short hair began to undo his pants, he was stopped. 

Picked up by the back of his neck like a puppy, practically lifted off of the ground. His guts were cut out of him. As his body fell to the ground you saw him, it wasn’t Sandor, it was The Hound. This is what everyone spoke of. 

The men who held your wrists were next. He cut with precision. His swords swung and took off the man's head. The next he grabbed before he could escape. Slamming his fist into his head, and shoving his blade deep into his stomach. Once he was done he put away his sword. He turned back towards you, and it was him again, Sandor. 

He bent his knee to you and spoke softly “You’re alright now, little bird, you're alright.” He said as he picked you up in both arms and carried you back to safety. 

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧

As the two of you entered the keep Tyrion was shocked. 

Once Sandor placed you down gently, a few ladies including Sansa rushed to your side pawing at your bloody face. 

“My Lady are you hurt?” Tyrion asked as he tried to assess whether the blood on your mouth and hands were yours or not. 

“Little birds hurt, get her back to her cage. See that cut on her head.” Sandor commanded the women as he walked away, 

as he did Tyrion shouted back to him. “Well done, Clegane.”

To which Sandor responded, 

“I didn’t do it for you.” 

Tyrion, confused by his words, went back to your side and asked again before your ladies could take you away. “My lady, are you hurt? There’s blood- your hands and-“ he said reaching his to touch your chin where the blood from your mouth dropped. 

“I bit one.” You said plainly, exhaustion in your eyes, unwilling to attempt that you’d murdered a man. 

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

As you laid in your bed that night, you looked at the one candle you had burning beside your bed. Contemplating whether or not to blow it out. Watching the flame kept your mind away from the memories you’d made today. You’d never seen such horrid things before, and much less partook in them. You’d killed a man. And yet, felt no remorse, which made you feel terrible, but maybe that alone counted for something. But soon even that left as your memories shifted to the feeling of being in Sandor's arms. 

Before you could blow it out, 

you began to hear the sounds of metal clanking up the hall. Sandor thought you’d never notice, but he often walked up and down your halls more than he was meant to. Simply to make sure you were alright. 

Every time you heard the metal clanking pass you’d smile to yourself. Only this time it stopped, in front of your door. You sat up slightly on your elbows and peered towards the door. Without knocking, he came inside your chamber. 

“What’re you doing here?” You asked in a whisper. 

He didn’t respond, but made his way to that same golden pitcher in the corner of your room. 

“It’s water, remember?” You said. He huffed and put it back down without taking a swig of it. 

“What are you-” You began before he spoke in a low deep husky voice. 

“You could’ve been killed.” He said without looking at you. 

“But I wasn’t.” You said in a sweet whisper.

He began to walk towards your bed. “The fucking cunts would ‘ave taken you bloody every which way, that pretty throat would’ve been slit open. You’d been left for the fucking rats.” 

You took his hand and pulled him onto the bed, his metal scrapping the delicate sheets as he sat on it. 

“You saved me, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever seen.” You said with a strange kind of adornment, one he’d never heard before. 

“Brave?” He dryly scoffed, “Dogs don't need courage to chase rats.” 

“You’re no dog.” You say with that same sweet whisper, it’s as if you’d realized you’d began to fall deeper into whatever emotional trap you two had created here. 

“You killed that man?” He asked in a low whisper. 

“I did.”

“How’d that feel.” 

“Necessary.” 

He stared at you for a moment, not in judgment or disgust but in understanding and some other emotion you couldn’t quite understand just yet. 

“You can’t do that again.” 

“Kill?” 

“No.” His eyebrows furrowed, he couldn’t give less of a shit who you killed or why, “You risked your life for that Stark girl.” 

“You saw that?” 

“She kept yapping about it.” His tone husky 

“I needed her safe first.”

“Too bad.” He said not giving you any room to argue as his thumb ran over the cut on your eyebrow, you winced slightly. “I’d kill those cock sucking rats a million times again if I could. Died too quickly. I should have cut their arms off, their hands, taken their eyes for even looking at you.” 

Your hand came to his jaw, pulling yourself to his lips but he pulled away. with a sigh he came close again. He rested his forehead on yours. 

“I don’t know how to- do this- gently.” He let out a small rumble, “fuck” he hissed “i want to do this gently. I want to be gentle with you.”

He was like a dog given a bone that he so badly wanted to preserve. 

His hand came to your lap, and fisted the fabric of your nightgown. You placed your hands on top of his, you smoothed out his hand to lay flat on your lap. 

“Like this..” you whispered as you guided his hand up, making the fabric ride up. As your thighs became more and more visible he stopped and backed away, 

“No, no this isn’t right.” He grumbled as he walked over towards a large chair in the corner of your room. His face was illuminated by that single candle light. You could see his frustration and desperation in a battle with one another. 

You stood, and walked towards him. He slumped forwards. Resting his forearms against his strong thighs. 

“I can’t be what you wan- what you need.” He corrected. His voice was low and deep. 

You pushed him back by his shoulders, making him lean against the back of the chair. His deep scowl was ever present but it didn’t stop you from running your fingers through his coarse hair. 

“I shouldn’t have come back here. Should’ve stayed the fuck away. Left you be,” 

“I don’t think either of us have much a choice.” You said as you moved yourself between his large thighs. Standing in front of him still running your hands through his hair. “Do you think of that night?” You asked in a whisper. 

“Fuck do you think-“ He barked back before you stopped him, 

“Gentle.” You corrected him 

“Aye.” He conceded painfully, his hands coming to your sides holding you by your waist. His large hands engulfed your ribs. 

“What part of it do you think of?” You whispered sweetly as you began to move on top of him. Your thighs spread across his as you straddled him. His eyes never leave yours. 

He grumbled something low, you couldn’t make it out, but it sounded like “Your eyes.” 

You didn’t want to push him, to make him repeat it. 

Your hand cupped his chin, as you slowly pressed your lips against his. You pecked at his lips for a moment. Then pulling away, looking into his eyes waiting for his response. His eyes filled with shame, he looked away. 

You pressed a kiss into the scarred tissue on his cheek, he flinched at the feelings and his eyes darted back to you, 

“My face, why did you-“ He rasped suddenly 

“Don’t you want me?” 

“Course’ I do but I-“ he cut himself off as his lips hit yours once again, he sucked on your lips as hardly audible groans escaped his throat. 

You pressed your thinly clothed cunt against his hardening bulge. However as soon as he felt it he grabbed you by your hips and lifted you up. You whined, and his forehead slumped forward and rested on your chest. “Fuck-“ he said breathlessly, “Can’t do that shit to me.” he panted. 

“Why?” you whined a little too loudly, his grip on you tightened. 

“Told you, stubborn fucking girl.” He finally caught his breathe, “Ye poke at me too much and i’ll fuck you bloody.” His eyes leaving yours in what looked like guilt.

“That’s what I want-“ 

“Don’t matter.” He snipped back quickly, his eyes snapping back to yours. “Once you're wed that imp will stick his cock in ya’ and know you’re not his.” He said, his words harsh, sharp and cold 

“I’m not.” you said, his eyes went a little wide, with what? adornment? 

You slowly lowered your hips onto his once again. Waiting for his push back but were met with none. You let out a small gasp as the bulge separated your lips through the thin fabric that covered your cunt. Another moan left your lips once you felt the hardened mound poke at your entrance. You grinded against it, your cunt began to clench around nothing. 

“At’s it” He groaned into your neck, “Grin’ yerself on my cock.” He grumbled low and deep. 

His face contorted, his muscles tensed, and his groans became more and more primal. His grip on your hips began to sting a little how tightly he held you. Your cheeks began to heat up, and that knot in your stomach tightened. 

He picked you up abruptly, kissing your neck. 

“On your back, now.” He commanded as he placed you onto the fur rug on your bed chambers floor. 

He untied his breeches that clearly had a wet spot on it, unclear if it was your doing or his. He was still fully covered in his armor, as he pulled out his cock. Harder than you’d seen it before. 

You rode up your night gown to your hips and slipped out of the thin underclothes you’d had on. 

He was on his knees before you, you on your back, legs bent and spread, ready and inviting. 

He stared at you, admiring you. 

He placed his heavy aching member between your folds. Rubbing up and down, his tip hitting your clit in the most perfect way. 

He pressed your thighs together, and he let out a long drawn out groan. 

“Fuck!” He hissed as he began to buck himself against your cunt. “So fuckin’ wet” He growled as his bucking continued in a more erratic pace. 

You arched your back and squeezed your thighs together as his fat tip kept hitting your clit

“Don’t- Don’t stop.” You whimpered looking up at his hair falling into his face, his eyes trailing all over you, from your wet thighs to your breasts that bounced with every thrust to your pouting lips all the way back to your eyes. 

“Not fuckin’ stopping.” He said through gritted teeth. “But,” He was stopped by a deep guttural moan, “Don’t look at me like that.” He said panting, “You’ll make me finish too quickly.” He said once more through gritted teeth. 

You took it as a challenge, stubborn as you were. You gave him a smile, and a giggle. 

“Fuckin' stubborn girl.” He said through gritted teeth, then picking you up and turning you around. Your back flesh with his armored chest. 

He pressed your thighs together again, and pushed his cock back in between them, but slightly missing and catching your entrance. Even though he graced it only slightly you moaned so beautifully it almost made him cum right then. That's when you realized how truly lovely it would feel to have him inside of you. 

“I want it inside” You moaned as one of your arms reached over and behind you to wrap around his broad shoulders. While your other hand held his large forearm that draped over your stomach holding you in place. 

“Can’t do that to you.” He said breathlessly, as his other hand removed the straps of your gown. As it fell to your waist, he cupped your breasts, his large hand completely engulfing it. 

You whined again. You didn’t care if you were ruined, you wanted to be. But you couldn’t force him. 

His tongue and teeth danced along your neck, you begged in your mind that he’d bite down or suck on your skin but no, never. Never to burden you with evidence that this ever happened. 

You felt that heat rise and the knot in your belly begin to snap. He could feel you clenching and it produced a vulgar moan from him, 

“That’s alright, you can cum,” He grunted, as he said that you moved your head back and faced him. “MH-” He gave you a sloppy and passionate kiss to mute your moan as you came over his cock. As your high was ridden out, he continued to thrust, he separated the kiss and looked deeply into your now exhausted and satisfied eyes, “Sandor” You whispered, sweetly, “Sandor,” 

He didn’t break your eye contact, his teeth gritted as he tried to hold back his moans as he began to spill out and over your thighs, “(Y/N)” He growled with a final deep and long thrust. 

As you laid there, on the fur rug of your room catching your breath. He laid with you. 

You peered over to him, “I meant what I said.” He peered over to you, raising one eyebrow. “I’m not his.” You said softly. 

“Aye.” He looked away, “But for your sake he’d better think you are.” He said in a low husky voice. 

You raised your hand to his scarred cheek, you began to run your fingers over it when he pulled away. 

“I don’t mind it, really,” You whispered. 

“Every one fucking minds it.” He hissed 

“I don’t.” You said back defiantly 

He huffed, and laid there in silence, he looked over at you, feelings somewhat bad he’d snapped at you. ‘Gentle’ he remembered. 

“When I was a boy, my brother caught me with one of his toys. Thought I stole it. I didn’t, just playing with it. Pressed my head to the fire. All like Baelish told you.” He let out another sigh, “But the worst part was that it was my brother who did it. And my father who protected him. Told everyone my bedding caught fire.” 

You moved closer to him and rested your head on his chest. You tried to listen to his heart beating through the armor, only making out a few muffled thumps. Your eyes heavy, closed soon enough. 

When you woke in the middle of the night you were in your alone bed, your legs were cleaned and you were dressed. 

And 

Your candle was out.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

Every Morning since the riots you were awoken by a handmaiden, sometimes two. They’d dress you in red or gold. Braiding your hair, being sure to put lots of intricate, and no doubt expensive hair pins in it. You were beginning to feel more like the ornate decor that was scattered around kings landing than you felt like an actual woman anymore. 

As you walked the halls your handmaidens were like guards, guards of a prisoner. 

You passed a mirror as you walked and caught a glimpse of yourself, hardly recognizable. “As high as honour” what a joke you thought. Look at you now, looking more and more like a Lannister with each passing day. The red and gold you were forced to wear was a stark contrast from the blues and silvers you’d grown to love. But now you’d really had no home. You didn’t align yourself with the rest of your house anymore either. Lysa and Robin felt like intruders in your home, and they treated you the same. And now, Baelish was a true intruder in it. Being allowed in by your stepmother who’d no right to allow him entrance. Entrance to your home and now your titles. Rightfully yours. 

To gain your titles the Lannister's were your only hope now, so for now you’d be Cersei’s doll and Tyrion's wife. For now, you’d play along. 

But where did that leave Sandor?

You knew that first night he was angry, not at you. He was angry you were the one thing he couldn’t protect. You were his master's thing and couldn’t stop them from toying with you. He was angry you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and just like everything he couldn’t have. He was angry he couldn’t tell you how much he wanted you. 

And the second night, he was scared, and vulnerable. 

You’d stopped eating since the riot. Normally, that would have gone unnoticed. However your now doting husband has made sure to keep eyes on you at all times. Your handmaidens are unwilling to engage in an argument with you knowing you aren’t the person to pick a fight with, told Tyrion. 

As your ladies ceaselessly brought you trays of food whilst you attempted to lounge on your balcony while you read you simply waved your hand at each tray, now not even bothering with a “No, thank you.” As it didn’t seem to stop them. 

Tyrion stepped onto the balcony, your eyes went towards him but snapped back onto your book as soon as you knew who was joining your handmaidens in disturbing your peace. 

“Lord Tyrion.” You said in greeting, hardly exerting any energy into it. You would have felt badly about discarding your virtue once more for another man if he’d hadn’t made you feel even more like a prisoner. 

“Lady (Y/N)” He said back, sitting across from you, “What are you reading?”

“Something of little consequence,” You said, closing the book and looking over your shoulder at the women who surrounded you “May we be left alone?” You asked, the women didn’t budge but looked to Tyrion who nodded at them, once at his command they left. 

“They don’t listen to me.” You said with harsh eyes. 

“I told them not to.” He said with a huff as he repositioned himself in his seat and putting on a half hearted smile. 

“Did you tell them to dress me like this too?” You said tossing the closed book to the side table next to you. 

“I asked them to help you fit in,” He said, leaning closer to you, his eyes filled with some kind of concern. “Joffrey has a tendency to single you out I wanted to see if I could correct that... Aesthetically.. Cersei had some dresses made for you and-”

“If you wish for me to continue to view you favorably, you are failing.” You said stoically, "Was I inadequate before?"

"No- no I-" He stopped himself, “I just want to do all I can to ensure your safety.” He conceded. You did appreciate it, but your need for freedom overweighed that appreciation heavily.

You sighed and looked away, off towards the near distant ocean of blue. You fidgeted with your new golden rings on your fingers. “And, you’re not eating.” He said in a lower tone, 

“And, you’re spying on me?” You said now focusing back on him. 

“Your ladies told me-” 

“Your ladies.” You corrected. 

“I am concerned. Ever since the riots you’ve not eaten a meal.” He huffed, “You need to eat. Name any food you want and I wish to have it made.” 

“I don’t want to eat.” You responded bluntly.  

“I am your husband to be, It is my duty-”

“Your duty? Your duty to imprison me in this place, in this engagement?” Your angry scowl dropped soon as you realized how cutting your words were. To him he was keeping you from further harm, and you knew that. You sighed and looked back to the sea, “It is hard for me to eat, it is hard for me to sleep.”

“Tell me how to help and I will.” He said almost pleading as he leaned forward and held his hands out palms up. "I’d do anything for my lady wife.” The words ‘lady wife’ made you want to vomit, especially after the previous night. 

“I want to go home. I want to claim my titles.” 

“You and I both.” He said with a dry chuckle. “I have wanted to claim my own birthrights long enough to know the feeling.”

“Were they stolen from under your grieving feet by Petyr Baelish?” 

“No-”

“Mine were. And I am powerless to stop it, because I sit here in this castle in these red gowns and Lannister gold. I am presenting myself as indifferent to my own birthright being stolen from me.” You sighed, “I understand what you are trying to do. I do, I may be angry but I do understand. But you need to understand this, in doing what you feel is protecting me, whether it is or is not, you have taken whatever independence I had left.”

“I understand.” He said sitting back into his seat, “And I will do all I can to help you proclaim your titles. But, it would seem Stannis aims to attack this city.” 

“Stannis Baretheon?” You asked in some confusion, no one ever told you anything.

“It seems we are not the only ones who wish to claim titles.” He said in an attempt to jest, “So we're not the men to fight for you yet, however we aim to win this war. Once it is, I will see to it that your titles are restored.” 

You smiled, “Thank you, Tyrion.” Although not in the slightest comforted by the idea of war approaching your doorstep

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

As you walked down the halls of the castle you were hit with a brick wall, Sandor. 

“you’re not eating.” Sandor said in a hushed but deep and husky tone

“How’d you-” You began before he interrupted you. 

“All those fucking handmaidens tell the royals.” He said in annoyance

“I eat when I'm hungry. haven’t been in a while.” 

“you don’t eat, you’ll starve.” His voice was like he was warning you.

“unlikely. That takes time. Stannis aims to attack the city. I'm sure I'll be dead then.” You responded stoically.

“You won’t die.” He said as if it were fact,

“How can you be certain?” You retorted defiantly 

“Cause I fucking said so.” He said stomping off, his cape flowing behind him.

NOTE: Hey all you cool cats and kittens I hope you like this one!!! The next two are going to be a wittle cwazy just a warning... ALSO yall I wrote the smut part during jury duty LMAO... anyways

Also the last few chapters have gotten so much love and I am so very grateful thank you!!! <3

[chibinasuu]

Ghost Ship | Straw Hats x Reader

★ requested by @supernatural-hunter1 (see here)

Summary: There’s no need to fear Davy Jones and his ship of ghosts. After all, it’s just a myth… or is it? Tags: sfw, platonic straw hats x reader, GN!reader, no use of y/n

Disclaimer: There are many myths and legends about Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman, but the one here is my reimagined version, borrowing elements from One Piece’s Flying Dutchman lore (Fishman Island Arc, ch. 606) and some from the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. 

It was a festive night onboard the Thousand Sunny. 

Earlier, the Captain of the Straw Hat Pirates had begged the cook to prepare a feast tonight, without any reasons whatsoever. The cook was hesitant at first, as he was not one to use excessive ingredients when unnecessary, but with the last of the fresh supplies they got at Water 7 on the brink of losing their quality, Sanji had relented and cooked up an extravagant banquet for the crew. 

Not wanting to waste a beautiful moonlit night, the Straw Hats set up picnic blankets on the Sunny’s lawn deck to enjoy their dinner. Franky had busted out his ukulele, playing a cheery tune that transformed the quiet night into a lively one. A portable metal fire pit sat in the center of the lawn, the flames providing light and warmth as the crew partied the night away. 

It was not uncommon for this particular crew that a night of drinking would evolve into a night of daring each other to do stupid things. Luffy’s face was currently caked with Nami’s makeup, Zoro and Sanji were reluctantly interlocking hands as per Robin’s dare, and Chopper had one of Franky’s (clean) underwear strung between his antlers. The dares were getting more and more ridiculous as the game went on, to the point where Usopp had just challenged you to skinny-dip off the side of the ship. One glance over the railing at the dark, cold, and uninviting waters had you sitting back down on the deck. 

“Yeah, right,” You scoffed and downed a shot in lieu of doing the dare, “That’d get me sent straight to Davy Jones’ locker!”

“Whose what now?” Usopp asked with his head tilted in confusion, the phrase unfamiliar to his ears.

It was such a common saying in the South Blue, where you were from, that you just blurted it out unthinkingly. There were no Southern seafarers who didn’t know about the mythical pirate Davy Jones and his ship full of ghosts. 

“The Davy Jones’ locker.” You repeated matter-of-factly. Surprisingly, none of your crewmates seemed to show even a hint of recognition. You eyed them one by one, but all of them sported similar blank looks, “Oh c’mon, Davy Jones? The Flying Dutchman? Ring a bell?”

“Robin, you must know it.” You turned to the archaeologist, certain that she must have read about the legend before in one of her books, but she merely shook her head.

“No way,” you looked at your crew in disbelief, “And you call yourselves pirates?”

“Hey!” Luffy protested indignantly, “What’s a flying locker got to do with being a pirate?” 

“Huh,” you shrugged, “Guess the story’s only popular in South Blue then.”

“Ooh, a story?” Chopper leaned forward toward you in anticipation, “I wanna hear it!”

“Alright then, listen up.” You looked at your friends with a sly smile, “But beware, this tale is not for the fainthearted.”

You started the story, lowering your voice in a mediocre attempt to sound spooky, “Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, a pirate crew was sailing on troubled waters when its captain – by the name of Davy Jones – suddenly fell ill and lost his mind. He killed his whole crew, chucking them off the ship one by one into the angry sea.”

Robin’s eyes sparkled with intrigue, while Zoro looked unbothered, but was listening intently nonetheless. Luffy was munching on some meat, only half paying attention. Franky had put down his ukulele, and Sanji took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes never straying away from you. Usopp, Nami, and Chopper had started to huddle together, never ones to enjoy scary stories. 

“When he came to, Davy Jones realized what terrible deed he had done and blamed the gods for his madness, throwing curses at the rulers of the seas and the skies.”

The silence that now shrouded the chilly night only added to the tense atmosphere, broken just by the low whistle of the winds against the sails and the faint crash of the waves against the hull. No one dared breathe a word to interrupt as you continued your tale. 

“The gods were furious and punished Davy Jones to roam the seas for eternity aboard his ship, the Flying Dutchman, doomed to ferry the souls of those lost to the sea to the world beyond, far deep through the oceanic abyss, which sailors came to know as the Davy Jones’ locker.”

Unbeknownst to the crew, a shroud of unnatural mist has started to surround the ship. Its tendrils snaked through the gaps and crevices, slowly infiltrating the deck.

“They say the Flying Dutchman still roams the seas to this day, never able to make port.” You paused for dramatic effect, “People say, that if you’re unlucky enough to encounter it, you could hear the lost souls onboard the ghost ship sing; Dead men tell no tales, dead men have no desires. Dead men don’t need jewels on their–”

“ENOUGH!!” Usopp yelled, covering his ears, “That’s enough, I don’t want to hear it anymore!”

By this point, the fog had gotten so thick that it was impossible not to notice. The crew was suddenly overcome with a sense of dread, goosebumps creeping on their skin.

“Wh-what is this mist?!” Nami shrieked, “What’s happening?! I don’t like this!”

Zoro and Sanji stood up, whipping their heads around in search of enemies or threats, but nothing emerged from within the murk. Nami and Usopp were now clinging to each other, screaming their heads off when suddenly, Chopper pointed at something in the distance and squealed, “Wh-wh-what’s that?!”

A silhouette of an old, rickety vessel materialized from beyond the mist, sailing head-on toward the Thousand Sunny. Its tattered sails swayed in the winds, a faded glow cloaking its body. 

Screams of panic filled the air as Usopp, Nami, and Chopper ran around in terror.

“That’s it, I’m going inside! You guys deal with that!” Nami exclaimed, rushing towards the safety of the sleeping quarters.

“Oi, Nami, wait for me!” Usopp ran after her, Chopper closely following behind, “Can I sleep in the girls’ room tonight?!”

“Nah, man.” Zoro shook his head, “Give me monsters or devils, and I’ll fight them. But, I don’t fuck with things I can’t cut with my swords.” He said before hightailing it to the boys’ quarters.

Sanji stammered that he was “definitely not scared of ghosts, unlike the cowardly mosshead” but claimed that he wanted to make some midnight snacks and speed-walked to the kitchen. The mere mention of a midnight snack had Luffy following Sanji like a puppy, all thoughts of ghosts or whatever vanishing from his mind, and so he too, was gone. 

With most of the Straw Hats cowering inside, the deck was once again plunged into a thick silence as the mysterious ship crept closer and closer.

A sudden slow clap permeated the stillness.

You looked behind you to see Robin smiling knowingly, “Incredible.” She chuckled, addressing you and the only other remaining Straw Hat on deck, “How did you two do it?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Robin.” You deflected unconvincingly, trying to hold back a smile.

“Yeah, Robin, what do you mean?” Franky added with a cheeky grin, “That’s totally a real ghost ship comin’ right at us.” 

“Alright, keep your secrets.” Robin said with a laugh, “I’m going to bed. Make sure you clean up nicely, hm?”

Once Robin was out of sight, Franky offered his big metal hand to you, and you slapped it in an enthusiastic high-five. The two of you broke out in laughter, ecstatic at the success – for the most part – of your harmless but elaborate prank. 

“Ah, that was a good one.” He sighed, wiping a stray tear from his eye, “Did you see their faces?” 

You grinned at him, “I thought we fooled everyone, but Robin’s a tough one, isn’t she?”

“She’s super smart,” Franky laughed, “I knew from the beginning that she wouldn’t buy it.”

He took out a remote from his shirt pocket and pushed the big red button on it. Instantly, the mirage of the ghost ship disappeared as the light projector hidden inside the lion figurehead’s mouth was deactivated. The smoke machines mounted through the side portholes also died down, and the thick fog surrounding the ship gradually dissipated. 

Since no one was around anymore, you and Franky took up the job of cleaning up the lawn, considering it as a way to make up for the fright you gave the rest of the crew. You stacked the dirty plates, gathered all the empty booze bottles, and folded up the blankets. The big, yellow moon provided ample brightness even as Franky killed the fire. 

“Franky,” You called out as you noticed something in the horizon, “I thought you shut off the machine.”

“Yeah, I did.” The cyborg replied without even looking at you, still focused on cleaning the fire pit. 

A chill of uneasiness ran through you at his answer, “Then… what’s that?”

Franky looked up at your shaky voice and turned to the front of the ship, eyes bulging in shock at what met his sight. 

A curtain of thick, black fog coated the ocean and sky ahead, swallowing the stars from the sky and plunging the waters into total darkness, where no moonlight reached it.

And the Sunny was sailing right at it. 

You and Franky could only stare at the unfathomable phenomenon as you stood frozen side-by-side.

“Oh, we are super fucked, aren’t we?”

a/n: bonus points if you got what the thick fog at the end was supposed to be! anyway, i had so much fun writing this!! it might be a bit early for a halloween post but i hope you all enjoyed this silly little fic nonetheless 🧡

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[oneawkwardwriter]

prince caspian, inspired by 'I see the light' from tangled also imagine on the dawn threader at night under the moon and the stars

anything else is up to you

I See The Light

pairing: Dawn Treader!King Caspian x gn!reader warnings: a little bit of pining, very intense eye-contact, maybe perhaps some kissing... maybe even perhaps things getting just a little bit more heated... not quite nsfw, but there's some implying summary: you're staring at the moon and stars; Caspian is staring at you a/n: thank you so much for requesting this, I absolutely LOVE Tangled and I've recently come back into my King Caspian Narnia hyperfixation. Also, this is techically not the first time I've written something like this, but definitely one of the better things I've written wc: 1.3k

The only light, besides that of the moon, that illuminates your path to the railing of the Dawn Treader is the lantern at the helm, where a faint flame is dancing in its little cage.

For the first time since you've left the harbour, the midnight sky is fully clear, not a cloud that dares to blanket the twinkling stars or the silver glow of the moon. It's colder than usual, a light breeze blows against your cheek.

You lean down on the railing, resting your head in the palm of your hand as you look up at the sky. For some reason, there's something mesmerising about the way the moon casts a silver glow across the water, how the stars form constellations that only exist because someone decided to connect the dots to make some sense of it all.

You're too caught up in your own head to hear the door to below deck open. And so Caspian, King of Narnia, finds you staring out into the midnight sky. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, a smile adorns his lips. His eyes skim over your figure, taking in every detail as the wind lightly ruffles your hair.

For a moment, he just stands there, not wanting to disturb you. After some time, he carefully approaches you. You hadn't noticed him at first, but after a while, you had felt his eyes burning in your back. So when he came to stand beside you, you weren't entirely startled.

"Can't sleep?" Caspian asks softly, not looking you in the eyes just yet and instead looks up at the sky as well.

"Oh, I'm sure I could if I bothered to try," You answer, "It's just that the sky hasn't been this clear ever since we sailed out of the harbour."

"It also hasn't been this cold ever since we sailed out of the harbour," He remarks, "A simple shirt won't keep you warm enough."

"Oh please, I'm fine," You say, even though you're unable to hide the shiver as it runs down your spine. "Besides, shouldn't you be fast asleep in your bed?"

The king lets out a dry chuckle and shakes his head. "Perhaps, but luckily for me, I don't have to follow orders," He says, his gaze drifting towards you now, "You, on the other hand, would be wise to do so. You should go to bed, get some rest."

You playfully roll your eyes. "I'll go to bed shortly," You say, looking back at him as well now. "You know, you're welcome to stay here for a while, Your Majesty."

"Oh, don't go calling me by my title now, we're past that," He says, finally being able to properly look you in the eyes. "Please, just call me Caspian. Also, thank you for allowing me to stay on my own ship."

"Alright, I didn't mean it like that," You respond as you lightly chuckle and shake your head, "I just didn't want you to think you couldn't be here because I was already here, even though it's your ship, which you said and... I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Caspian looked at you with a light smile on his lips, his eyes trained on yours. "You are, but please, don't stop on my account," He says, moving almost unnoticably closer. "Really, do continue, please."

"Oh, okay, uhm..." It didn't make sense why your mind suddenly went completely blank. There was no reason for your cheeks suddenly feeling warm and turning a bright red. "What... what did you want to talk about?"

"Oh, anything, really," Caspian answered, the silver light of the moon reflecting in his eyes. "That wasn't an order, by the way. I just... really love it when you talk."

"Good to know," You say softly, averting your eyes for a moment before looking back up at the midnight sky. "So... the sky is beautiful tonight, isn't it?"

"Yes, it truly is." If you had looked at him, you would've seen Caspian's eyes were still trained on you rather than the sky. "The way the moon and stars cast their silver glow is... truly mesmerising."

Despite the chilled breeze that glides over the ship and the silence between them, the atmosphere is strangely comfortable and relaxed. Time seems to stand still, stretching the minutes into an eternity as the two of you continue to gaze up at the midnight sky.

After Aslan knows how long, Caspian softly speaks up again. "Have I ever told you why I love being at sea so much?"

You avert your gaze from the stars to look at him. "No, but please, do tell."

"Back in the palace," He begins, "everyone and everything always seems to be in such a hurry. And despite all of that, I feel like I'm doing nothing but chasing down daydreams until the days just... blur together.

"But out here, everything is so peaceful. The gentle rocking of the ship, the glow of the starlight... suddenly, everything is crystal clear, like I've finally found what I'm supposed to do."

You softly smile as you listen intentively, resting your head on the palm of his hand. After a while, Caspian looks at you in slight confusion, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" He asks, letting out a soft chuckle.

"Oh, nothing," You say, your smile turning into the lightest of smirks as you continue, "I just... really love it when you talk."

Caspian let out another chuckle as he shakes his head. "Using my own words against me, are you now?" He comments teasingly, leaning in just a little bit closer. "Are you sure it's a good idea to challenge your king?"

"Didn't you say that we were past using your title?" You raise an eyebrow at him, daring enough to take a small step closer as well. "And if not, what will you do? Exile me?"

"Oh no, my dear, I wouldn't dream of it." The world seemed to somehow shift into a blur as the back of his fingers lightly brushes against your cheek, creating a contrast between the warmth of his touch and the chilled gusts of the wind. "Has anyone ever told you your eyes are as bright as the stars above?"

The light touch of his hand and his soothing words managed to knock the breath out of your lungs, the way he gazed into your eyes left you in a trance-like state. If your eyes were as bright as the stars, his were brighter than a thousand suns with the intensity he was looking at you.

Slowly, carefully, an invisble force seemed to push the two of you closer together until there were mere millimeters between your lips. And then, time seemed to freeze into a moment of uncertainty, even though the electricity could be sliced with a knife.

"Tell me to stop," Caspian breathed, his hand resting on your cheek as those brown eyes bored into yours. "My Starlight, tell me to stop. I won't be able to hold back."

"Don't stop... don't hold back."

And that was all he needed to hear before closing the distance between you. In his defense, he really intended on holding back on the intensity, but as soon as those words had fallen from your lips, he was done for.

One hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his body while his older hand held steadily onto your face. Your hands crept into his hair, your fingers softly running through the strands, earning yourself a soft groan falling from his lips.

His grip on your waist tightens slightly, the fervour in his kiss grows a little stronger. "Please," He whispers against your lips, nearly sounding like a desperate plea.

"Okay..." You respond breathlessly, letting him pull you towards the stairs leading to below deck.

© This work belongs to @oneawkwardwriter, please do not copy this work to any other site or claim it as your own. Reblogs are allowed and appreciated!

Taglist: @unofficialxmarvelfreak

(to join the taglist, simply leave a comment or message me!)

[dollycxre]

Fem Mortal Reader x Yandere Hestia, but the reader isn't a pushover.

:)

yandere! Hestia x fem! mortal! Reader - ♡ general hcs

warnings -> none....it's hestia...actually, slight clinginess??

paring/s -> yandere! Hestia x mortal! fem! reader (gender of the reader isn't mentioned or relevant tbh)

a/n -> rising from my grave to finish this

————————————————————

-> meeting her as a mortal means that you're probably gonna meet her in your fireplace

-> the most likely scenario is that you had just faced one of the worst heartbreaks in your life— losing a family member, a regular breakup, whatever

-> Hestia, being who she is, would probably not be able to bear the sight of someone in pain, guiding the fire to warm you up, flames flickering up towards you as if in a comforting manner

-> her presence is a very comforting and homely feeling and when she concentrates on a particular hearth, her power increases tenfold

-> probably resulting in you dozing off in a cozy armchair, fast asleep like your world hadn't just come crashing down around you

-> she watches you sleep so peacefully (but like- in a non creepy way)

-> she keeps on at it for a while, watching you do your daily chores for a while, admiring you from a safe distance and slowly falling for you

-> I don't think Hestia would even bother trying to disguise herself as a regular human to you, she just pops up in your fireplace one day and shyly starts a conversation

-> Depending on your reaction, she'd either cool you down or happily continue your conversation like literally nothing ever happened

-> I'm not gonna go into details but she'd win you over pretty damn quickly and starts dating you as soon as possible

(now for some domestic fluff...cuz it's hestia)

-> I have this headcanon that because Hestia is the goddess of family, she'd know all the best picnic spots

-> like you cannot tell me that she wouldn't know the most gorgeous cliffside overlooking a sea view in the world and take you there as a date

-> she likes baking for you because she adores how your face lights up when she makes you those cookies you love so much

-> she already knows your allergies and taste in food so don't even bother telling her, she's already got the best recipes she has set in mind :)

-> she likes taking you on peaceful walks with her while she's disguised as a human

-> watching all the different people walk by with their dogs, significant others, etc, etc makes her very happy

-> she'll point out to you all the small, gorgeous details your eyes might've missed

->she wants to show you the beauty of the world you live in!

-> definitely takes you to visit her favourite places in greece

->dresses up like a local that the people know well by now and takes you to her favourite parts of her homeland <3

->wants you to try all the native food, 100%

->when it comes to the issue of her being an immortal goddess and you being a regular ol mortal with a short life span (compared to her anyway), she'll try to convince you to let her feed you nectar

->obviously, you say something along the lines of 'fuck no'

->she's devastated when you abandon her at the table in the restaurant she took you to, to run away

->keeps popping up in the hearth whenever you light your fire (only for you to extinguish the flames with water)

->she finally gets you to have a normal, healthy conversation with her when she catches you off guard while you're napping by the fireplace

->would probably end with a compromise (somehow) that she'd make your closest friends and family immortal with you so that you'd all be able to live together

->after that, your relationship is pretty much smooth sailing

->Hestia isn't a very possessive or jealous person and she usually communicates that she's uncomfortable when she is

->cuz, y'know...she's actually sane (unlike the rest of her siblings and nephews and nieces)

->adopts an animal with you, a hundred percent <3

->likes cuddling you in her hearth, because it's so warm and cozy that you always end up falling asleep on her chest

->and she likes that :)

->takes you up to Olympus because she isn't scared of someone else taking you away

->none of the gods would even try because who would want to make Hestia upset? (especially cause it's mostly out of fondness, rather than terror *cough cough* Athena *cough cough*)

->anyway, she's probably one of the best girlfriends in the world <3

->can't and doesn't marry you because of her vow, but gives you a promise ring and lets you give her one if you really wanted to <3

->mostly just overly clingy, staying by your side whenever she can and hearth-hopping to wherever you go— work, out with friends, etc

BONUS!

-> she leaves you with Aphrodite if she's busy, because Aphrodite thinks you're adorable and always spends her time with you helping her doves make you all pretty for Hestia, Cinderella's fairy godmother style :)

[lovemybluebully]

Over My Dead Body

Got writer's block on the fic I mentioned with X23 so I wrote this to keep my creative juices flowing. 😁 Hope you guys don't mind. lol I swear this was just going to be a little drabble, buuuuuuut I got carried away. It was just like, I have an idea! Oooh I have another idea! And then it just spiraled. 🤣 I suck at writing short fics. lol

Probably not my best work, but just a little silliness between these two guys. Another fic where Wade discovers Logan is ticklish and goes all out on him. I very much enjoy tickle origin fics. 🥰

Again some somewhat movie spoilers, but if you haven't seen the biggest movie in the world by now then that's your fault. lol Then of course the typical foul language and Deadpool's dirty mouth.

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

M/M Tickle Fic

Word Count: 5,139

"Fucking give me that remote, Wilson!" Logan let out a teeth-bared snarl while chasing Wade comically around and around the couch like in a Scooby Doo cartoon.

"But baby cakes, I want to watch 'Touched By An Angel'! Wade snickered, managing to stay just one step ahead.

"Fuck that shit! This is the final round for the Flames in the Stanley Cup, and I am NOT missing it!" He finally caught up to Wade and took him down with a flying tackle of heavy adamantium as they both crashed to the floor and the tv remote went sailing out of reach.

Logan quickly scrambled to his feet as he made a break for it, but Wade successfully grabbed his leg to trip him as he hit the floor again with the merc now up and giggling as he ran to claim the prize.

"Yessss! Home run! And the crowd goes wild!" Wade mimicked the sounds of a cheering stadium while triumphantly holding the remote over his head. However, this was instantaneously followed by a loud growl from Logan as he charged his roommate like a bull and slammed into him harder than a Mack truck.

Wade didn't have time to yelp as his body went flying across the room though the remote had been knocked from his grasp and dropped to the ground, exploding the case open as the batteries all popped out. Logan reached down to pick it all up, shaking his head in annoyance as he walked back over towards the couch and tried to jam the batteries back in properly.

"Motherfucking idiot. Just sit your stupid ass down and take the L. I'm putting on the hockey game and that's that."

But Wade wasn't through yet. He was having too much fun with this! He was always trying to get Logan to roughhouse and play with him, but with the X-man being such a stiff it was hard to get him to let loose. Alcohol usually played a big factor in getting Logan to loosen his inhibitions and engage, but at the current moment he was sober as a judge. 

Pissing him off was the next best thing, and Wade loved a good chase and the physical contact, even if it was of the more painful variety. They had a rule about not spilling any blood inside the apartment, but he knew Logan could be pushed too far sometimes and forget about that so Wade would usually back off before he reached that point.

Though at this present time he had only antagonized him a little bit so he knew Logan would be able to tolerate him just a smidge more.

Logan's hypersensitive ears easily picked up the sound of the energetic man coming at him again as he turned around just as Wade plowed all of his weight into him to tackle him onto the couch. Wade quickly took the position to straddle the man's thighs and started making grabs for the remote as growling curses were hurled at him.

"Goddammit! You juvenile fucking moron! Just back off! The only way you're getting this is over my dead body!"

"Bet," Deadpool nodded and kept up in his efforts.

As they played slap-hands fighting to get a hold of the controller it slipped from their grip, hitting Logan in the face on its way down before sliding inside his collar down into his button-up overshirt.

"Nice going, captain loser. Don't worry, I'll get it!" Wade immediately went after it as he haphazardly began squeezing and poking around Logan's midsection as he tried to find the location of the remote hidden beneath the fabric.

As irritated as he was Logan now found that he had a new problem as his body started involuntarily reacting to the way Wade was grabbing at him. It was making his skin crawl. Shivers running up his spine as he began to writhe underneath the other man, trying to avoid the touches.

"Stop squirming, would you? You're making this way harder than it has to be. And I can't find the remote either," Wade teased, always managing to slip in inappropriate innuendos, but Logan was too occupied to make a sarcastic retort as he frantically tried to grab and get control of Wade's busy hands.

"Q-Quit it, shithead!" Logan gritted through his teeth as Wade just clucked his tongue and shook his head.

"Oh c'mon! Stop fighting it and just give it up!" Wade's words held a double meaning in this situation as his hands moved lower, giving the grump a particularly firm squeeze around his hips as Logan couldn't hold it in anymore. 

His back arched off the couch accompanied by a loud snort; his nose scrunched as a soft string of giggles tumbled their way out. 

Upon hearing that Wade immediately stopped what he was doing; practically frozen in shock as he stared down at the bigger male below him. After a few long, tense moments a slow grin of realization started to spread over his face and Logan was suddenly overcome with a feeling of immense dread at what was about to transpire.

"Did...Did you just giggle?"

"....No," was all Logan could say lamely; his uneasy mind not allowing him to come up with anything else as Wade only smiled more.

"Now here's the plot twist that I never would have expected. You wanna tell me what that was all about? Forgive me if I'm finding it difficult to believe that a hardened tough guy like you could possibly be, dare I say it.....ticklish."

Logan's eyes betrayed him as they widened in pure terror; his brain frantically trying to figure out a solution to get him out of this mess, but his silence told more than enough.

"Ohohoho, you are, aren't you? Well this just made things a lot more sexy...I mean, interesting," Wade stroked his own chin, pondering the situation while Logan finally regained his wit and was now on the rebound to try to deny it.

"What? Are you kidding? Tch! I am not ticklish. Where the fuck do you come up with such stupid ideas?" He made his best attempt to sound convincing, but Wade could easily see right through his bullshit.

"I gotta tell you that all sounds exactly like something a ticklish person would say. A pitiful performance like that isn't going to win you any Oscars," Wade smirked before his eyes then drifted back down to Logan's torso, "Oh dear. It looks like the remote has fallen inside your shirt. Whatever shall we do?"

Wade was gently tugging at the front of his shirt as Logan narrowed his eyes.

"Just get offa me and I'll get it myself. Quit looking for excuses to grope me, ya fucking pervert," Logan growled deeply with his characteristic hard-as-nails Wolverine glare, trying to be as off-putting as possible to hopefully get Wade to lose the notion.

"But it's so confusing when your mouth says 'no', but your eyes say 'yes'," Wade grinned, giving a light tickle to Logan's sides that made him flinch, "By the way, what do you want your safe word to be?"

"Touch me and I will cut your useless motherfucking head off, Wilson."

Wade laughed chaotically and shook his head.

"Now that's kind of a mouthful to say. You should pick something easier like 'umbrella' or 'avocado' or 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'-"

Logan realized he was running out of time for stalling and was now struggling to push Wade off of him before he could actually carry out this heinous act, but the merc simply shoved his arms aside and launched his attack, tickling wildly along his ribcage.

"Oh I get it! You don't want a safe word! Very kinky! I like your style! Well you did say the only way I was getting the remote was over your dead body. Who knew it was going to be death by tickling?"

Logan made a strained grunting noise as he steeled himself and began writhing about, still fighting to force Wade off despite the fingers running along his ribs. He in no way wanted to give Wade the satisfaction of making him laugh and would hold it in for as long as he could.

"Looks like we've got a tough guy, ladies and gentlemen," Wade grinned, momentarily looking out at the camera then turning back to his victim, "You know in all the fanfics I've read it's always the toughest guys that are the most ticklish of all. Look at you doing everything in your power not to laugh. How cute. Too bad you're not going to be able to keep that up. I pretty much wrote the book on 'lerring."

Wolverine had no idea what that meant but could hardly fathom the idea that he was going to have to listen to Wade's annoying jabbering and teases without being able to give him a piece of his mind. Because if he even dared to open his mouth it was game over and he was going to fucking lose it.

"So are you like one of those guys who are only ticklish around here...," Wade squeezed and massaged into his sides as an involuntary grin stretched across Logan's face while keeping his jaw clenched, "Or are you one of those head-to-toe ticklish kinda guys? I'm betting the latter."

While still keeping one hand digging into his side Deadpool now reached up to teasingly trace his fingers with a feather-light touch over Logan's ear and down his neck as the man wrenched his head away and scrunched up his shoulder to try to cover up that side of his head.

"Ooooh so sensitive. Am I going to have some fun with you. All we're missing is the sweet sound of your laughter. C'moooooooon just let it out already. You're not embarrassed of your laugh, are you? I'm sure it's wonderful. Don't be shy now, it's just the two of us here."

Every word that came out of Wade's mouth was slowly eating away at Logan's resolve along with his mental capacity to resist the laughter building up inside of him. Giving into Wade's demands was not high on his list of favorable activities, but he knew it was about to happen whether he wanted it to or not.

"You are one hard nut to crack, I'll give you that. But that's okay, it's just going to make breaking you even sweeter. Heheh, look how red your face is. You look like you're about to explode. I just need to find the right spot to poke that bubble and free you of your burden. Hmmm, I think I know where....," Wade smirked big time as he changed tactics to thrust his hands underneath Logan's arms and furiously tickle into his armpits.

The battle was finally over. Logan had fought for as long as he possibly could, but he just couldn't take it anymore. With Wade having honed in on one of his most sensitive areas he felt his lips make one last valiant effort to stay sealed as they trembled right before releasing his loud, pent-up outburst.

"HAHAHaahaha! AhahahahaStop! Stahahahap ihihhit!" Logan hollered as he managed to shove Wade's hands out of his pits, though they immediately latched onto his waist and dug right in. Wade was beyond pleased with this turn of events.

"Ahhhh there it is. And it's just as adorable as I imagined. See? Nothing to be embarrassed about," Wade's grin encompassed his whole face as he didn't let up and kept kneading his thumbs right above Logan's hips.

"I wahahahasn't embahahaharrassed, ya dehehehense fuhuhuhucking prihihihiiick!  Gahahahahaa! Just didhihihidn't wahahahaha-wahant to gihihihive you the sss-satisfahahahaction!" Logan struggled to speak clearly through his laughter as he twisted and squirmed, trying to wriggle out from under the other man.

"Well mission failed, my little stud muffin. I can't believe you've been hiding your ticklishness from me all this time. Think of all the fun we're going to have together now!" Wade exclaimed with pure glee as he moved back up to the ribs now that he was receiving the reactions he wanted, making Logan cackle uncontrollably.

"Fuhuhuhuhuuuuck!! Okaahahahay! You gohohohohot meheheee! I'm tihihihicklish! Now fuhuhuhuhuhuck ohhohohoff!" Logan's hysterical proclamation was accompanied by a series of hard snorts, making Wade's face light up even more.

"You're a snorter?! Oh that's just so precious! How can you expect me to fuck off after hearing that?! Nononono, I think I will keep fucking on, thank you very much! Besides if I stop now then this will be the shortest tickle fic ever written!" He increased his speed, probing between every rib bone as he played his friend's sides like a ticklish piano.

Logan surprisingly laughed even harder, wheezing for air as he continued letting out a snort every few seconds with his burly arms pitifully clamped as tight as he could against his sides. Nothing was stopping the devilishly dexterous fingers of his hyper roommate though.

"Wihihihilsonaaahahahahah.......sssstooooohahahahahahooooop! I'll....I'll gihihihihive you ohohone lahahahast chaaa-EEEHEEHEEHeheheheheheeh!" Logan literally squealed much to his chagrin as he broke into high-pitched giggles with Wade switching spots to now claw mercilessly at his stomach and waist.

"Oh I've never heard a Wolverine squeal before. It's just the gift that keeps on giving. Definitely going to need that as my new ringtone. But hmmm, I think this could be better...," Wade mused as his fingers kept scratching over the buttons going down Logan's flannel shirt, no doubt hindering his tickling efforts if only a little.

In the next second he grabbed Logan's overshirt and pulled hard in opposite directions to pop all the buttons as the remote was finally freed and clattered to the floor. The mercenary smirked as he saw that Logan wasn't wearing anything underneath as his hairy, heavy-muscled torso was now on full display.

Logan was grateful that it had all stopped and the remote was now nowhere near him as he leaned his head back and tried to catch his breath.

"........Fuck......Okay.....You win you win. Just take the fucking thing.....and go ahead and watch your stupid ass shoHOHohOhOHOhoW! NAAAAHOHOHOHOOOOO!!"

Logan had thought it was over, but his momentary sparkle of hope vanished instantly as Wade paid the controller no mind and lunged for him again.

"Ahh yes, that's much better! Now I can really get my hands in here!" Wade smirked in delight with his fingers currently buried and wriggling into Logan's armpits while the feral man roared with deep belly laughs before fizzling into helpless wheezes.

"Ohoho you're very tickly here, aren't you? Bet you wish you would've chosen a safe word now, huh? Or not. Maybe you're enjoying this. Is that it? Don't lie to me now."

"I'm gohohohohonna fffffff-aaahahahhahahah.....fuhuhuhucking k-kihihihill yooooou!" Logan wheezed out as he weakly smacked at Wade's arms and haphazardly kicked his legs around.

"Awww don't be mean, peanut. I just can't get enough of the sound of your laugh. That's not a crime, is it?"

Logan couldn't remember having ever been tickled like this. It had been so long since he'd been this close to anybody, and his memory of such things was pretty fuzzy of anything that happened before his regrettable incident. After those events he'd become even more withdrawn and had fallen deep into depression from the unbearable guilt he felt, confident that he never deserved to be happy again.

And then this annoying little fucker appeared at that bar one day and dragged him on the wildest, most fucked up adventure he could ever recall being on. If at the beginning of all that someone had told him that Wade and he were going to become great friends then he would have laughed right in their face.

But it did happen, and Logan was taken-aback to finally be around someone again who actually cared about his well-being. Someone who wanted the best for him and to make sure that he knew that he mattered. Someone who wanted nothing more than for him to be happy.

And Deadpool was always trying to make him laugh. The look of genuine happiness on Wade's face was unmatched whenever one of his jokes managed to land and make Logan chuckle. The X-man seemed to smile a lot more these days, but laughing was still a rare occurrence for him, which is why Logan was so defensive against the tickling that was currently causing him to do so.

But could he say with complete honesty that he truly hated all this? The answer irked him a little bit because it was no, he didn't hate it, but he was conflicted because he still didn't think he should be allowed to feel pure joy again. 

He felt that guilt come up again when he admitted to himself that laughing like this actually felt good. He didn't deserve to feel good. Ever. But obviously Wade had a difference of opinion on that. Wanting him to smile. Wanting him to laugh. Wanting him to let go of his guilt and be happy in this universe that undoubtedly wouldn't be here without him.

"Don't think I forgot about this little sweet spot!"

Wade brought him out of these thoughts rather quickly once he began scribbling all ten fingers over his taut, bare stomach as the Wolverine tossed his head back in howling laughter with his eyes squeezed shut and tears forming in the corners of them.

"Coochie coochie coo! Awwww wittle Wolvie is so ticklish! Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" The merc cooed playfully, knowing all these teases were key to breaking down Logan's mental barriers. And it was working as Logan finally stopped feeling sorry for himself and just gave into it all.

"W-Waaade nooooo! Aahahahahahaah! Cuhuhuhut it ohohhohout! Pleeheheheheeease!"

The merc cocked his head in amusement, having never heard Logan even come close to begging for anything before.

"Oooooh this really is a killer spot, isn't it? Is this rock-hard belly of yours the most ticklish of all? How ironic," Wade mused while absentmindedly squirming a finger down into his navel, making Logan buck strongly and shriek with unrestrained giggles.

"Shihihihiiiiit! Aaaheehehehehehee! Noohohohooot in thehehehere! Fohohor fuhuhuhucks saahaahaakeheehehehehehahahah-st-stoohahahahop tihihihickling! You're kihihhihillin' meheeheehee!"

Wade's stomach did a little somersault at how vulnerable Logan was now being with him. It was all he ever wanted was to see his friend let go of all his anger and self-loathing of the past and surrender himself to the present day. 

Logan was laughing freely now. He wasn't grinding his teeth and trying to hold anything in anymore and he even stopped really fighting to get Wade off of him.  His face and chest were flushed, tears running down his cheeks as he just laid there in a squirming heap with his wide-open mouth releasing endless peals of laughter and pleas for mercy.

In all honesty Wade didn't want to stop just so he could keep Logan in this state for as long as possible where he was freed from the prison of his own mind, though he knew that he'd have to let him go eventually. Still not quite this second.

"Stop? But I couldn't possibly! Look how happy it's making you! I'd be an asshole to rob you of that! Lucky for you I'm such a good friend, huh?! Tickletickletickletickle! Laugh it up, buddy!" He kept ruthlessly tickling his heaving belly while his other hand slid up to creep back into his armpit, rendering Logan into a powerless wheezing wreck.

"Nohohohooot fahahahaaair! Baahahhhahahaha! Wahahade pleeeease! I cahahahaa-cahahaan't tahahake anymohohohore! Uhuhuhuhuncle!"

Between Wade's unrelenting yapping and Logan's loud fits of laughter they both failed to hear the sound of the front doorknob rattling right before it opened and in walked Dopinder with several plastic bags of take-out in his hands.

"Hello? Your UberEats order is here, Mr. Logan. I've got your hot wings and your pizza rolls and your-AAAH!!" Dopinder let out a scream as he rounded the corner to find Wade straddling and feeling up a howling, red-faced and bare-chested Wolverine. 

Upon hearing the terrified cry Wade immediately paused what he was doing as he looked back over his shoulder like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Uhh heeeey Dopinder. Ummm.....This isn't what it looks like.....," he had a guilty look on his face, but quickly revealed his facade as he broke into a devious grin, "Just fucking with you! It's totally what it looks like!"

"And-And what exactly does it look like?" The younger man dared to ask despite his better judgement.

"Well you see Dopinder when two men start living together they begin to develop these feelings; feelings that cause them to get these strong urges that they just can't ignore and-," Wade's tirade of nonsense was cut off as Logan took the opportunity to give him a hard shove and flip him over the back of the couch between pants for air

"Fucking idiot. Don't...freak out, kid. The asshole....was just ticklin' me...is all," Logan breathlessly grunted while moving to take a normal seated position on the couch as Wade then popped his head up from the back.

"That's what he wants to call it. Wanna get in on this action, Dopinder?"

"Oh uhh hehe, n-no thank you. I actually have some more deliveries to get finished. Ermm, next time perhaps," he stuttered nervously as he gingerly placed the food down onto the coffee table in front of them and began to make his exit from the apartment.

"Don't think I'm not holding you to that," Wade teased, making his former cab driver blush and dart out through the door as Wade chuckled and nudged Logan in the shoulder, "Hehehe, did you see how flustered he got? I'll bet he's even more ticklish than you are."

"Leave the kid alone, Wilson. You'd probably kill him. He doesn't have a healing factor like I do," Logan snorted, bunching up his shoulders as Wade lightly ran a finger across the back of his neck.

"Ohh I can be gentle if I want. But I'm pretty sure you're the kind of guy who likes it rough," Wade teased as he moved around to the front of the couch to sit next to the other man, surprised to hear Logan let out a low chuckle.

"Was that a laugh? Nice to see you finally start to appreciate my elite level of humor. Maybe I won't have to start with the daily tickle sessions after all."

Logan made a face at that and lifted his brow.

"Daily? Yeah fuck no, that ain't happening. Once in a while......fine. But I don't think I could take it every day," he mentally shivered thinking about what Wade just put him through.

"Tell you what, you start laughing a little more at my jokes and I'll consider it. But no fake laughing! Because I can tell the difference! Especially now that I know what your real laugh sounds like and let me tell you it's going to be hard for me to get enough of it," Wade experimentally grabbed his knee, giving it a firm squeeze and digging his fingers in around the kneecap as Logan instantly wheezed out a laugh and quickly wrenched the hand off of him.

"Alrihight! I get it! Promise I'll try!"

"I guess that's all I can ask of you. Of course I'm still making it my mission to find everywhere else you're ticklish, and what other really bad spots you have.....unless you just want to tell me," Wade suggested with a grin as Logan just smirked right back.

"Now where'd be the fun in that?"

"You know, you are so right, you smug little honey badger. I gotta say though I'm liking this mood you're in now."

"Well it's your fault. Ya tickled me so bad I couldn't even think straight. Seems like you pushed all the negative thoughts right outta my mind," Logan confessed as Wade began to reconsider his earlier promise.

"Is that so? Hmmm maybe those daily tickle sessions are a good idea after all...," Wade teased just to watch Logan squirm at the thought again.

"I don't think so, bub. Besides, look what ya did," he gestured to his wide-open shirt, pointing at all the areas missing buttons, "You ruined my favorite fucking shirt, dickhead."

"Hardly. You've got like twenty of the exact same one. That's all you ever wear," Wade was quick to point out as Logan just shrugged with a smile.

"So? What's your point?"

"My point is you're a walking fashion disaster. But okay, I'll try not to be so rough next time. We can do the gentle stuff if you prefer. So for research purposes can you tell me how you feel about feathers, hm?" He grinned as he saw Logan shift uneasily in his seat.

"You're gettin' a little crazy now, Wilson."

"Oh c'moooon, just imagine a nice, fluffy feather teasing that big ol' neck of yours.....circling your little tummy button....stroking the backs of your knees.....threading between all your toes....I can't imagine that your feet were spared of your adorable weakness."

"Wade...."

"Oooh! What about raspberries?! Those are fun! Bet it would drive you insane if I blew them on your belly. How about we test that out really quick?" Wade took a deep breath and started leaning towards him with his eyes locked onto his stomach.

"Alright cut it out!" Logan's hand caught him by the face and shoved him kind of hard, though couldn't stop himself from chuckling as he shook his head, "Fuckin' hell, you've seriously got a career in how to mentally torture a guy."

"At your service," Wade tipped an invisible hat as he then surveyed all the bags of food on the table in front of them, "So what did you order all of this for?"

"I told ya I was gonna watch the hockey game. Can't watch it without some proper snacks now," he reached into one of the bags and pulled out a tall can of beer as he popped the pull ring and took a long drink out of it while the other man began removing the take-out boxes.

"Chimichangas? Since when do you eat chimichangas?" Wade looked over at him questionably upon opening one of the containers as Logan gave him a half-smile.

"I got those for you, dumbass. Thought maybe you'd wanna hang out and watch the game with me." 

Wade was left momentarily speechless, truly touched by Logan's unexpected gesture.

"Well.....yeah of course. I'd love to. But how come you didn't ask me earlier?"

"Didn't get a chance to because you started bein' an idiot and going off about some other stupid show....'Touched By An Asshole' or something. What kinda pervy ass show is that anywaahaahaays?" Logan giggled, rubbing at his ribs where Wade had now just indignantly poked him.

"It's 'Touched By An Angel', you disrespectful twat. And it's a national treasure. But besides the fact that I've seen every episode, I didn't really want to watch it. I was just trying to get a rise out of you. You seemed tense," Wade admitted as Logan only shrugged and sipped from his beer can.

"When am I not?"

"Umm...Right now. Honestly I haven't you seen this relaxed in.....ever. Even when you're drunk sometimes you're still pretty moody," Wade pointed out as Logan took it in and knew he was right. He'd literally been forced into laughing off all of the burdens that he had carried for many years. His mind currently free from all the adverse feelings and troubles that he'd been endlessly plagued. 

The effects were likely not permanent but at least for the time being he felt good. Having to suffer through a vicious tickle attack to achieve that was more than worth it he decided.

"Hmph. Yeah. I guess you're right," a smile broke across Logan's face as he punched Wade in the shoulder, "Thanks asshole."

"Any time. And if you ever change your mind about the daily ticklings then I'm your guy," Wade was glowing from the actual genuine appreciation he'd just received from the normally cantankerous Wolverine.

"Heh. We'll see," Logan smirked as he bent over to pick up the remote off of the floor and turned on the television ahead of them, switching channels until he found the right one, "So do ya even like hockey?"

Wade nodded enthusiastically.

"Love it so much that I've never watched a game in my entire life," he said matter-of-factly before clapping his hands in excitement when he saw Dogpool trot into the room, patting the spot on the couch next to him as she jumped up.

Logan sighed as he handed his roommate a beer, realizing that the next few hours were going to be filled with Wade obnoxiously asking questions about every little thing that happened in the game. Though he couldn't help but smile as he watched the man-child start happily eating the chimichangas while simultaneously feeding little bits of them to his unusual looking dog.

Truth be told they all were an unusual bunch. Not just the three of them, but Blind Al, Peter, and Dopinder, to name a few. All these people that Wade had brought into his life and openly shared with him. Not to mention without Wade's intervention he never would have met Laura; someone he found he made a fast connection with and was now someone he cared deeply about.

Really Wade had rescued him that day. Rescued him from himself and gave him another reason to keep on living for. He felt his heart warm as he looked over at one of the side tables where Wade kept a framed photo of all of their friends; only now it was a new picture that included Logan, Laura and Mary Puppins in it.

Logan's smile grew as he reached over to pat the dog on the head before Wade made a whimpering noise and leaned his own head towards him to receive the same affection. He chuckled and obliged for a few moments before getting a wicked grin on his face as he snatched the hair piece off of Wade's head, prompting a momentary yelp of pain from the scarred man.

As the merc rubbed at his head while glaring over at him Logan found it impossible not to start laughing while jokingly dangling the toupee up in his hand. Wade then promptly broke into a smirk that told him he was dead, though even with that warning Logan made no attempt to escape.

Wade easily knocked him onto his back again to mercilessly tickle his sides while at the same time making the Wolverine shriek by blowing those promised raspberries into his stomach. And they tickled just as badly as Wade had said.

Yes, they were an unusual bunch, but they were his whole world now. And Logan was never going to let them down. Over his dead body.

[sirenedusud]

*nsfw* to starboard (shanks x fem!reader)

you cross paths with an old flame that begs to rekindled.

AN: all i can say is GAW DAMN i am a depraved slut for this man. where my depraved girlies at. proceed with caution: just smut

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Your crew prepared to dock as the distance between the island and your ship shrank, windmills on the terrain growing larger and larger. You're standing on the main deck, hands on your hips as you inspect your crew bustling about. They're a loyal lot, you helped most of them escape worse situations, therefore they feel indebted to you. Yes, you were a pirate with a sun-bleached black ship and a hefty bounty on your head, but you led a life of ease.

You weren't too worried about looking over your shoulder, or becoming the biggest and baddest in the East Blue, as long as you could feel the wind brushing through your hair and the sun kissing your skin you were happy. That didn't mean you never indulged in the pleasures of this world though. You had a little more than a collection of fancy shotguns in your cabin, one would even call it an armory for the Marines; and you had a notorious romantic streak across the sea. You didn't mean to break a few hearts here and there, but you simply got bored after a while and needed to run off once again. Some flings came back though, begging for more.

"Raise ALL THE SAILS ya rat!" Your first mate yells at the new boy. You smile and begin to intervene, but come to an abrupt stop. A ship with red masts sails by to your right. You turn to face the passing ship, your hand finding the rigging to steady yourself as your eyes scan it's entire deck. Finally, you lock eyes with the captain who had already been looking at you. Red-Haired Shanks. He was elated to see you and you knew it, but you didn't betray any emotion on your own face. The two of you mirror each other, slowly pacing towards the back of the deck. Your ships were no longer facing side to side by the time you reached the quarter deck. Shanks' seemed anxious that this would be the end of it, that was until you turned to make sure no one was watching you on board.

You turn your back to your crew to look at him once again and prop your foot up on the cannon in front of you, hiking up your skirt to reveal a leg. You hold your skirt up to your mid thigh, only enough to reveal a frilly garter. Your little show was heaven sent. Shanks' eyes widen and he fervently yells something unintelligible, his crew answering back. You drop your leg down and walk back to the main deck, a smile threatening to tear your face. Your ship finally docks and you wait for someone to drop a ladder for you to get on the harbor. You glance back at Red Hair's ship, and sure enough it was reeling so hard to the right that it was threatening to tip over. Some people on the harbor watch in confusion as the ship's hull is almost fully exposed in the dramatic turn, then carry back on to their business once the ship was set back straight towards the docks.

"Whaddya think that's all about cap'n?" Your navigator asks you, her eyebrow cocked as she looks back and forth between you and Shanks' ship.

"I wouldn't know," you coyly reply, and begin your descent to the port. You jump off the ladder and smooth down your skirt. Suddenly you become worried about your appearance: was your skin as smooth as it used to be, did you smell like a sea dog, was your corset tight enough, was your hair in place? What were you doing? You weren't the eager one in these moments, but seeing Shanks excited you. Some of your crew work to tie down the ship, others walk to the nearest pub. You stand a moment longer by your ship, droplets of sweat beginning to form at your bandana. Then, his ship is anchored down once again a couple docks away from you, and you begin your leisurely walk down the port. As you make it down the boardwalk, you catch a glint of red in your peripherals. Butterflies swarm within your lower belly. Shanks on the other hand is half running to meet you in the middle, slowing down once he's mere feet behind you.

The town is bustling with people, yet they remain unaware of the electricity sparking between the two of you. You only give Shanks a small turn of your head and smile, and continue walking a little slower, not looking back at him. He follows behind you, his hand reaches for yours. Your fingers graze against each other in a dance of their own. You're unaware of the compass within your own body (your pussy) guiding Shanks to a small inn. You carry on in trance as you enter the parlor, receive a room key, and lead him upstairs. As the two of you stand in the poorly lit narrow hall, Shanks pulls you back down to earth the moment he grabs your hips and pushes his into your ass. You turn the key quicker at the feel of his hardening cock.

"It's been too long darling," He whispers onto the skin of your neck, "I've missed you so much." He keeps whispering sweet nothings until the door clicks opens and you're both inside. Shanks shoves you back into the door, not giving you a moment to react after. Your back is pressed onto the hard wood but you don't care. Shanks' lips find yours and you're both kissing in an urgency you didn't realize you were holding back. He nips your lower lip softly, asking permission, and you let him slip his tongue in to meet yours. You moan into the kiss, causing Shanks' to buck his hips into yours. His hand rakes down from your clavicle to your breast and further down to your waist. Hand? You break away from the kiss with a small push to his chest and yelp at his missing arm, hitting your head on the door behind you.

"Fucking hell Shanks, how'd this happen??" You rip his cape off to reveal the empty sleeve and look up at him, gaping. Shanks only sighs, whispering something under his breath and uses his only hand to reach for yours. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, you look down at it and back up, giving him a quizzical look. He leads you to the small bed and sits you down. He tells you what had happened only days ago on this same island. You find yourself snapping your hands up to wipe the unwanted tears pricking through your lashes. Shanks clicks his tongue.

"It's just an arm love, don't sully your pretty face over it," Shanks gently pries one of your hands from your face and kisses your tears away, whispering a "please" between the kisses. His mouth finds yours once again and you relax into him. Heat rises between your bodies and you're pulling his face into yours. He quickly releases you to remove his straw hat, tossing it to the side before he returns to your lips. Things grow sloppier, Shanks let's go of your lips to latch onto your neck, leaving a trail of purple blooms where his teeth nip and pull out faint cries from you as he sucks on the most sensitive spot. In your daze you hear Shanks unbuckling his belt and tossing it across the room. His hand becomes frantic as they begin to tug between your corset and his own shirt, so you stop him. Shanks eyes glint with confusion, but you only smile at him as you reach for his clothes. You gently pull his shirt out of his waistband and over his torso, he complies and crooks his neck forward to let you pull it off over his head. You then get up from the bed and kneel in front of him. His eyes say something different now, you cannot quite tell what though.

Something had possessed you in that moment. Here you were gently prying Shanks' boots off, pulling his trousers down and over his ankles. Once you finish undressing him he reaches for you again, but you push his hand away and stand before him. Slowly yet not so much, you unlace your corset and drop it to the floor, unclasp your leather belt with its pistols hanging on either side, and push your skirt down as well. Shanks' already hard cock twitches at every piece of cloth you remove. You finally remove the flimsy chemise and bloomers (a pirate didn't need ten other extra undergarments). You reach for the garter on your thigh but Shanks raises his hand.

"Keep that on" he says, his voice slightly hoarse with pent up desire. He reaches for it and pulls you in between his legs, your hands find their place on his shoulders. His hot breath hits your stomach, causing your pussy to clench around nothing. He looks up at you with blown out pupils. You both remain still for a moment. The spell breaks and he pulls you down into his lap in the middle of the bed. You whimper at the sudden sensation of his cock against your clit, and you grind onto him to feel it again. His eyes threaten to roll back and he grabs your face down to kiss him once more, his hand then traveling down to your breast where he pinches and rolls your nipple between his fingers.

"Fuck Shanks-" you begin but get cut off by his mouth latching onto your other nipple. His tongue swirls and sucks onto you and you let out a small whimper. Your hips push down towards his cock again but he doesn't let you sink down all the way, so you use a hand to stroke his glistening pink tip. His mouth becomes merciless as well as you tease him, and he finally releases both of your breasts to stop your hand and hold your hips still.

"Shanks please- fuck- please I want you so bad- I need you.." you spill out as you fail to make contact with his skin again. He only smiles and softens his grip.

"So have me,” he says. You blank for a moment, then use one hand to line his cock with your aching core, and slowly go down on him. He's too big. You let out something between a moan and gasp as you slowly push him back out and in again. Shanks is struggling to hold himself together too, letting out shaky moans of your name. After a few slow attempts, you seat yourself fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your head buzz and you rock back and forth, stirring obscenities out of the both of you.

"Fuck-ck you're so tight...hhh you're so..fuck..wet- listen to how fucking wet you are for me" Shanks half mutters half groans as you ride him with a quicker pace. You have one hand on his shoulder and another on his thigh to stop yourself from toppling over. His own hand is holding you by the hip, attempting to guide you to bounce harder onto him. He grows impatient and suddenly between your own strokes, Shanks fucks up into you, causing you to moan out a string of curses. His eyes turn obsidian at the sight of you over his body. He grabs your waist and pulls you against his body as he lies down, his cock still inside you. Your cheek is pressed into his chest and before you protest, Shanks snaps his hips upwards into you causing you to muffle a yelp with your fist. He continues to fuck you for what felt like eternity, driving his cock so far into you at this angle you begin to see stars. His one arm keeps you mercilessly pinned to his body as his tip presses against your g-spot repeatedly, sending waves of electricity throughout your nerves.

"Shanks I'm gon- I'm gonna cum- FUCK" you hardly finish speaking before that delicious feeling shoots through from your core, to your stomach, and into your brain. Your thighs quiver aggressively around him and Shanks let's out a soft groan as his own orgasm erupts out of him. You feel your cunt turning warm, filling with his cum as his strokes lose their rhythm. His arm loosens around you, finding your hair and brushing it. You try to slide off of him, but he keeps you there.

"I'm not letting you get away from me this time," Shanks murmurs into your hair, pressing kisses where he spoke. He knew you didn't like sticking around. He knew you were afraid of getting attached only to possibly get hurt. He knew the last time you had seen him you were dangerously close to leaving everything for him, causing you to live this avoidant lifestyle. You push yourself from his chest and roll off of him, failing to give him your strict glare once you turn back at him. His eyes beg for you to stay, pleading with love he's been desperate to show you. His hand reaches for yours, grasping it with a firmness that feared you'd fly away again.

"I know you feel the same, I know you use others to forget about me.”

"God Shanks you lost your fucking arm in the blink of an eye. What if it's your lift next-?”

"So why won't you take that risk?" He implores, desperation now filled his voice as he sat upright, "because I sure as bloody hell would do it for you. I love you!"

You stare at him in awe, your eyebrows overwork themselves as your mind tosses around in anxiety. Was now the time to be fickle? His soft brown eyes glisten in a way you had never witnessed before, causing your heart to succumb to affections you stifled for so long.

"I love you too..." you answer quietly. You betray your own code. Fuck it if it meant ceasing the pain in Shanks eyes at that moment, and from that moment onward. The two of you sit there in tranquility. You and Shanks exchange shy smiles, your gazes bear their deepest desires into one another as the setting sun sets the two of you in a halo of dappled gold through the stained window.

[peregrinethegryphon]

Scorching Era Dragon Species

(Headcanon, until canon confirms or disputes)

🔴 Mountain Dragons

Based on dragons described in The Flames of Hope, pages 186-187.

The Mountain Dragons were the most common species of dragon on Pyrrhia. They inhabited the entirety of the central mountain range. Their scales tended towards warm colors like red and orange, but it was common to see other colors on them. Dragons at this time were far more likely to hybridize with other species as a result of their overlapping ranges and lack of formal society. They were one of only two species that possessed firebreath. Their diets consisted primarily of large ungulates, but they were opportunistic and would eat anything.

Mountain Dragons could be classified into two populations. The Northern Mountain Dragons were distinguished by their brighter colors and diurnal lifestyle. The Southern Mountain Dragons by contrast were darker, with more black scales as an adaptation for a more nocturnal or crepuscular lifestyle.

The Scorching was led by one large Northern Mountain Dragon (The Flames of Hope, page 186, see above image) who would become the first queen of the first dragon tribe, which would be known as the Skywings. Mountain Dragons made up the majority of the early Skywing tribe, but Forest Dragons were also common within their ranks.

The Southern Mountain Dragons, however, would not stay in the Skywing tribe for long, instead forming their own tribe, the Nightwings, and keeping their nocturnal lifestyles and building their own society around it.

Hundreds of years after The Scorching, the Skywings, under the rule on an ambitious queen, would start a conflict with neighboring tribes over territory. This would be known as the War of Skywing Expansion. The war would see the Nightwings pushed out of their mountain territory and the tribe would find a new territory on the southwest peninsula.

🟡 Stone Dragons

Based on an obvious Sandwing ancestor in The Flames of Hope, page 183.

Stone Dragons lived around rocky areas and caves at the base of cliffs and mountains. They were an offshoot of the Mountain Dragons, distinct only in their much paler coloration, back sail, and venomous tail barb. They usually possessed flecks of black scales. Their venom evolved independently of other species. Diets consisted of anything they could catch.

After The Scorching they were the first to colonize the newly formed desert that once housed a large human civilization. Other species would try to colonize the area, but as temperatures got more extreme, only the Stone Dragons would be able to adapt. Their descendants became known as the Sandwings. This species has remained virtually unchanged since The Scorching.

🔵 Sea Dragons

Sea Dragons are mentioned in The Flames of Hope page 181. Page 185 states they couldn't breathe fire.

Sea Dragons were semiaquatic, coming mostly in shades of blue and green. They lived on the eastern coast, on islands and beneath the ocean. They had specialized gills and kidneys that allowed them to tolerate a wide range of salinity levels. They had bioluminescent spots along their body used for communication. This species did not possess firebreath. Their diet consisted of fish and pinnipeds.

While a majority of Sea Dragons lived in the ocean, there was a small population living in freshwater rivers and lakes on the southeast coast, sometimes referred to as Swamp Dragons by local humans. They were more on the greener side than their marine cousins. They ate fish and whatever animals they could ambush from the water.

During the War of Skywing Expansion, some Skywing defectors would flee their kingdom and find refuge in the southeast with the Swamp Dragons. After the war they would eventually form a new tribe together, calling themselves the Mudwings.

The Seawings would be one of the earliest tribes to form. They’ve remained virtually unchanged since The Scorching.

🟣 Ice Dragons

Ice dragons were the most isolated species of dragon. They were fully adapted to Pyrrhia’s northern tundra and possessed frostbreath in place of firebreath. Their diets consisted primarily of fish and pinnipeds, but would hunt anything if the opportunity presented itself.

After The Scorching the Icewings would be one of the earliest tribes to form. They’ve remained unchanged since The Scorching. This is, of course, a point of pride for the Icewings. It is unknown if Animus Magic had appeared yet.

🟢 Forest Dragons

Based on Freedom, with the caveat that Freedom is a Mountain/Forest hybrid. The dragon described in The Flames of Hope, page 186 is heavily implied to be her mother.

Forest Dragons were a species adapted to an arboreal lifestyle. They were brightly colored and came in all color combinations, and had rounded wings. They possessed venomous fangs in place of firebreath. They made their nests in the trees. Those living in the southern rainforests were primarily frugivores and were much more colorful, while those in more temperate forests were more omnivorous, eating anything they could find, and had greener scales. They would often take naps in the middle of the day to gain energy from the sun. Leafspeak was a rare ability possessed by some individuals.

The Forest Dragons would give rise to three tribes after The Scorching. Those already adapted to the rainforest would form their own tribe, the Rainwings. The Rainwings would independently evolve their color changing ability over time.

Those best adapted to temperate forests formed their own tribe, the Leafwings. The Leafwing tribe happened to have the most Leafspeakers within their population, which they enthusiastically integrated into their agricultural practices.

During the War of Skywing Expansion, the Leafwing tribe would be forced out of their territory and would eventually make their way across the ocean to a new continent, Pantala.

One isolated population of Forest Dragons had already been evolving some odd traits by the time of The Scorching, such as a second set of wings and silk glands. This population evolved on the southwest peninsula, and would form their own tribe, the Beetlewings.

During the War of Skywing Expansion, the Beetlewings would be forced out of their territory by the Nightwings, who would then take over the peninsula as the Beetlewings joined the Leafwings in their exodus from Pyrrhia into Pantala.

Pre-Scorching Range Map

Original Bases Free to Use

[issdisgrace]

A RIVALRY, A CRASH, AND 3 SIMPLE WORDS

WARNINGS: kinda sad, car crash, burning, hospitals, idk what else to put

A/N: This is for @marksbear2. I hope you like it. Also sorry it took a while I have been procrastinating.

You and Lando have been rivals since day one. Always trying to finish higher than the other, always trying to score more points than the other, and ALWAYS bickering when you weren't on track. Whether it was about the actual race or not, you guys always found an excuse to bicker.

And in hide sight it was so clear you guys were in love with each but neither of you knew what you were feeling towards the other and it was so confusing so it was just easier to fight with each other than figure out what you were feeling.

So you guys continued like this for a while as both of you climbed the ranks to Formula 1. And in the end of both were called up at the same time Lando of course to McLaren and you to Mercedes.

While so many things changed for the two of you and you now had to be more civil to the other than in prior years. Ultimately, that didn't change how competitive you guys were and it didn't change your bickering.

And from the very beginning of your guys' F1 careers there were bets in all the garages, included your guys on who would confess to who in the first place. The bets were split in almost every garage, but they more leaned to Lando, confessing first and boy where they wrong.

It was Monaco 2024. It was a race you guys did every year. You thought it would be just like last year's smooth sailing. You qualified good not as good as of course you wanted to but good none the less. Then the day came and with it came a deep dread in your stomach. Something bad was going to happen. You knew it.

Then Checo had his crash in lap 1 and that dread only grew stronger, so strong you thought you were going to throw up. But you pushed the feeling to the side and got ready to start up once again. Before you knew it was lights out and away you go again. It was lap 39, halfway through the race when engine trouble started.

Your team told you to stay out. That it would be fine and they would figure it out. That definitely didn't make you feel any better than before. Then at the beginning of lap 78 you were suddenly on fire, not smoking, not anything like that, on fire. Before you could think, you lost control and crashed into the wall others still flying by.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins as you tried free yourself from the car. You could see and feel the flames burning. It was burning through your suit. You couldn't feel anything as you continued to try to free yourself and just as freed yourself help arrived. Climbing out of the burning car, when you stumbled towards the medics. Multiple people with fire extinguishers put out the flames on your body.

It was only when you were loaded into the amblulance and on the way to the hospital when your senses returned. The overwhelming pain hitting you like a semi truck along with a putrid smell you thought was the smell of your burnt flesh. But you didnt really have time to fully process it because before you knew it you where at the hospital and being rushed into to surgery.

Lando was almost to the finish line when he heard over radios that you were on fire and then crashed. He felt like he was going to be sick, a thousand thoughts racing through his head. The loudest thought by far was you were going to die and he would never get to tell him he loved you. He was scared, no scared didn't even describe how he was feeling. He was petrified.

As he got out of his car and rushed to Zak Brown, the team CEO to get details of your crash and if you were ok. He told Lando you were ok as far as he knew. Lando felt a little better hearing that but he told Zak once podium was held he was going to that hospital to be with you. He didn't care of the consequence he needed to be there.

Zak being the man he was told Lando not to worry and he would handle the FIA if they gave him a hassle. Lando thanked him profusely before heading to podium.

It was over before Lando knew it and he was rushing back to his driver room to change, gather his stuff, and head to the hospital. Once he was there at the hospital, he rushed in and started asking about you. He lied when the nurse asked him what his relation to you was and said he was your husband.

The nurse told him that you were just prepped for surgery and were on the way to it. And it wouldn't be for a couple hours until you would be out of it. So he would have to wait until he was allowed to see you. He spent the next couple of hours pacing up and down the waiting room anxiously waiting for you.

It felt like a million years had passed before the nurse came and got him. He grabbed his stuff and quickly followed the nurse to your room as she told him the surgery went well and graphs were a success and that it probably be awhile until you woke up because of the anesthetic and the pain meds they pumped through your system.

His heart broke into millions of tiny pieces when he saw you in the hospital bed. He immediately made his way to your bedside and pulled the chair that was nearby towards you and sat down. He didnt even notice the nurse leaving as he gently grabbed your hand. It was now that all the tears he had been holding back started to flow and he ended up crying himself to sleep.

When Lando woke up, his head now rested on your chest as you combing your hand through his hair. He looked up at you surprised that you were awake. He pulled away from you question after question spewing from his mouth. You just hushed him and pull him back into. I love you; you said as you rested your head against his. I love you too; he said back as he wrapped his arms around you. His body would sure complain about the awkward position later, but he would deal with that later.

He needed this. You need this right now. You guys would talk about what your relationship was going to look now on later. You just need to be in the moment with each other.

[asumofwords]

Lighthouse - Sailor!Aemond x LighthouseKeeper!Reader - Mini Series 1/4

Summary: You work as a lone Lighthouse keeper on a small island just off the coast. Everyday was the same routine, tending to your duties and the lamp with not much time to spare. But what will happen to your routine when a storm rages across the sea, and a handsome man washes ashore?

Warnings: This fic is 18+. Readers discretion is advised. Warnings will be added in their relevance. She/Her Pronouns. Drowning, descriptions of drowning, shipwrecks, dead body, fever, storms.

Note: Here is chapter one of Lighthouse hehe. This fic was inspired by me listening to the song 'Lighthouse' by The Waifs. Thank you all for being so patient for this. A it is going to be a mini-series, its going to be between 3-5 chapters long! I hope you enjoy! &lt;3

Chapter 1: Cruel Seas

The waves rolled up the side of the rocky cliff face, salty sea spray disintegrating into the air like mist. The sky had turned a deep grey, a storm having rolled through the vast sea the evening before, which was now beginning to turn its way towards your little island.

You knew immediately from the sky that you would have a long night ahead of you, tending to the lamp at the top of the lighthouse to ensure that it stays lit for the duration of the dark night to come. 

It was an arduous and tedious existence. Day after day, the same routine, and not once could you stray from it.

Each evening before the sun would set, you would climb the many stairs to the top of the lighthouse and light it, ensuring that its wick was good for use and would last the night. And then when daybreak came, you would extinguish the flame as soon as the sun rose, unless of course, a storm or fog had crawled amongst the salty waves of the sea, which caused for extra vigilance and keeping it lit at all hours.

The lighthouse itself was perched on the top of the cliff of the small island you lived on, just off the coast. And on that island, you had all that you needed; A small cottage with one bedroom, a kitchen and a small privy out the back.

Outside of the cottage was your own modest vegetable patch where you grew what could survive the acrid sea air; potatoes, pumpkins, and any sort of hardy vegetable that was good for pickling and hearty meals. All other food was brought to you once a month by boat, or if you dared to leave your post, you would take your small boat back to shore, not too long of a journey, weather permitting, to go to the local stores or market to buy your wares. But if you were truly in a spot of trouble, you had a small messenger pigeon that lived in its own hut by the garden that would send word to shore about your dire needs.

You had lived and worked at the lighthouse for years, happy to be alone and in your own solitude, finding companionship in the books that you read, or the occasional ship that sailed by.

A man named William came every one to two weeks, an old friend of your father who would bring your reprieve, to deliver you food and any other supplies that you may need to keep the lighthouse in check; more oil, more wicks, paint, or items to repair any damage from the raging winds that raced across the surface of the small island. 

William was a kind man, older and sea worn. He had a wife and three daughters back on the coast, and on occasion would bring them to join you, or extend an invitation for you to join them, weather and duties permitting. They lived in the small town by shore, where you had been lucky to befriend shopkeepers and locals on your short visits. 

It had been only a few days since William’s previous drop off, and for the most part, the weather had seemed fair. Each morning and each evening you would log the skies and seas conditions into a worn little leather book for any changes, and then, you would prepare for the lighting of the lamp. But the evening before, the wind had changed drastically and the sky had darkened, and you watched from the top of the lighthouse as a storm broke just on the horizon, black cloud glowing with strikes of lightning that cracked through the darkness. 

You hadn’t risked going back down to your cottage to retire for the evening, instead, sitting yourself in your old wooden chair to watch the storm and ensure that the lamp was lit, and if any ships were to come to close to shore, they would be alerted by the light.

However, now it was morning, and the lamp no longer needed to be lit. For now. Though on the horizon, the storm continued to barrel towards shore, and you knew that you would have light it again soon.

Extinguishing its flames, you took the long winding steps down, crossing the small grassy knoll to get to your cottage, opening the old wooden door, which hinges squeaked and whined, salt rusting the joints. You whispered to yourself that you would fix it eventually, as you trudged to the fireplace and began to set it ablaze.

The cottage was cold with the winds of the storm that approached, and you shivered as you slowly lit the kindle, piling log after log into the hearth as you heated the home up. Your stomach growled loudly as you stood from your crouched position by the fire, joints complaining as exhaustion from lack of sleep, or food, finally caught up to you. 

You decided that now was the time, more than ever, to eat and rest before you’d have to return to the lighthouse. You lit the stove with a candle by the fire and sat your kettle atop, water inside ready to boil. On William’s last relief drop, he had brought a large sack of flour and even some milk for you, and so with this, you had churned your own butter and made a large supply of scones and bread for the coming week. 

The loud whistle of the kettle alerted you to the water boiling on the stove, steam pouring from its nozzle. You poured it over some tea leafs and unwrapped a scone from the cloth pile you had on the bench. As the tea steeped, you decided to spread some of the jam William’s wife, Celia, had made for you, using it sparingly before sitting before the hearth. 

You ate slowly and sipped on your tea with ease, eyes cast out one of the many windows to check the progress of the storm. The dark clouds were slowly rolling in, and by your estimate, wouldn’t reach you until at least the afternoon, and with time on your hands, you decided to allow yourself a small rest, laying your head back against your worn couch, closing your eyes as the warmth of the fire lulled you into a shallow slumber. 

-

The distant rumble of thunder pulled you from your light rest, half eaten scone wrapped in a smaller piece of cloth and shoved into the pocket of your skirt at the front. You would eat that later as you lit the lamp again before the storm arrived. As you cast your eyes out of the kitchen window, looking out to sea, you saw that it had approached far quicker than expected, and in fact, seemed to have regrown in size. 

You made quick work of it, throwing on your large waxed coat that swept around your ankles, buttoning it up to your neck as the beginning spray of water began to lightly mist at the windows of the cottage. Racing to the lighthouse, you climbed the steps with ease, years of the same routine causing you to be fitter than most. Once you reached the top you looked out to the swell, watching as the waves crashed against the rocky cliff face below, and then swept up against the small sandy beach of the island on the side. 

But it was not the storm that peaked your interest, you were no stranger to those. It was the objects that bobbed amongst the crashing waves, and lined your small beach. Concern coursed through you as familiar wooden planks, barrels, and other ship items crashed onto shore.

“Fuck.” You cursed.

There had been a shipwreck. 

But not at your island. 

It must have happened out at sea last night with the storm. 

Your eyes cast down to the sandy beach again, gaze darting up and down the shore, looking, searching, and hoping for any sign of survivors, if they had been lucky or fortunate enough to be swept this far to shore after. 

Another crack of thunder pulled your gaze away, the storm rapidly approaching. If you lit the lamp now, you could race down to the shore to look out in the water for any sign of survivors, or what kind of ship it had been to report back to shore. So with determined hands, you lit the large oil lamp, ensuring that the flame was strong and the glass that surrounded it was clear and in position to amplify it out to sea.

Rain began to beat against the glass of the lighthouse, and with one last glance cast at the lit lantern, you raced down the steps, two by two, skirts pulled into your fists as you flew down them, all but throwing the heavy wooden door open to begin to race down to the small sandy cove.

Thick drops of rain began to pelt down from the sky, the rumbling of the storm growing closer and closer, clouds growing darker with lightning striking through them. You squinted at the shore, skirts in one hand as the other hand came to try and shield your eyes from the growing downpour, looking for anything that could identify the vessel.

Your leather boots sunk into the sand and you raced along the shore line, eyes looking down to the broken wooden planks, and a large hoisting rope tangled amongst half a mast. Further ahead, a tangle of what looked to be shrouds, sail and hull. 

The waves crashed against the sand as you moved towards the next clump of shipwreck, passing smaller pieces of debris as you went. The water that crashed against the shore was dark and unforgiving. Amongst the crashing waves, more planks of wood, net and barrels of something. 

Chill dripped down your spine as your coat, as waxed and as warm as it was, took in the blast of rain and wind that blew into you with every gust. 

The storm was coming, and it was coming with a vengeance. 

You needed to move, and fast.

There ahead of you, amongst the tangled shrouds, was a large chunk of hull, with what looked to be the remnants of gold paint.

A name. 

The name of the ship. 

You almost tripped into the sand as you ran towards the mass, shoes now filled with water, socks soaked against your skin, toes numb from the cold. You bent down, pulling at the shrouds, the wet rope heavy in your hands as you looked at the broken hull. 

'Vhag-'

You blinked.

Gods be damned. 

Your hands moved faster than you thought humanly possible as you ripped the rope away from the hull, revealing the glimmer of silver beneath that had caught your eye.

There, tangled amongst the shrouds, trapped atop the broken hull, was a man. 

Your knees hit the sand, wet soaking into your skirts immediately as you began to pull him from the wreckage, yanking at the ropes to untangle the body that was ensnared in them. 

He lay on his stomach, face obscured by a mess of wet, silver hair that draped across his cheek and forehead. His clothes were soaked, and his skin was as pale as moonlight, blue veins prominent under the surface. 

“Hello?” You called to him frantically, moving to turn him onto his back, his head lulling to the side. 

You brushed away the hair from his face with haste, and your breath stilled in your chest. 

His lips were blue, and across one cheek, cutting up through an eye, was a long and deep scar. The man’s nose was sharp, and his jaw even sharper, slender neck and shoulders peaking through the half ripped tunic that he wore, the white see-through as it clung to his body soaked. 

Another crack of thunder boomed above, your head momentarily darting upwards to look to the sky, the storm having begun to move closer, crawling above the small island you called home. 

You prayed in that moment to the Drowned God that he was alive. 

Please, spare this man. Bring him back to the living.

“Please.” You whispered, hand at his neck as you tried to feel for a pulse, tried to feel for any warmth of his body that may indicate life. That may lead you to believe you had a sole survivor that washed ashore your tiny island, surely blessed by the Gods.

His head lulled in your hand as you looked out at the shore for any more bodies, whispering to yourself as you thought of what to do; If you should take him back to the cottage and send word that a body had washed ashore, that a ship that began with ‘Vhag’ had met its untimely demise in the cruel sea. Or if you should leave him at shore and hope that the waves do not carry his body away by the storms pass.

Your teeth began to chatter in your skull as your hands slipped around him, checking over his body for any grievous wounds or indications that he had died from anything other than drowning. But his body was fine, all bar his cold and pale skin.

Shifting to a crouch, you made your decision, and it pulled at your heart.

He would be too heavy to carry up to your cottage, but you also didn’t want to risk his body being taken back out to sea with the storm, this man, whoever he was, deserved a burial of some sort. So your option was to carry him further up the beach, to where the grass meets the sand, and send word on the morrow once the storm had passed.

You felt a pang of guilt for the man, a man who looked to be a handsome and skilled sailor, young but not naive in age, taken too soon. Though no sailor was skilled enough to survive the rolling waves, or the wrecking of a ship. The sea was a cruel mistress, and she took when and if she pleased with no repentance, rhyme, or reason. Your hands curled beneath his arms and you pulled, his dead weight dragging you down almost to fall in the wet sand.

“Bless him with salt,” You began to endlessly pray, something your father had once taught you many years ago, “Bless him with stone, bless him-“

The man’s chest erupted with a cough, sending you falling into the sand in shock, dropping his body back onto the beach as water spluttered from his lips.

“Gods be good.” You scrambled to him in the sand, turning him on his side so that the rest of the sea water would come out easier. 

It seemed to go on forever, the jerking of his body as his lungs expelled spray after spray of water, until all too soon, he stopped again, a weaker cough or grunt falling from his lips as the last of the water was expelled. 

The crack of lightning above you made your heart race faster than it already was, and so reaching beneath his arms again, you began to drag him up the sandy shore and back to your cottage. 

He was alive.

A survivor.

It was no easy feat, taking him away from the furious waves, and by the time you had gotten to the cottage, your lungs and body ached from dragging him up to your home. 

The man had groaned once or twice as you made the journey, storm full above the both of you, and once you finally were inside your home, you collapsed on the stone floor beside him, lungs burning as you sucked in air. 

But now was not the time for you to rest, the man had grown paler since moved, and you watched as he shivered on the stone floor. Your teeth clicked in your mouth, from nerves and from the cold, your dress and coat soaked completely and shoes filled with water. 

Your clothes weighed you down, but you only moved to take your coat off, dropping it by the hearth with a wet thump before you laid an old blanket from the couch by the fire, dragging the silver haired man to lay atop it as you surveyed what you could do. 

First, you needed to get him warm, and the clothes that he had on were chilled from the sea and rain. You removed his torn tunic, his face creasing with pain as you ripped it off of him, pulling his leather boots and socks off after. His pants however, you faltered at, looking down at his dark breeches as a blush rose to your cheeks.

Not now, this man needs our help.

His privacy can come later. 

You threw the last thick woollen blanket that sat on the couch over the top of him for privacy before you pulled his breeches down without looking, throwing the soaked article of clothing in the far side of the room before you laid him on his side to face the fire. You tucked the thick blanket around his body, noticing the chill of his skin that seeped through immediately, before pulling his wet hair away from his face and neck. 

By then you were out of breath, muscles burning and joints aching, collapsing beside him again as you looked at the man, watching the way his chest rose and fell weakly with every rattling breath he took. You prayed he would survive, but you had your doubts. The amount of sea water he had swallowed, and the way he looked so pale that he was almost translucent, gave you little hope. 

But there was nothing else you could do. 

Nothing more that you were able to do but wait.

And all you had was time as the storm raged outside. 

Unlacing your boots you pulled the from your feet, toes beginning to prune and ache as they were soaked inside and cold, water dribbling out of each shoe as you tipped them upside-down in front of the fire, pulling away the soaked woollen socks with it. You shook as you began to peel layer after layer of drenched clothes away from your body until you were left in your shift, shivering by the fire as you desperately tried to warm yourself up.

Your hair lay wet against your back, drying as you slowly warmed, the light of the fire being the only light source in the cottage until you finally moved and began to light your various lamps and candles around the home.

It wasn't until you were back by the fire did you spare the man another anxious glance, eyes immediately watching his chest rise and fall weakly, much to your relief.

He wasn’t dead.

Yet.

But you hoped he would at least save the night and storm until you could send word for help, and perhaps even send for a doctor to come to you. You suspected he would be too fragile to move just yet. So now, all you had to do was wait.

Wait until the man either rose to consciousness, or perished from the sea’s assault. 

But the longer you looked at him, looking at his silver hair, to his sharp features and plump lips that were almost blue, to the golden ring that sat upon one of his fingers, you couldn’t help the thoughts that turned over your head about this man. But one question in particular seemed to rise above them all.

Who was he?

-

The storm raged on, day and night, wind howling outside your cottage causing the old home to shudder and groan. The windows rattled with the force of the gale, rain pelting against its surface loudly. All the while, the lamp in the lighthouse never went out, thanks to your constant checks, back and forth up the many stairs, bracing yourself agains the rain and winds.

The silver haired man had not moved, nor woke since you dragged him up from the beach. The only sign of life given being the rise and fall of his chest that occasionally jerked with a cough or wheeze. His long hair lay like a halo around his head, soft waves teased from the salted water and dried from the warmth of the fire. The mans skin stayed the same inhuman paleness as before, though some colour rose back to his cheeks and his plump lips.

You had been sitting at your small table writing notes on the weather in your log book, fearing that perhaps there was a larger storm that lingered out in the back of the sea, which caused the one on shore to rage for so long, when a soft groan caught your attention. Your eyes immediately flicked away from your notes and down to where the man was laying, the slightest shift of his head to be seen. 

Swiftly you made your way over to him, kneeling back down beside him, knees pressed into the hard stones as you looked him over. His brows were scrunched shut, and lips pulled slightly down. But that was not initially what caught your attention; It was the sheen of sweat that covered him head to toe. Lifting a gentle hand, you placed the back of it against his forehead. 

A fever. 

The man was burning up, and the sweat beneath your hand was proof of it.

This was not good. 

You stood and made your way to the kitchen, riffling through a draw to find one of the many warn, and scraggly cloths inside before you pulled it out. You grabbed an empty bowl and took it to the dry sink and began to use the cistern pump to fill it with rain water. When the bowl was half full, you threw the cloth inside and made your way back to the feverish man on the floor. 

You wrung out the cloth of its water and began to wipe at the sweat on his face and neck, hoping that the cool rag would help to fight the fever that was causing the man distress.

Fevers were dangerous things, and after what he had survived, you worried that the fever may be the final nail in his coffin, so to speak. 

The silver haired man shivered in the warm glow of the fire, though his body ran hot. Each swipe of the wet cloth caused a crackled breath to fall from his lips, the scar on his face crinkled with movement. With every moment or so, clearing the sweat from his face and neck, you would dip the cloth back into the bowl to then wring it and begin again, hoping its coolness would have some effect.

His chest rose and fell shallowly as you wiped away the sweat and salt from his collar bones, small pink scars littered amongst the flesh of his chest. As you worked, you could not help but admire the man. His sharp features and strange hair was unlike anything you had ever seen before, and had only heard once or twice in tales from town about people who lived in lands far from yours, with silver hair and violet eyes.

You had never believed those tales, for who could have such Godly hair, and even stranger eyes, and whilst the man had not opened his one seeing eye as of yet, you wondered if you would find it to be violet, or perhaps a more common shade of blue. The scared and clouded one was no indicator of what could be revealed on the other side.

A part of you hoped to see that the tales were true, that perhaps your world was much larger than you had thought, but for the most part, you just wished for him to stay alive. 

As you rinsed the cloth once more and brought it to the scarred cheek of his face, you took caution with the skin, looking at the way it deeply marred the flesh around it, and prevented the clouded eye from ever closing. You brushed the cloth gently by his temple when suddenly you were greeted with a vision of lilac.

The man gasped, hand shooting out to grab your wrist holding the cloth tightly, pupil of his eye widening and shrinking as his brain tried to focus on the person touching him. Your heart beat in your chest, your own gasp falling from your lips as you looked down at him, his eye on you. 

It was true then.

He was one of them.

The grip on your wrist tightened and you hissed, the wet cloth falling from your fingers onto the stone floor beside him as his brows furrowed, looking at you.

“Skoriot iksis… ñuha…” The man gasped, language foreign to your ears.

You shook your head down at him, his breathing becoming shallow, grip on your wrist faltering, “I don’t know what you’re saying.” You told him, voice slow and clear as his head rested back against the flagstones, lone eye blinking sluggishly up at you.

“You’re safe here. You need to rest.” Your hand hovered above his shoulder, unsure if touching him again would cause him more distress. Instead, the hand that held your wrist slumped back to the stones, and his lilac eye fluttered shut, mouth parted weakly.

You pressed your fingers underneath his jaw, and were relieved to find the slow, but steady, beat of his heart.

Your heart on the other hand was another story entirely. It raced rapidly within your chest, breath coming in short pants as your knees began to ache from how you were sitting over him. Gaze roaming over his soft skin and hair, you came to a mind spinning conclusion that the tales were true, and people who looked like him did exist, which only meant one thing. 

This man was a long way from home. 

Feeling as though you didn’t want to startle him from his rest again, you took the bowl and cloth to the table and placed it by the ledger. If you needed to ease his fever again, you could repeat the process later, just not now. 

Outside the storm raged on, rain flying sideways and the crash of thunder above. At one point you had brought your pigeon inside with you to place in a smaller cage out of the rain and wind. She was much happier now, and sleeping restfully upon her perch.

You had to stifle a yawn as you sat back on your chair by the table, noting that you had had scarcely more than five hours rest over the past two days. You were running on fumes, and if you needed to keep the lamp safely lit, and the man by the fire alive, you certainly needed your own rest.

By that time it was midday, and you could safely rest a few hours before you would need to check on the lamp once more. Your limbs felt as heavy as stones as you trudged to your bedroom, pulling your heavy dress from your body and shoes from your feet before you slid into the warmth of the covers in your slip.

-

When you woke, it was not to the sounds of the storm outside, but rather to the unfamiliar groans and grunts of a man. Ripping the covers away from your body, you wrapped a robe tightly around you, fastening it against your waist with its belt in a knot. It had been your fathers, and was entirely too large for your smaller frame.

He lay where he was, still on the hard stone floor, the fire having shrunk during your slumber, but still, his eye did not open again. So you piled more logs into the hearth, stirring the embers with a fire poker before moving to fill the kettle with the pump by the stove. 

When you looked out the window, the lamp was still lit, and the storm still raged on, rain and wind flying through the air, booms of thunder booming above you, and the constant shrill whistling of the wind through the cracks of the windows and doors. It was an eerie sound if you were not used to it, but after all those years in solitude already, it was as common as a birds cry, or a bugs chirp. You lit the coal stove and placed the kettle on top, casting your eyes back to see if he had stirred again.

There hadn’t been a minute that had gone by where you hadn’t wondered who this man was. What he did. If he had a family to go home to, a wife, children.

Were his parents still alive? Were they fretting for his arrival or communications? Wondering where their son had gone? Or did he have no-one? Were they too lost to the sea and not fortunate enough to have washed upon the shores of your small island?

By the time the kettle whistled loudly, you poured it into your tea pot, but behind you came a groan again, this time, much louder, and to your surprise, more conscious. Forgetting your tea, you raced to his side, the mans face screwed up in confusion and pain, eye blinking sluggishly up at you. You pulled your robe against you tighter as you knelt near him.

“Take it slow, you’re okay.” You reassured him, hands unsure of whether or not to touch him or stay limply by your side, “You’ve survived a wreck. The Gods saved you.”

The pink of his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips, but his tongue was just as dry. His mouth parted, and a broken and confused echo came out, “Gods.”

You nodded, “Yes. The Gods surely showed you favour when they washed you on this island. We are the lighthouse just off the coast.”

It seemed to be a lot for the man to take in, his brows pulling downwards from either pain or confusion or a terrible mix of the two, but a more burning question came forth from your lips, “What is your name?”

The silver haired man, who’s cheeks had more colour than when you brought him inside days before, blinked at you sluggishly, mouth parting and then closing, before a rasping request came forth. 

“Water.”

You jumped up from your spot beside him and raced to the pump, filling a glass before coming back to his side. You knelt on the stones, helping him to lightly sit up with a hand at the back of his head, leaning the glass up to his lips. At first he spluttered the water back into the cup as he tried to drink, a lone dribble trailing down his strong chin and neck, but then after a moment, he drank greedily, hand coming to grasp yours to tilt it quicker down his throat.

“Slowly. You don’t want to drown again.” You tried to make some light, and the man seemed to enjoy it, as he coughed into the glass, or at least, you assumed he did, as one side of his lip pulled into a weak smirk.

He coughed again once finished, and you asked him if he wished for more, to which you got a weak shake of his head, ‘no’. You gently laid him back down as you looked at him, pressing your hand against his forehead. Although the fever had seemed to settle, he was still hot to the touch, yet despite this, he shivered. 

“...Cold.” His voice came out smoother this time, no longer dry and parched from dehydration, though it was still raw and ragged from the sea.

“You have a fever,” You explained, pulling the blanket only a little higher on his chest, not wanting to exacerbate it, “But it looks like it shall break soon.”

The man watched you with a half lidded gaze, lips mumbling in a foreign language once more, “...Issi… se… Riña…”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” You frowned at him again, "Do you speak the common tongue?”

The man watched you with his half lidded gaze before he nodded. You couldn't help but look at his cloudy eye that didn't move. 

Now that he seemed more conscious, and had even asked for water, it seemed to you that perhaps this man would not die in your home after all.

“Are you hungry? Do you want food?”

A nod.

You went back to the kitchen, filling his glass with water again before grabbing one of your scones to bring back. You came to his side and began to break the scone in your hand into smaller pieces, lifting his head once more to feed it to him. He ate slowly, coughing occasionally to which you’d give him more water to help him wash it down, but you could tell that he was grateful.

“...Thank... you.” It came as barely a whisper, but it was there none the less. 

You still didn’t know his name, and it ate at you. 

“What is your name?” You asked again, hoping now that he had both food and water in him, that he would be able to answer you, but instead he just stared at you blankly.

Perhaps he had hit his head in the wreckage and forgotten?

And then another thought came.

Or perhaps, he was a pirate, and hiding his identity for fear of capture.

You stood and dusted the scone crumbs from your skirt, leaving the man beside the fire as you moved to the kitchen, pulling some carrots, potatoes and onions that you had grown in your garden out of your basket to rinse and begin to prepare.

“I’m going to cook a stew.” You cast your head to the side, voice calling out to the man, “I think it would warm you. I have some dried meat I can use in it too. I think it would-“ 

You turned around to find the man asleep again, “-Do you some good.” You finished quietly, moving back to the task at hand.

It didn’t help that a strum of disappointment raced through you at his unconsciousness, but it couldn’t be helped, after all the man was practically with the Stranger when he washed ashore.

-

Steam rose from the pot of vegetables and broth, the dried meat you had cut and put inside having absorbed the stew and become soft again as you stirred it. It smelt good, and as you had helped to bring it to boil, you had had enough time to check on the lamp in the lighthouse, ensuring that the oil and glass was all in order.

The storm seemed to have settled somewhat, but from your experience, it meant only that the eye had reached shore, and the worst of it was soon to come. 

Not once had the man moved as you cooked, nor when you walked past him to put back on your dress, coat ,and shoes. He looked better, and somewhat peaceful on your floor, but you knew the harsh stone would do naught for his rest, and so as you stirred the stew you thought of ways in which you could get him up and into your bed.

You blushed immediately at the thought of him spread out inside of it, silver hair around his face, soft lips parted as he breathed, the furrow of his brow having softened as he rested, properly rested. And although it seemed indecent to have a man inside of your bed, to have him inside your house and bare, you had to remind yourself that it wasn’t anything untoward, nor would you be touching him, and it was just until he was well enough to leave.

It didn’t help however, that he would be the first and only man to ever be in your bed. 

You stifled a laugh at the thought. 

The first one in your bed, bare and handsome, only because he was on the brink of death.

The laugh proved to not be as stifled as you had thought, as the voice of the man startled you from your slow stirring.

“...Who are you?”

You placed the spoon down by the stew, turning around to look at him from the coal stove, to tell him your name. As you spun however, your name came as a bare whisper, eyes finally landing on the man by your fire. 

Not only was the man conscious, he was sitting upright, leant heavily on one arm as he looked at you, legs stretched out in front of him. Your mouth went dry and you blinked, the blanket that you had carefully tucked around his body having fallen to his waist, bare chest on display.

You swallowed thickly, feeling heat in your cheeks as you tried to avert your eyes, but the image of his toned and lean chest blared in your minds view. 

“Do you often strip drowned sailors?” The man mused, clearly having noticed his undressed state. His voice still crackled, but underneath, it was as smooth as honey.

The heat in your cheeks increased tenfold, and your feet took you swiftly over to the table where his now dried tunic and breeches were neatly folded on top. A crack of thunder boomed over head as you looked towards the kitchen, holding his clothes out to him to the side, feeling the weight of them being taken out of your hands. 

“You were soaked and close to death," You explained, "I saw no other choice.” You cleared your throat awkwardly as you heard rustling beside you, moving yourself back to the kitchen as you kept your back to him to stir the stew in avoidance, “I kept your modesty with the blanket. My one priority being-“

“-A joke, Madam.”

“Miss.” You corrected him.

You were no married woman.

You didn’t dare turn back around, instead, beginning to pour stew into two seperate bowls using your ladle, ensure that his had an ample supply of meat and broth within to help give him his strength back.

As he dressed, you could hear him grunt and struggle, but offered him no help. A man of his breed would likely suspect you meant something untoward, and you had learnt from a young age that a mans strength and will should never be questioned, for their ego's, fragile as they are, shall bruise.

You could feel him watching you as you continued on, shaking the embers beneath the stove loose to put them out slowly, allowing for the stew to finish its simmering before putting the large lid on top.

“Who are you?”

You frowned.

Had he forgotten already?

You told him your name once again.

“No." He sighed from behind you, "Who do you serve here?”

Turning, you faced the man.

His tunic was thrown back on, but it gaped at his chest where it had been ripped, revealing the soft pale skin beneath that you could not help but admire. But despite his handsomeness, his question served to insult you.

“I serve no one.” You said stiffly, dusting your hands down on your apron, before grabbing two spoons to throw into the bowls.

This seemed to dissatisfied the man as he hummed, “And the man who tends to the lighthouse?”

The man?

Hands on your hips you glared at him, watching as his brows lifted slightly waiting for your response, “There is no man here. None but you.”

His brow furrowed, “Then who te-“

“-That would be I.” You snipped, turning back around to grab his bowl before handing it to him with his spoon, “I take you can feed yourself now?” All patience gone from your body.

And to think, you had brought this man back from the dead, and he still thinks that a man must tend to the island and not you.

Clearly the silver haired man was shocked by your station, and also your brazen way of response, “I meant no offence, Miss. I have only known men to tend to Lighthouses.”

You huffed through your nose, exhaustion from the almost week of storm, and nurturing the man on the floor back to health nipping at you cruely.

“And now you know a woman.” You moved back to the kitchen to grab your own bowl and plate of sliced bread, sitting at your table to eat your stew, all the while feeling his eye on the side of your face. You grabbed the plate of bread and offered him a slice, a small thank you coming from his lips as you ate in silence. 

There was minimal talking between the both of you as you ate, and the sound of the storm seemed to fill the space instead. By the time the both of you finished eating, you knew you had to brave it outside once again, and climb the never ending stairs to check the oil and wick of the lamp.

You took your bowl and his to the kitchen, before coming back, standing above him as you pulled on your coat. 

“I have to tend to the light.”

He nodded.

You shuffled on your feet as you looked at him, thinking of your earlier plan to move him into your bed so that the had a reprieve from the stone floor.

Now was the time if there ever was.

“Do you think you can stand?”

The man blinked at you.

“I won’t cast you out in this storm,” You reassured him, though his face didn’t change, “But you shouldn’t lay on the flagstones to recover. They’ll do more harm than good.”

A nod.

He shifted, pulling the blanket off of him to reveal his long, now clothed, legs, bare feet stretched out at the end. You came to his side, pulling an arm beneath his and offering your other hand as you slowly brought him to stand. The man swayed and groaned, and his face grew pale.

“The bedroom is not far.” You reassured him, steering him down the small hall, each slow step, moving slowly, and his breath coming out with a rough rasp. His weight was heavily leant around your shoulders, and you felt your muscles strain to hold him up. The man stood at least a foot and a half taller than yourself, and yet slumped over was still nowhere near your height.

He grunted as moved him to the side of the bed, sitting him down on the edge as gently as you could, pulling the sheets back before helping him to lay down. He coughed and wheezed and groaned as you moved him, eye scrunched tightly shut, as you lifted his legs up and onto the mattress. The man looked paler than before, and his seeing eye became half-lidded with fatigue. 

You pulled the sheets up to his shoulders, ensuring that he wouldn’t roll out of the bed on either side.

Then suddenly you were hoping that he didn’t mind the feel of your sheets, or the spring of the softness of the mattress, or the plump of the pillows.

You shook your head.

Why were you worried about that?

“Rest.” You told him, but his eye had already slid shut, and so away you went.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the general tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[pnsteblnme]

a slight headache ✿ k.m.

pairing: katie mccabe x reader

summary: katie's corner kick leads to a dramatic turn of events.

warning: injuries, blood, cursing, me trying to write angst

word count: 2.1k

a/n: this was a request from ages ago and i'm so sorry that it took so long! i don't really know how to write angst so i hope it's not that bad

It was the 89th minute, the score read 1:1, and Katie was ready to take the corner kick. 

Even though it was tied right now, Arsenal clearly had the upper hand. It was a one-sided game from the beginning of the second half, with the gunners constantly creating opportunities and taking numerous shots at the goal.

Katie raised her hands, signalling to everyone that she was about to shoot. 

You stood a few metres in front of the goal, waiting for the ball to come flying towards you. When you finally spotted it sailing through the air and barreling in your direction, you immediately moved forward before jumping as high as you could. 

Feeling the ball connect with your forehead, you held your breath and saw it nestling into the back of the net. 

Then, your head flew to the side. A sharp ringing filled your ears. Thousands of black spots clouded your vision. Everything went silent. 

Katie let out an elated shout, running to the penalty box to celebrate with her teammates. Seeing you still on the ground, she thought you were just too exhausted to stand up. 

Though when Lia leaned down to check up on you and yelled for the medics in distraught, the Irish woman felt her heart drop and rushed to your side. 

The sight before her made a chill run down her spine, breath catching in her throat. Your head propped up on Lia’s thighs as gushing waves of red emerged from the side of your head and painted her shorts the same colour as her crimson jersey.

The brunette fell to her knees next to your still body, hand reaching for yours, praying that you would open her favourite pair of eyes and tell her you were just playing with her. 

While the Swiss woman pressed her hand to your wound to minimise the blood that was still flowing out of your head at an agonisingly fast pace, Katie’s right hand cupped your cheek as she whispered, “Please wake up, Y/N/N.”

After the medics came rushing and ushered your teammates away, your girlfriend having to be pulled away by Leah, fury roared within her.

Noticing Zecira, whose fists had smashed into your head, standing a few metres ahead of her, the brunette’s hands clenched, knuckles turning white, as she bridged the gap between them with tramping steps.

“Are you sick in the fuckin’ head?” Katie spat, pushing the goalkeeper with such force that, despite the immense height difference between the two, the taller girl stumbled. 

Nostrils flaring and jaw clenching, she continued to shove her with the vigour of a thousand flames until she tumbled to the ground, Katie’s finger prodding at her chest as she spewed more insults her way.

Before the altercation could escalate any further, a turmoil of Chelsea and Arsenal players separated them and tried to calm the hot-headed left back down.

When Katie’s breathing had slowed down, she cautiously let her gaze travel back to you, afraid of the sight she’d have to face. You were just being put onto the stretcher, the white bandage wrapped around your head tainted red as the referee called the brunette’s name. 

Turning around with tears on the brink of cascading down her cheeks, she faced the woman who held up a yellow card - the second time it was directed towards her this game, consequently meaning she’d be sent off and banned from the next match. 

Not caring about that in the slightest, Katie whirled around and quickly jogged to where you were being carried to the ambulance, her vision blurring with unshed tears as she could feel her heart break, the sight of your still unresponsive body making her stomach drop.

After she was allowed to ride to the hospital with you, the brunette sat next to you, one hand tightly gripping your cold one as the other was pressed against her mouth to stifle the sobs that so desperately wanted to come out. 

Thoughts were running through her head at a thousand miles per hour, her shoulders slumped and her teeth digging into her bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how she could help you, how she could tell you that everything was going to be fine when you couldn’t even hear her. 

Feeling the teeniest squeeze on her hand, she picked her head up so fast, that she was surprised she didn’t get whiplash. Heart bursting with relief when you let out a quiet groan, Katie cupped your cheek, softly tracing her thumb over your skin as she soothed, “Everythin’s gonna be fine, love.”

“You’re gonna be alright, I promise,” she continued, pressing a feather-light kiss on the back of your hand as a few tears that had gathered at her chin dropped to her thighs. 

When they arrived at the hospital shortly after, the doctor told her to stay in the waiting room until they informed her about the next steps. 

After ten minutes of nervous pacing and anxiously chewing on her nails in the dull room, which reeked of antiseptics and had excruciatingly bright lights, the brunette was joined by a few of her teammates, only a handful of girls having come in order to not disturb you. 

They had sat there for another ten minutes before the door was opened by a doctor, “Y/N Y/L/N?” he questioned as he looked at the clipboard in his hands. 

Chair scraping against the ground and almost tipping over, Katie stood up in the blink of an eye and rushed to the door, “Is she alright?”

Flipping a page on his board, he looked up with a comforting smile and nodded, “She suffered a grade 4 concussion and we had to stitch up the cut on her temple. She may have a few complaints like nausea, headaches and sensitivity to light and noise but in a couple of weeks she should be perfectly fine again.”

The Irish woman let out a huge sigh of relief at hearing the doctor’s words, a weight being lifted off her shoulders. 

“Okay, so there is a very big chance that this is not the case, but because it’s not a hundred percent impossible, I need to inform you that she could suffer from post-traumatic amnesia,” noticing the woman’s face fall again, the doctor added, “I’m certain though, that if that should happen, it’d only be temporary.”

Nodding her head, Katie took a few breaths and tried to take all of the information in, “Can I see her?” He hummed in agreement before advising, “I think it’d be good if only one or two people went in because she’ll probably feel a little dazed and sensitive to noise et cetera.”

“Okay, thank you so much,” she exclaimed, sending him a grateful smile as she made her way to her teammates and told them everything he had just explained to her. Knowing that you’d be absolutely exhausted and thankful for the tranquillity, the others decided to visit some other time, leaving just Katie to enter your room.

When she closed the door behind her and turned around to face you, the brunette let out a huge breath, corners of her mouth tentatively turning upwards as she sat down on the edge of the chair next to the bed you were sleeping on. 

Reaching for your hand, her smile brightened, finally relishing in the feeling of your warm skin against hers. The urge to kiss you became too strong to resist and she leaned over you to gently press a kiss against your forehead. 

The sound of rustling bedsheets filled the room as you groaned, eyes fluttering open, Katie’s face twisting into a grimace, “Sorry love, I didn’t mean to wake ya.”

It took you a moment to answer, having to get used to the brightness of the room and the ache throbbing in your head. When you finally locked eyes with your girlfriend, your eyebrows furrowed, “And you are..?”

Suddenly, Katie’s whole body went rigid, a shiver colder than the worst winter storms in her hometown spreading from within her, looking at you with eyes that held more heartache than anything else you’d ever seen.

“I- uh… god, I-,” she tried to get words to come out of her mouth, but the thought of the love of her life not knowing who she was, filled her whole being with an all-encompassing heaviness.

Noticing how affected the brunette was, you hastily grabbed her hand, “No, I’m just kidding, Katie!”

“This isn’t fuckin’ funny,” she grumbled, slapping your arm, a glare stretching across her face, “I was worried about you, dickhead!”

“Ow! How dare you hit an injured woman?”

When the sound of your laughter filled her ears, all of the previous darkness inside of her vanished, warmth spreading through her chest as the sight of your bright smile ignited one of her own. 

“Shut up,” Katie groaned, face pressed into the mattress next to your thigh. Your gaze travelled to her hunched-over form, eyes twinkling even under these horrible hospital lights as your hand tangled in her hair, gently scratching at her scalp. 

The Irish woman’s breath evened out, the first time since that godforsaken corner kick that she felt something akin to peace. 

“Come here,” you cooed after she lifted her head and you patted the space next to you.

Crawling under the blanket with you, Katie wrapped her arms around your waist, tightly squeezing your body against hers as if she were afraid you’d slip right through her fingers. 

Head laying on your shoulder, she leaned back a bit to look into your eyes, breath fanning across your face as she softly questioned, “Does it still hurt?”

You brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, leaving your hand on her cheek and gently tracing her skin, “I do have a bit of a headache but other than that it’s like nothing happened,” you assured your girlfriend with a grin. 

Katie visibly relaxed at your answer, her tense shoulders relaxing as she pressed her lips to your cheek, the simple action being enough to get your stomach doing somersaults.

“Except,” you winced, dragging out the word at the end, “what happened exactly? I only remember you being about to shoot that corner but after that, it’s like-,” you gestured with your hands.

“Ya headed the ball into the goal and then that daft cow punched you,” your girlfriend grumbled as her face scrunched in anger.

Your fingers drew random shapes on her hips, where her hoodie had revealed a tiny bit of her tanned skin, “I’m sure that was just an accident.”

“An accident?! She should get her arms cut off for that and-”

“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut in hopes of your little devil having controlled herself. When Katie unintelligibly mumbled something under her breath and avoided your gaze, you knew you were wrong. 

“What did you do?”

Still not meeting your eyes, the Irish woman conceded with a small voice, “I may have pushed her,” eyes now scanning the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, she added, “and I may have gotten another yellow card.”

“Katie!” you exclaimed, smacking her head as you sat up and glared at her, “Why would you do that? Now you’re banned from our next game!”

Turning to you with a smirk and a shrug of her shoulders, “She deserved it.”

Being met with an onslaught of your hands, she quickly grabbed your wrists and gently pinned them to the bed. When you continued to struggle in her hold, the brunette straddled you - carefully as to not hurt you any further, “Maybe it was wrong but I was just so mad at her and seeing you losing so much blood, it just- I couldn’t contro-”

You leaned up and pressed your lips against hers, a sigh escaping your mouth when her hands wandered to your face and gently cupped your cheeks. 

Katie instantly relaxed, tingles running through her whole body with just a brush of your lips. 

The brunette couldn’t put into words how relieved she was that you were here in her arms, out of harm’s way, with just a concussion and on your way to recovery. 

She knew that you didn’t like the way she handled a lot of things, but she also knew that you accepted her the way she was, because you loved her just the way she was - as you made sure to tell her daily.