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granolawriting · 1 year ago

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A change in fate ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

pairing: no breakout!Joel x fem reader

Summary: Your toxic ex kicks you out of your place without another word. Only hiring a mover to get your stuff somewhere else. And when Joel finds you in a state of disarray, and stays indifferent, you butt heads until it comes to a head when your paths cross again after that night. That time, much more complicated.

Content warning: age gap, you're 21 and Joel is mid 30s to early 40s. Enemies to lovers.

word count: 4k

A/N: this is the first of a two-part series inspired by an old movie I grew up with. If you can recognize it, I'll like, give you a really big treat. no nsfw this chapter, but the next one will. And as always, let me know if you like my work or if you have any suggestions for anything else I could write :)

Part 2 out now!!: to make you forget

“NO. No. No no no no no no no NO!!!”

Your fist hits solid wood once more. Every slam that pounds upon its impenetrable front leaves a mark on your hand in the shape of bruises and soreness-- you try the door once more. It's locked, as it had been the last ten times you attempted to open it. Desperation laced in the fruitless fervor that played its sound of metal clanking on metal as the knob refused to turn.

The thump on the ground follows a fall of your knees. Defeated, hopeless, in a dress that isn't even yours. Tears stream from your face in such passion you can't even feel them anymore as more of you is wet than it is dry. You imagine you look a mess, hair disheveled as you held it as you screamed at him-- makeup once beautiful and elegant streams down and across your face in the motion your hands chose to wipe away your tears.

A screeching of tires followed by the shutting of a door is what knocks you out of this pathetic display. A man walks over to you and begins to pick up the boxes right beside you, carrying them to the back of his truck that has the title “MOVERS” painted on its side. You clamor to your feet, disorientation doesn't help the heels strapped to your feet as you chase after him;

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going with those? Who the hell are you?”

Rancor coats your tongue as your anger spits out onto him, He stands in the middle of an empty parking lot with only the light emanating from houses and lamps decorating the street are you able to take him in.

He was tall, perhaps 6ft, an older man. Salt and pepper hair covered just above his forehead and a stern face was complimented by equally gruff facial hair of similar color, and a frown that seemed natural for him. He wore an old jacket-- probably made in the same year you were born with plaid linings on its inside to support a Carhartt branded outside. All the clothes upon his body seemed worn, from the stained jeans and a belt fitted so many times it might as well have been made for the exact curve of his body, to the heavy worker's boots with every scratch telling a story beyond your years. He looks at you. Up and down his eyes register curiously the woman that stood before him. He scoffs, and with a low Texan drawl he replies in kind;

“Well princess, looks here like someone was kind enough to get yourself a mover for all them boxes outside the house. ‘Supose you know where i'm to drop em off?”

“They can stay right here.”

It comes out of you not in a literal sense, but you guess a plea of desperation. You can't imagine that this is actually happening. You can't just leave. After all the years you spent with him, all the hours you poured into his care and the best he can do is call up some old guy to take your shit somewhere else?

“Now you know I can't do that. I ain't come all the way down here just for’ nothin. Now, I was hired to move, least you can let me do is my job.”

His palms outstretched to you as he finishes putting the first box in the back of his truck, looking to you with little care for what you’re properly going through, moreso just a plea to let him go home sometime before 1 in the morning.

your breath grows uneven again, you feel something build up in you again as you just refuse to accept this. Turning your back to him, you storm over to another box untouched by him and kick it, screaming and crying and truly just making a mess of yourself as you collapse once again on the curb of the sidewalk. Folding your arms across your knees, and with a head buried deep in your chest you sit there for a moment as you listen to the crunch of his boots against the loose gravel along the pavement trail back and forth past you as each box is stored into the vehicle.

“Still haven't given me an address. Or were ya’ thinkin' of just sitting here and lettin' me take yer’ things?”

Irritation follows his tone as he becomes increasingly impatient about your behavior.

“I don't have anywhere to go.”

“Surely you got someplace. Now get a move on, I'm bout damn tired of all this.”

He drags you up by your upper arms, feeling his calloused hands hold onto the smoothness of your body as he lifts you to your feet. Shocked though, you push him away from you in haste;

“I can get up by myself. Thank you very much.”

You dust yourself off for just a moment before continuing, he looks at you with impatience.

“And I need a ride.”

He stammers a bit as he begins to speak,

“A- fucking,? Damn. alright then. Just get the hell on alright? Sure you wouldn't want em’ having to pay me extra.”

He walks back to his truck as you follow, The two footsteps upon the concrete road are all that can be heard in the neighborhood as your pain slowly wells into your chest, and the outbursts cease.

------------------------------------

“Now, listen here. We've been drivin' for damn near an hour now, and ain't nothing come of it. Where the hell am I takin you? Or I'm about to leave ya on the side of the damn road. I've got a kid at home.”

“Just take me to the other side of town.”

“Are you fuckin kidding me? Now, I don't know what you've got goin on and I truly, don't want to. But you're real damn selfish ya know that? Makin me drive all over town like this like I'm some goddamn taxi. This place best got some money to pay me for.”

His voice is deep, gruff, and when laced with the anger of a despondent woman who seems as if she has all the time in the world he's not keen to hold back judgment anymore. His hand grips the steering wheel firmly and doesn't look at you for a moment as he speaks to you.

You're taken aback, to say the least. After the pain you've felt, the torment you've faced the only thing to greet you is the unwanted mouth of some old man who doesn't know what he's talking about.

“I'm selfish? You don't know the night I've had. How can you call me selfish? You were hired for a reason so why don't you just do your fucking job okay? As long as you’re getting paid it shouldn't matter a damn to you.”

You shrug your shoulders and cross your arms in his passenger seat, watching him with disdain as he grips the wheel and drives relatively carelessly through the empty streets just to get you out.

After a few minutes more, and by a few you mean around 30, you find yourself in front of a home you’d never think to see again truthfully. As you take in the sight of it, a simple house facing an otherwise unimpactful street, but you held memories of all your years within the confines of these blocks. You were home, after so many years away.

“Get out.”

He says bluntly. The clock shines a bright 1:47 on its dash, signifying that you definitely didn't meet his “before 1” pleas. But damn, could he have been any nicer about it?

You watch as he hops out of the car himself, to the sound of a hard opening of the back that held all your belongings. And as you made your way ever so slowly out of his truck, trying to not fall as the step was coated in the darkness of the night that was no longer politely illuminated by street lights. As you made your way to the concrete below you, rounding his truck was he almost done putting your stuff back out, only on a different curb this time. And without a second to spare, he gets back into his truck, and leaves. Not a word said to you, not even an exchange.

What an asshole.

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“So you’re telling me, that the man you were with for how many years, kicked you out for what?”

The voice of your childhood friend rang once more through the old walls of the house, in the kitchen where you two sat. this was her family home, one that she now inherited, and one that after many years of silence on your part, she gladly opened up to you as well.

“We were together almost 3 years. And he just, found another girl I guess. But she was in my closet, filled with her clothes. It's as if he’d moved me out overnight. He didn't have a word to say to me, it's like I never even mattered to him. But I've told you this time and time again, what more can I even do at this point?”

She repositions herself with her legs crossing over one another as she looks for a response, taking a sip of coffee before having it dawn on her.

“Today. 3 pm. Uncles holding a barbeque. You remember my uncle right? Everyone will be there. Maybe we could find you a good little rebound to bring you down to earth.”

“Are you- a rebound? Seriously? Is that all you can think of right now?”

“Listen. The only thing you can do with a broken heart is fix it. And that doesn't happen in a day. Least you can do is get something tasty to chase the pain with. Like hot old guys. You’re only 21! This is the prime time to do whatever you want.”

You think for a second. Letting this wash over you as you try and figure out the next thing to do. Do you really doll yourself up after the most traumatic evening of your life is not even 24 hours in your past, just to eye all of your friends older relatives, and family friends that you’ve been ogling at since you were 16?

I mean fuck it, what else are you going to do.

Following your friend up the stairs, she lets out an excited giggle at the prospect of having you back after so many years. There's so many things to tell, different people to see, and subsequently laugh at, but the best of all her skills with a brush have gotten much better since the last time she helped you look good. Much better, apparently for as you looked at yourself in the mirror you could barely recognize the woman looking back at you-- let alone any trace of the girl sat in a torn dress the night before screaming outside her ex’s house.

You put on a pretty yellow dress, adorned with flowers It's hemmed all properly frilled to some level, and the flow of the skirt portion barely getting over your back end does the top also treat you well; a low neck cup to shape your chest perfectly as the daintiness of your outfit, paired with little yellow heels, made you look properly irresistible.

-----------------------------------

“Guess whos backkk!!!”

The excited shrills of your friend beside you make everyone who'd arrived at the party thus far to crane their heads back to look, all of which subsequently smiled with shock as they looked upon you. None of them had seen you since you were 17, about 18 years old. That's when you left, the moment you could. Looking back you missed all of this so much, the community, the story told in every face that looked upon you. But all is lost now and the most you can do is make the best out of the time you have right now-- and as it stands you’re at the center of it all.

They approach you by the droves, asking every question they can that have undoubtedly had rumored answers to in your absence; detailing from where you've been, what you’re doing, where you go to school, where you work, and most hurtful-- how your ex was doing. You briefly told them all that you and him had since parted, and that you were just getting back on track, spending some time at your friend's house in the meantime. They all looked upon you in sympathy, but as more people entered the party the more they dispersed to greet other guests.

“Oh my god, is that who I think it is?”

A low, familiar tone enters the backyard where you stand, and turning around to face you is your friend's father. Who, for most of your life was like a father to you as well. He opens his arms and you follow suit, embracing him in what feels like a much-needed hug, before setting you down again to continue talking to you.

“Oh, honey if, if I'd known you were coming I'd have brought you something. How long has it been since I last saw you? God, you seem so grown up now. It's like I barely even know you.”

His head moves to look behind him for a second, and soon he ushers someone forward to join in the conversation.

“Ah, there's something I'd love for you to meet. This is a good friend of mine, Joel. I haven't had him around any of these much, he just moved back here from Texas a couple weeks back. But he's someone I've known my whole life. Kinda like you and my daughter in a way!”

Though as the man who emerged behind him reared his head, you couldn't believe your eyes. It was him, of course, it was him. That asshole that drove you home like you were the greatest burden he's ever had to carry.

“Yer fuckin kidding me.”

He looks at you in shock. Nothing more. However, you see that to his side is a young girl, no older than 12 who seems to be in awe over you. Her hair was tucked into each side of her face to illuminate it in a crown of curls that came to her shoulder and stretched all the way to her ears in volume. She wore a small shark tooth necklace, and some form of singer on her shirt that you didn't recognize.

He-, Joel, looks down at her;

“Sarah how bout you go say hi to your friends for me. I'm gonna be busy a moment”

She runs off, and your friend's dad begins to speak again.

“Do you, know each other from somewhere? I can't imagine you do.”

“She's that insane little girl I told you ‘bout. The one kickin n’ screaming all over the place. Reason why Sarah hadta’ stay the night at your place.”

“The insane little girl?”

You chime in.

“There's no way- Joel, you’ve probably got the wrong girl”

“No, he has the right one.”

You stare directly at him, sending daggers into each of the brown eyes that look back at you.

“He kicked me out of his car at almost 2 in the morning without a single word. Isn't that right?”

Though no matter how piercing your gaze it fails to impact him as it should, for with equal level tone he snipes back;

“Yep, after makin me drive all the way cross’ town just cause she wanted to. Knowin I got someone waitin’ for me. Clearly, something she don't understand all too much anymore.”

That was unnecessary.

Something brews inside of you as you glance upon his finger void of a ring, even a tan that would indicate its recent removal. Though as the only sane-minded person seemingly left to observe watches your eyes as you make such a connection, he swiftly puts an end to it.

“Now, Joel. you know how young girls are they-”

“I'm not that young.”

“Alright well, they. Are just passionate, that's all. She was with him for how many was it now? Three years? Left the moment she turned of age. Clearly she just doesn't know how a mans supposed to be. This is all she really knows.”

This is all she really knows.

That's all that rang through your head as the conversation died and Joel exchanged brief apology. That in a way, he was all you really knew. And now you’re back home, and you don't know what to do with yourself, really. You don't know what you like, or what you don't like. It was all just, him. For so long. You vowed to yourself that day that, no matter what went on you would say yes to anything. To embrace kind of, anything that came your way as some divine fate, or at the very least a fun experience.

As the night droned on, and you fielded the barrage of squeals, hugs from people you don't remember, and a bit more liquor you could've accounted for, the night came to a slow end. Feeling eyes on you constantly was one thing, but feeling the eyes on the man with who’d you'd had a comfortable reunion was even worse in a way. Although, as you looked upon him in your own moments you saw in him something unveiled after the veil of hatred and sorrow fell off of you. Something, interesting about him. Attractive. Obviously nothing you were going to personally indulge in, but an interesting assertion nonetheless. He stood in the light of the evening, fairy lights covering the backyard as it illuminated his now more time-appropriate outfit; one of marginally better jeans and a plaid shirt, rolled to his elbows to reveal what were impressive forearms, and with the proper fit of his shirt, showed an impressive physique for a single dad.

… … …

Thats stupid. Anyways, the night drew to a close and as you saw your friend too wrapped up in the conversation of someone relatively older than her, you decided to take the few blocks walk home, especially since you didn't have a car anymore either. Though as you exit the front door to travel down the sidewalk you hear a familiar accent call out to you after only a few feet have been made distance between you and the doorframe;

“Ya’ walking home this late at night?”

“Yeah, I am. Not like I've got a car do I?”

You turn your body to look at him, but only after you've finished your sentence, using the body language of someone unequipped for any more stupid banter to cue him into leaving you alone.

“How’s about I drive you home. Least I can do after what I’d said today. It wasent quite my place.”

His voice has an unfamiliar tune of sympathy as he lets out that apology of sorts, so you engage. Though, begrudgingly.

“Don’t you have a daughter to take care of? That seemed what got you so mad before.”

He sighs a little, you notice you've hit a bit of a nerve.

“Well, she’ll be stayin' at a friend's place for a few days, really hit it off. Got nothin but time on my hands now.”

“Well in that case I'm not gonna say no to a free ride. Obviously.”

You smile a bit, a first with him. Other than ones of sarcasm, every interaction you've had with him thus far hasn't been all that pleasant. And he smiles back. And, as the light of the moon shines down upon his weathered face, the smirk on his makes your smile grow even more.

Hopping into his car once more, you take the road to your place with a little more enjoyment than how it transpired the night before. This time, the sound of his music accompanied by a hum through his car is what played to fill the silence of the atmosphere. Something old, country, of course. You’d never heard it, and it sounded well beyond even his years. But despite that, there was a comforting air that was shared in the car-- cool air blowing in from the windows rolled down, watching as his arm held on to the side of the car door from the open window, tapping its side in unison to the beat.

“This here is it right?”

Pulling up to your shared home you felt almost a little reluctant to respond with a yes. Though when you do, he steps out of the car as you do as well. You watch as he awaits your circle to the front where he stood, as a means to walk with you to the front of your door. Looking at him curiously as you reach the entrance, he gives response to your motions, though you watch as his fingers fiddle with one another ever so slightly as he poses such a response;

“It ain’t right leaving a lady to walk all by herself after dropping her off. And, I just wanted to say again that it ain't my place makin assumptions about you like that. Wanted to know if I could make it up to ya’. Kinda seems like lifes dealt you a bad hand right now, thought to offer you a drink over it.”

A drink?

You thought about that for a second. The man that kicked you out of his car, literally less than 24 hours ago, is now offering to take you out for a drink. Well, it was as a means for apology. So that's something. Nothing more to it, it's a Southern thing. They drink to anything. Especially sorrow.

“I think I’ll have to take you up on that. You’ll know where I’ll be.”

You reply with a smile that grows just large enough to show your teeth. He gazed at you for a bit longer, as his eyes grew brighter at the prospect of an invitation accepted. He was a lot less harsh than meets the eye, it seemed. But you still weren't properly convinced. And, there was still much a mystery about him that although intimidated you, enticed you even more. You cock your hip to the side of the doorframe, leaning up against it as he spoke to you as a means to accentuate your figure just a bit as he looked at you. Just to see what would happen.

“Oh, alright then. 7 alright with you? I’ll come pick you up course’.”

“Seven’s more than alright with me. I'll see you then, Joel.”

As you bid farewell to him, you watched as his eyes tracked your movements as you did so. The way your hips have shifted place, the tone at which your voice shifted ever so slightly. He took in your gaze, a small cat eye that sharpened your eyes paired with the sly smile of a woman your age was enough to catch his stare for a moments longer than it should've. You relished in that.

He leaves you off with a nod and a smile, though you take the time that he walks back to his truck as a means to take in all that he was without interruption. He was handsome, to say the least. There was something to be said about a man with southern hospitality and an ass made from manual labor that reached deeper into a realm of attraction that was often untapped by the men of your age range. And you enjoyed greatly that you’d discovered such a thing.

Tomorrow, 7pm, Joel.

#joel #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel smut #joel fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #pedro x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfic #joel tlou x reader

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atsadi-shenanigans · 9 months ago

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Feeding Alligators 50 - The Smallest Ember

TW: abuse, reference child abuse, potential eating disorders, referenced corporal punishment, suicidal ideation, and threats of sexual assault

You return to the farmstead.

It’s…the chapel. You wouldn’t know until much later that chapels outside the farmstead have benches. That their congregations sit for their sermons.

The Pastor of the farmstead, however, says laziness comes from the devil. Your congregation stands. All the better to witness confessions.

The floor is bare concrete. The walls are timber boards. The roof arches up, overhead. The whole space is open and clear in the back, where y’all stood, with a raised dais at the front. Upon that dais sits two chairs.

One is a massive throne, painted gold with red, velvet cushions. Only the lord in heaven can sit in it—it’s big enough to hold two people with their feet dangling. Beside it sits a smaller, slightly less opulent chair. And everyone was very specific to call it a chair and not a throne, because The Pastor was not some delusional man with dreams of grandeur, but the voice and the right hand of the heavenly father. His chair just happened to be decorated like a throne, because he was still important to the lord.

Both were illuminated in a single, golden band of sunlight streaming in from a strategically-placed skylight. The pastor would seat himself in his “humble” chair to deliver his latest sermons, Mother and his eldest son standing to his right.

He took confessions from that chair.

You walk towards it. The space is smaller than you remember. Old. Sort of musty. The boards don’t fit together very well, and sunlight leaks through the cracks. It got terrible cold in the winter. The chair is smaller than you remember, too. And the paint don’t glimmer. It’s faded in places. Cracked and chipped. It looks…cheap.

When you turn, Sarah stands in the confession circle. Your knees hurt just looking at that part of the floor. There’s nothing to mark it. Seems it should be stained. Greasy brown from sweat, crusted white with salt. Worn dents from all the knees and foreheads pressed into it.

But it’s just a plain patch of concrete, same as the rest.

You spent hours on that spot. Knees aching from the cold. Face pressed down, voice shaking and cracking as you said whatever they wanted. Whatever an Aunt hissed at you. Pride and stupidity, insolence, laziness. Lust. Always lust. They saw it every time you looked at someone, every time your lips moved, your fingers twitched, every time you breathed. Never mind you’d never so much as kissed anybody, that you don’t understand when the others saw in Caleb Jennings (he was tall? And skinny).

You are a lust-filled harlot. They can tell just by looking at you (and later, much later, you would read about “savages” and the “loose morals” of the native women, and some of that would shed light on what exactly all them people was seeing in your tanned face and dark hair).

So that’s what you said. Over and over, day after day crouched on that floor, crunching the inside of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to keep in your tears. Groveling for forgiveness for your whoreish thoughts, the way you lusted over this or that boy (but never the girls). How craven you were, the filthy things you (never actually) imagined. Lies and stories spilled from your lips, crouched right there on the floor, at the feet of The Pastor and Mother while they watched on in judgment.

Until you believed it. Because there had to be something wrong with you. There had to be a reason for this. They had to see something your stupid eyes couldn’t perceive. You were wrong. You were dirty. And only they could cleanse you.

Your stomach flops all queasy. You look to Sarah.

“I’m here now. Is that all?” you say.

But she shakes her head and points again. You instinctively resist the urge to roll your eyes (it was ten lashes with the switch). Remember you are thirty-fucking-five, your name is Eleanor Ripley, and you can roll your eyes as you damn well please.

It feels like sacrilege, all heady and delicious.

It feels great.

Until you follow Sarah’s gaze, and where them thrones sat, the cellar doors await.

Your entire body snaps rigid.

“No. No, Sarah—”

But she’s gone. You stand alone in that fucking barn. Alone. The empty space, the creaky boards. And those fucking doors.

From the outside, they’re shabby, fragile looking things. Classic root cellar—two doors opening up from the ground. But normal root cellars don’t have a chain wrapped around the handles with a padlock hanging unlocked, you suspect. It came with the house, these doors. Back from when claim jumpers raced in to snatch up Native land. The farmstead even used it as a root cellar, most of the time.

The handles are worn smooth. You ain’t never touched them. Always one of the Aunts, or even Mother, when you were especially egregious. Your hands rattle as your fingers brush the cool metal. Bile rushes up the back of your throat and you have to take a step back and swallow.

The chapel still sits empty. Outside, the air is hot and heavy and stone still, like it’s waiting. You know you have to. Down in your bones, the knowledge thrums. Only way out is through. Is opening them doors. Is stepping down them stairs.

You use every trick you know to keep the vomit down. It barely holds. And before you can think anymore, you grab the handle (no chain and padlock now) and wrench it open.

The stairs are bleached out. They creak as you coltishly stagger down, gripping the door frame above to keep yourself from tumbling (unlike last time).

The smell hits you first. Dirt, wood, stale air. The faintest tinge of mold. A sourness to it.

You double over, clap a hand over your mouth. No. No, no, no, no. If you puke you’ll be switched so bad you can’t sit. You’ll be stripped down to your underwear for next confession, so the congregation might witness your shame. No. No, you can’t.

Deep breath. Controlled, deep breath.

You open your eyes. There’s the shelves you spent so much time looking at. The one on the left has a whorl and a knob in it that looks like man with a pointy beard. They line the walls, two rows filling the space between, loaded with big cans of evaporated milk and powdered eggs. Sacks of flour and sugar. Canned vegetables stacked ten rows deep, on the outer shelves. The jarred fruit and jams. Some of it was farmstead produce. The gift of the lord through y’all’s hands.

A lot of it was store bought—though less and less often as the years went on and The Pastor preached self-reliance, rejecting the toxic chemicals of the secular world which damned the body, and wasn’t the body the holy temple of the lord? To pollute it was a sin.

It looks innocuous. Some old-timey painting of Wholesome Farmer’s Pantry. Until one noticed the bucket in the corner. The glint of a long chain bolted into the wall. The handcuffs they’d bring from the main house, by the shepherd ushering your way to repentance, to click into one of the links, its proximity to the wall depending on how bad the sin was.

You stand at the foot of the stairs, legs rooted to the dirt.

The chain only appeared after the first few years. In the beginning, they’d shut the sinful down here in the dark, to reflect and repent. And starve. Age didn’t matter. Sin was sin, and all were equal in the eyes of the lord. You were five the first time. You broken a towel rack in the bunkhouse on accident.

The thing about the root cellar was that it was full of food. And to a five-year-old, eight hours is a very long time in the dark and hungry. You took two fingers of raspberry jam. No one would notice. You even hid the jar behind the others after you’d jimmied it open.

But five-year-olds are stupid. Your fingers were sticky when Mother came to fetch you.

Your body was a holy temple. You’d defiled it with stolen goods. It dirtied your temple, and a dirty temple must be cleaned.

She’d made you drink the lemon-scented dish soap. Not a lot. Couldn’t bring down the attention of the secular, satanic authorities should the poison control center become involved. But it was enough. Your system purged itself quite thoroughly. Quite violently.

Then she’d made you wash the sin from your clothes yourself. By hand.

Everyone knew, of course. That might have been the start of it; you’re not sure. Your childhood memories are hazy in the few patches you can remember. You were branded a thief. Greedy. Dirty. Sinful.

And here you stand now. What a fun trip down memory lane. Time to go.

Wood thumps. You spin as the light winks out. Bolt up the steps. Misjudge the distance in the dark and slam head first into the doors. They give, but only so far as the chain allows.

“No, no! Let me out! I didn’t do anything, let me out!”

You bang and shove and rattle. Get your feet under you and shove up with your entire body. The chain above rattles and wood squeals, but it doesn’t give. It just falls back on you, hard enough to send you stumbling down, lose your footing, crash into a shelf.

Jars fall around you. One of them crashes and you know even in the dark it’s shattered. Slimy pears spill over your hair, down your front, pooling in your skirt.

“No, please! I didn’t mean it! Please!”

But nothing moves up there. The chain will hold. The chain always holds. And trying it only earns you lashes, and more time down here surrounded by food you cannot touch.

The lord will not forgive you this time. Because The Pastor will not forgive you. Prideful thing. Too busy lusting after good, honest men.

“But I’m not!”

They’re trying to protect you. Give your sinful lust a holy purpose.

“I don’t want to!”

They all see how you watch the men. Twenty years old and your womanly weakness cannot be contained anymore.

“I want to be good! I’ll be good! I can stay pure, please!”

The lord has finally blessed you through his shepherd. The Pastor has found a faithful man to take you into holy matrimony. To (you’re gonna vomit) fill your womb (throat clenches and the corners of your jaw prickle) with the blessings of the lord. Your duty is to him and through him the lord and you will obey the head of your house as you would the lord for if his eye strays it is because you invited the devil and failed the commandment given unto you to be fruitful and loving and kind and ever welcoming—

You scream. You scream now as you couldn’t then. When The Pastor summoned you to the main house to deliver unto you the Good Word and Mother beamed. You were to be a wife, finally. A mother, finally.

They see how you watch the men.

“I d-didn’t.”

They see how you lust.

“I n-never.”

The lord knows your secret thoughts.

“Please. I want to be clean. I want to serve you.”

The Pastor is the instrument of the lord and you are to be his trusting child.

“I don’t…I don’t want…please.”

You could never overcome your own, weak nature. So you had to be placed into the root cellar to cleanse yourself. To prostrate yourself before the lord and his will and see the wisdom of The Pastor, see his Holy Truth.

Mother had been rough pushing you down the stairs. You fell against this shelf, right here. Knocked off a row of jars (you don’t even know how many lashes, it’ll be a lot, waste is not tolerated). The glass shattered, had sliced a thin line into your forearm as it broke.

You sit down there, cradling the scratch as the terror closes your throat and buries your thoughts. A husband. Your duties. Your purpose as a servant of the lord. Finally, to be wed to a man forgiving enough to accept one as flawed as you. A holy match, determined by the holy lord.

You can’t refuse. No more than you can deny the word of the lord himself. You’ll come to your senses. Here in the peace and quiet, your female hysteria will run out of fuel to burn and you will know the proper order of things and submit yourself to the authority entrusted to guide you. And they’ll be proud of you. Married. Swollen. Run ragged by children to raise for the lord’s army.

Your duty. Your sole purpose on this earth.

That glass is awful sharp.

There’s no way out, no matter what that heathen girl in town (her ears pierced like some jezebel whore) says. She’s trying to temp you (“You ain’t never seen the ocean?”). Trying to lead you astray. (“There’s all kinds of people on the other side. You know in France they serve hot chocolate and it’s literally melted chocolate? Wait…what do you mean ‘what is chocolate’?”)

She gave you a slip of paper with her number, she said. If you ever needed anything (you ain’t got no intention of reaching out to an agent of the devil). You’d taken it, because she was talking to you all friendly, like she wasn’t trying to damn you, and the joke was on her, because the farmstead don’t got phones.

You’ve disappointed Mother. You disappointed The Pastor, who only wanted to keep you safe, even from yourself. They found you something good in your life, and you threw it back in their faces. This ends one way. You’ll accept. Whether they keep you down here for days, until your legs cramp, until the hunger wraps around your spine and turns you inside out. They ain’t letting you out until you beg for forgiveness and accept The Pastor’s judgment.

But…that’s not the only way out, is it?

Mother was so disgusted she didn’t even walk you back to the chain. It’ll be some time before somebody comes to bring you water. Once that happens, they’ll bring the cuffs.

That jar smashed. One of them pieces is about the size of your palm. Long enough. Sharp enough. It could…could cut deep. You hear sermons, and some of the husbands work out in town, so when a secular girl killed herself, the news spread like a brushfire through the bunkhouse. You seen them bleed the calves come butchering season, and you’re sure this glass could cut deep enough. Could open your arm and let all the sin flow out of you. Let it seep into the dirt of the cellar floor. Let it take all this with it.

You’ll be damned. But lately, you’ve started to think you’ll never be the lord’s favorite. Won’t even be the lord’s liked, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you pray or how hard you work, you are broken. Wrong. Dirty and stupid, greedy and lustful, the product of shame and sin and it flows in your veins, corrupting every part of you—

No. No, the lord probably doesn’t even know who you are, does he? Or he don’t care. He’d never smiled on you. Never reached his hand to shield you or protect you.

No.

You won’t be missed. And this, this you can choose. You can rest. No hurting. No cold guilt. No freezing, aching shame.

You test the sharp edge. It pierces the tip of your finger. You’d barely feel it, even if you do make a mess of it, and you would deserve that. It’ll be hours before anybody finds you. Long enough. They’ll all know they were right about you. A disgusting little bitch to the end.

But.

There’s something inside you. Not a voice. Not a song or a feeling or any of those pretty words you will soon read about. It has no emotion to it. No warmth. It just is. A tiny, little ember. Not even a flame. Just a glowing speck down deep in the heart of you.

Sleep, it says. And you’re tired. Sleep now. Maybe all these thoughts later, but sleep now.

Your body drags. Your eyelids flutter. You shuffle around and curl up on your side, try to tuck your bare toes within the folds of your skirt to keep them warm. And you sink down.

Wake to light. Warm sunlight. For a moment, you only lie there. It comes back as slow and steady and dreadful as gray rain. The glass. Your way out.

But that tiny ember is still there. Still glows. Soft and steady. So fragile, yet it doesn’t sputter. Footsteps stomp outside and voices mutter, yet it remains. It just…refuses to go out.

A high voice, pitched sharp in irritation. Mother. Come to water you. To chain you. To wait out your stubbornness the way a cruel man breaks down a dog.

That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s what you always been—

You clap a hand over that thought. Not safe. Blasphemy. The lord can hear your every thought and if The Pastor learns of it…

A shadow falls over the hatch. A booted foot on the first step.

The phone number. That heathen jezebel.

Sarah Greenwood lives with her husband and kids in one of the trailers closer to the edge of the property. She’s The Pastor’s eldest daughter, the shining beacon of gentle womanliness to the rest of you. Her husband has a town job, so he has a phone…

As eldest daughter, it’s Sarah’s job to prepare her younger sisters for being married. Helps sew the dress, teach the rules, instruct their duties. Mother is too busy being the helpmeet of The Pastor. Sarah will surely be the one to prepare you. And Sarah’s house has a phone.

Another boot. The hem of Mother’s skirt.

That shining, shimmering line. What you want and how to get there. You…you have to leave. God save you, but you can’t, you can’t stay here. But that brilliant, glimmering line can show you how to get out. All the steps leading to that phone. What comes beyond it, you can’t imagine. Your mind shies from it. But you can feel it in the thump of your own pulse. This is what you need to do. They’ll be furious. Sweet Sarah, who only ever helped you, the only one to help you, and you are going to hurt her. Betray her. Get her into trouble because everyone will be furious.

But this is your way out.

You scrape at the dirt with your bare hands. Look at the piece of glass in the dim light spilling down from above. The razor edge glitters. You lower it into the shallow hole. Scoop and pat the dirt over it and it’s a promise, somehow. One that faded as you threw yourself into the back of Sasha’s (that heathen jezebel, and she absolutely cackled when you told her that) truck not-so-distant-from-now.

A promise that became blurry as she reached out to friends and coworkers, because it turned out she was part of a network for this, and they could help you get things like a birth certificate, a social security number, enroll you into school. You cried when you got your GED certificate in the mail. You spent precious grocery money to get a frame.

And your promise lifted like morning mist as you built yourself an entire life upon this tiny grave in the bottom of a root cellar.

But you did make a promise, those years ago. One you remake now.

Mother descends to find you sitting primly, hands folded in your lap, head bowed respectfully, stinking of canned pears.

For the first time in years, she smiles at you. Even offers her hand to help you up and guide you to the stairs to emerge, and take your first steps towards the life you will claim.

Just as here, now, you emerge alone, into brilliant sunlight.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #tavstarion #astarion x tav #plus size tav #demisexual tav #purity culture trauma #religious trauma

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camels-pen · 2 years ago

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haha summonings amiright folks

Summary:

Valerie tries to summon the Ghost King.

She gets a little less (more?) than she bargained for.

based on @darthfrodophantom's prompt "Cut the head off the snake, everything else falls apart. Valerie is hoping the same will hold true for the Ghost Zone. And now that Vlad Masters has given her a way to summon the king of the Ghost Zone, she’s hoping she can eliminate the ghost threat once and for all. It sounded like a solid plan, until Danny Fenton of all people showed up when she used the summoning ritual."

Ao3 Link

A circle of blood red flowers, sprinkled with purified (table) salt. A star painted with the blood of several rodents (oh, fuck no, this thing could and would settle for red coloured chalk instead). Five unscented candles arranged at each point, lit one after another in a counterclockwise direction (because why the hell not? God this was annoying). And with a valuable sacrifice placed in the centre (her worn Jonas Brothers poster from above her bed, because this was the one thing she wouldn’t half-ass), speaking the sacred tongue of the beloved (eugh) Ghost King will summon him into your clutches.

It was fairly simple as far as magic rituals went. Valerie had overheard tougher quests from girls talking about video games in the bathroom. It wasn’t like Val was following the recipe to a T, but it was pretty simple.

She was maybe cutting a few corners here and there, but if it worked, it worked. If it didn’t, well, she’d huff about it, maybe complain to Star, but no matter how annoyed she would be, she would ultimately go out and try to find purified salt from, like, a priest or something. She drew the line at rodents though. Had way too much familiarity with them roaming her apartment’s lobby recently and she certainly wasn’t going to touch their blood.

Plus, Val had too much pride (and a healthy fear of mice) to immediately do whatever Mr. Masters’ summoning ritual was telling her without question.

It was fine. Her way would work.

Probably.

She took a calming breath and stumbled her way through the ghost language written on the old parchment. A breeze blew through the room as she reached the half-way mark. the candles flickering wildly as she shivered through her suit.

Then, all of a sudden, it was pure chaos.

She dropped to her knees as the wind started to pick up at the end of her chanting. When she read the final word, a terrible gust tore through the room, throwing around anything not nailed down.

She held tight to the ground, ducking under her desk as it flew past. The candles were snuffed out completely, smoke curling around the devastating tornado being created in her bedroom.

Fuck, was this the weather ghost again? Or did her shortcuts summon something else entirely? She really hoped she didn’t just call up a natural disaster to destroy her room. Her dad would definitely ground her and take her suit away if she did.

And, if she didn’t just summon that weather ghost—if this really was the Ghost King she was summoning, then she needed more room to fight. Either way, she needed to find a way to stop this.

Which, duh, but Val could hardly hear herself think over the sound of the whipping winds, much less try to figure out which element exactly would stop all this without making it worse. The paper had been caught up in the debris and she was fairly sure the moment she relaxed even a little, the wind would pick her up and knock her around the room until either the walls broke or she did. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

She wouldn’t put her hopes on it, but it’d be really convenient if this turned out to be some dramatic entrance for the stupid ghost king—

All at once, the wind vanished and Val felt a brief moment of relief.

…And then she had to quickly roll out of the way of her bed frame falling on her.

The frame fell with a heavy thud on her hardwood floor and she winced as she watched it settle on its side. Her dad was out grocery shopping, but the neighbours downstairs would probably throw a fit the moment he came back. She’d have to come up with a good excuse later.

She surveyed the room.

It was quiet. And dark.

Val gave herself a moment to just breathe.

The candles relit themselves in an instant, this time a bright green burning at the wick. She lifted her gaze and stared, mouth agape at an equally shocked Danny Fenton, barefoot and wearing a pair of comfy star patterned pajamas.

“What the—where—? Valerie? Why am I—?” He gazed around the room before addressing her. He stepped forward, but paused as he was about to hit the circle of petals, glancing down at them. “Uh. Hmm. This is. Uh.” He gulped, eyes refusing to move from the chalk star under his feet.

Val furrowed her brows. “What the hell? It shouldn’t have gone that wrong,” she muttered to herself. She was pretty sure there was no way to summon a regular old human like Danny—no matter how many substitutes she used in the ritual. Maybe Danny was messing with something in his parents’ lab? Ugh, he would have shit enough luck to have this kind of coincidental timing.

She narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Me?” he asked, scandalous. “I was getting ready to go to bed at a respectable time and everything!” He slumped. “Why did you call me here, Val?”

“I didn’t, I was trying to—” summon the new ‘Ghost King’ or whatever he’s called so I can catch him and hand him over to Mr. Masters, is what she would’ve said were it not for the fact that her secret identity was supposed to stay a secret. Her dad already knew thanks to Phantom, but she wasn’t about to share it willingly with anyone, not even Danny. It was safer for him that way.

That didn’t leave her much excuses though.

“Uh, it wasn’t important.” She stood. “Just forget about it.”

“Sure sure.” He brushed past the topic without a second thought. “Now, how about you let me outta here, huh? I’d really like to get some decent sleep tonight.”

Val narrowed her eyes. “The circle only works on ghosts.”

Danny chuckled nervously. “The circle, sure, but blood blossoms work on ghosts and heavily ecto-contaminated people like yours truly so,”—he gestured a hand down at the petals—“whenever you’re ready, I guess.”

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Not even gonna bother trying to explain what you were messing with to end up here?”

“Uhh… no?”

“Wrong answer.”

Danny groaned. “Please Val? I really was just getting ready for bed. No messing around with any of my parents’ inventions, honest!”

“Isn’t your entire house and everything in it one of your parents’ inventions?”

“Well yeah, but only some of the stuff they make is ghost related.”

Val stared at him silently.

He sighed. “Okay, most of them are ghost related. But then, all the more reason to let me go without further questions!” He clasped his hands in front of him, his bottom lip jutting out, and making his eyes big and glassy. “C’mon Val, I’m just a poor, innocent little guy who got caught up in something he didn’t understand.” His lip wobbled. “Send me home?”

Be strong, Val. Be strong.

He leaned closer towards her and his eyes got impossibly bigger and glassier. “Pwease?”

All previous indications of her shaken resolve were locked behind a wall of disgust. “You ruined it.”

“Fuck,” he said emphatically, turning his head away. “I went too far into convince-Tucker-to-buy-food territory.”

“I don’t know what to say to that so I’m going to pretend I never heard it.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just send me home, please.”

“How do you even know I can do that?”

Danny shrugged. “You pulled me here. Theoretically, you should be able to push me back.”

“You have a lot of faith in me being able to do this.”

“It’s hard not to.” He smiled and she felt a familiar little flutter of warmth in her chest. “You’re one of the most capable people I know.”

She felt her face heat up. “We didn’t date that long.”

“I know.” His smile dimmed. She desperately wanted to bring it back. “There’s more important stuff you gotta do and you can’t have me weighing you down—”

“That’s not—”

“It is though, isn’t it?” The smile that returned to his face was pained, bitter. She hated that look. “You wanna do what you think is right and you don’t think I’d be able to handle it with you.”

“It’s not that you can’t handle it, it’s that I’m trying to—” She made a wordless noise of frustration. “The ghosts—uh, the ghost damage repair group I volunteer with is, um, too dangerous for someone who isn’t prepared for it.”

“Right. Of course.” He shook his head. He muttered to himself, “This is my fault anyway, I should’ve just told you before things got complicated.”

She inhaled sharply and her heart started beating faster. They had kissed a few times, gone out on dates, but they never said those three significant words to each other. Had Danny planned to say—?

“Danny—” She started to speak, stopped, started again. “Danny, I—I always—I still—” She felt a lump grow in her throat and she struggled to speak her next words, “I lo—”

Danny stared at her. The longer he waited, the colder his eyes looked.

“I lo—lost. Everything,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “I had to start over with my dad from scratch. I just wanted to prevent other people from doing the same.”

“Is that it?”

She pursed her lips. Tightly.

He huffed a humourless laugh. “It was pretty stupid of me to expect the people I love to pick me over ghosts, huh?”

“I didn’t pick ghosts over you.”

“Sure didn’t seem like it.”

“Somebody’s gotta do what I do; it’s what’s right!”

“Do all the other people in your volunteer group dump their partners when they join?”

“You’re not being fair.” Her nails dug into her palms. When had she clenched her fists? “You had things you never told me either!”

“But I never left you because of them.”

“I WAS TRYING TO KEEP YOU SAFE!” she shouted.

Her words echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling before slowly petering out.

The room was silent.

Danny spoke, his voice ice cold. “You broke up with me for revenge.”

“No.” She put her head in her hands. “I didn’t.”

Danny scowled. “You hated Phantom. You hated all ghosts.”

“I did—do, but,”—she sighed—“after a while of ghost—um, damage repair, and dating you, I started to see revenge wasn’t what mattered.” She crossed her arms. “Much as I still blame him for ruining my life, Phantom said it best: innocent people get hurt all the time during ghost attacks; it’s our job to stop the ghosts, but it’s also our job to keep as many people out of harm’s way as possible.”

When she looked up there was a blank expression on Danny’s face. She hurried to continue, “I-I realized that if I kept dating you, one day you’d learn what I was up to and get caught up in an attack trying to find me.” She hugged herself. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt because of me.”

“Val, I….” He trailed off, hand outstretched, but paused just before the edge of the circle. He let it fall. “I’m sorry. For assuming.”

She shook her head. “I mean, you were right. That’s how I was when we were dating. Only caring about revenge on Phantom.” She tried a laugh. “Now it’s just a side hobby.”

He grinned, though it looked a little forced. “Still, the fact that I couldn’t tell makes me a pretty terrible Fenton, huh?”

“No, I’d say you’re about as clueless as your old man.”

Danny let out a genuine laugh at that. The sound filled her chest with warmth and brought a smile to her face. She hadn’t heard the sound in such a long time, she had forgotten what it sounded like. “Thanks, Val.”

“My pleasure.”

The room was silent once more.

“We can, uh, talk more later.” She looked around the room for the instruction paper. “I’ll try and find a way to send you home.”

“Oh, you could probably just break the circle of petals and smudge the chalk near one of the candles. That way the elements tying me to this place would be disrupted and it’ll send me back from whence I came.”

Val stared at him.

Danny coughed. “I mean, probably.”

She continued to stare.

“I think.”

She leaned closer.

“In theory.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Look, can you just try it?”

Val groaned. “Out of respect for your attempt at a decent sleep schedule—and an understanding that you pick up weird ghost facts from your parents a lot—I’m gonna let you off the hook, but!” She pointed at him. “We’re figuring this out later.”

Danny waved a hand. “Absolutely. Definitely. 100%. I won’t forget.”

“You better not.” She kneeled down close to one of the candles.

“C’mon it’s me.” She raised a brow. He sighed. “I’ll write a note about it when I get home.”

Satisfied, she reached out towards the clump of petals surrounding the candle holder. “I’ll have you out in a second.”

“Great, I am so looking forward to some well earned Z’s.” He yawned.

A little bit of guilt wormed its way into her heart for keeping him this long. “Yeah, hope you sleep well.”

“You too, Red.”

Val snapped her head up, her heart stopping cold in her chest. “What?”

“‘What’ what?” Danny furrowed his brows, his sleepy brain seeming to play catch up, before he froze, looking suddenly completely alert. “Oh! Uh—I was referencing your, uh, your suit! You’re wearing a Red Huntress cosplay, right? She’s so cool.”

“Oh,”—tension bled from her shoulders; she’d completely forgotten she was wearing it—“you really think so?”

“Yeah, of course!” He nodded vigorously, becoming more animated. “She’s super strong, her aim is out of this world, and I’ve never seen someone so good at riding a hoverboard!”

Val felt herself flush. “Oh, c’mon, there’s not that much to it. Just takes some practice, y’know.”

Danny shook his head. “Uh uh, I’ve flown—er, I’ve used some of the hoverboards my parents have made in the past and all that aerial maneuvering stuff is hard. Gotta give mad props to you—” Val’s eyes widened. “HER! Her. Gotta, heh, gotta give mad props to her….” he trailed off, shrinking slightly as Val narrowed her eyes.

“Danny, if there’s anything you want to tell me—”

“Nope! Not a thing!” He brought up his bare wrist. “Oh, would you look at the time, I’d really rather go soon so I can get my full 9 hours.” Val continued to stare at him. “Please?” he asked, his voice small and pitiful.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll get rid of the circle.” She chose to ignore Danny’s sigh of relief. That boy wasn’t getting out of this conversation, Val had only just realized she still needed to straighten up her room as much as possible before her dad got home. “The Red Huntress isn’t all that great by the way, she messes up a ton.” Maybe not like Phantom, but she had her own mistakes.

She bent down, grabbing handfuls of petals and pushing them out of the way to rub her thumbs over the chalk lines.

“Uh, respectfully, shut… up?” he said, voice pitching higher as Val looked up, pausing her work with raised eyebrows. “She does a lot of thankless work all on her own and people don’t appreciate the kind of hard work and effort it takes to be able to hunt ghosts as well as she does.”

Valerie paused, stunned.

“Did you just tell me to shut up and then compliment me?” The words left her lips before she registered them. She tried to backtrack, “Fuck, uh, I meant—”

“I mean, yeah,”—Danny spoke over her, rubbing the back of his neck—“if you’re going to talk shit about yourself, you gotta be prepared for me to call you amazing every way I know how.”

“You knew then?” she said faintly. “How long?”

“Since I outed you to your—” Danny cut himself off and Val could see the dial up internet sound playing behind his eyes as he caught up with his own words. “S-Since—Since, uh. Shit, fuck—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Since—”

Things were starting to add up in Val’s head. The fact that Danny had been missing for hours and Mr. Masters was the one to bring him back. The fact that ever since the day Amity Park was taken into the Ghost Zone he’d started seeming… off in a way she was never able to put a finger on.

The fact that his teeth had looked significantly sharper when she came back after March break—and the way his eyes reflected in a green light, when only the standard yellow were fit into the ceilings at school. The way he’d seemed when Mr. Masters brought him back: pale, bruised, and horrifying wounds gouged out of his back. Val was no expert, but she was pretty sure no human should’ve survived something like that.

There was only one answer.

“Stop,” she said. Danny snapped his mouth shut, his shoulders pulling up to his ears. “Just admit it. You know who I am and I know that you…” She paused as the reality of his situation really started to click in her head. Danny cringed as she spoke, awestruck, “You took your parents’ invention to fight the Ghost King and took his title.”

“Yeah, I’m Ph—” He blinked. “What.”

She counted off on her fingers. “You know who I am because you were hiding around the lab somewhere when Phantom pulled off my mask; you knew how to operate the suit because you’re a Fenton; and you’ve started seeming more, well, ghost-like over the last several months. I imagine your appearance is tied to how much power the crown and ring give you, or something like that, but I’m right aren’t I?” She gestured at the summoning circle. “I mean why else would you show up if I was trying to summon the newest Ghost King? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

He stared at her with a blank look before putting his head in his hands. “Yup,” he said, voice strangled. “You got me. Point for point. Every bit of that is true.”

It wasn’t. He was still holding something back, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. And beyond that, why would Mr. Masters give her this old summoning ritual if he knew it would drag out his nephew? Maybe he thought it would summon someone else instead? Some ghost pulling strings behind the scene that Danny didn’t know about?

She pondered the possibilities as she brushed away the last of the petals connecting to one of the candles. She wiped the dust off her hands as she stood.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of explaining all the details to me by the way,” Val said, putting her hands on her hips. “I expect full honesty from now on.”

Danny smiled. It was a little strained, but she had no clue of how painful the process of being summoned and unsummoned was, much less any clue of how much it might hurt to do it in a single night. She should probably apologize for that later. Or maybe give him some free Nasty fries instead. Yeah, that’d be way less awkward.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I can’t promise anything though.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Of course you can’t.”

“I can tell you this. You’re the first person to catch me on purpose since I was coronated.” Danny smirked, his eyes flashing green. “In some ghost cultures, that would be enough to make you my Queen.”

The sound that came out of Valerie’s mouth must’ve been what a sneezing chicken sounded like. “Excuse me?”

Danny’s smirk grew into a full on grin, but before he could answer he disappeared in a cloud of green smoke.

She stared at the empty space in front of her.

She looked down.

Her foot slipped.

The circle was smudged.

She paused for a few moments, her brain lagging as it tried to process the new information.

She walked over to the nearest wall. Slid down it. Stared blankly at the knocked over punching bag across from her.

“Valerie!” her dad called sometime later. “Why did the neighbours complain about the noise? And what’s with all the smoke?”

#danny phantom #phic #phic phight #phic phight 2023 #gray ghost #past relationship but eh #nemo the writing ho

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dk-thrive · 2 years ago

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But these books had been lived in and loved

(He) would bring me rare editions of my favorite classics back from the junkyards and estate sales and country op shops he frequented for work. Clothbound copies of Wuthering Heights and Rebecca, pages gilded gold. But these books had been lived in and loved, not like the ones we kept on the first-edition shelves at work, locked in a glass case. The books Jude brought me had been handled, covers worn, spines showing through the threadbare binding like a skinned knee. I liked the way they felt haunted by other hands, the feeling that time didn’t really keep us apart, wasn’t an unbreachable gap. That I could touch the same objects as the ghosts of other times. I felt their presence in the parsed-over pages, the pencil marks, obscure annotations. You like things that are old and broken, Jude often teased... I turned the pages with wet hands, salt and sand dried in the margins, the edges warped in waves, I spilled coffee, crumbs, blood from a chewed fingernail. And in this way the books held my life, were my life—at least until Jude. Always the feeling, in those early days, that he had brought me back to the physical world.

— Madelaine Lucas, Thirst for Salt (Tin House Books, March 7, 2023)

#books #old books #worn books #read #reading #Madelaine Lucas

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keroanya · 2 years ago

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n.sfw a-z w/ ran haitani

minors dni. 18+ have your age in your bio.

characters: ran haitani, mentions of sanzu

warnings: 18+ content, fem reader (im super sorry), ran written as a green flag

a/n: my meds are worn off and this is the only thing i can think of, so <3

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

if you’re just a one night stand, he wouldn’t care too much for aftercare. he’d at most clean you up and help you get dressed.

now if you’re his partner, it’s a whole different story. expect lots of cuddles and caring words. on rougher nights he’ll offer to run you a bath, with bath salts and everything (what a great man he is). if you’re sore he’ll be there to give you a massage. a very pleasant experience.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite body part of his is definitely his hands or his face. he takes great care to make sure they’re both presentable. gift him a special hand cream and he’ll be thanking you for days. just don’t give him a moisturizer, he’s not going to use it in fear it will make him break out

he absolutely loves your neck and your breasts. he will mark them up any second of any day. loves going to a club with you wearing a strapless dress, showing off his work. absolutely loves showing off to people who try to hit on you. the first time he brought you to a club with him, sanzu thought you were just a hookup and in turn tried to hit on you. lets say he learned his lesson after. <3

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

oh, this dirty, dirty man. will cover you with the stuff if you don’t want him finishing inside. is definitely a bit on the runnier side. it’s not too bad tasting, but it definitely is a bit saltier.

if you make him taste his own cum he will be on his knees.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

would love to watch you fuck one of his colleagues. he finds the thought so erotic. he would also love to film a sex tape, and publish it to whatever porn site you have in mind (100% with your permission. he would never do anything without it.)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he’s a huge flirt, but in all honesty i don’t think he’s done too much in the past. maybe with a few past partners, or a few hook ups after a rough night. when he told you he hasn’t fucked too many people it came as a shock to you. he may not be that experienced, but he listens to your requests and tries his best <\3

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

he’s a simple man. any position where he can see your boobs is his favorite, although he is a big sucker for doggy. loves to see you on top in any position.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he’ll crack a joke every once in a while, but for the most part is more serious. if something embarrassing happens he’ll definitely joke about it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

he gets it waxed. you’ve offered to wax him yourself but he was quick to protest. he is absolutely terrified of accidentally ripping something down there, so he only goes to the highest rater waxing salons.

if you are uncomfortable with someone else seeing him half nude, he’s completely understanding. if you want to be there for the appointments he’ll let you there. if you want him to stop going completely, he’ll go back to shaving normally. we love green flags here!

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

it’s all up to you. if you want him to be rougher, he’ll go as rough as you want. if you’re having a bad day and want some care, he’ll be there to show you how much he loves you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

jacks off like 3 times a week at max. usually at work when he can’t get a hold of you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

praise and bondage. he doesn’t mind being on the giving or receiving end for either.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

in the bedroom or in his office. third and fourth place go to the couch and the car.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

just… you in general 😭

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

ageplay or petplay. he finds it disturbing.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

definitely prefers giving, but if asked he will give. he’s pretty decent when it comes to giving, although he does get rough at times. theres been a few instances where you’ve had to tell him to be careful.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

whatever you want hun. if you let him do what he wants he’ll usually go at a faster pace.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

loves them, especially when you two are out of the house.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

100% takes risks, 100% experiments with you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

this man… he has amazing stamina. he could probably go for 10 or so, but usually clocks out whenever you do. if he’s still turned on he’ll take care of himself.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he owns a vibrator. he only uses it on himself. if you wanted him to use it on you, he’d rather buy you a brand new one. if you want to try something that includes toys, he’ll buy them for you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

teases you so much, but if you end up teasing him back he just turns into a blabbering mess.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

at home he’s pretty damn vocal. he lets you hear exactly how you make him feel. in semi-public spaces he’s a bit quieter, but definitely gets a bit too loud at times.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

wants to have a threesome with you and one of his colleagues.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

a good 7 inches hard. he’s a bit on the slimmer side, and has a slight curve to the right. he’s not too veiny.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

its pretty high, but he knows how to keep it in check. he’ll only rub one out if its absolutely needed and he doesn’t want to bother you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

big sleepy man. he’s nearly instantly nocked out after he takes care of you. he falls asleep even quicker if you let him lay on you.

i’ve only written smut 2 times before this, so im incredibly sorry if this wasn’t up to par 😭😭 thank you so much for reading though!

written by @keroanya . do not repost, translate, or distribute without my knowledge.

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev smut #tokyo rev x y/n #tokyo rev x you #ran haitani #haitani ran

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ichorai · 3 years ago

Text

pearls and pastries ; j.jk

pairing ; pirate!jungkook x baker!reader (gender-neutral)

summary ; a crew of pirates have been pilfering your village for several weeks now and one particularly keen buccaneer has stopped by your bakery practically every visit; whether it be for the delectable pastries or for the sweet baker he's taken an interest to, jungkook couldn’t say. but there’s a catch - the baker doesn’t know that he’s a pirate.

themes ; fantasy, angst, fluff, pining, slight action, pirate au, baker au, medieval au

words ; 3.6k

warnings / includes ; descriptions of weaponry, stealing (from the rich), jungkook being a sad lovesick sap, pirate!bts, poetic sadness but when do i not do angst lmfao everything i touch turns into written sorrow </3

a/n ; written for the @ficscafe fic exchange event for @sunshinerainbowsbts !! i hope you like it <3 i'm definitely considering writing a part two to this :D

Jungkook wasn’t quite fond of parrots. Well, his mislike wasn’t necessarily directed towards the multi-hued rotund bird itself, but the fact that the wretched thing was squawking out a poor rendition of what Jungkook had announced earlier whilst clambering down the crow’s nest.

“I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery!” the winged devil screeched from atop Jimin’s shoulder, ruffling its bright feathers as if taunting him.

Shooting it the nastiest of scowls, Jungkook reached behind his head to untie the vermilion bandana holding his overgrown locks away from his narrowed eyes. “You better shut that bird up before I toss it to the sharks, Jimin.”

“If I let you do that, I’d also have to throw you overboard. The both of you are equally annoying,” the other pirate snorted in contempt, glancing up at his younger friend striding across the ship before moving his gaze back to the knapsack he was emptying for the pilfer. Out fell several empty bottles of rum, a few gold pieces glinting in the harsh midday sun, two jewel-encrusted daggers, and a worn eyepatch that suspiciously looked to be the same as the one Yoongi always wore over his left eye. “You seem to forget that we’re here to steal from the rich, not buy fancy breads! You’re lucky that Namjoon has half the decency not to kick you off the boat. Jin, however fond he is of you, still calls you a moocher.”

Rouge faintly dusted across Jungkook’s cheekbones as he coughed into his fist, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I steal stuff sometimes,” he muttered under his breath. It was useless to defend himself against someone who saw straight through him.

“Sometimes, my foot!” Jimin scoffed, hiking the bag over his shoulders. “Bringing back a goblet you found rolling down the street doesn’t count, you know that, right?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes to the cloudless sky, far too stubborn to admit that Jimin was right. With not another word, the young pirate clambered off of the large vessel and onto the rickety docks, grunting upon landing. It didn’t bother him much that Jimin was irked at his lack of contribution. They were rich enough as it is; what was the rush?

The air was tangy with sea salt and damp wood as he inhaled a deep breath, setting off for your bakery. Walking there took exactly three hundred and seventy two steps. Jungkook had memorized the shortest route to your little shop, mumbling the numbers under his breath with a growing grin blossoming across his lips. He subconsciously rolled the sleeves of his white tunic down, the fabric concealing the pirate tattoos inked all over his arms.

When the youthful sea wolf stepped foot into your store, a familiar chiming of the bell hooked atop the door echoed across the cream-walled room. At the reverberating sound, your head peeked out from the kitchen situated in the back. An illuminating beam danced on your features, eyes lighting up with mirth at the sight of Jungkook.

It made the muscle within his chest slam against his ribcage, desperate to be freed from its confines because it belonged to you, and only you. He wasn’t quite sure when the sudden fixation for the village baker his crew was stealing from started, but he had acclimated to his own change of heart by visiting you as often as he could.

“Fancy seeing you here today. Are you coming in or are you now my human door stopper?” Your heavenly voice floated towards Jungkook, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sheepish, he shuffled inside, engulfed by the warm scents of chocolate cakes, powdered pastries, caramelized fruits, and toasted almonds. His stomach gave an impatient snarl at the sight of tempting desserts. You had also walked to the front of the counter, dusting your flour covered hands on an apron. Some of the white powder had managed to smudge on your cheek, and Jungkook had to resist the urge to reach over and thumb it away.

“Hi,” he said with the brightest of grins. “I’ve missed you.”

At his bold statement, you suppressed a chortle. “I think you missed those chocolate cream puffs you like so much, not me. What’ve you been up to while you were gone?”

Jungkook hesitated at that. For the short amount of time he’d been visiting you, not once had he mustered the courage to tell you of his true origins. A savage pirate like him shouldn’t even be around the likes of you. You had no idea that he was part of the crew that was robbing your village, and the very thought of you finding out had him terrified. You were a taste of all the goodness in the world, and Jungkook was afraid you’d crumble into ash if he dared touch you. The sinner had no rights touching an angel, after all.

“Visiting family,” he hummed, quick to move on. If you noticed his strange demeanor, you didn’t say anything. For that, Jungkook was grateful. “I brought something for you.”

There was something about your smile that seemed to expel any and all feelings of gloom in a room. Jungkook was no exception to this feat, his knees almost buckling against the soft pink counters. He righted himself by leaning his elbows on top and propping his chin up with a palm. Gods, he didn’t know he was in this deep.

“Oh?” you set your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side. “To what do I owe such pleasures?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “For those cream cheese tarts you made me last time I visited. Thought I’d repay you.” Whilst saying this, he used his free hand to reach into his back pocket, fishing out a string of authentic pearls, adorned with a glimmering clasp of gold the same hue as the sun.

Your smile melted into a confused pucker, brows knitting together in a muted painting of hesitance, yet you ogled the expensive necklace dangling by one of his spindly fingers nonetheless. Where on earth had he gotten such a valuable treasure? “But you already paid me with money. I really can’t take that, Jungkook.”

Disappointment was easily detected as he slanted his lips to the side. “Alright, then.” He tucked the pearls back into his pocket. It surprised you how easily he had complied.

The worrisome atmosphere was quick to dissolve when the bell jangled once more. A small child meandered in with a toothy beam, holding a small pouch of clattering coins in their palm. They were no taller than Jungkook’s midriff, and he liked it a little more than he should have watching a certain softness adorn your features at the sight of the kid.

“I recommend the cinnamon apple pie. Or maybe the brown sugar crepes if you’re looking for something sweeter,” Jungkook said, gesturing to the treat behind the display glass. The child angled their head to stare at the taller man with wonder. “Anything Y/N makes is to die for, though.”

The child excitedly babbled something in return, but you didn’t quite pick up what they had said. You were far too focused on Jungkook’s animated features when he kneeled down to point at some more desserts. Sure, he was a handsome man, you’ve known that since day one. You’ve never really looked at him in this light. It was as if he were carved from pure luminosity, whittled by the hand of the most skilled sculptor. Everything about him was practically perfect; the gentle slope of his nose, the angles of his raised eyebrows, the dappled rouge of his lips, the beauty marks mottling his dewy skin, the dangerous cuts of his jaw, the twinkle of gaiety you found in his irises. With the sunlight filtering through the windows, it basked Jungkook within a golden radiance, the shadows casted along his face only highlighting his best features, doing nothing to aid your fluttering pulse. Has he always been this beautiful?

“I’ll have a slice of apple pie!”

The sudden clinking of coins being dumped onto the counter snapped you out of your trance, and you kindly wrapped up what the child ordered and handed them the paper bag. Both you and Jungkook watched as they smiled in thanks and trotted out of the bakery. Curse his handsome physique.

A little flustered by your earlier thoughts, you busied your hands by sorting the coins the kid had coughed up. Jungkook, ever the kind soul, merely stood with you as you worked, engaging you in entertaining conversations to keep you occupied while your store was empty. Where did the sun go once it disappeared down the horizon? Why did everybody else seem to enjoy the bitter taste of coffee except him? Why did his heart beat so quickly when around you? The last question he couldn’t muster the courage to ask, and much to his perturbation, he already knew the answer. You enjoyed Jungkook’s company very much; to the point where you couldn’t quite remember what it was like before he had sauntered into your life.

Before the both of you knew it, the sun was already setting. Jungkook noticed the way you deflated just slightly when red kissed the sky. It was a telltale sign that Jungkook was long overdue to go back to his ship. Yoongi would have his ass if he was late again. The whole situation was ridiculous, really. He felt like a fairy tale princess running away from the ball before his clothes grew into tatters. Well, in his case, he supposed it’d be pirate-wear.

Your smile betrayed only the gentlest hint of disappointment as you thrusted a bag of warm cookies into his arms. “Take this for the road,” you had said.

And so Jungkook did, smiling like an idiot the whole way back. A part of him absentmindedly wondered what your face would look like when you noticed that he had left the pearls on the countertop for you.

The ship rocked as the young pirate scampered across the deck at a startling speed, flinging the doors to the cabins open. Six older pirates stared at his panting form, a few looking on with unsurprised indifference, most glaring at him in disappointment. Jimin merely stuck his tongue out, his childish way of saying I told you so. There was expectancy in the captain’s eyes, but it waned away at an instant upon seeing that Jungkook carried nothing of value. Namjoon pinched the space between his brows in mild frustration.

Stiffly, Jungkook jerked his arm to thrust the bag in his hand forward. “Cookie?” he asked. Nobody said anything. Jungkook slowly brought his appendage back down, guilt roiling in his abdomen. “I take it you guys don’t want the cookies?”

With a huff, Namjoon stalked forward. “Of course we want the cookies, give me that.” He snatched the bag out of Jungkook’s hands and tossed it to Taehyung, who caught it with eagerness vividly splayed across his ruffled features. “I do have to admit, we’re getting tired of you bringing back nothing but sweets every time we go on raids, Jungkook. C’mon, kid, this is a team effort here. Look, just today Yoongi managed to steal a dozen coffers from a nobleman. The least you can do is try.” True to the captain’s word, there was a mountain of chests and boxes full to the brim with gold coins and shimmering jewels piled to the side of the cabin.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Jungkook nodded in understanding, though not without a miniscule frown twinging his lips. What was a pirate without his treasure, right?

Taking note of his glum demeanor, Namjoon clapped a hand to the younger man’s shoulder. “We’re not mad at you—”

Yoongi snorted at that.

“We just… want to help you help us,” Namjoon finished, ignoring the salty pirate’s quip from behind him.

The youngest man on deck raised his hand to his forehead in an awkward salute. “Yes cap’n!” Shame prowled within his chest; just thinking about the dishonor he brought to the pirate reputation by loitering in a bakery all day, ogling at sugary treats (and the sweet baker, but Jungkook digresses).

A part of him felt even worse knowing that he’d see you less and less, what with the other pirates breathing down his neck. He could only hope that you’d still look forward to his visits, though few and far in between.

Authentic bottles of expensive wines were shoved into his knapsack by Taehyung, lacing chains of aureate crammed into his hands by Hoseok, bars of cold silver wedged into the pits of his arms by Jimin, and more treasures thrown at the youngest pirate to hold as they lithely ran across the village. Being one of the stronger and more agile ones of the group had its downfalls, after all. He was being treated like a pack mule, hauling all the treasure for them. Not that he was going to complain; Jungkook knew that he deserved the rough-housing.

“Hold onto these for me, will you?” Yoongi gruffly uttered as he slid the thick hilts of gem-encrusted daggers into his belt. Jungkook complied hesitantly, but not without a suppressed groan of annoyance. “They’ll sell for more than a pretty penny, so don’t lose them.” The older pirate seemed to be in a grumpier than usual mood, considering he lost his eyepatch and the mottled scar crossing over his eye was on display for anybody to gawk at. It would’ve been worrying to Jungkook if he wasn’t aware of the fact that Jimin was merely prolonging his juvenile game of ‘keep away’, attempting to dance away from Yoongi’s inevitable wrath.

Perhaps being a pirate wasn’t his true calling, because Jungkook found that his mind kept wandering off to the matters at hand—running away from the guards. Though it was a relatively easy task (the guards were quite thick-headed in this village), he thought about the pretty plants dangling from the balconies of a building they jogged by, or the scents of exotic spices carried by the souq market not far from where they were. Most of all, much to his expectancy, his thoughts were centered around you. Had you gotten many customers for lunch rush? Were you lonely without him? How many times have you smiled today? Jungkook was all too fond of your smile.

Blinded by his unsaid affectionate ramblings, he only barely caught on to Namjoon’s quiet, “We shook the guards off for now. Be careful next time, Seokjin. The sun’s about to set soon; we should head back to the ship before it gets dark.”

Jungkook hissed out a small sigh of relief, bending over to catch his breath. Jogging across the village would have been no problem, but running with treasures twice his weight draped all over him was a different story.

When he righted himself back to standing, the sudden pit of shocked trepidation unfurled within his abdomen. There you were, beautiful as ever, but a terrifying sight to see. Normally you’d be the only person he would want to see, but as of this moment, you were the absolute last person he fancied bumping into.

Why now? He had the most rotten of luck.

Today you weren’t wearing your regular apron, but a pair of fitted grey trousers and a soft beige blouse far too large for you, hanging off of one of your shoulders as you cradled a basket of breads and cheeses and other groceries in your arms. It was a simple outfit, but one that made his heart clench nonetheless. The glinting of iridescent pearls draped over your décolletage had his breath stolen away from him as raw sentiment overtook his form. You were wearing the pearls he left for you and you never looked more beautiful. Jungkook, on the other hand, was clad in clothes that practically screamed pirate; a golden-clasped corset tightened about the small of his waist, a tattered white button-up tucked into his dark trousers, worn sea boots covering his feet. A large gun was also slung over the belt cinched around his hips, along with multiple daggers of the like, and not to mention all the riches and jewelry the other boys had thrown at him.

You couldn’t see him. No, it would absolutely ruin Jungkook.

Perhaps dropping everything he was holding in a panicked effort to dash away as quickly as he could was the worst possible thing he could have done to not warrant any attention.

The concerned and confused questions erupting from the other pirates as they whipped their heads towards their youngest comrade went completely ignored. He scampered away from them, lunging towards a shadowed alley and hiding behind a teetering pile of musty boxes. A stray cat nuzzled against his leg, but Jungkook merely shooed it away with a frustrated glare and not-so-subtle shushing gestures.

What a fool I am, the young buccaneer berated himself, pressing a knuckle against his temple in frustration. He waited for another minute, before slinking out from the shadows, peering around the corner to see if you were still there.

No sign of you. Relief seized his chest, but not without the gentlest flower of disappointment staining whatever solace he felt, a weed amongst the roses. Jungkook’s mind was still reeling from the fact that you were wearing his pearls.

Treading carefully, he strode out of the alley, turning the other direction before halting in his tracks completely. A queer, garbled noise tumbled past his lips.

It was you, a confused smile gracing your features, and all Jungkook could think about was how the sunlight was made for you, how you glowed in front of him, how he wanted to cradle you into his chest and murmur confessions of his pure, unadulterated love into your ear. But Jungkook didn’t do any of that. Instead, he merely stood there, as if he was imitating a statue in all of his pirate glory. Terrified, regretful, and ever so angry at himself.

Fate was a cruel game.

The pearls shone prettily on your skin. A reminder of the best mistake he’s ever made.

Your eyes had yet to wander down to fully take in his appearance, for your expression still held fondness for the man that’s visited your bakery so often, still having no idea that he was a filthy pirate, locked into his molten gaze. “I think you dropped something…?” The golden chains dangled loose between your fingers as you held them out to him. Jungkook didn’t take them, frozen on the spot.

It was as if he could pinpoint the exact moment you found out his true origins. Your brows furrowed upon seeing the weaponry strapped onto him, one of his pirate tattoos on display (Jungkook cursed himself for not thinking of rolling his sleeve back down), and the six other men watching in silent despondency behind them. You had always been a sharp one, far too smart for your own good.

Or, perhaps, it's always been obvious. Jungkook was only wishing for the impossible.

“You’re a pirate.”

The statement wedged a stake into his chest, splintering his heart into pieces. When you stepped away from him, confused horror marring your beautiful features, Jungkook knew that it was over.

He lost you.

A flurry of emotions, overwhelming and tumultuous, evidently took over you at his lack of denial. You looked to be just as heartbroken as he was.

“You’re a pirate,” you repeated, dazed. You wanted him to say something, anything. Much to his surprise, you didn’t sound angry. You took several steps back this time. The weight of pearls around your neck suddenly felt choking.

The sudden calling of his name had his head whipping around to look at his captain, watching the brutal exchange with gentle sternness. “We have to go.” The guards’ll be coming soon, no doubt.

Jungkook looked back to you, any and all words lodged in his throat. Despite the fear in your irises, a soft expression of acceptance folded over your visage, for under all his pirate exterior, he was still the same man that you thought so fondly of from your bakery. The look was short-lived however, quick to fade away when Jungkook reached out for you hesitantly. A part of him pondered how a simple baker managed to steal from the stealer. You had robbed him of his heart, and Jungkook didn’t even try to stop you.

Upon seeing you inch away in mortification at your new revelation, Jungkook retracted his arm and pursed his lips. The agony clawing at his stomach was begging to be set free. He wanted nothing more than to get onto his knees and plead for your forgiveness.

I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m sorry I fell in love with you.

His name came out again, this time from Yoongi. That meant it was serious.

“I’ll come back,” Jungkook said, tears rimming the bottom of his warm doe eyes. You watched him start to trek backwards. “I promise.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, like he was swallowing down a knot of thorned ivy.

Before you had the chance to say anything back, he was gone, bounding back to his ship with his comrades. Not long after, the distant barks of guards pursuing them rang throughout the village. You took that as your cue to leave. Swallowing down the urge to cry, you forced your eyes away.

You hoped he wouldn’t uphold his promise, for the both of your sakes.

410 notes · View notes

fruitcoops · 3 years ago

Note

Listen I just had a vision of Remus little scratches in some *ahem* intimate places from Sirius’ play off beard…if you wanna write that, it’d be lovely

Birthday smut, as promised! I am always down to write some birthday lovin' <3 Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for smut, mild subspace

Sirius woke up warm, slow, and oh-so-heavy until a sleep-husky “good morning” brushed his earlobe and the usual morning grogginess vanished with a sharp inhale. Teasing fingers slid up from his thigh to his hip in a meandering line—Remus weighed one side of his body down, but his lips were feather-light as his tongue flicked out against Sirius’ pulse point and made him shiver. “Happy birthday, baby,” he murmured with a nuzzle into his jaw.

“Holy shit,” Sirius said on a shuddering breath, rolling his hips up into Remus’ thigh as it settled between his own; his pulse pounded in his dick more than his chest. “I—what?”

“Can I kiss you?” Remus asked in lieu of a response. His face was still mostly hidden in Sirius’ neck while he left a leopard-pattern of gentle bites, but the edge of his smile was visible enough to send lightning through Sirius’ veins; he nodded and barely had time to properly appreciate the sideways fluff of Remus’ bedhead before soft, slightly-chapped lips were on his own.

Sirius groaned into the kiss and moved a hand up to weave through the hair at the base of Remus’ neck—he heard his breath catch and nipped his lower lip around a grin. “Happy birthday to me,” he agreed between kisses, dipping his hand below the waistband of Remus’ well-worn boxers to give one cheek an appreciative squeeze. His fingertips scratched through Sirius’ hair, stealing his breath and drawing out a soft moan.

“We’ve got all morning to appreciate you,” Remus hummed with a swipe of his tongue. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Mmm—” Sirius cut himself off with one more deep kiss; it was impossible to stop once he got started. Sometimes, he felt as if he needed to kiss Remus more than he needed to breathe air, and that morning was no exception. Who cared about parties and streamers when he had the best present waiting in his bed?

Remus’ dimples appeared like little drops of sun as Sirius rolled them over without breaking the kiss—he ground his hips upward and made a needy noise when Sirius gripped his waist. Every nerve and cell in his body was alight with the craving to drown in his touch.

“I want to blow you,” he said into the hollow of Remus’ throat before licking a broad stripe across it and feeling his chest cave beneath him.

“ ‘s your birthday,” Remus panted.

“And I want to blow you,” he repeated, sucking a pale lilac mark onto his collarbone. “And then—” Another mark, darker, on the edge of his left pec above his heart. “—I want you to fuck me through the mattress.”

Remus’ crooked canine tooth flashed in a grin as Sirius moved back up until their noses brushed. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Très bien.” Sirius pulled his lip between his teeth—when he released it again, it was raspberry-red and just as plump. Remus’ dazed look brightened into surprise as Sirius hooked his arms under his knees and hauled him a few inches down the bed; he could taste his low moan when he kissed him hard.

Salt already tinged Remus’ skin as he worked his way down, down, down the column of his throat and the ladder of every rib, scraping lovebites into the divot of each hip before snapping the elastic of Remus’ boxers with his teeth. “Jesus Christ,” Remus said breathlessly above him, letting his head fall back as he propped himself on his elbows.

He settled himself more comfortably on the mattress so his feet weren’t hanging too far off the end and Remus’ legs were lax over his shoulders, the muscles twitching in perfect range for Sirius to admire. “So hard for me already, hmm?” he asked, sliding his palms up to hold Remus’ waist in place.

“Your fucking voice, baby, I—” Whatever compliment he was about to give, though Sirius was sure it would have been quite sweet, was silenced by a gasp as he mouthed over Remus’ shaft through the thin cotton. His heels dug into the muscle of Sirius’ mid-back and he moved lower, wetting the base without taking his eyes off each heaving breath.

“Don’t cum, remember?” he said before sitting up just enough to drag Remus’ boxers off and toss them to some unknown corner of their bedroom, where they would no doubt be forgotten. Not that Sirius was complaining, of course. He planned to have them both so boneless with pleasure by the end that clothes would be the last thing on their minds.

“Tall order,” Remus countered with a playful quirk of one eyebrow. He laid fully on his back as Sirius returned to his previous position and let his arms rest over his head like a silent film movie star come to life—the contrast between his smug smile and their impending activities made it nearly impossible for Sirius not to rock his hips into the mattress for some relief.

He knew he should take it slow, savor the morning and the sounds dripping from Remus’ mouth like honey. They had all the time in the world; rushing wasn’t anywhere near the top of his list.

But it was his birthday, and all he wanted was to turn his boyfriend’s brain to mush posthaste. Sirius sucked the head into his mouth, then took him down as far as he could.

Remus managed a strangled “oh, fuck me” as his thighs clamped around Sirius’ ears and dulled the world to the pulse of his heartbeat. Sirius almost—almost, but not quite, he was a goddamned professional—choked in his enthusiasm before taking a steadying breath through his nose and digging his fingers into the meat of Remus’ thigh. A high, shaky sound escaped him; Sirius dropped a light smack to the side of his ass and felt him writhe under his palms.

“Good?” he asked when he pulled off, out of breath and rough around the edges.

“Uh-huh.” Remus’ voice cracked at the end and his stomach jumped as Sirius smoothed his hands down his sides.

He laved his tongue from base to tip, paying extra attention to the spots he knew drove Remus a little bit wild until the legs slung over his shoulders began to tremble and his breaths came in short bursts. Sirius closed his eyes as he sucked him down again, hollowing his cheeks and swallowing hard—a desperate, punched-out sound echoed off the walls of their bedroom. Remus’ knees buckled, but Sirius was quick to pull them apart and relished the muffled moan he received as Remus bit down hard on his lip. Precome slicked his mouth like gloss when he sat back for some air.

“So fucking good,” Remus said, immediately reaching up to pull him in for a messy kiss. Sirius whined into it and shoved their hips together in a familiar rhythm, letting all his plans go out the window in favor of chasing the high building at the base of his spine. Remus pulled away after a moment with pink cheeks and bright eyes, gripping his hipbones to still him. “No, not—lube?”

Sirius barely managed to lean away long enough to dig it out of their nightstand before claiming that bee-stung mouth once more, kicking his pajama pants out of the way. The skin-to-skin contact made his brain white out for a moment; the sound of the cap coming off the bottle stole his breath and sent a tingling feeling from the top of his head to his tailbone.

“Over,” Remus mumbled into their next kiss. He caught the back of Sirius’ knee in the crook of his elbow and nibbled it for a moment before nudging his other leg out of the way and slicking his fingers—it took only a second until insistent pressure made Sirius throw his head back into the pillows.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he chanted, only to be struck soundless when a second finger joined the first hardly a knuckle in. His jaw went slack and his eyes slipped half-closed at the feeling.

“Okay?”

“Mmm—hnng.” Sirius’ breath caught as Remus guided his bent knee up and over as easily as if he was stretching him out at the rink, dropping a kiss to his cheek and the corner of his mouth on the way. Once he was at the very edge of his flexibility, that same hand moved down and rubbed out the tension in his hip flexor, making his brows pitch in pleasure.

“I bet you used to daydream about this, hmm?” Remus dragged his teeth along the crook of Sirius’ neck, where he knew he was most sensitive, the bastard. Unfortunately, Sirius was too hazy to stop himself from nodding in honest agreement. “Thought so.”

“Every time,” he said through numb lips. “Every—every time, oh my god.”

Remus crooked his fingers steadily, rubbing over his prostate until Sirius wasn’t sure whether the ceiling above him was black or pale blue. Somewhere deep in his memory he remembered painting it the same color as the summer sky, but the fuzziness in the corners of his vision wasn’t helping. “You’re so pretty,” Remus said with a kiss to his inner thigh. “Aw, baby, you’re falling apart for me before I get more than these in you.”

A noise Sirius was sure to be embarrassed by later tore from deep in his chest as he thrashed under Remus’ purposeful movements—he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but bliss.

Remus picked up the pace until Sirius was frantically rocking his hips down to meet him, then removed his fingers in one smooth motion and had the nerve to laugh lightly at the frustrated whine he received in response. “Fuck you,” Sirius bit out, though he didn’t really mean it. The whole world was dizzying.

“Other way around, love.” Remus’ voice was much closer than before; Sirius blinked up at him as a series of kisses littered his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, then let his eyes flutter shut again when the head of Remus’ dick began pushing in.

By the time he was fully seated, Sirius’ limbs were nothing more than overcooked noodles. One leg still remained up by his chest—the other splayed out to one side, twitching and toes curling as he looped his arms under Remus’ shoulders. “Gonna fuck me so good,” he panted on the first roll, unsure whether he was even speaking English anymore. “Gonna—gonna—sweetheart sweetheart mon loup—”

“What?” Remus asked, moving one hand under Sirius’ lower back to push his hips up without breaking his rhythm. “Quoi, mon amour?”

Sirius blubbered something incomprehensible even to his own ears at the sound of Remus speaking French—he clung to the backs of his shoulder blades and bucked into the next thrust instinctively, shivering under Remus’ full attention and weight covering him. “Je t’aime,” he finally forced out on the tail of a moan. “Je t’aime, mon vœu, je besoin—je t’aime—oh, fuck.”

“Je t’ai.” Remus’ breaths were harsh and shallow; he let Sirius pull him down with a palm around the back of his neck without protest. “C’mon, baby, any time you want.”

“No,” Sirius gasped, his hands slipping on sweaty skin as he held Remus as close as he could get and melted into his arms. It was good, so good, and he never wanted the humming of his blood to stop. “Non, don’t want to.”

“Sirius—” He heard Remus’ unsteady exhale when he clenched down hard around him—he simply couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. “Baby, I know it feels good but I’m not gonna last.”

“Please,” Sirius begged, keeping his face pressed tight into the bend of Remus’ neck. “It’s m’ birthday, please.”

Remus’ thrusts faltered for a moment and he felt him swallow hard before he hitched Sirius’ leg up higher and wrapped his other hand around his shaft. “There you go,“ Remus said, breathless, as Sirius shouted into his shoulder and smudged a kiss over the too-warm skin. “There you go, you’re doing so good—”

Sirius cried out again as his orgasm hit him like a riptide, but it slipped into more of a long, staccato whimper while Remus stroked him through it with a tight fist and came with a harsh whisper of his name.

“Stay,” Sirius said as the endorphin rush finally began to fizzle out and the ceiling returned to its regular blue. Remus made a questioning noise and he rubbed his back, feeling as if he had just run a marathon or four. “Stay. Right here. Stay.”

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Remus murmured, shifting to let Sirius’ leg back down. He started to move away, but Sirius grumbled in protest. “We have to clean up at some point.”

“Says who?”

“My thighs itch.”

Sirius frowned and peeled himself off just enough to push the sweaty flyaways out of his eyes and meet Remus’ hooded gaze. “What happened to your thighs?”

“You did,” he snorted, poking his chest. “You and your permanent scruff. I feel like I did the splits on steel wool.”

“Sorry.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not.”

“A little,” Sirius said with a grin and a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Cute. You’re my favorite birthday present.”

“Well, that would’ve been nice to know before I went out and got you something.” Remus pulled out and curled up under his arm, reaching over his chest to hold him tight. “Was it a good birthday morning?”

Sirius shrugged one shoulder with half a smile. “Meh. Had better.”

“Oh, really?”

“Could’ve used more kisses.”

“You fucker!” Remus laughed, tickling his ribs until Sirius jerked inward to protect himself and smacked his hands away. “If I kissed you any more, my lips would fall off.”

Sirius caught him by the wrists and winked. “Want to test that theory?”

It was a long time—though not nearly long enough, in Sirius’ personal opinion—until they rolled out of bed and headed into the bathroom to take care of Remus’ poor, wounded thighs. It was even longer until they made it back from the shower to get ready for the rest of the day. Sirius couldn’t think of a better birthday morning in his whole life.

#sirius black #remus lupin #coops #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #birthday #smut

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

Text

Golden

I once believed love would be burning red. But it's golden

Summary: To save his people, Lucien Vanserra will marry his most hated enemy.

But to love her? Well, that's another thing entirely

My humble @elucienweek2022 submission

7k words

Chapter 6: I Only See Daylight

Elain’s heart pounded as she walked through the halls. Had she remembered to disable all the traps? How would she explain to Lucien her failure on the beach, with the homes Graysen had torched? Lucien didn’t seem to care, at least in that moment. His expression was dazed, his hand warm as he let her drag him through the palace.

“You don’t need to be with your father–”

“I need to be with you,” he interrupted roughly. Apology sprang to her lips again and some old part of her trembled as the intensity of his gaze, of the taut way he was moving his powerful body. Lucien, who had spent the last week with a sword in hand, could very easily make her feel his wrath. And Elain, who’d been bred for nothing but obedience, thought maybe she should fall to her knees and apologize to him.

Lucien was the one who locked their bedroom door when she brought him in. Elain hesitated for a moment, looking at the still rumpled bed sheets, at their clothes they’d thrown about from a night of passion, just assuming they’d be there to pick it all up in the morning. She could still hear the memory of the horns pulling her from bed, of Lucien’s face as he quietly told her goodbye.

“This way,” Elain whispered, swallowing hard. In the bathing chamber, Elain began filling the basin with water before she turned to her husband and his filthy, bloodied leather. She knew how to remove it now, given she was wearing a similar set herself. Lucien’s breath caught in his throat when she deftly pulled at the laces and clasps. Arms raised, Elain managed to get it over his head, to toss it to the marble beneath them with a heavy slap.

He caught her wrist when she moved to his waist, raising her palm to his mouth for a kiss. “I’ll have a pair made special for you,” Lucien told her.

“I never want to wear these again,” she admitted. They chafed beneath her arms and stuck against her skin when she was hot. She’d worn it to keep her and the baby safe, not because she dreamt of being some great, wonderful warrior.

“Not even for me?” he questioned hotly, tongue darting between his lips as he kissed again, tasting the salt of her skin. “My little warrior wife might decide she wants to tie me up…that she has questions that warrant an interrogation.”

He was so absurd she might have laughed. Elain pulled her hand from his grasp and went back to the rest of the armor. She was practically shaking when the rest of him was revealed, leaving only Lucien in his vambraces and shin guards and sandals. His bare skin was streaked with dirt and crusted with blood but there were no gouges, no scars, nothing that marked him as changed from when she’d last seen him.

“Do I meet your approval, my lady?” he asked when he thought she was satisfied with her survey.

“Yes,” she admitted. Toned, taut muscle shifted while he rid himself of the rest of his armor, until he was utterly naked and towering above her. Elain wanted to touch, to taste, to drag him to the bed and spend the next week doing nothing but relearning what it took to please him. Lucien, it seemed, was having a similar thought. He was rougher with the ties, ridding her of the fighting leather without the same tentative care. It took her a moment to realize why.

Naked, Lucien sank to one knee, trembling hands reaching for her abdomen. Eye level with her stomach, he gently pulled to his face, pressing a soft, shaking kiss just above her belly button. “I didn’t think I would ever see either of you again,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.

“You’re not so easily rid of us,” Elain told him, undoing the braids in his hair while he held her.

“I don’t want to be,” Lucien replied, stroking over the plane of her stomach, eyes searching as if he could see what lay beneath. “I would fight a million bloodied wars if it meant our son never had to.”

He groaned when she carded her fingers through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Lucien looked up at her, chin resting against her abdomen. “Your father is dead.”

“Did you kill him?” Elain asked, waiting for some prickle of hurt or sadness. Anything that proved she’d been a good, dutiful daughter. He’d always said she was his favorite, after all. Had he ever shown it, in any tangible way? His words were empty, like her feelings.

“No,” Lucien replied, rising to his feet. It was his turn to pluck her braids, his touch gentle and sweet. “It was Nesta.”

A breathy oh escaped her lips. “Of course,” she murmured. Nesta, who’d suffered far worse than Elain, who had been tasked with keeping the three of them safe, who wanted to rule the North, would have seen it as her birthright. “So Nesta is Queen?”

“Nesta is Queen,” Lucien agreed. “Just like Feyre…and just like you.”

Elain pulled Lucien towards the basin of water, humming noncommittal. Queen someday. Princess for now. Lucien was watching her again, eyes burning with that overwhelming intensity that made her way to sink into his skin. He tugged her down into the water with him, tucking her between his thighs. She couldn’t relax—not yet. Not until they scrubbed at their skin and hair with soap and drained the water, refilling it so when they reclined, limbs outstretched, the water remained clear.

Elain rested her head against the hard slab of muscle, ignoring the way his cock was hardening against her spine. That was coming just as soon as the water stopped feeling so nice. Lucien idled a finger up and down her arm, legs shifting so she couldn’t forget that desire was simmering just beneath his skin.

He lowered his mouth. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” she replied breathlessly, twisting to look at him and oh, he was close enough she had to kiss him. Lucien immediately surged forward, pinning her to him for a breathless, hungry kiss.

He was soaking, droplets of hot water clinging to his golden skin. The taste of blood was gone, replaced by the heady masculine scent that haunted her when he wasn’t around. Elain chased after it, tongue in his mouth until she was straddling him in the bath, water sloshing violently over the sides to splatter on the floor.

“Elain,” he moaned, grinding his hips against her. His hands slid beneath her ass and Lucien, with an athletic sort of grace she certainly did not possess, managed to heft them both out of the water without slipping or sliding. Lucien didn’t take her far, just to the counter that held the sink.

Gripping his shoulders, legs parted, Elain almost sobbed when he drove himself into her without any word or warning besides the gentle teasing of his mouth. Lucien exhaled a panting breath, bracing his body against the edge of the sink ledge.

“I missed you,” he managed, each word rich with emotion. Elain whined, rolling her hips until Lucien gave in and began thrusting his wild need into her.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” she whispered into his mouth, raking her fingers through his wet hair.

“Never,” he groaned, the sound punctuating the otherwise obscene slap of their skin. “Never.”

“We need you,” she added, arching her neck for a bruising kiss. Lucien groaned again, panting roughly. Pleasuring was pooling, was coming for her roughly and Elain knew the moment she came that she was going to burst into tears. Emotion lay heavy in her chest, was rising with each new wave until it all cascaded over her. He silenced her screaming with his lips, swallowing it just in time for him to come.

“No,” Lucien breathed, pulling her against him when he realized she was shaking with pleasure and her sobbing. “Sweetheart, no.”

He scooped her up against his chest and took her to the bed, laying her against the pillows before snuggling her into his body. “Please don’t cry.” Elain buried her face into his skin while Lucien skimmed his fingers up and down her spine. There were no other words spoken between them, only the occasional fevered kissing followed by a near violent coupling, repeated over and over and until the two of them were exhausted and spent.

And still, even when Elain could no longer cry, could only bask in the incandescent glow that was her relief, her happiness, her love.

She never let him go.

LUCIEN:

Lucien was granted only that day as reprieve to hold his wife. In the morning he was forced to wash the scent of sex off his skin and dress himself like a prince. Duty, he thought despondently as he looked down at her naked, sleeping form. He could still see the track of tears over her tanned cheeks and the little nipping bruises he’d marked against her neck and shoulders. More, if he’d thought to pull back the blankets and truly survey her.

Lucien left her a little note so she didn’t panic, asking her to come find him in the council room once she was awake and ready. He knew her sisters would want to see her, if nothing else. Sandals laced, and his ceremonial white draped against his chest, Lucien stepped into the golden light of dawn. Jurian was waiting, his eyes just dull as Lucien’s suspected his were.

“Sleep well?”

Jurian forced an easy smile but Lucien knew his reunion had been just as messy and emotional. “Not at all.”

“Me either,” Lucien agreed, putting a hand on Jurian’s shoulder. His friend was also draped in white, wearing the same snaking gold band over his bicep as he walked. Neither had brought a weapon though the guards stationed throughout the palace would be enough, should talks truly break down.

He wasn’t the only one. Stepping into the meeting room, Lucien had never seen his father so run down. “No word?”

“Not yet,” Helion agreed, amber eyes turning towards the row of open windows overlooking the sea. “I don’t know how far she got.”

“Mother is fierce,” Lucien reminded his father, well aware he would be coming out of his skin had Elain left, too.

“I know,” Helion agreed. “She’s probably halfway around the world by now.”

“She’ll return,” Lucien insisted, just in time for a very haggard Eris to all but stumble into the room. He’d known Eris his entire life by virtue of being half-siblings. Eris had never had a stray hair out of place, had a rumpled shirt or otherwise looked like anything but an immaculate prince of the western isles. Now, though? Eris’s hair was pushed messily off his face and his fine red jacket was misbuttoned, as if he’d done so hastily. Sucking bruises graced just beneath his jaw and that same sleepless countenance graced his features.

“If I ever catch you in my library again,” Helion warned half-heartedly as Eris dropped into a chair, face in his hands. “I’ll flog you.”

“It would be worth it,” Eris retorted. “Speaking of. I’ll sign whatever gets agreed here today, but I’m taking Arina back with me.”

Lucien’s eyes slid to his father. “Excuse me?”

Eris shook his head. “I’m not asking as lord, I’m telling you as the son of your wife. As family,” Eris added with obvious desperation. “I’ve been in love with her since you first arranged this and I have waited long enough to marry her. I came just as soon as I was called and it wasn’t for you or for mother but for her. And it was my personal guard who kept Archeron and Graysen’s soldiers at bay when they breached your city because I told them their Queen was trapped inside.”

Eris’s voice broke and Lucien wondered if he hadn’t spent the same breathlessly sobbing night clutching Arina against his body, if only to reassure himself she was safe. Eris scrubbed a hand over his face, his jaw graced with the same auburn stubble Lucien had carefully shaved. Eris was unraveling and they could all see it.

“Arina means to sneak away,” Lucien told his father, heart aching. “I think she might do something rash if we prevented her from going. Steal a ship…brave the waters alone.”

Helion sighed. “It’s your decision,” he conceded, reminding Lucien that just as soon as his mother returned, Helion would be stepping down entirely. Eris looked to Lucien without any of his usual sneering nobility. Lucien thought Eris might actually beg if he demanded it. He couldn’t blame him and couldn’t risk the wrath of not just Arina, but his wife as well.

“Of course you can,” Lucien waved breezily. “This world can’t be constant suffering or what would be the point of living in it?”

Eris exhaled roughly.

“And I can’t risk being murdered in my sleep,” Lucien added, earning a soft chuckle from Eris. He would need his brother someday, maybe not for another war but some catastrophe might send

Lucien knocking on that forest palace and he wanted to know that if he came for help, Eris would always answer yes.

“I sent ships out,” Eris added, looking at Helion. “For mother. If she made it to the sea, they’ll intercept them. Bring her home,”

Helion took a gulping breath, nodding gratefully. They would never truly like each other. It hardly mattered. It certainly didn’t when Rhysand and Feyre came in, followed by just Nesta. Nesta, haughty and proud, seemed as if she would have rather died than have Cassian join her. Lucien knew, without even asking, that Cassian would never be more than a consort, that Nesta wouldn’t dare elevate him to king. He wondered if it bothered Cassian or if it would bother him, were it Elain facing a similar choice?

It wouldn’t have mattered at all, he decided once they were all seated around that oval table. He’d have taken Elain if she’d decided to go back north, would have given up the warmth and the sun and sand for wool and fur and snow. He’d never have to, which made it easy to consider. Elain was born for this place just as surely as he was.

Negotiating hardly took half the day. Everyone wanted the same things—clear borders, laws around violating those boundaries, and an agreement to stand together if another territory ever decided to invade. Lucien and Nesta wanted to set up a court to try those who broke the rules of war while Eris argued for better trade and Rhysand wanted to fund roads to connect them. Perhaps their isolationism had gotten them into this mess. Only cooperation could dig them out.

Lucien had just assumed Elain would come to find him. Thinking she must still be sleeping, he began the trek across the palace to find her, to see if she wanted to come sit in his lap, if nothing else, until he was drunk with desire.

He found Eris standing just outside the patio, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the pool. Lucien and Jurian joined, well aware of what they’d see. Arina, lounging in her floaty while Elain rested her arms against it, body floating alongside. Vassa was just beside, wading through the water. It was a scene Lucien had witnessed a million times before.

Only today it felt hard won. Earned.

Lucien pushed Eris away gently.

“Later,” he murmured to his brother, ignoring the yearning etched on his face. “Let them have this.”

Eris nodded.

It felt like peace.

ELAIN:

It was a full week of waiting before they saw Queen Amera on the horizon. Eris’s ships had found her and soldiers were bringing her back. Elain, Arina, and Vassa had been helping clean up and though the houses were wrecked, Elain had rooms set up at the palace for everyone displaced.

Tables of food and water and clothing were laid out as people began filtering in. What had they been through, she wondered? Their faces were exhausted but no one seemed unharmed. Even when the wailing began, when those who lost everything realized they’d lost their homes and Lucien had to assure them that things could be replaced but lives could not, there was a general sense of we survived.

The highlight was watching majestic, stoic Helion push through the crowds of people, walk out his own gate, and fall at the feet of his wife. Elain wasn’t the only person who watched the king’s shoulder wrack with sobs in the distance or how Amera sank to the earth to join him, holding his face between trembling fingers.

Lucien had watched, hands on her shoulders and she knew he was thinking it should have been them out there, too. Elain had no regrets. If she’d left, Naxos would have fallen…and someone had to kill Graysen.

Word spread, of course. Even men liked to gossip, and by the end of that second week, everyone knew it was Archeron’s daughter who had killed the General, who had held the city. The reaction was visceral and almost immediate—it was as if Elain had been born to Naxos, for the gratitude she was offered. Lucien seemed to find the whole thing amusing.

“I told you, princess,” he’d murmured one night when Elain had stomped in, bewildered and frustrated that no one would let her help anymore. “You belong to us, now.”

“I want to help,” she grumbled, flopping into his lap. Lucien sat at his desk, staring at stacks upon stacks of what she imagined were very important documents.

“Help me, then,” Lucien murmured, tongue trailing just behind her ear. That perked her up. Twisting in his lap, she asked, “How?” “My cock is cold–”

“Lucien!” she exclaimed, swatting at his chest but it was clear, from the grinding he was currently doing against her backside, that he meant it.

“Please?” he whispered. “It will be the motivation I need to finish quickly so I can have my beautiful wife.”

“You won’t last five minutes,” Elain retorted, some of her irritation giving way to curiosity. It seemed like for that first week all they’d done was have sex—it had been hurried and needy, the clashing mouths and grinding bodies of two people still afraid the other might evaporate. The following week had been different. Elain had gone back into the city with Vassa and Arina to help clean up, to welcome people back and prove she’d been right to stay behind.

And Lucien was picking up all the slack his exhausted, worried father had set aside. It hardly mattered what she said, not when Lucien’s soft fingers were already shifting her dress up over her hips, was helping her shimmy from her underthings. He had to do very little adjusting himself. He moved the fabric of his clothes and his hard, thick cock sprang free. “I can’t remember the last time I had you,” he breathed, lifting her so the head of him brushed against her creeping wetness.

“Three days,” she whispered when he began lowering her inch by torturous inch. Her breath caught. Would she ever be used to the way she had to stretch around him, to how full it felt to have him inside her?

“A lifetime,” Lucien agreed with a heavy groan. She was facing him, fully seated on his thick, twitching erection. Elain tried to roll her hips, thinking he was surely joking, but Lucien stilled her hips.

“I have to finish this first,” he panted, looking over her shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“Please,” she begged, sucking the skin of his neck. “I can’t sit like this.”

“You have to,” Lucien groaned, bucking into her without meaning. “Ten minutes.”

“Now, Lucien,” she whined, sliding her hand between her legs to rub. He caught her wrist, pressing her fingertips to his lips.

“You said you wanted to help me, wife. This is the opposite of help.”

“You shouldn’t have entered me, then,” she replied petulantly. “What could possibly be more important?”

Lucien sighed, holding her face in his hands. “You’re going to kill me for telling you like this.”

“I haven’t heard a word you said,” Elain admitted, kissing him to prove her point. She rolled again, biting his bottom lip when he held her still. Lucien looked wild, eyes rolling backwards as he clung desperately to some small shred of his self-control.

“Sweetheart. Pretty wife, please extend your mercy to me,” he begged. “Let me say this and then you can have your wicked way.”

“Say it quickly, Lucien.”

“Father is abdicating his throne.”

Elain went still, almost forgetting she was all but dripping down his cock. “What?”

“He’s abdicating his throne,” Lucien groaned. “I am trying to prepare and if I finish signing this, I can fuck you on my desk.”

“When were you going to tell me?” Elain asked, unable to truly focus when he surged forward, his fear apparent. Gripping her ass, Lucien changed the angle between them, driving himself deeper.

“Gods,” he breathed. “Your cunt–”

“Lucien,” she chided but he wasn’t done.

“I need you,” he told her, lifting her onto the desk, scattering everything he’d been working on. “This was a bad idea.”

“What does this make me?” she asked as he readjusted them both, thighs resting in his hands. Lucien groaned, snapping into her. “My wife. Queen,” he added, realizing what she meant. “Gods,

Elain, your cunt is so fucking tight.”

There was no time to truly consider it, not when Lucien had begun fucking her in earnest, forgetting, it seemed, the very words coming from his mouth. He spread her apart, eyes watching the wet slide of his cock vanish into her body only to come right back, coated in her sticky desire.

She had some sense he was using his body to soften the knowledge, to ease her into the idea that she wouldn’t just be princess, but queen. Elain had always known she would be someday but had assumed she was decades from it. Elain reached for Lucien’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“You’re sure?”

He kissed her, messy and rough, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “Of you? Of us? Always.”

“I love you,” she breathed as release barreled towards her. He was right. It wasn’t some unknown, terrifying future. It was him. It was them.

Elain knew everyone in the palace must have known what they were doing when she came. If they didn’t, they certainly figured it out when Lucien did, loud as he was. Elain didn’t care–they had earned the right to make their want of each other known. Let the whole continent see what this alliance meant. More than paper, more than peace.

Lucien held her against him, panting roughly into the crook of her neck while desperately tried to catch her breath.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“No,” Lucien admitted, coming up to kiss her cheek. “I haven’t been since I first saw you. I don’t think I ever will be again.”

She brushed a thumb over his lip. “Take me to bed, Lucien.”

“As you lady demands.”

LUCIEN:

In the coming months, Lucien remembered nothing as clearly as he remembered the moment the baby decided it was time. Crowned king and up to his elbows in policy, treaty’s, Eris’s absurd marriage contract, and rebuilding the damage done by Graysen, he’d almost forgotten that time was working against him.

Vassa came running to the beach, her vibrant red hair plastered to her face. “Elain is having the baby,” she panted loudly, informing the entire crew of workers as well. Lucien hadn’t wanted rumor to spread so quickly just in case anything happened. She would not be given time to grieve if everyone was expecting an announcement.

Lucien said nothing at all, disappointed he was filthy with sweat and muck when he skidded into the birthing chamber. Arina, returned from the west, regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You stink, Lucien.” Elain seemed fine, then. In good spirits, dressed in a draping gown of white. Her long hair was braided over her shoulder, hand curved over her protruding belly. She smiled, eyes bright.

“Go bathe. I am not going anywhere.”

“Ten minutes,” he swore.

Ten minutes became thirty because two hours as Lucien tried desperately to return. Crisis after crisis pulled him for just a moment until Lucien understood why his father had been happy to abdicate and live the remainder of his life unburdened by ruling.

Whereas he’d left to soft peace and gentle scolding, Lucien returned to a scene of horror. Elain, sweaty and panting, was gripping Arina’s hand so hard Lucien thought she might lose the appendage. Vassa was holding Elain’s hair from her face with a grimace, perhaps wondering if the baby in her own body would do the same in a few short months. A midwife and her assistant flitted around and when the aging woman laid eyes on him, Lucien knew he was in trouble.

“Out—!”

“No!” Elain cried, releasing Arina’s hand to stumble for him. “No, stay,” she pleaded before a loud, strangling cry ripped from her body. Lucien’s fear clawed at his chest, dread pooling wetly in his stomach.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, all but holding Elain up as she tried to collapse in on herself.

“This is why we don’t allow men in,” the midwife chided. “They panic far too easily. She is merely coming to an end.”

Lucien sank to his feet beside her, letting her press her damp cheek against his naked chest. “It hurts,” she told him. “It—” her words choked off again. Lucien thought he’d die watching, that he couldn’t stand the sight of her bracing her body on all fours, screaming until her face was red. Everyone else moved around her with purpose while Lucien could only sit by her face, helpless and stupid.

“You’re doing a good job–”

“Stop it!” Elain demanded, looking at him through wisps of stray hair. Behind her, Arina smothered a smile. “This is your fault! You wanted a baby so badly and now—” she didn’t finish her reprimand, dropping her head between her shoulders to groan.

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded as she panted. “Stay, I’m sorry—”

“I’m not leaving,” Lucien replied, bewildered by her sudden shift in sentiment. “You’re so pretty–”

“You’re lying,” she cried. There was some merit to her words, given how blood was dripping down her legs. The midwife was positioned behind her and given her look of satisfaction.

“Another push, princess,” the midwife murmured, earning a sharp look from Lucien. Elain didn’t care to correct people but she was not the princess any longer but queen. It was a term of endearment that Lucien could not convince his people to break. They mumbled bastard under their breath anytime he displeased them but Elain would forever be practically holy, princess of the city.

Defender of Naxos. Kingslayer

“I can’t do anymore,” Elain pleaded, looking up at Lucien with eyes brimming with tears. “Tell her, Lucien, I’m so tired–”

“One more,” he murmured, holding her face in his hands. “Just one push.”

Lucien would have taken this from her if he could, would have endured it all. His lovely, smart, strong wife pushed until her face was red and had run out of air to scream while the midwife reached behind Elain. Lucien was watching them both, suspicious of the interloper and nervous for his weeping wife.

“Blanket!” the midwife snapped. Everything seemed to happen so fast. A flurry of instruction to everyone in the room but him sent everybody moving but Lucien only had eyes for the wet, pink baby thrashing as they entered the world for the very first time.

As she entered the world for the first time. “A girl,” he whispered, awed at the sight. Soft, warm brown skin and a brilliant thatch of red hair ensured there could be no question as to who the now wailing babe belonged to. Lucien had no doubts, not as he helped a shaking Elain to her feet and took the blanketed bundle from the midwife.

“Give Elain the baby, Lucien,” Arina snapped.

“She did all the work, why should you get to hold her first?” Vassa added, cerulean eyes narrowed in suspicion. Elain watched with bright eyes, having navigated herself carefully onto the bed. Arms outstretched, she took their daughter, one finger pushing the blanket down to peer at the pink cheeked baby staring back at them with wide-eyed interest.

“I knew it,” Vassa whispered.

“You didn’t know shit,” Arina retorted, catching the murderous look on Lucien’s face. Get out, he silently ordered. The message was received without him having to ruin the moment for Elain, who was blissfully unaware of anything going on around her. The midwife fussed a little, cleaning her legs and setting pads beneath her body. Lucien allowed his wife to be inspected one last time before he shooed her out, too, desperate to be alone with his new family.

Elain was running her finger over the baby’s little button nose. “She’s so pretty,” Elain breathed. Lucien swallowed the urge to cry at the sight of them, tucked up in bed. Safe.

“Just like her mama,” he agreed, gripping the edge of the bedpost to keep himself from falling to pieces. Elain looked exhausted, her face still blotchy from the labor, hair still sticky against her forehead. Beautiful.

“Come here,” Elain coaxed. “Lay down with me.”

Lucien could hardly tell her no. He all but tripped forward, stumbling into that strange bed that was not his own, the one his wife would spend the evening recovering in before he whisked her away, carried in his own arms, back to his bed. Lucien couldn’t stop staring, not at Elain and not at the baby now sweetly suckling, eyes closed, little fists bunched around chubby cheeks.

“She will need a name,” Elain prompted, resting her head on Lucien’s shoulder.

“I will defer to your wisdom,” Lucien replied, not bothering to admit he’d only thought of names for sons.

“I was thinking Ivy,” she murmured.

“Princess Ivy,” Lucien agreed softly, running a knuckle softly over the baby’s forehead. For a moment they said nothing, staring down at the baby between them with the same soft awe. Their daughter. A perfect wonderful heir, Lucien decided with supreme satisfaction.

“Do you know,” he began when the baby had nuzzled her little face against Elain’s body, chest rising and falling sweetly, “That when you first came, father told me I only had to give you one son before we could be done with each other?”

Elain looked over at him, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. “Oh?”

“And I asked him what I was supposed to do if I ended up with twelve daughters,” he continued, scooping up the little princess to secure her safely in her little bassinet. It was more than practical—Lucien wanted to spend the night kissing and praising his wife for the good job she’d done without worrying he had accidentally squashed the baby.

“What a terrible conundrum for you,” Elain offered dryly.

“Yes,” Lucien all but laughed. “I suppose just as soon as you’re ready, I will be forced to try again…and again…and again.”

“Mm. I know how much you loathe your husbandly duties.”

Lucien was missing them terribly, though he would never dare admit that to her. “Truly,” he agreed sarcastically.

“I’m not doing that again,” Elain added. “One baby is all you get.”

Lucien rejoined her in bed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll see.”

ELAIN:

“Stop fidgeting,” Elain ordered, trying to put a pearl pin into Arina’s hair. “Or the whole thing is going to fall apart.”

“We’ve been doing this for hours,” Arina muttered, stilling herself enough for Vassa to mess with her skirts.

“One of us should have a big, nice wedding,” Vassa insisted. “That doesn’t end in natural disaster or war.”

Elain nodded, sliding in her pin with the precision of a surgeon. “Also, Eris has spent a lot of money. We should make sure he gets what he paid for, right?”

Arina’s green eyes narrowed. “He didn’t buy me.”

Vassa and Elain had been endlessly teasing their friend ever since Eris signed the temporary treaty which allowed him access to the harbor in Naxos, so long as he helped rebuild it. Nesta and Rhysand had signed similar, though Eris had also made sure Helion threw Arina in as part of his end of that arrangement. A wife in exchange for peace, when Elain knew very well Arina was moments from just getting on Eris’s ship anyway, and leaving with little more than her middle finger in the air.

Eris didn’t know it, at any rate. She’d seen him that morning, wandering around with a dazed look on his face as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. Arina wasn’t much better. Elain knew very well she would have preferred to get married somewhere no one could watch, just her and him and the Gods as witnesses.

Instead, the entire city of Alsfeld was gathered to meet their new Queen. Elain supposed they were grateful Arina merely came from the South and not the north, like Velaris and Naxos had gotten. It was a coming home, of sorts. Amera, who had once fled this forested land, offered up a woman in her place. A willing woman, cementing the friendship between their courts. Any children Arina gave Eris would be a cousin to the one growing in Elain’s body, just as any children Nesta and Feyre had, too. Elain hoped it meant the peace between them, tentative as it was, would hold for longer than a generation.

Standing just inside thrown open balcony doors, Elain suppressed a shiver from the chill. Alsfeld was cooler than Naxos in Autumn and in its own way, just as beautiful. Elain missed the glittering water that greeted her from her own windows each morning and still could see how the orange and red and yellow treetops of the Forest Palace were appealing. Eris’s expansive estate felt homey somehow, perhaps because it had been built of the same wood that surrounded it instead of unyielding, unforgiving marble. Fireplaces crackled cheerfully day and night and soft candlelight made everything feel dreamy, almost magical.

Arina was lovely, draped in lace and ivory and covered in delicate pearls. “Eris is going to lose his mind,” Vassa said with pleasure, taking a step back when Elain finally stopped fussing with

Arina’s sunlit blonde hair. Elain didn’t think there had ever been a prettier bride, at any rate. Arina radiated warmth, was practically glowing with some inner light. They’d barely touched her face at all—there was no need, not when Arina was easily the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen.

Arina shook out her hands, the very same that held Eris’s promise ring, a golden band with a glimmering square cut red ruby. “I hope so. This is the second time we’ve tried this.”

“If anyone tries to stop you, remind them what you can do with a sword,” Vassa teased.

“A good reminder for your future husband, too,” Elain murmured, clasping Arina’s hand. Arina plopped into a chair with a frown.

“I wish we were closer,” she admitted. “A week-long sailing trip is hardly advantageous…especially when someone decided to go and knock herself up again. You can’t keep him off you for five minutes?”

Elain pressed her hand to her stomach, pleased with the roundness already showing. “I like being a mother.”

“Leave her be, Arina. You will be next. You’re lucky Eris wasn’t forced to rush you to the altar sooner,” Vassa added with amusement. Arina pressed her lips together, turning from the mirror to look at her friends.

“He can have one child and no more. I saw enough in those birthing chambers.”

“Will you be assisting me with this one as well?” Elain asked with amusement, catching how Arina shuddered.

“We’ll see. Eris keeps me busy—”

“I’ll bet he does,” Vassa teased.

“We heard how very busy he keeps you in the library just last night,” Elain added with a laugh, delighted to see how Arina’s cheeks bloomed with heat. As if they’d summoned him, a rapping on the door ended their raucous giggling.

“Do you intend to make me late for my own wedding?” Eris demanded. “After all the waiting I have done?”

“Grumpy,” Arina called with an affectionate smile.

“Good luck,” Elain murmured, kissing her friend's cheek. “Truly, it is not so hard.”

“And if it’s unbearable, you can always return,” Vassa added louder than she needed, if only to remind Eris that Arina was not without friends. Elain opened the door, noting Eris’s scowl.

“All yours, majesty,” Vassa crooned, eyes daring him to say anything. They could get away with this sort of behavior at home, could tease Lucien until he was red in the face. Eris clearly did not appreciate it though the moment he laid eyes on Arina behind them, his whole face slackened. Elain had seen that look many, many times on both Lucien and Jurian. It comforted her given Arina was so far from them now.

“You look…” Eris’s voice trailed off as he stepped into the room, dressed in red and white. He snapped the door shut behind him, likely to engage in a little last minute, premarital shenanigans that neither Elain or Vassa wanted to be part of.

“Do you remember when we were like that?” Vassa joked, walking the length of the open hall, their shoes clacking loudly against the wood. Elain’s eyes drifted towards the open columns that allowed cool air to pour into the palace, a bridge over a rushing river of crystal clear water.

“Barely,” she admitted. Her marriage had hardly been built on the same foundations of Vassa and Arina’s. Elain turned the corner where Lucien was waiting, their curly haired daughter balancing on his hip, her thumb in her mouth. He was murmuring something to Jurian, his best friend and closest advisor even after all these years. And Jurian, for all his seriousness, cradled a little boy in his muscular arm, brown eyes flickering towards the sleeping child every few breaths, as if he needed the reassurances everything was fine.

Terrifying, brutal warriors brought to their knees by the messy creatures they held. Lucien’s head turned, a smile gracing his handsome features. Power had not changed him at all—Elain knew the very first moment he handed their daughter to his parents he would still be ducking beneath her skirts like a lovesick school boy.

Ignoring how Vassa melted away, Elain reached for Ivy who only clung tighter to her fathers neck. She had become quite the daddy’s girl in the wake of Elain’s new pregnancy, her russet colored eyes regarding her mother with open suspicion. Ivy was used to being doted on— spoiled. A sibling would change all that.

“Give mama a kiss,” Lucien chided. Ivy begrudgingly agreed, throwing out her arms to trade parents. She pressed sticky lips to Elain’s cheek while Elain reveled in the sweet scent of her skin. Ivy was a little over a year old but still small and chubby the way a baby ought to be. Wobbly little legs carried her where she needed to go and yet if she could convince her daddy to carry her, Ivy preferred that to all else. Elain noted Ivy had rid herself of the little lace-up sandals Helion and Amera had put on her just that morning and was willing to bet Lucien had stashed them somewhere, tired of constantly putting them on only for Ivy to kick them back off.

“I saw Eris slink off,” Lucien murmured, falling into step beside Elain to walk to the ceremony. “I assumed they’re going to be late.

“It cannot be helped,” Elain assured him. “Given how in love they are…and how long you dragged this out.”

“I let her live here–”

“She threatened you at knife point if you did not let her leave,” Elain reminded him pointedly. Lucien’s smile turned sheepish. “Yes well…she’s my friend… your friend. I wanted to be certain Eris would cherish her the way I cherish you.”

“I think he’s cherishing her as we speak,” Elain giggled at the sound of a loud, high-pitched scream. Lucien rolled his eyes.

“I want to go home and cherish my own wife,” he grumbled, putting a hand on her rounded stomach. “Any thoughts on who this baby is?”

“A boy,” she murmured. “Your son.”

Lucien’s pleasure was evident, fingers rubbing the blue and gold fabric of her gown as if the baby might somehow feel his father through Elain’s skin. “If you say so.”

And as Elain sat in her seat, watching Arina and Eris walk in together, finally speaking the words they’d been denied nearly six years before, Elain had the sense that somehow they’d managed to change the world. In small ways. Simple ways. Nothing measurable, though she could look back and see it all so clearly. A signature on a page. The unusual turning of a phrase. One kind word, one natural disaster. Had the Gods intervened or had it just been the six of them, destined by fate to follow the golden threads that would lead them to this moment.

Elain turned to her husband, his arm casually draped over the back of her chair, his pleasure evident. His brother was getting married to his best friend. He had a daughter he’d already crowned heir, who would follow in Nesta’s footsteps someday and rise as queen of the south. Vassa’s son, just a few chairs away, had a little wooden sword in hand and was carefully stabbing his father in the chest while Jurian quietly pretended it wounded him.

Arina tilted her face and Eris captured it with a broad hand, kissing her like they were the only two people in the room. Vassa whistled suggestively, shattering the sweet silence and when they broke apart, Elain called, “We can all see you!”

Eris scowled but Arina tipped her head of golden hair backwards, laughing. It was the exact sort of thing Arina would have done, had she been given the chance. Lucien squeezed Elain’s hand, a warning to behave herself despite the easy smile on his face.

They rose once Eris and Arina left, Elain hefting Ivy back into her arms for only a moment, following just behind. Feyre and Rhysand weren’t far off, their own dark haired babe snoozing softly against his fathers chest. Nesta and Cassian, too, had joined, seated a few seats away from the monarchs to the east.

“You know,” she teased, letting Ivy wiggle from her grasp, barefoot against the gleaming hardwood, to run to Helion, “A son means you’re allowed to be done with me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lucien murmured, lowering his face as they walked through the carved mahogany archway that would take them to the celebratory banquet. “I will never be done with you.”

Elain looked up at the smoldering eyes looking back and the man she’d once been so afraid to be married to. He pressed his mouth against her own, unconcerned they were keeping others from getting in.

“Good,” she whispered. “I’m not done with you, either.”

Not then.

Not ever.

#elucien #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #elain x lucien #I FINISHED OH MY GOD #81000 words #and I am FREE

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years ago

Note

Angel Whumpee, bound and gagged. Demon Whumper. Human caretaker who doesn’t know what they are doing because they didn’t know their angel buddy/friend/lover was a cosmic being until they were kidnapped.

I am so sorry that this took so long, you sent this right as Nanowrimo started! But, at long last, here we are. I really hope it’s okay, I’ve never done anything like this before. Enjoy!

CW//Suffocation, restraints, gags, death threats

Whumpee was burning.

That was the only possible explanation in Caretaker's mind as they burst through the doors of the abandoned warehouse. Though the air was clear of smoke, the scent of flame still hung heavy, threatening to singe at their eyes nonetheless.

Scorch marks along the walls seemed to serve almost as rudimentary arrows, all pointing towards the same, horrid thing. No, not thing. Caretaker shook their head at the very thought. At the end of the warehouse was not a thing.

No, it was a victim. More than that, it was their friend.

Whumpee... They didn't know where to start. Their body did, however, as, a moment later, Caretaker found themself kneeling at their friend's side before they had even realized they were running.

Whumpee was hurt. That was the first coherent word that came to mind once the fury and flame behind their eyes had worn off. Hurt.

The burns were the first thing that Caretaker noticed, though they weren't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was because of the horrid, overwhelming smell, or the sheer disgust they felt upon seeing the wounds. Along Whumpee's side, and on their cheek, skin had peeled away, leaving only singed edges and furious, bleeding flesh beneath.

The second thing that they noticed was the ropes. Perhaps the restraints were even more egregious than the horrid, bleeding injuries. In a sense, they served only to put salt in said wounds.

Little did Caretaker know, Whumpee would have done just about anything for some salt in that moment. A circle of it, ideally.

However, there wasn't much at all they could do. Not with the way they were bound— A rough, cloth gag shoved into their mouth and tied behind their head, with their limbs uncaringly hogtied. Clearly, they'd be left in the position for far too long, given the way their knees and elbows quivered.

"Whumpee?" It was only after several moments of horrified staring that Caretaker regained enough common sense to think to speak. "Whumpee, what happened? Who... Who did this?"

When their friend had disappeared a few days prior, they hadn't known what to expect. Running from the law, perhaps, from debt? They'd always been quiet about their past. A mental break was always possible, too, of course.

The idea of a kidnapping had never so much as crossed their mind. Yet, sitting before them, trussed up like a turkey, was all the proof they could ever need.

With the gag leaving them speechless, Whumpee could only look up at their friend, eyes wide and quivering.

"R-Right." Caretaker barely managed to stammer. "Okay, I- Let me just-"

They couldn't believe that their very first thought hadn't been releasing their friend from their bindings. But, it wasn't as though their mind was working all too well. Hands trembling something awful, they reached first for the knot holding the gag in place.

With a yelp, Caretaker yanked their hands back. Flame. When they had attempted to untie the knot, there had been flame.

Flame from a cloth gag. In what world did that make sense?

Sense had no place at that moment, however. Instead, Caretaker's attention was drawn to Whumpee, who now furiously shook their head.

"Hey, hey." Soothing had never been their strong suit, but they supposed they could at least give it a try. "I don't know what's going on, and I'm not going to pretend that I do. But I'm going to get you out of here, okay?"

The shaking of their head grew only more furious. Caretaker quirked a brow.

"You... Don't want to leave? You're- You- You should see yourself in a mirror, I don't know how you're even alive-"

Whumpee had been warning them.

Caretaker hadn't caught on. Not until it was too late. Not until the door at the front of the warehouse had opened once more, letting in the barest shreds of light from the outside.

A stranger. In Caretaker's mind, that was who entered through the door and into the building. A complete stranger.

Whumpee, on the other hand, went as white as a ghost.

The approaching figure was intimidating in all the ways one wouldn't expect. Their stature was far from impressive, with wiry limbs attached to a torso that was just a little bit too long. Short, black hair disguised all but the barest glimpses of their eyes as they moved forth, shrouded in a plaid suit and an air of grandeur.

"Now." Every step the stranger made sent a great, resounding click through the warehouse, as though they wore tap shoes. "Isn't this strange? If I remember correctly, when I left this place, I only had one prisoner.

Now I have two. Would anyone care to explain that?"

Calm as the stranger's voice was, Caretaker felt as though their lungs had just been stolen of their air. Why did everything feel so very hot, all of a sudden?

More importantly, why couldn’t they move?

Caretaker, a puppet on strings, stood to their feet, arms quivering at their sides.

The nearer the stranger got, the hotter the room seemed to become. By the time that they reached forward to touch their prey’s chin, cup it in their hand, force them to look upwards, Caretaker’s clothes had become soaked through with sweat.

“I’m a busy man.”

The stranger’s smile was too wide.

“I simply don’t have time for two of you. Especially with how fussy your little friend is. I think that means, unfortunately, that I’m the one here who has to make the hard choice.”

Caretaker’s jaw quivered in their attacker’s grasp.

“What... Are... You...” That was all they could manage. Three choked-out words.

Three choked out words had elicited only a barking laugh from the stranger.

“Call me Whumper, dear, not that you will need to call me much of anything for long.”

That was when the real choking began.

Whumper’s hand shot to their throat, gripping their windpipe and crushing it, as easily as a bug. Caretaker felt a cough coming on, but it came out only as a desperate wheeze.

This was it.

Checking on a friend. They’d only been checking on a friend. Now, this was it. There was no fighting they could do. No, their killer was a coward. Too much of a coward to allow them to move.

Their vision went out just as the scream sounded. Whumper’s scream. An instant later, their breath was returned to them, just as it was taken by their captor-- they heard as they were slammed against a wall on the other side of the room.

Caretaker’s vision filtered back to their mind.

Before them did not stand Whumpee.

Rather, shaking and panting, stood an angel, wings and all. Now, Caretaker had the same question to ask them.

“What are you?”

“I- I would think that’s- Pretty clear now-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Though wounded by the gag, Whumpee’s mouth still managed to form into a smirk.

“We aren’t allowed to tell our charges what we are, Caretaker.”

#angel whumpee #demon whumper #human caretaker #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump ask #whump prompt #supernatural whump

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delldarling · 4 years ago

Text

bearberry bargain | pyre

male arctic fox shifter x gender/body neutral reader 10,261 words lemon | older shifter, knotting, oral, penetrative sex, no choking but there is throat touching, tricks and bargains, getting lost note: this was the Story of the Month for December 2020 over on my Patreon! It is loosely tied into the same world as my dragon fellow Arroven, but reading Arroven’s story first is most definitely not required.

————-　🦊　————-

The tundra is a gorgeous, but unforgiving landscape. You can hear the words on repeat in your head, clear as a twice damned bell. Worse than that, you can see Bristle, the orc woman that had served as your guide out here, in your mind's eye saying the words as she gestured to the fog drenched terrain. And The Mirrored Teeth are a little more dangerous than most. In the rain, or like now, in the fog, the stone spires gleam. They are beautiful, and all too easy to mistake for a far off porch light, or street lamp—but that isn’t what’s truly dangerous out here.

Bristle’s partner, a curly haired satyr by name of Rhim, with coins jingling in his carefully coiffed beard, had then stepped up to speak. Unfortunately, The Mirrored Teeth weren’t named for the teeth-like spires alone. The mirroring, or in this case, echoing, is the real danger. Voices carry strangely out here when the fog is thick, and if someone is lost? Our first instinct is to travel towards a light, or someone shouting. Whether the voices are our own, bouncing back to us from the spires or the mountains, or they’re the product of a still-living magical area?

They’d both spoken in unison then, smiling at each other with the ease of familiarity: Don’t follow the voices.

Each person in the tour group had been given a small token after their list of safety precautions, to serve as a tracker in case someone was separated. One person had asked if it was likely to get lost, and Bristle had snorted before she’d adopted her tour guide voice again. To come out here in the first place, everyone had been asked to sign a waiver because, inevitably, someone did end up wandering away. They followed voices that sounded like loved ones from past or present. They followed voices that sounded like themselves, calling out warnings. It was generally why people ended up taking the tour in the first place, listening eagerly for a voice they’d long since thought lost, or some kind of warning from their future self, so compelling and entrancing that they must be the product of magic. Most, though not all, of the people were generally found. Overtired and aching from sleeping on the ground out in the cold, but otherwise unharmed. Whatever caused the voices, magic or not, didn’t seem to hurt people, only leave them confused.

A few of the others currently with the group had come out for more academic reasons. Art and science in most cases, but otherwise those going on the tour were magic chasers, looking to record the fog voice phenomena for further study.

You might not have come out here with a recorder, but you can’t exactly deny that magic chaser applies to you as well. Claims of The Mirrored Teeth holding tangible residual magic are terribly rampant. You’ve wanted to witness it for yourself, to hear the voices, or feel the soft ache of magical energy on your skin, just the once. You’ve wanted… Well, it’s hard sometimes, not to want to feel the call of magic.

“And look where it’s led you,” you mutter, searching your pockets for the hundredth time. You know you won’t find the token, that you must have lost it when you slipped on some slick moss about an hour ago, but you can’t stop yourself now. It’s like trying to leave a loose thread alone once nervous fingers have found it. You keep reaching for the token, keep trying to find it, even though you know nothing you do will help any longer. You don’t recognize any of the surrounding terrain.

When you’d started out with the tour group, there hadn’t been anything but fog and the scrubby ground, hardened by a hidden layer of permafrost. You’d seen pictures of the teeth-like spires, but hadn’t been able to spot any when you first arrived. Now, every time you turn around it feels like you’re surrounded by the damned things. They radiate a soft glow, magnified further by the heavy mist and from far off? They look just like the teeth they’re named for. “Done in by moss,” you add, straining your eyes to see further through the fog. ”Not even by the voices!” Which, frankly, was disappointing. Not that you wanted to be lost in the first place, but hearing some of the voices the Mirrored Teeth are known for would have at least given you a better reason. An expected reason to be lost or wandering away from the group. Instead you’d simply slipped, brushed off a handful of withered greenery and pebbles, and had gotten back to your feet to find yourself alone.

You’d shouted yourself hoarse after the first half hour, calling out for Bristle and Rhim, staying in the same place, or assuming you’d stayed in the same place. You’d bent to find the token again, but even that had apparently been too much movement. Every time you lifted your head to look away from the ground, there was a different bit of flora springing up in front of you—and then you’d nearly smacked yourself head first into one of the spires, none of which are clearly marked on the map you have of the surrounding area. There’s always too much mist to plot them.

“Bristle! Rhim?” You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth, not knowing if you should even hope for some kind of answer. What if they don’t answer because of the echoes? What if that’s the reason they’ve yet to answer in the first place?

The soft crack of a branch makes you whirl, throat growing tight when you spot the shadow of three figures through the fog. They straighten up, huffing, and the fog slowly spins away, shadows coalescing and revealing an older man shouldering a pack that he’s clearly just dug up from the ground. For a moment, he’s silent, staring, hand clenching tight at his pack as his eyes rove over your face. His gaze dips to your feet and lifts quickly back to your face before he wipes the surprise from his expression. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he grouses in a soft voice, tossing his head to get his ragged mane of salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. “But ‘lo, a human. Those tours are getting earlier and earlier every year, aren’t they?” He sighs, not asking like he expects an answer, but more like he’s just making an unpleasant statement. For half a second you have a retort on your lips, but the longer you stare, the more words vanish from your vocabulary.

The man has clearly tried to tame his ragged hair, weaving it into a messy, short braid that’s just long enough to hang over his right shoulder. There are earrings hanging from his right earlobe, dangly things that clink softly while he brushes impatiently at the dirt on his knees. His jacket, once a lovely heather gray, and obviously a match to a long lost suit, is patched and worn in multiple places. His jeans are nothing to write home about either, with frayed hems and patched knees. He has silvery stubble on his cheeks, and crows feet at the corners of his copper eyes, and—and a long tail, like a bottlebrush, fur standing on end. Until he sees that you’re watching. The tail vanishes behind his legs and your eyes zero in on his sharp nailed fingers, the backs of his knuckles covered with pale, soft looking hair. He grimaces, baring razor edged teeth, and promptly makes to stride past you, not even bothering to wait for you to get out of the way. He draws a rough breath as soon as he bumps into you, flinching away from actually knocking you to the ground, but it’s near enough to set your temper stoking.

Frankly? His manners are atrocious. But you’re also lost somewhere out in the tundra, and even if he doesn’t know where your tour is, he knows of them. You wrestle your temper into staying silent and rush after him.

“Wait! Hey, wait up,” you ask, ignoring the thrill that runs through you when you snag hold of his jacket sleeve and his tail bristles again. He’s not just hiding a tail either. His feet look more like great canine paws, which means—

The man whirls, and you spot two furred ears hidden under his uneven hair before he yanks his arm away from you, breathing far too fast. “Surely you know better than to grab at a shifter?” He hisses, leaning in close to your face. For half a second, he’s close enough for you to feel warmth radiating off of his body, but then his nostrils flare and his voice grows quiet. “Or are you from one of those backwater humans only villages in the East?”

“I’m—I’m sorry for grabbing you,” you blurt, mildly startled by his proximity to your face. “And while yes, that wasn’t a smart idea, I’m lost out here. Would it have been smarter of me to let you leave me in the dust before I asked for directions?” You take a slow step back, though you don’t let your eyes drop from his. You’re not going to take your eyes off of him for even a second if it means the fog is going to swallow him up and leave you all on your lonesome again.

The shifter narrows his copper eyes, highlighting the faint wrinkles in his brown skin. “Lost, you said?” He straightens, and keeps staring, eerily still. His frown only grows more pronounced when you nod your head. “You’re three days out from where the tours start. How long have you been lost?”

“Three days,” you repeat, uncomprehending. For another few seconds, the words don’t make any kind of sense. You’ve been separated from your group, according to your watch, for just over an hour. When you glance at the timepiece, only another handful of minutes have passed, but not enough time to even come close to explaining three days worth of travel. Your pulse is already racing, but it’s beginning to grow past the point of discomfort and into painful territory with how hard your heart is working. How the hell are you supposed to get back? “That’s not possible,” you breathe.

He doesn’t soften, but for a few moments he doesn’t look quite so irritated. “If you heard anything at all on that tour, then I’m sure you know it is possible. Residual magic, yes? It can do quite a bit more than just throw voices like a puppeteer.” He shifts his weight, like he’s ready to leave the moment you give him a chance.

“I’ve been lost for an hour,” you say, hoping that will spell out exactly how ridiculous you find his claims. “And I did my best to stay in one place. I’ve barely even begun to walk anywhere, and I didn’t—didn’t feel anything magical.”

“Isn’t it terribly rare to feel anything magical?” He asks, only gently mocking. “So few people even notice when something magical has happened to them. Now, it sounds as if the fog leapfrogged you through space,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “Or did those green guides of yours not mention that something like this might happen?” He waits, but when you don’t immediately answer, the shifter sighs again, shakes his head and pivots, heading back into the still-swirling fog, ready to leave you behind.

You make another desperate grab for his sleeve, thankful that he only grimaces when he turns back to face you again. “In fact, yes, they did forget to mention! If you happen to have a satellite phone, or maybe-”

The shifter laughs and your grip on his sleeve grows slack. He’s rather handsome when he smiles, and looks like some kind of down-on-his-luck musician, dreaming of his glory days. You hastily let go of his sleeve, before he decides to yank himself away a second time. “Me? Ol’ Pyre, wandering about the tundra with a satellite phone?” He lifts his bag, clumps of dirt still falling from it. “I’m coming out this way to spend the winter in my other skin, and generally? Foxes have no use for phones.” He lifts his chin, scenting the air, and then nods his head in the direction behind you. “Head that way and the fog is likely to lead you right back.”

“Likely or certain?” You press, scowling. “Because there’s a rather large difference between those two options, and I’m not going to risk myself on likely.”

Pyre huffs out a sharp edged: “Which do you think?” before he registers the way your hands are starting to shake with nerves. His mouth opens, and then snaps shut. For a long moment he’s quiet, gritting his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not prepared for more than an evening trek through the tundra, are you? Enough food for a snack and dinner round a campfire before they herd you back?”

A small wave of relief loosens your shoulders. If he’s asking, then surely he’s not going to turn tail and leave you all by your lonesome? You start to smile, ready and willing to ask for further help, but Pyre turns away with a quiet curse.

“Pitiful idiots,” he says, glancing up at the sky, even though he can’t see anything but the vague hint of daylight through the thick fog. “Three days. And leaving would be akin to murder.” He bares his teeth, still looking up for a few seconds longer before he turns a sharp look your way, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ll lead you as far as the Slavering river. If you stick to that and keep yourself from wandering off into the fog again, you’ll certainly make it close enough for those idiot guides to find you.”

Slavering, the river is called, Bristle’s voice picks up in your head again, because they once thought the tundra a hungry thing, with teeth besides. She’d gestured to the West, though none of the group had been able to spot or hear the roar of the water yet. It had just been another wall of fog over hard earth and low growing shrubs. We’ll end our hike there.

You offer Pyre your hand, still worried about the trek, still ill at ease with what the fog has done, but feeling decidedly less panicked. Residual magic my ass. As soon as I’m back, the guides are going to expand that little safety speech of theirs.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it. If I hadn’t—”

“Save your breath for the walk,” Pyre mutters and fully ignores your outstretched hand, skirting around you in a wide arch so he won’t risk touching you accidentally. He doesn’t get more than a few paces away though before he’s turning to look at you over his shoulder. “And keep up. If the fog decides to deposit you somewhere else, there aren’t many other helpful shifters wandering about the area.” He saunters off ahead, trusting you to make your own way, but the fur on his tail doesn’t lay flat until you’re jogging to catch up with him.

“Are there dangerous shifters then?” You risk asking, thankful for your heavy coat and the weight of your own pack. Bristle and Rhim hadn’t mentioned any shifters in the area at all, but then they also hadn’t told any of you that the residual magic might move you without your knowledge. Perhaps they would have, if you’d been allowed to stick around, but it feels like a glaring oversight, now that you’re all the way out here. Maybe this is why they make everyone sign the waiver. Not because of some idiotic, siren-like voices, but because of magical fog.

Pyre’s ears twitch, visible for only a split second through his hair. “Don’t wander off,” is all he chooses to add before he falls silent, doing his best to stay several steps ahead of you to discourage speech.

“That’s encouraging,” you mutter, and his ears twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. The walk to the Slavering is going to feel like a very long one from the looks of it, and it isn’t just because everything looks much the same no matter which way you turn. You shove your hands deep in your coat pockets, watching the middle of Pyre’s back, and do your best not to unconsciously search for the lost token. You already know your pockets are still empty.

————-　🦊　————-

Despite Pyre’s desire for absolute silence, he mutters about things without thinking. He comments quietly on a hare speeding away when a noise startles you. He grabs up handfuls of wild berries off of the scrubby bushes you pass, promptly dropping any that are too spoiled to be edible. He flicks some of them away with soft, but mocking farewells until he recalls that you’re not far behind him, listening to everything he says. Pyre’s threadbare shoulders always rise with embarrassment, but after the third time it happens and he remembers you’re there, he sighs, shaking off his chagrin. He pauses just long enough to grab your arm and slap some of the berries into your open palm, doing his best not to meet your eyes.

When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on your fingers, touch careful and tense. “Eat those if you’re feeling peckish, or save them for this evening and you can boil them down into tea. Don’t dive into any of your stores if you can until sometime tomorrow.”

“What about you?” You ask, noticing that he’s barely kept any at all for himself. A berry or two slips away, rolling off of your hand and dropping to the ground.

Pyre arches a brow, closing your hand around the berries so no more can fall before he takes a step back. “I’ll be hunting as soon as I leave you by the river. I’m more than well equipped to look after myself out here. A few berries won’t make much of a difference.”

“Is this a regular thing for you then? Coming out here to the tundra once a month for shifting?”

“For the winter,” Pyre corrects in a sour tone, and then turns back to his chosen path again. “Coming out to the tundra isn’t a regular thing for you though, is it? Or was it just the magic that left you so frightened?”

The berries he’s given you are small and gleaming red, and you don’t much care for his continued irritable attitude. You pop three into your mouth while you ignore him, expecting it to be, at the worst, bitter. Instead it’s dry. You make a noise of distaste, which makes Pyre glance back again. He stops, confused for all of two seconds before his eyes widen and he chokes on his laugh. The sour twist of your mouth is clue enough. “Definitely not a regular traveling spot,” he states. “Unfamiliar with bearberries?”

“I hope that isn’t what they taste like when they’re boiled,” you mumble, doing your best to refrain from scrubbing at your tongue. “And no, the tundra isn’t really a prime vacation spot for me or most anyone else. The draw of lingering, tangible magic is a little too much for some people to ignore though. Maybe not everyone, but some of us.”

Pyre hums, tail raising when he hops over a strange looking crack in the earth. “Feeling a call?” He asks, voice far too even to be pleasant.

That’s a personal question in most places, and Pyre has already quietly mocked your interest in magic once. He does seem the type to poke at uncomfortable topics though, to try and get a rise out of someone. His tail is still bristled out as well, quietly hinting that he’s not in a pleasant mood. “Is that why you come out here during the winter? I don’t hear much about other shifters vanishing for an entire season, fox or not.”

“The only call I’ll ever feel is the one to shift,” he grumps, but he does smack his lips and slow down for a moment, letting you keep pace. “I make bad decisions,” Pyre finally adds, as if that clarifies anything at all.

“All the time? Or-”

“Smartass.”

“That wasn’t even hard, are you really going to fault me for that one?” You wait, patiently, but no answer is forthcoming, and then he rushes forward a few steps ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes?” You call out, but Pyre just keeps walking, like he’s reached the end of his tolerance for speaking politely with another living being. “Well, that was nice while it lasted,” you mumble, frowning when you spot his shaking shoulders. He’s—he’s laughing. Maybe he isn’t suffering from lack of manners entirely, but instead has been too long out of practice.

“Not all the time,” Pyre calls back when he trusts his rasp of a voice not to betray his amusement. “Just a fourth of it.”

For the season, he’d said. You snort and don’t even try to hold back a smile when Pyre tilts his head to look at you. His head immediately snaps forward and he shakes it, as if to ward off an unhappy thought. He’s grumpy because... he’s awkward and shy? The last of your fear, still borne aloft by the way he’s spoken thus far, by his quiet mutter of akin to murder eases immeasurably. You follow after him now in less strained silence, a bit more confident now that you’ll make it back to the tour group in one piece.

————-　🦊　————-

Your confidence lasts until early evening, when visibility is becoming a huge issue for you. No matter how well you might see in the dark, the fog feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. Pyre hasn’t slowed by much, but then you see the pale, rapid swish of his tail, moving so fast it looks for a moment like he has more and then you recall that he’s a shifter. His eyesight, as well as his sense of smell, are by far better than your own. He might be able to keep going well into the night, but—You grunt, catching your toe on a white rock the height of your ankle. Before you can fall, or do much more than exclaim in quiet pain, Pyre has his hands on your shoulders, keeping you up and steady.

“It’s dark,” he says quietly, by way of apology. “We’ll stop for the night just up ahead. Can you make it?”

“Without tripping over rocks or falling on my face, you mean?” You breathe in, and promptly swallow. He smells a bit like fresh campfire smoke and the faint citrusy scent of the bearberries and he’s entirely too close. You don’t necessarily want him to move away though, not with the darkness growing thick around you. “Probably not,” you admit quietly.

Pyre hums, breathing in slowly, and the sound is terribly intimate. “...you need a hand?”

“Unless you’d rather I trip and skin my knees and palms in the dark? Yes.”

“Humans,” Pyre says, amused, and clucks his tongue as he takes hold of your wrist, turning away to continue on and pull you after him. He only pauses when you try to tug your hand away.

“You can hold my hand instead of towing me along like a kid at the fair. I don’t even have sticky fingers.” You turn your hand, thankful when he lets you adjust his hold. His fingernails, thicker due to his shifting nature, dig a little too hard into the side of your hand before he reflexes his grip.

He pauses, tense, even though his palm is a soothing warmth against yours. “Not sticky,” he finally agrees. Pyre hesitates, like he wants to say more, but a low, strange voice calls out something from far off. As soon as you hear it, the voice has it’s hooks in you. Your entire body grows tense, hair prickling, listening as hard as you can to try to make out the words. “No,” Pyre says in a low growl, trying to interrupt your concentration. He’s only barely louder than the voice. “Don’t listen. It’s all too easy to-”

“That sounds like—”

“It sounds like nothing that matters. Even if you know the voice, it doesn’t matter.” Pyre grunts when you turn your head, trying to follow the fading voice with your ear alone. He rips his hand out of yours so he can take hold of your face, pulling you close until you’re nearly nose to nose with him, thumbs on your cheekbones, fingernails scratching gently behind your ears. “Right now, the only thing that matters is making camp for the night. We’re heading this way and you are not going to go looking for that voice in the dark.”

You suck down a fierce breath, closing your eyes as the last of the echoing voice fades away. As soon as it’s gone, your shoulders start to slump, and you feel strangely hollow. “That is why they make us sign that waiver?” You ask, opening your eyes to find Pyre still terribly close, his hands still cradling your face.

For a moment, he lingers, breath warm against your lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening the longer he stares at you up close. The bright copper of his eyes is muted in the darkness, but the white in his hair, in his eyebrows, stands out brilliantly, and you think there might be more of it now than there was earlier this afternoon. “I knew you’d be a bad decision,” he whispers, and inexplicably, you think he might be about to kiss you. Your heart begins to gallop around your chest, your hands lifting to grasp at his wrists, his own still on your face—and then Pyre pulls away, dragging his nails over your skin. He tangles his fingers with yours and leads you quietly through the dark.

You’re not sure whether you should ask about his other bad decisions again… But you desperately want to.

Putting together the camp is a chilly affair at best. The shelter you help Pyre fumble through in the dark, though of course he has no trouble navigating the process, is little more than a heavy tarp tied securely between two of the tall, white teeth. There isn’t much wind, but now the mist is heavy enough to dot your eyelashes and bead along your sleeves. You don’t quite believe Pyre when he says he can get a fire going, forcing you to sit next to the small ring of stones he’s gathered. “There’s a copse of trees not far from here,” he explains, tilting his head to your right, though you can’t see anything through the fog, and especially not in the dark. “And I’ll be able to scrounge up enough for a fire.”

You want to ask him if he’ll be able to find his way back to you. If he thinks you’ll be safe sitting here on your own, especially after the voice from earlier. Voicing your concerns feels a bit too much like an invitation for bad luck though, and you still don't know Pyre very well. He might be helping you out of the goodness of his heart, but he's already dubbed you a bad decision. You're not sure you want to push things. “Won’t the wood be wet?” You ask instead, chafing your hands together to stir up a little bit of heat.

“No fear of shifters,” Pyre scoffs, straightening up and pulling his bag off of his back. “No screaming at strangers when you're lost in the foggy tundra, but you're worried about damp firewood?" You scowl, knowing full well he can see your expression. That surprises a rough sounding laugh out of him. "I may choose to spend my winter as a fox, but that doesn't mean I don't turn back into a man when spring comes." Pyre brandishes a small box, a tin filled with what sounds like matches. He rattles them about for emphasis. “Charmed matches are a necessity out here, not optional. Even if the wood is damp, they’ll catch well enough to last us the night.”

Charmed matches aren’t exactly common. A package of them, when used only in dire situations, should last someone a score of years at least, and as the spells to make them are some of the few guarantees of still working magic… They cost a pretty penny. “...should you be wasting them on me when I’m supposed to find the tour guides tomorrow?”

Pyre shakes the box at you, silently insisting you take it from his hand. When you take it from him, there’s more hair, more fur on his fingers than there was earlier in the day. You wonder if it’s a conscious change to help stave off the chill, or if it’s simply too close to when he shifts. “We need some way to boil a bit of water for bearberry tea, don’t we? Unless you’d rather eat them plain.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but the dark is getting more oppressive and you can’t see it. Pyre’s tone turns a little more serious, a little more apologetic as he continues: “And using them seems to keep away the voices, so yes. As I’ve taken responsibility for your safety—”

“Responsibility,” you murmur, arching a brow, but you can’t exactly disagree.

“—I’ll do exactly as I said. You’ll get to the Slavering, and I’ll even give you a match as a gift. You can make a torch as you head back and the voices should leave you be.”

You don’t shake the tin of them, knowing that they’re valuable, but you stroke your finger over the top, following the raised patterns of letters. “Will they work, even if they’re unlit?”

Pyre waits, and you don’t know whether he’s reluctant to give you an answer or he doesn’t actually know. “Are you worried about me going to grab the firewood?”

Well, it was kind of ridiculous, trying to hide your nervousness from him anyway. You’re lost in the tundra with someone you don’t know. No matter how resilient you are, it’s going to be nerve wracking. “I’ve never felt quite as strange as when I heard that voice, even with you pulling me back from it…” You stop, a frown growing on your lips. “But the voice didn’t do anything to you. You had no problem telling me not to listen to it.”

Pyre crouches, his knees popping, and groans quietly, rubbing at the patch just under his left kneecap. You can see his hands, pale fur the only spot of brightness in the night. “They don’t much affect shifters. We’re…. We’re already rather full of magic ourselves, even if it isn’t the kind one can use by uttering spells or mixing ingredients in a pot. Whatever the reason, the voices don’t seem to like magic. So a box of those matches?” He reaches out to tap on the tin with one long nail. “It should keep you from falling prey for the few moments it will take me to gather wood. I still wouldn’t get up though, then you might risk dropping it.”

You don’t know everything about the tundra, even with what research you did before you came on the trip, and the talk of magic here? It’s still something people want to study. One of the ones that came with a recorder would probably be thrilled to hear this much about the place from… Pyre might not be a year-round local, but he knows quite a bit. If he can hold off his shifting, maybe you’ll ask him to talk to one of them. “I’ll be safe,” you say, extrapolating, “as long as I stay sitting here. You’ll be able to find me again?”

“...I’ll be able to follow your scent, yes,” he admits, like he expects you to be irritated with the thought. Far, far away, another voice echoes, much fainter than the one you’d heard before. It doesn’t sound pained or panicked though, it sounds a bit like—Pyre takes your fingers, almost crushing them around the tin box in your hands. The voice vanishes. “You’ll be safe,” Pyre repeats, and a breeze whisks through the area, catching at his wild grey and white hair.

“Then get the wood,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “I’ll wait.” Pyre’s hand, still curled tightly around your fingers, eases. He brushes his thumb over the valleys between your knuckles and then pulls away.

“A few moments only. I promise,” he whispers, and then his canine-like feet are scuffing through the hard dirt and lichen covered rocks.

As soon as he’s gone, you soothe yourself by running your fingers over the tin of matches, trying to figure out what words are written along the top in fine, curling letters. There are too many loops though and when you do your best to try and focus on it, bringing it up close to your face, all you can see is that places on the tin have been worn down. Whatever it might say, the color on the tin won’t help you figure it out. It feels like only seconds, but another noise echoes in the darkness, your heart jumping back into overdrive. You clutch at the matchbox, but then Pyre is stepping out of the heavy fog, dropping a heaving armful of twisted branches and thick tangles of what looks like weeds.

“Moments, I thought you said! What was that, 30 seconds?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart.

Pyre laughs. “I think you were just lost in thought, hm? It’s easy to lose track of time in the dark.” He kneels at the ring of rocks, cursing, even though you can’t hear any popping in his limbs this time. “Now, give me the matches and let’s get things a bit warmer, hm?”

You hand them over, and then get to work. You feel more than see Pyre’s surprise when you start picking up the branches and weeds. “I may be human, but I can help do a bit of work. It’s the last I can do after you helping me like this, what with your shifting getting close.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He asks, tin creaking as he opens and closes the lid. You glance over, but other than his pale fur, you can’t make out what he’s actually doing. A second later and he’s striking one of the charmed matches over a rough rock, and then it blazes merrily in a bit of fire smaller than a penny. “I won’t be a danger. I’m old enough to keep my wits. My… I should warn you, my breed of shifting isn’t always so pretty as others though.”

“Is that why you come out here?”

“One of many reasons,” Pyre mutters and holds the match to the wood in the fire pit. The match doesn’t burn down immediately though, or even catch the weeds when he touches it to them. Pyre deposits it carefully in the exact middle of arrangement, planting it almost like a seedling in the wood and weeds. Only after he removes his hand does the match start to spark, and then fire twists open like a blooming flower. It’s gorgeous. You lift your eyes to Pyre, awe clear in your gaze, and then you have to blink. He’s still the older man you saw this afternoon. He still has a mostly human face, but his arms look longer now, and his copper eyes flash strangely in the firelight. He glances at you, and you see that his mouth has grown wider, the edges either curling back towards his cheekbones or… Or his jaws are elongating. “Frightened?” He asks, and then you realize that you’ve been staring.

“Mildly startled,” you correct, refusing to look away. Whether he’s a pretty kind of shifter or not, you can still see him in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He chuffs, and the noise warms something deep in your chest. “Smartass,” he says, sounding very fond. “I’ll make some of that tea now then, if you’d like it.”

“Bearberry tea,” you muse, reaching in your pocket for the rest of the berries he’d given you. Pyre unearths a small cooking pot from his bag, as well as an earthenware mug, glazed some kind of deep green. He hands you the mug and then holds out the pot, nodding his head when you lift your berry filled hand over it. It takes longer than you would like. Pyre has to mash the berries down and then he surprises you by standing and tugging at the tarp edge of your shelter. Water, mist really, beaded so heavily along the taut plastic that there’s enough to fill the pot near to overflowing. It’s much more than you would have thought, but Pyre seems unsurprised, even though you’ve both been relatively dry since he started building the fire.

“Alright,” you finally say, watching Pyre stir the faintly pink water with a metal spoon from his bag. “You mentioned bad decisions, and I’m not wise enough to leave it well alone. What are all these ‘bad decisions’ that drive you out into the tundra for an entire season? And, I can’t not clarify, were they flings?”

Pyre stares at you, eyes gleaming in the firelight, his too wide jaw falling open due to your blunt questions. When he laughs this time, it’s a sharp bark and more fox-like than human. “Oh, you are one of them. Much more perceptive than many of the others.” He licks his lips, still human-smooth, but his ears have grown longer. They’re peeking out from the sides of his head, poking through his hair now. “Some of them were flings. Some of them were just… A way to stave off loneliness, even if they were unpleasant.”

“And where am I falling on that scale?”

Pyre arches a thicker brow, baring his sharp teeth in a slightly eerie smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a fling with someone like you, but your companionship is more than enough if that’s all you want to give.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then how, exactly, am I a ‘bad decision’? Making friends isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

Pyre’s smile wavers. “No, no it isn’t.” He looks away, into the middle of the fire, where the charmed match is still blazing like a seed of flame. “The bad decision is that my loneliness drives me to go looking in the first place.”

You let a few moments pass in relative silence, puzzling over his words. It sounds more than strange, but you can’t put your finger on why. “What does that mean?” You finally ask, noting the way he’s digging his nails into his thighs.

He looks back at you. “Anyone who wanders out here is an offering, of sorts. To help bear the brunt of winter. The tours… They’re more like a ritual than those guides of yours realize.”

Your head feels strangely empty. Ritual, he’d said. Slowly, you think back to the myths linked to the tundra, to the Mirrored Teeth, to the folktales attached to cities and Serpent Towers. There had been something about bearing the brunt of winter, holding it back from sweeping over the land…

“Your time here will be no more than the three days I promised. You will be taken back to the Slavering, with only this time gone from the memories of others, and I will do nothing but what I promise: to lead you back, if that is all you desire.” Pyre creeps closer, long arms and long fingers bracing himself on the dirt. All it takes is a single stretch and he’s by your side, towering over you in his half shifted form. “The bad decision was that I was given the right to choose without any warning. That I could only claim those I charmed away.”

“You charmed me?” You whisper.

“You heard my voice,” Pyre explains and your heart beats painfully in your chest. He is why people vanish from the tours and come back tired and dirty but… But most of them come back unharmed.

“What happens to those that don’t make it back?” You ask, trying to quell your panic.

Pyre’s shoulders hunch. “Sometimes people react poorly, and they run. Running in the fog is never wise.”

“How am I… How am I supposed to help you keep winter from swallowing the world?”

Pyre barks out another laugh, though he’s grimacing. “Those years I don’t have a companion, winter escapes my hold. It’s much easier to keep in check with help.”

“Helping how?” You ask, voice going brittle.

“Companionship. You’re already bound to the three days,” he says quietly, nodding his head to the pot of slow boiling bearberries on the fire. “You ate three of them. If…. If you choose to help, to spend the winter with me, then you can drink. You’ll be with me through the entire season—”

“Out in the middle of the tundra, with nothing but a tarp and an evening's supply of food?” You ask, getting to your feet. You take a step away from the fire, nervous energy making you move, and then freeze when you hear a far off voice again. You glance down at Pyre, angry and convinced it must be him, but then you recognize it. The voice, low and soft as it echoes strangely through the fog, is you.

“The voices are possibilities only,” Pyre says, talking over the needy sounding moan. It vanishes, like nothing more than smoke on a fast moving breeze. “And I would take you back to my home, I wouldn’t make you wander out here and sleep on the freezing ground!” Pyre starts to get to his feet and then thinks better of it. He stays where he is, looking up at you, holding out a hand. “If you drink, all I require is companionship. Loneliness lets the ice creep further out, but friendship, or, or anger or passion keeps it at bay. With your help I can bind the overflow of ice in the teeth. But if three days is all you’ll allow, then I’ll find another, I promise. You’ll be free of this, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”

You’re out in the middle of the tundra, wreathed in magical fog and standing before a shifter, a… a spirit? A deity? That keeps winter at bay. You did want magic, didn’t you? You ask yourself. You look down to his open hand, brown palm calloused, nails long and sharp, white fox fur growing longer along his arm.

“No one will even notice I’ve been gone?”

“You’ll be lost in the fog for three days, according to them. What life you’ve missed will feel like a blink, but no. They won’t realize you’ll have been gone for the entire winter.” Pyre’s mouth closes, stubbled throat working as he swallows.

Slowly, you sit back down, picking up the glazed green mug and holding it out for Pyre to fill. “The winter then. If we end up hating one another? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Pyre doesn’t answer, but he watches like a predator after he fills the mug with bearberry tea, copper eyes caught on your lips. You finish half the cup, and what chill lingered in your bones slowly fades away. Carefully, Pyre takes the cup back and downs the rest, long tongue licking stray droplets off of his lips.

————-　🦊　————-

You travel with Pyre for three days before you reach the banks of the Slavering, only when you do, the tour guides aren’t waiting for you. This is where the Slavering begins, the thick snowmelt coming off of the high mountaintops and rolling down through the craggy rocks to make a river. There’s a cave entrance not far from the rapids, covered over with weeds and just large enough for Pyre to stoop over and fit into. You stop at the entrance, with him close behind you, and stare into the far off dark.

“It’s not like a dungeon in there, is it?”

Pyre grumbles, somewhere between indignation and a laugh. “You always know just what to say. No, it’s not like a dungeon. There’s plenty of modern day amenities inside. I’m a shifter, not a beast.”

Cautiously, still not entirely trusting him, you head inside. It’s dark at first, and earthy smelling, just like a cave, but then Pyre strikes another one of his charmed matches and pulls you to the side so he can lead. There’s a lamp up ahead, the frosted glass globe just big enough for Pyre to reach in and set the match. Heat and light seem to roll through the entire area, a locked, wooden door revealing itself to the side of the lamp. The cave floor, still cold and a bit damp, is actually stones, pieced together into what looks like a strange little map. You frown down at the stones, eyes tracing the edges of a single, deep blue vein, wondering why the chips of pale rock surrounding it strike you as strange.

“The Teeth,” you murmur suddenly. “You have a map of the teeth in front of your door?” Some of the spots are much smaller than others, more like a pinprick of pale stone as opposed to some of the hefty chips. If you unfocus your eyes, the map looks like a reflection of the stars.

“Magic,” Pyre explains, though he doesn’t sound pleased with his own answer. “There’s plenty to talk about when it comes to the Teeth, and the voices, just… Let’s go inside. It’s going to start snowing soon.”

When he opens the door, all the lamps inside are lit. Much like Pyre himself, his decor is frayed and worn down. There are heavy furs on the walls, and tapestries too, both simple and grand, but fragile looking. There are furs on some of the furniture as well. There’s a large stone fireplace, with hooks over the mantle made of horn and a set of stone stairs that curve out of sight. There’s no sign of things like phones or televisions, but you feel like you should have expected that. Companionship through a screen probably didn't fulfill the parameters of his… his curse?

That’s something you decide to ask about later. After all, you have the rest of the winter to spend with him, and he explained plenty over the three day trip to the mountain. The teeth are made of contained winter. The larger the teeth are, the more someone helped Pyre through that season. Through friendship, or anger, or passion, they melted the ice and snow. Pyre would take the melt and bind it in magic-made spires, but he couldn’t build on only one. Each spire was the product of a different person, each fling or friend made or fight had melted the snow at different rates. If your help has already begun, then you know some of the snow must have melted already due to your anger over the past few days, but it’s not something you think you can hold onto. Pyre tricked you into the three days, gave you the bearberries and bid you eat if you were hungry. You’d eaten three of them. The rest of the winter though? That you chose yourself. At least for a while, you’re ready to try and enjoy a little bit of the magic, keeping back winter or no.

“It’s not quite past midday,” Pyre says quietly, voice a strange melding of fox and man. “If you’d like food, I will make it for you. If you’d like a rest, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You ask, only sounding mildly sarcastic.

Pyre narrows those coppery eyes of his. “Sometimes I think you say these things on purpose. Yes. Your room.” He heads for the staircase, his toenails clicking on the stone floor before he reaches the layers of rugs, the soft padding of his feet on them makes you smile. “I would hardly complain if you decided to join me in mine, but even so, you will have your own space.” He tosses his head, earrings catching in his hair and then vanishes up the stairs.

You move at a much more sedate pace, still examining your surroundings. There’s a very old looking table, covered with the remnants of a puzzle that looks to be from forty years ago at least. There’s a rack of old bottles, some of them look like wine, but others are clearly beer, and still others look like glass bottles of soda, the liquid half evaporated. Pyre’s house is going to be a treasure trove of history, of things left behind by others. The winter is going to be very long, you’re certain, but it won’t be forever. All of the people that left these things behind have obviously left and returned to their homes. You turn on your heel, slip your bag off of your shoulders and leave it at the foot of the stairs. You can come back for it later.

The lamps, all seemingly lit from that single charmed match, spiral up the staircase. There aren’t any doors that open up off the sides, only a hallway at the very top and three open doors leading to the far end. The first one you pass is a bathroom, with a large tub carved out of the stone of the mountain. There are elderly looking cupboards in there, and what looks like a wood burning stove, though it’s empty. The toilet, you assume, is behind the drawscreen, and when you peek your head farther in, there’s also a shining, copper mirror hanging on the wall. The second room is where Pyre is, hands fussing over the thick curtains around the bed. There’s a fireplace against the wall, and a nightstand next to the bed, and more furs draped over a chair made of wood and horn in the corner. There’s a worn desk, obviously hand-made by someone unskilled, but a beautiful bookcase next to it, filled with books in various states of wear. Some of the spines are cracked, but others still are pristine. To the right of the bed, there’s a single paned window. Snow is coating the sill outside, thick flurries weighing down the weeds that are growing in the cracked stone.

Despite the magic, despite the voices and his promise, it still hadn’t felt quite so real, wandering through the tundra with him. He’d said the snow would be coming down soon though.

“It’s lovely,” you answer, honestly, even if not everything is to your taste. It almost makes you want to laugh though, because it definitely looks like it’s somewhere removed from the normal world, some kind of strange mish-mash of time periods all pressed into a two story place. You wonder, without Pyre, would anyone ever find this place?

“Parts of it,” Pyre says, strange looking hands pausing in their tying of the curtains. He’s looking at the headboard, you realize. There’s a faint gouge in the dark wood, but it doesn’t look like it was from Pyre. It looks like a very human scratch. Warmth crawls over the back of your neck, though you’re not sure whether it’s embarrassment or eagerness. You’d been feeling a healthy dose of attraction with Pyre before he told you about everything, and it had taken a bit to sort through your feelings on the matter, even with you making the final choice to come here. You still don’t know how things will continue, but for now…

“Let me see what I can do to help make a few more lovely memories then,” you say suddenly. Heat is pulsing through you now, warming your cheeks and the tips of your ears and zinging down along your spine. Pyre’s head snaps to the side to find your hands working slowly at your clothes. He doesn’t move any further, doesn’t even tip back his head, just stares at you over the crest of his shoulder, pupils swallowing down the copper of his irises.

“If—you don’t have to do anything,” he insists, and his tail swishes, slowly, just the once. It doesn’t bristle out as it had when you’d first spotted him.

Your coat drops to the floor, and his eyes follow it. “I know. We were flirting though, before you told me about all of this, and I still…” You glance away, only for your eyes to snap back to Pyre as he drags his patched suit jacket off of his shoulders.

He slows when he realizes you’re watching, but doesn’t stop. A slow grin pulls at the corners of his wide mouth. “You still want to feel magic?” He taunts, and laughs when you roll your eyes. He stops laughing when the rest of your clothes hit the floor, the hint of a whine escaping him when you take a step closer, shivering when you feel the temperature of the stone on your bare feet. “My room,” Pyre says roughly, though you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s still a wonderfully strange mix of man and fox. His face is still humanoid, with lips and stubbled cheeks, and so is the shape of his shoulders through his holey t-shirt. There’s soft curls of hair peeking out of the stretched neck of his shirt, but along the backs of his arms it looks more like fur and his feet are still wholly canine. His tails, tails plural, are starting to grow longer too, and you recall the way he’d seemed to coalesce into one person when the fog had rolled back.

Pyre crosses the room, hesitating before he places his hands on your shoulders, thumbnails scratching gently at your bare skin. The chill of the room had been seeping into you, but at his touch, warmth chases it all away. When you slide your hands up his chest, Pyre’s eyes fall closed, gray lashes bright against his skin. “M’ room,” he repeats again, but pulls you into a kiss as he tows you out the door. There’s no more time for examining the hallway or the knick-knacks he might be keeping in his own space. There’s his lips and his stubble scratching at your skin and his hands splayed over the back of your neck and the base of your spine. He coaxes you into his room with deep, slow kisses that leave your head spinning, whispering things that make your pulse speed. “Want, want the smell of you on my sheets,” he says against your neck, dragging sharp teeth carefully over your throat. He growls when your hands dip to undo his trousers, your thumb following the trail of hair that vanishes beneath his underwear. “If this is, if it’s—”

“I agreed to the winter,” you remind him and then he’s turning you and letting you fall back onto his bed. You have a moment to register soft fur, and crocheted blankets, and comforters too, before Pyre is pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He wrestles with the rest of his clothes, leaving you another moment to admire him. The hair on his chest and trailing down his abdomen looks human, much coarser than the fur on his arms and below his knees. Between his legs is a thick cock, hard and beginning to leak, with a small bulge near the base of him, and then your gaze is drawn back up as he crawls onto the bed, moving much slower than he had in the hall. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush, just leans his body over yours to kiss you again, careful with his teeth. He groans when you reach up and tug at his braid, pulling the rough tie away and tossing it to the side. You comb your fingers through his hair, tangling your fingers in it to keep him kissing you and tense when his cock slides over your thigh, hot and hard and enough to make you buck up, already seeking friction. Pyre kisses you until you’re breathless, leaving you sucking at your own lips and trying to calm yourself as he urges you further up the bed, back to a veritable nest of pillows.

He isn’t slow when he settles himself between your legs, hands curling around your thighs and pushing them carefully back towards your chest. He isn’t slow when he drags his tongue over you, hot and slick and slightly rough. He’s careful as he can be with his teeth, but there are a few pinches that make you gasp and tremble. He laves his tongue over them, soothing the sting, but his nails are pressing hard into your skin and you’re fairly certain you’re going to bruise, simply from the continued pressure. Pyre is noisy too, whining and groaning as he tastes you, as you do your best to rock yourself against his tongue, hand tugging at his hair while he sucks and eats. The ache of orgasm, painful-but-sweet, is starting to build, starting to make you tense everytime he opens his jaw, teeth dragging over tender skin, leaving you wet and shuddering. He huffs when you whimper, and pulls away before you can come, copper eyes as bright as flame when he moves to sit back against his headboard. The loss of him feels sudden, and the cold is sharp without his warmth against you.

“That was on purpose,” you murmur. Pyre arches a brow, trying to keep from smiling when you scowl at his crooking finger. You still get up, on shaking knees and gasp when he tugs you over and onto his lap, your back against his chest, cock slick and sticky against your ass.

“I want to feel everything when you shake apart,” he murmurs, hand splaying over your sternum as he helps you arrange your legs. By the time you’re straddling his thighs, his fingertips are dipping into the hollow of your throat and his cock is rutting against your thigh and every part of you is on edge, desperate for more. You’d been so close. Pyre licks at the side of your throat, pressing his hand harder against your chest to keep your back still. “Lift your hips,” he urges, and takes his cock in hand, dragging the head over you as you do your best to listen. Like fitting a key into a lock, Pyre finds the correct angle, breathing raggedly as you press yourself down. As soon as you’ve taken enough of him, he lets go of himself and then presses on the top of your thighs, making you gasp out his name as you take him in deeper. He eases off after a moment, letting you adjust, letting you wriggle and groans out your name roughly as you do your best to ride him.

You think for a moment about saying something, about teasing him or trying to rile him up, but it’s all you can do to keep up what rhythm you have, heart beating terribly fast against the hand he has on your chest. He lets you move, lets you reach back and clutch at the messy locks of his hair, his breath warm against your throat and the top of your shoulder and then Pyre pushes roughly against your thigh again, thrusting up until his knot is grinding against you. “Fuck, fuck, Pyre, that—”

“Too much?” He asks, waiting while you shake, trying to steady your breath. You’re probably going to ache later, probably won’t want to do much but doze or take a bath in that massive stone tub, but right now? Right now you want to be greedy.

“More,” you get out and Pyre laughs, that eerie, fox-like noise echoing in your ear as he teases you with the knot, pressing you down and then pulling back his hips. Pillows cascade off the edges of the bed, spilling over the floor. You start squeezing, doing your best to drive him over the edge, so sensitive it almost hurts. “Please,” you whisper and then you’re too busy for speech. His knot stretches you and his hand dips between your thighs, stroking and his fingers press into the base of your throat. He’s not choking you, but he’s starting to squeeze and then you’re coming. Pleasure washes over you in a fierce, pulsing ache that shoots down to your toes and fountains back up your body. You shout out his name and shake in his arms, eyes falling closed as his knot expands, locking you in place. Your eyes flutter open and closed and drift to a steamed up window, much like the one in your own room. Weeds are still poking up through the cracks, but now it’s not snowing outside, it’s raining.

Pyre turns his nose to the space behind your ear, breathing deep, his own limbs growing loose. “The winter might well be softer this year,” Pyre mumbles, voice raspy, his hand smoothing down your sternum and over your hips. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“We still have the rest of the winter ahead of us,” you remind him, but you’re too sleepy to argue with him any further. Whether you end up enjoying the rest of your time here, you do know one thing: Passion will definitely be a huge part of fulfilling your bargain for the winter.

————-　🦊　————-

#exophilia #werefox boyfriend #male werefox #shifter boyfriend #d.darling writes #d.darling queues

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izzy-b-hands · 3 years ago

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Just muckin abt with some Ed and Izzy early pirating days stuff. No set age for now for either of them because I wanna see if the show does anything with that re: both of their backstories, so for this fic put 'em at whatever age you want, that you think they might have dipped out from home at.

Hints of Ed/Izzy, or at the very least some young Izzy low-key yearning for Ed, while Ed does something accidentally romantic and probably couldn't tell you himself if he actually meant it to be romantic or not.

---

"We need to look the part," Ed said, as they tossed all their money onto Ed's coat on the sand. "Huh. That's not as much as I'd hoped."

"Looks like more before you see it all like this," Izzy agreed. "Spread out and sparse."

"Once we've robbed some people, or taken a ship, then we can upgrade everything," Ed said, gesturing to his clothes: a torn black blouse that was a hand-me-down from the local charity house, and grey trousers that were so patched at the knee from years of wear and use that Ed described it like constantly wearing knee pads.

"Something small for now," Izzy nodded. "Though it should be something we need, like a better coat. Thicker shirt, a decent hat."

The port they had stopped at in their stolen dinghy had all of one shop, hosted by a woman who looked like she'd rather set them on fire then sell them anything.

Beyond that, the prices were eye-popping.

"Pirates are supposed to come to this port fairly often," Izzy whispered to Ed. "They don't honestly pay this much, right?"

Ed shrugged. "I think I've found something that can work for us. And it won't totally bankrupt us either."

He handed the rest of their money to Izzy. "Go get whatever else you think we'll need. Food, water, whatever. I'll meet you back on the beach."

About a half hour later Izzy hauled himself and what little he'd been able to buy (prices stung at the market as much as in the shop) to the beach.

"We're broke now, right?" Ed smiled as Izzy sat beside him on the sand.

"Yeah," Izzy chuckled. "We're broke. But we have oranges and water and some supplies for hardtack."

Ed frowned. "How long will it last us?"

"Probably not as long as we'd like or need but longer than we might expect," Izzy replied.

"That's not really an answer."

"It's not really a question I can confidently answer right now."

Ed nodded. "Right. Well, let me give you what I found. It's not much at all, but I think it might make us a little more interesting. Plus, it sort of marks the occasion. We finally got away."

He handed Izzy a black silk scarf, thin enough to be worn as a necktie, and a ring.

"I know the rings we can't wear normally or we'll risk getting them caught on something," Ed said. "But...here, let me show you how I figured we could wear it."

He took Izzy's scarf and motioned for Izzy to lean close. He tied the scarf around his neck, and gently pushed the extra material through the ring until it sat securely over the knot he'd tied.

"What do you think?" Ed asked, a nervous smile on his face.

Izzy felt like his heart was beating too fast and stopping all at once. He touched the ring like it might break from the action. "I think it's perfect."

Ed wrapped him in a tight hug. "Awesome! Can you help get mine on? I managed it myself earlier but it's easier with help."

Ed sat close, helping to keep his long hair out of the way (he'd been growing it out for over a year now, in anticipation of their leaving. A new look for a new life.) Izzy did his best to keep his hands from shaking. It was a combination of realizing they truly had done it, they were out on their own now, and they would either succeed...or be dead within a month, if not sooner.

That, and Ed being so close. Smelling of sea and salt and some musk because it had been a hot fucking day out and all black clothing made them look slightly more pirate-like, but it was much warmer. But he liked the scent. Uniquely Ed and familiar and comfortable.

Freshly attired in at least one way, they hauled everything else onto the dinghy. From there, they dragged it up the beach with them, far enough that no tide could try to steal it away from them.

They had worked to sew a homemade tarp from various bits of fabric they could sneak away, and that now went over the dinghy, secured with ropes that had seen better days, but still held thankfully.

It put them near the treeline, underneath green palms. Leaned up against their boat, sharing the one blanket Izzy had taken from his own bed back home.

"Should take turns at watch," Izzy yawned. "Make sure no one fucks with us through the night."

Ed nodded. "Not a bad idea. But I really don't think anyone will."

"No?"

"They pitied us," Ed replied bitterly. "Shopkeep said everyone's close-knit here and figured what we're up to just by watching us! Not the first they've seen with our plan, apparently. They think it's 'cute.' We've only been here barely two days; they don't even know us! But they've already decided we're pathetic enough to ignore."

Izzy sighed. "At least we can both sleep instead."

"There's a bright side," Ed said. "What would I do without you around to remind me of shit like that?"

"No questions like that," Izzy said as he tried to lay comfortably on the sand. It wasn't really possible, but he tried anyway. "Or it'll keep you up all night talking about what ifs or what about. We both need sleep, come on."

Ed had tossed his coat down as a pillow for himself, and settled on his stomach, face snuggled into the worn fabric.

They moved closer, trying to share the blanket as best as possible, wrapping it around a leg or under an arm so any wind that came up might not steal it from them.

"You ready for tomorrow?" Ed asked with an excited giggle. "First time out to try and rob someone, first time as actual pirates!"

Izzy smiled. "I'm ready. Been ready for a long time."

They might be dead in a month. In a week, in another day. But it was a bearable thought, as Izzy fell asleep tangled with Ed. Because that was just it. At least he'd be with Ed. Even if they did die, they still had the achievement of what they'd done so far. They'd made it, they'd gotten away. They were going to work towards something better for themselves.

Under the moonlight, the small simple gems on their rings shimmered.

#text post #ofmd fic #ed/izzy #but very early days so like its a hint of it #but ship tagging just to be safe and cover all the bases lol #i love everything abt the idea of these two dorks just going for it and escaping with no sure idea it would be towards better #ngl wish i could do that myself but thats a bit more complex now lmaoo #time to vicariously live thru the pirates instead akdnkfgm

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

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pairing: jungkook x reader / word count: 7.4k / genre: pacific rim au with brief smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: there are no secrets in the drift. if jungkook were to see the mess inside your head and heart, laid utterly bare, he’d turn away from you.

warnings: sexually explicit content (briefly), unprotected sex (please be safe when you have sex) / reference to injuries but nothing graphic, giant robots powered by love punching big alien monsters

a/n: this is a birthday gift for the amazing @yeojaa. happy birthday, erin. this is completely self serving and is stuffed full with inside references that I hope you’ll enjoy. I wrote this in two days and it kicked my ass because I did so much reading and researching that turned out to not even come up in the story 👁👄👁 you know when I said I was studying? I lied. I was writing HAHAHAH ily I hope you like it hhhh (this is unbeta’ed so please forgive any mistakes it’s 1:30am as I’m scheduling this) (also summaries are so hard, I’m sorry)

Jeon Jungkook really is the perfect posterboy for a Jaeger pilot.

Broad across the shoulders and trim at the waist, all sharp punches and hard muscle, resilient and tough, with a face that’s the perfect balance of angles and softness; the cut of his jaw easing up and into his pretty mouth, the line of his brows subdued by his warm eyes—he’s a Goddamn vision, raw masculinity overlaid on rich veins of boyishness, glittering stratum that sparkle and shine even under the harsh lights of the Shatterdome.

He pouts when he thinks and his hair hangs a little in his big, big eyes and he has dimples that appear when he grins, teeth poking out onto his pretty pink lips, like someone took a rabbit and turned it into a man and packed on pounds of muscle alongside. Undeniably powerful and strong, but youthful and sweet, too.

Alongside Kim Taehyung—arresting and beautiful and somehow affable and approachable, all at the same time—they’re exactly what South Korea needs right now, propelling the country’s new look for their renewed assault against the kaiju. They’re the lucky new Rangers who’ve claimed ownership of the only Mark-5 that their homeland has produced, Bulletproof Striker, a fucking gorgeous Jaeger bristling with the latest and greatest technology that the world has produced.

But that doesn’t mean they’re the best that South Korea has to offer.

Cypher Zero is smaller, lighter, older, but she’s fierce. Just like her pilots. You and Yoongi might not be the burning beacons of hope that Jungkook and Taehyung are, polished and buffed to a squeaky shine, but you don’t need to be. You’re vicious and victorious and show no signs of stopping. The kaiju kills painted on your Mark-4’s shoulder are evidence enough of that, notches for each monster taken down, spray painted in one tiny corner of the huge swathe of burnished metal plating, the red edges of her midnight skin.

Bulletproof Striker is almost untouched, deployed just once since her recent launch, flawless exterior so at odds with Cypher Zero’s battered facade. Cypher’s beautiful, of course, but bears the history of your skirmishes, inside and out: scuffed paintwork, dented metal, rust dripping down from the ladder rungs dotted across her, melting into the obsidian of her hull.

Jungkook and Taehyung move in a way that’s practiced, disciplined motions of combat that their Jaeger echoes in turn. Her mechanical movements reflect those of the men inside her head, skilled and superb. Stunning. But you and Yoongi? You fight dirty, violent and rough; messy bar room brawls; shattered glass and clawing hands in beer soaked backrooms, tinged sulphur yellow under dirty lightbulbs; two kids who fought against a world that was against them.

(Two damaged people coming together in the Drift to make something even stronger than the sum of your parts.)

(Two damaged people who survived the rough hands of the Jaeger Academy, trying to take them, push them, shape them, break them.)

(Life isn’t kind. You’d learned that young, surrounded in the splintered remnants of your childhood home, the facade of family and happiness already gone, long long long ago, leaving you aching and lonely and cold. The prospect of fighting thousands of tons of alien hatred, lifting out of the depths of the uncaring, dark sea? At least you can see the kaiju coming. Broken households and loneliness? A little harder to lay your hands on.)

(But out of everything you lost, you’d gained one thing—Min Yoongi, another quiet, damaged thing, but with the biggest depths of warmth and love underneath that hard surface; your best friend, your brother-in-arms, growing alongside you, with you. Damaged kids turned bitter teenagers turned razor-edged adults, outcasts in solitude, but together. Not alone.)

(The deeper the bond, the better you fight. Falling into the Drift with Yoongi had been easy, years of tangled connection bleeding into the images that flashed across your brain. The same memories from different angles, overlaid with different emotions, undercurrents eddying under the surface that caught both of you and swept you up in its flow; the same mind, bridged by hundreds of tons of metal and technology and firepower underneath you, linked together in the silence of the Drift.)

There’s reverence, in the way these two new pilots look at you both, reverence and awe and respect alike: older Rangers, more experienced, history written across the worn edges of your Drivesuits, the paint flaking away from your battle armour, scuffs and scrapes on the once unblemished veneer; knowledge etched into the feline slant of Yoongi’s eyes, the turn of your shoulders and hips.

You know Jungkook’s track record. You know of the endless months of assessment and sparring and psych evals and Drift tests and simulation drops that every successful Ranger has to go through, and Jungkook had trumped them all, stood atop them like a conqueror surveying his hard-won lands—gifted, talented, some even said God-touched. And yet for all this indomitable talent and skill, there’s still humility at his core, a willingness to defer with respect.

That deference is obvious whenever he sees you. Jungkook’s dark eyes will touch your own, for a moment, dark and deep and bright—and then his gaze will skitter away, cockiness and bravado dissolving into something submissive, yielding. (Shy.) You’ve watched him orbit you, the younger ranger caught in your gravity, always nearby—the Shatterdome is only so big, for its magnitude and sprawling corridors—but never broaching that final gap, that little step, into Cypher Zero’s space, Yoongi’s space, your space. Keeping himself at arm’s length.

South Korea’s golden boy, less afraid of the Kaiju than he is of his sunbaenim.

Jungkook and Taehyung are both beautiful. But you and Yoongi are less so, unapproachable in ways that the younger pilots aren’t, private and prickly, like grasping a patch of stinging nettles with bare hands, stinging and burning.

As if Jungkook isn’t terrifying and gorgeous in his own ways. As if he doesn’t shine brighter than the sun himself. Taehyung moves through the world with a thoughtless, charismatic ease that Jungkook doesn’t share—but he’s still magnetic, bold and brilliant, monstrously skilled at everything he puts his mind to, training again and again and again to get it right, get it right, get it right.

To get it perfect.

But there’s no level of perfectionism that can surmount the twisted, unpredictable nature of the kaiju belched forth from the breach. No matter how good you are, how strong or fast, how smart or seasoned, sometimes you still get caught in that hurricane, even in a Jaeger.

It doesn’t matter how many engines are packed into each muscle strand. It doesn’t matter how fast the pistons and levers and gears shift and move. It doesn’t matter that the pilots in her cockpit are impeccable and incredible. Under the cloak of deepest night and pouring rain, blanketed in darkness and water from the heavens above and the sea below, movement is impossible to track—and when Steelbrute rises from the waves, no one sees the kaiju coming.

Bulletproof Striker takes the hit. Jungkook and Taehyung fight back but they’re blindsided and overwhelmed, and their Jaeger falls to her knees in the churn of the Pacific Ocean, salt water crashing over her in choppy waves as Steelbrute’s merciless maw gapes wide open.

Cypher Zero is 250ft tall and weighs 1410 tons. You and Yoongi are tiny specks of organic matter in a fearsome behemoth of titanium and tungsten and graphene and circuitry, commanders of a weapon that’s the same size as a skyscraper—and yet you wouldn’t think that for how fast you move. Zero hesitation. No verbal communication. Cypher’s legs cut through endless waves and gain momentum with each crashing step that slams into the seafloor before you leap forward in a flurry of motion and Drift powered fury.

Your motions in the Conn-Pod are ragged and incensed, your arms and legs moving in sync with Yoongi, with Cypher Zero, a snarl ripping out of your co-pilot’s usually quiet mouth as the kaiju lurches underneath you. The world narrows down to this: throwing yourself into the fray, jagged knuckles edged with plasma pummelled into Steelbrute’s skin in a scuffle that’s vicious, aggressive, until Bulletproof Striker regains her footing.

The sun is rising, grey and cold on the horizon when Steelbrute finally sinks into the sea, toxic blood flooding the water with neon blue. When you step out of the cockpit, Yoongi’s fringe is matted with sweat, and you can feel all the places the circuitry suit sticks to your skin—piloting a Jaeger is mentally and physically exhausting, every muscle and organ and bone working overtime for endless hours as you fight tooth and nail. Without the helmets in the way, there’s nothing stopping you bumping your foreheads together, heedless of the sweat slicked there; Yoongi’s hand rests at the back of your head, a familiar cradle.

“All good,” you say. Yoongi lets out a quiet bark of a laugh, rough and exhausted.

“I want a nap,” he says, like he always does, even if you’re a long way away from that, still fully suited and due to speak to the Marshalls. There are so, so many things separating you from the bliss of sleep.

One thing that’s not part of the normal routine, though, is the other pilots catching you, demanding your recognition, respectful (Taehyung) but insistent (Jungkook). You know that Yoongi doesn’t like attention or hero-worship, but there’s nothing except gratitude, here, bent heads and words of thanks. You’d saved their lives, after all. Saved their Jaeger from being torn apart, pain screaming through their own bodies of flesh and bone, connected to their metal monster. Of course they’re grateful.

You dismiss it with a hard cut of your hand.

“It’s nothing,” you say.

You’re speaking the words you know are in Yoongi’s head—years of friendship and shared Drifts leaving his thought processes wide open to you—although you know you’re sharper than he is, harsher than he is, even, for all that he looks like the cold one from the outside. Long lashes and silken hair don’t translate to something soft and feminine and pretty, and you’re all ragged edges and rough parts, bleeding into the delivery of your words. Yoongi rounds the words in his mouth and places them into the world with a rumble of quiet strength that belies his past, but you? Your tongue is cutting and terse and drips with distrust, even when you don’t mean it to, staring at these two boys, Jungkook’s eyes so brown and large when he stares back at you.

The truth is that you care about humanity, of course. You care about humanity and you care about the millions of people in the cities that line the coasts and further inland, and you care about your fellow pilots, skilled but soft-hearted as they are. You’re stronger. You have to be. That’s what Yoongi is, that’s what you are: fighters. You fight dirty because you fight to win, not to protect yourselves. You’ll fight and you’ll die for this, for them, even if there’s no friendship there. Not yet. You’re still too distant, for all that you’d thrown yourself in the line of fire to rip the kaiju from the younger Rangers.

And when Jungkook levels a look at you, there’s a flicker of something. A spark. All the glittering of his warm eyes comes together like the cascading sparks of molten fire that fall when metal is cut through— his eyes score through you, down down down, right to your core, underneath all the armour you’ve laid about yourself throughout your life. Your heart stutters. You’ve been watching Jeon Jungkook, and he’s all cocky Ranger bravado, or innocent brown eyes and shy, curving smiles, and yet.

And yet. You know he sees this soft part of you, somehow. Past the thorns and sharp leaves, past the hard husk, into the rich, bursting sweetness inside, oozing red gems of pomegranate that yield so easily to the fingers and mouth.

(He’s temerarious and modest and wickedly perceptive too, it seems.)

“That was our kill,” he says suddenly. Taehyung—the voice piece of the two, the one who’s been smiling and speaking, easy and slow—goes still at his side.

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes pierce through him, but Jungkook keeps his focus on you.

“Steelbrute. Our kill. It was a hit from our rockets that took him out,” Jungkook says, eyes still glinting with that sparkling shine. Slicing through you with an explosion of light. “Not your blades.”

Silence steals over you, for a breath. It’s never truly silent in the Shatterdome, an iron fortress that never sleeps, but for a second, there’s quiet. It wraps around you. Tight. Almost deafening.

But then you break that silence.

You laugh.

You laugh at the cheeky grin that pulls at Jungkook’s lips, the boyish lift to his face. You laugh at his shamelessness, the sudden 180 from his earlier fear. You laugh at the way he’s diluted this astonishing, formidable thing—humanity coming together to destroy alien predators that threaten the planet—into a competition.

“You’re a menace, Jeon Jungkook,” you say.

Stinging nettles you might be, but if you’re grabbed hard and fast by confident hands, you don’t wound. Jeon Jungkook defers to respect, avoids confrontation, bows his head and quiets his mouth, but he knows, now, that he can do this. That he can push you like this, and you’ll let him, sway against it, let yourself be pushed.

Yoongi slides you a glance out the corner of his eyes, a light touch, a tacit agreement to an unspoken question.

“You can have it. Steelbrute’s yours.” There’s the smallest curl to your lips as you speak for you both. There’s something weirdly easy and familiar to this, to this interaction, even if you’ve barely exchanged words before now, giving this triumph to the other pilots hand over fist.

(Giving it to Jungkook on a platter.)

You can see the flare of triumph in Jungkook’s eyes. You know it’s not for the notch of their first kill, one they can add to their Jaeger. It’s for something far harder to achieve, something far more ephemeral: digging down and past your cool veneer and lifting out a smile, spreading it across your lips like warm butter, liquid gold.

And he keeps making you smile.

Jeon Jungkook, you find, is a force of nature, relentless, an ocean. Sometimes he’s soft, loving waves of glittering blue that crash on pearly white beaches, playful and bright. Sometimes, he’s intense, the crashing waves of a storm tossed sea, powerful and unstoppable. Always, he’s striking, even when he’s not trying—even more so because of it, moving without thought or uncertainty, a silence settling over your thoughts whenever you see him like this. See him in this raw state, so unafraid where before he’d curbed his tongue and bent his head in front of you. Now, he’s just himself, without filter.

Taehyung is there too, of course. Both pilots join your small, fiercely private circle, not just a path from you to Yoongi any more. They become intertwining lines, a pattern that’s drawn between the four of you, pilots, friends. And you learn, that for all that you’d thought that Taehyung was the dominant one outside of their Jaeger, social and extroverted and unabashed, Jungkook isn’t quiet. Not when he’s comfortable.

(Not, now, when he’s with you.)

He’s a myriad of things, endlessly deep, so different from you, from Yoongi, but—the truth of it settles inside you, your joints, the marrow of your bones, the blood that pulses forth from your heart each time it beats in your chest, liquid life running through you.

Drift compatibility.

Not that it matters. You already have a partner. You’re never going to open yourself up to anyone that isn’t Yoongi, who’s seen every part of you already. There’d been no fear about letting Yoongi see inside your brain, your heart, the raw, bleeding parts of you—because he’d already known them. Just like you’d known his. Yoongi stands to your right, inside the Conn-Pod and out, a driving force, even in his silence.

But Jungkook is softer, sweeter, for all his raw power and skill, respect engraved into his every motion, even when he’s teasing and making you laugh. Even when he ignores the social guidelines that he should follow, does follow for others, everyone except you.

And you don’t mind. You don’t bite out insults at him when he slides into the quiet hollow you’ve scraped out, a small space with just enough room for the people you keep in your heart. You’re still barbed and spiked, warding away unwanted attention, but for Jungkook, the claws retract.

You’re still you, of course. Jungkook calls you mean, says that you bully him, even as he’s flopped across your bunk, eating your rations, shovelling coveted popcorn into his mouth. He might pout and sigh and cry oppression, but you’re soft on him and he knows it. That quiet hollow in your heart is a little larger, now, a little louder. Jungkook is brazen in his claim of this space, spreading each of his limbs wide as he fits himself into every part of it. He doesn’t know every piece of your past, and you don’t plan to let him see all the messy parts bundled in your chest, but. But he’s still there.

And you let him stay. You make a home for him inside you and let him take the key. He might tilt his head and goad you, might pretend there’s a genuine challenge in the set of his jaw, but you know it’s all tempered with admiration, veneration. Friendship.

(And where he clearly respects you, you admire him in turn. You’re reminded of your differences every second he moves and breathes and just exists in front of you, but you don’t have to be similar to someone to realise just how incredible they are.)

(But though you’re different, there are similarities. You’re not a mirrored image, a reflection, like you are with Yoongi. Instead, you’re a line drawn between two separate places, an isohel, sun lighting up your world for the same sweep of the clock even for how far apart you are. Sharing that same, tenuous thing, for all your contrasting parts.)

(This thing that’s growing, held in your hands. This soft, gentle thing, shimmering, frail, unfurling slowly but undeniably. Tinged with happiness, disbelief. Disbelief that you’ve found this, that you can see Jungkook across the echoing cavern of the Shatterdome’s main hall, so far in the distance, barely visible at the foot of his Jaeger—and something will settle in your chest. Featherlight, iridescent. Something comforting.)

When you fight the kaiju, now, it’s with a deeper reserve of desperation. Taehyung and Jungkook aren’t just fellow pilots, dongsaeng that you’re obliged to look after: they’re your friends, something more than that too, part of the rare handful of people in the world who understand, this overwhelming pressure to fight and win and protect the things you love. The people you love. They understand what it’s like to step into someone else’s head, to be connected to that person on a level that’s unfathomable, anchored in a depth of love that’s endless. You’re their aegis, now, their shield.

(Jungkook’s shield.)

Maybe that’s what’s to blame. Maybe that’s why you’re so sloppy, this time. Maybe that’s why you throw yourselves in the way of the blow that was meant for Bulletproof Striker. Maybe that’s why Ojousan shreds Cypher Zero’s chest apart, her head, why Yoongi is almost ripped from you, his fear and pain screaming through your neural connection. You feel everything he feels and more beside, your heart hammering in your throat as you scream, Jaeger’s arm swinging up and around in tandem with your own motions as you try to rip the kaiju away, anything to protect Yoongi, so scared of losing him, always always always, scared of being left alone.

But you’re not alone.

Bulletproof Striker lifts up like an avenging angel. Her horns roar a challenge, an echoing battle cry as the younger pilots move in. Heavier and stronger, keeping her balance even in the turbulence of a fight, she takes the hits, gives back her own, sends the kaiju down into the crashing waves, waits for it to rise. But the monster is crafty and quick and even as you’re lifting your left arm—Yoongi’s hurt, so hurt, you know this, feel this, but he moves with you to ready the plasma cannon buried in the mechanics of your Jaeger’s hand, even if he’s keening with pain—you watch as the other pilots, too, fall victim to the clawed tail of the kaiju, screeching through layers of alloys and across their Conn-Pod.

Terror strikes through every part of you and morphs into hate. You hate the kaiju, hate your own weakness, hate the pain that’s been saved from being written into your own body while Yoongi screams and sobs even though he still fights. Your motions are anguished and desperate as you battle to overcome this beast that’s almost taken away everything that matters to you—and Cypher Zero, Yoongi, as damaged and hurt as they are, come through. (Like they always do, for you, always.)

And somehow, despite everything, for all the self-hatred and pain and fear, you pull through. You pull through. Damaged and hurt but alive.

Barely.

Barely alive.

(One hand gives, the other takes away.)

It takes hours for them to pick Yoongi’s Drivesuit from his body, crumpled around him from Ojousan’s claws, cutting into the soft flesh of his body, body ruined further by the fighting he’d been forced into despite his injuries; so many of Taehyung’s bones are shattered, and when you finally see him awake and with his eyes open, there are burst blood vessels that cast red across the usually warm expression, his friendly eyes.

You should be grateful that they’re alive. You should be on your hands and knees, weeping, benedictions dripping from your graceless mouth as you thank whatever merciless God above decided to turn their gaze on you and grant you this leniency. So many pilots have died and will continue to die, you know this, but somehow your partners are still alive.

And you are grateful. You are. But there’s bitterness on your tongue, twisted across your palate, sour and acrid and filling you with its taste. You’d been foolish and reckless and you’d almost lost the things you cared about most, even if you’d destroyed the kaiju, torn it apart and left its fluorescent indigo blood to corrode the ocean.

That’s what’s important, isn’t it. Saving humanity. One person, two people, four people—you’re the tiniest cogs in a whirring engine of billions. Unimportant. Just a spinning part that keeps the machine going.

When you’re not with Yoongi or Taehyung, an unmoving presence from their hospital beds, a hovering gargoyle carved from stone, you’re with Jungkook. Always, always, always. Somehow you’d both escaped without the injuries inflicted on your partners—you’d manage to break your little finger, and Jungkook had a black eye and a twisted ankle, and the both of you had mottles of bruises cast across your skin, pulled muscles, an ache carved into your bones, but that was it. That was it. It was almost laughable, how unscathed you are.

You hate it.

(It should have been you.)

Your legs—unbroken, unharmed—hang over steel scaffolding, motionless as you watch the tiny specks of people scuttling across the catwalks that criss-cross Cypher Zero’s body. You can see under her skin, damage peeling back all the layers of metal that should be holding her together. Endless showers of sparks fall and scatter as she’s stitched back together. Your beautiful girl is so damaged, so disfigured.

(You’d caught Yoongi as he’d fallen from the harness, listened to the horrible noises that had torn out of his lips as he’d dripped blood and pain over your shaking hands.)

The bland food you’d scraped off your dinner tray settles fitfully in your stomach, still one second, nausea bubbling up your throat the next.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve been alone, since… since everything. You’ve been taking comfort in Jungkook’s presence, unwavering and understated, needing someone there when staring at Yoongi’s battered face proved too much. Even with his own upheaval Jungkook’s been there, at your side, always close. Eyes locked on you and taking everything in, the tired set to your face, the expression that tugs down your lips, and still, he stays.

But he’d disappeared after you’d eaten, a peculiar look on his face—you know him well enough now to recognise that look, that it means he’s got something in his head, some plan he means to unfold. It’s the first time you’ve seen it since Taehyung had been pulled out of the Conn-Pod. It’s some semblance of normality, an expression of something other than pale-faced dread and bone-shivering guilt.

(You feel it too, that survivor’s guilt. Taehyung and Yoongi will recover but it’ll take time and so much suffering and you wish you could take that from them, heft that burden onto your own shoulders.)

(You know Jungkook feels the same.)

(You see it written in the tense lines of his body. Hear it unspoken in the words he shares with you. The bruises on his skin melt from red to purple to blue to yellow, but even if his body heals, his brain and heart bear the scars of helplessness.)

Jungkook reappears, finds you at the heavy steel door that leads into your room, rusted and worn but silent as it swings open in front of you. His eyes are wide and he’s breathless, like he’s been running, chest heaving as he sucks in air through his parted lips, a flash of teeth and tongue as he smiles.

Despite everything, you smile back. Helpless for that smile, always, happier now for the sight of it, for how little you’ve seen it. You want to see that smile every day. You don’t want him to worry for anything. You want him to feel the same way you do, when you see him: that quiet, maybe selfish thought that things are okay.

Maybe he does. (His eyes are so warm.) He presses something into your hands, something soft and round like a well-practised secret, and then he’s gone. You can tell by the gait of his stride that he’s going back to Taehyung, giving you a moment of lonely reprieve to wash the grime and dirt off your useless body before you follow in his footsteps, stationed at Yoongi’s side.

The door swings shut behind you.

You lift your hand.

It’s an orange.

It’s a small, overripe thing, hard nub of the stem falling away from the skin with only the lightest brush of your fingers. You stare at the fruit, its brightness cutting through the muted sepia tones of your surroundings, a point of colour in an otherwise dull room.

You haven’t seen an orange in months. Rationing is tough on everyone, even Jaeger pilots. You’d mentioned in passing, so long ago, an old habit of yours. Before something else floated above it, more important and interesting, you’d made a fleeting statement that had flitted across the surface of the conversation: you liked eating oranges in the shower. Liked that nice, cool citrus sweetness in your mouth while the rest of your body was caught in the fall of warm water.

It’s such a small, tiny thing. Just the briefest lament—there are more important things than the fact you can’t have shower oranges any more, after all—and you’d forgotten you’d even mentioned it.

But Jungkook hadn’t.

It’s almost syrupy sweet, this orange. You savour each slice, pressing them between your teeth, feeling the rush of juice burst forth through the pith and skin, and it’s so good you could cry.

You do cry.

Your mouth is full of orange and your eyes are full of tears and your head is full of—of—something, something so all encompassing that it overwhelms you, water cascading down the aching planes of your body as you crumple inwards. Jungkook had protected you with the overwhelming power of Bulletproof Striker, and he’s protecting you now, soft and considerate and kind, vulnerable and human. Stripped of tons of metal and technology, Jungkook wears his beating heart on his sleeve and is none the weaker for it.

This seemingly small thing means so much, so so so much. You understand him, and he understands you too, knows that this gesture is indicative of support and care and nurturing, a tiny fragment of peace he can offer you in the tumult of everything out of your control.

A tiny fragment of peace that’s part of a greater whole, all the things that Jungkook gives to you.

When the Marshalls gather you and tell you the plan going forwards, you’re unsurprised.

It makes sense, of course. Four pilots down to two still leaves a pair, and Bulletproof Striker is nearly functional even if Cypher Zero will stay out of commission while she’s rebuilt. Simple maths. One Jaeger, two pilots. You and Jungkook.

You’re scared.

You know you’re Drift compatible. Every fight in the Kwoon Combat Room is evidence enough of that. A dialogue, each challenge is meant to be a dialogue to show physical compatibility, and it is: there’s perfect sync in how you each move to strike, even if your motions are so different, muscles burning and breaths coming faster each time you attack, parry, strike, block. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s a conversation, one that you and Jungkook fall into without thought.

And he would be the perfect partner. That much isn’t in doubt. Loyal and open and strong, honourable and brave and kind—and you know him, have grown to learn so much about this golden boy, this bright, brilliant boy. He’s fucking indomitable and anyone would be lucky to find themselves in the same Jaeger as Jeon Jungkook.

But there are no secrets in the Drift.

To let someone in, you have to trust them. And you do, you do trust Jungkook, probably far more than makes sense, some unspoken thing between you burning like a wildfire. But while you trust him, confident in his strength and his heart, you trust yourself less.

You’ll be flayed open, naked and defenceless. He’ll see right to the core of you, every dirty corner of your crumpled soul, every shameful part of your foundations, uneven brickwork layered into your shaky temperament; strong one second, weak the next. He’ll see that you’re hard inside, too, biting and acidic right down to your shrivelled heart. This nascent thing that you’ve been building with Jungkook, been keeping safe in the cradle of your careful hands, will sputter out and die.

“Baby.”

Yoongi’s voice is comforting, a familiar rumble that rolls through your ears as you rest your head in his lap.

“And I mean that you’re literally being a baby,” he continues, and you curl your lip back from your teeth in a small snarl, menacing.

Yoongi just continues to thread his hands through your hair.

You’ve Drifted with Yoongi often and long enough to know how every thread of thought unspools in that skull of his. You know he has every confidence in the unshakeable pillar of your soul. He’s a brother to you, a connection that thrums deep in your veins even without the intimacy of the Drift, and the love you hold for him is undying and true.

But whatever you have with Jungkook is so timorous in the face of that.

“It’s different.” Yoongi looks down at the twist of your face. You know his thoughts and he knows yours too, your face and heart an open book to him. “But different isn’t bad.”

You keep your mouth shut, keep the words swallowed down in your throat, shoved down to the pit of your stomach. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

“Baby,” he says again, softer, lower. This time, you know it’s an endearment.

At the end of the day, no matter what fear grips cold and endless at your insides, you’ll do it. You’ll Drift with Jungkook. You’ll throw everything you have into the pyre, watch it burn and turn to ash, if it means you can keep everyone safe. To save Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook—you’ll open yourself up to the mortifying ordeal of opening up, laying yourself bare. You have to.

It’s chaotic, anyway. The day that your practice Drift is scheduled is the day the next kaiju rises out of the breach, that dreaded rift between our world and theirs, because why would you be allowed to breathe, even for a second?

It’s a scramble into the cockpit. There’s no time for trial runs or test Drifts. You fly or you fall. Everyone’s in a state of orderly upheaval as you’re suited up and left to stride forwards into a Conn-Pod that isn’t yours, in a Jaeger that isn’t yours.

(Left to stride forwards to stand next to someone who isn’t yours.)

Your Drivesuit is grey. Jungkook’s is white. There’s a subtle hologramatic sheen laid across the planes of his armour, leaving him a multicoloured vision that shines out under the flicker of the cockpit’s endless tiny buttons and lights. Your own suit is a matte, gunmetal with accents of burning scarlet, far more battered and worn. Dark and wild in the face of Jungkook’s radiance. He’s the perfect answer to the kaiju invasion. You, though, feel like an interloper in a space that wasn’t designed for you, this circle room that’s been home to Jungkook and his true, real partner.

But he’s looking at you like there’s no one else he’d rather have by his side.

He doesn’t care that everything about this moment just cements how he’s too good for you in every conceivable way, elevated above you. Doesn’t care that you’re just a temporary stop gap. There’s trepidation, of course, skittering nerves that dance across his face for this first Drift, surrounded by all the commotion that’s swallowing the world up outside the cockpit. But there’s also that fire in his eyes, one you’ve learned to expect: Jungkook is a wildfire and will surmount any obstacle in a blaze of white-hot light.

And he wants you along for the ride.

(Burns bright for it.)

“You ready?” He asks, and the tiny tremor in his words takes you off guard even as it soothes a balm over the rash of apprehension that prickles across your skin.

(Because he’s nervous, too.)

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer, truly.

His eyes crinkle into a smile, crescents of happiness as his lip peels back from his teeth. It should be jarring, seeing his sweet bunny smile in the pit of a Jaeger, so at odds with the military polycarbonate that girds his body with protection, the masculine edges of his face—but it’s not. The world is just a backdrop to Jeon Jungkook, dropping away as you fall into his eyes, twinkling stars of brightness and warmth that hold you safe, even now.

Peace and contentment steals over you. You’re almost shocked by it, the way your own face softens into a smile, the rising beat of your heart. Every ragged messy edge in you is smoothed over by Jungkook’s presence and you glow for him.

When the Conn-Pod drops, there’s the familiar weightlessness, the sway of your body in the harness as you fall. Anticipation roils through you as Bulletproof Striker’s head locks into place, whirring mechanisms securing you to nearly 2000 tons of metal, so much heavier than your own Jaeger. You’ve taken Jungkook’s usual place and he’s taken Taehyung’s, the right hemisphere, the dominant pilot, familiar with this machine in a way you’re not.

Not yet, at least.

“We’ve got this.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the noise, the AI talking at you, a narration of events you’ve long grown used to. You turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, intent and sincere. Like always.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, we have.”

There’s no point being afraid. In a few seconds, Jungkook will be in your head, washing over every part of you—and you’ll be in his, pressing your ethereal touch into every facet that comes together to make Jeon Jungkook who he is.

Seconds pass. There’s a little hitch in his breath, a stiffness to his limbs, and he shuts his eyes. You breathe in deep, deep, deep, sucking in a harsh breath into your greedy lungs—

—the timer hits zero—

—and then the Drift slams into you all at once, all encompassing and consuming, threading your minds together.

(Drifting with Yoongi is easy, the familiarity of coming home after so much time away.)

(But this?)

(This is throwing yourself into a cold lake on a hot summer’s day, bracing and refreshing and breath-stealing all at once, shocking life into every one of your limbs, so sharp and fast you’re scared you might drown before you breach the surface, water holding onto you and not letting you go. This is driving reckless and fast down empty roads, watching the world pass you in a blur, laughing in delight at the pleasure of it all. This is scaling a cliffside with nothing but your own hands and determination, digging your fingers into the unyielding rock, pulling yourself up-up-up, never letting yourself fall.)

(This is having Jungkook beside you. This is having Jungkook diving into the lake with all the grace of an Olympian before he rises to the surface, tosses his hair carelessly out of his face, and spits a mouthful of water at you with laughter in his eyes. This is having Jungkook behind the driver’s wheel, shifting gears without thought, looking away from the road to watch the way your hair dances in the wind. This is having Jungkook climbing beside you, waiting for you at the top, holding a hand out to pull you up and over so you can sprawl out beside him, exhausted and exuberant at the top of this mountain, basking in the sun with Jungkook just a hair’s breadth away from you.)

(He takes one look at you. He takes one look at all the dark of your memories, the cascading mess of your insides, the hidden things that are open to him in the Drift, cut open and peeled back for his gaze—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He sees everything, past skin and muscle and bone and nerves, even deeper, right into your heart—)

(—all the torrents that eddy the deep waters of your soul—)

(—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He doesn’t look away.)

(Can’t look away.)

(Doesn’t want to.)

(Never wants to.)

(Jeon Jungkook takes one look at you, your whole being, and he knows you.)

(And he doesn’t want you any less.)

It’s just a second, a flicker, a breath, this first connection in this Drift, falling into each other. But it’s also a lifetime, two lifetimes, four lifetimes; your memories, Jungkook’s memories, Yoongi’s memories in yours, Taehyung’s memories in Jungkook’s. Layers and layers and years and years piled over one another, a tumbling sprawl—but it’s easy. It’s easy, so easy, Jungkook seeing you, you seeing him, everything he is, everything you are, everything you are to each other, with each other, for each other. The important things. The things you need to know to navigate this together, in sync even before now, reading each other to a level neither had even realised.

And when you’ve killed the kaiju. When you’ve walked Bulletproof Striker back to shore, brought her back to the Shatterdome, back home, it doesn’t end. You lift out of the Drift, step out of your Drivesuits, as different as they are (as different as you are), and it doesn’t end.

Jungkook’s eyes linger, as heavy as a physical touch, and even as congratulations for a successful drop are bandied about you, he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his hand against yours—not intertwined, but brushing, the curl of his fingers against your own. Touching. You’re not the protector here. He’s protecting you, in a way that doesn’t leave you feeling inferior or weak. You feel soft and warm and small and safe, pulled inexorably towards him, supported, buoyed up, and you don’t feel selfish for it.

Because he wants this.

He wants to be your comfort and your support.

He doesn’t want it to end.

(You don’t want it to end.)

And when you finally break away from those crowds, released from the shackles of responsibility and expectation—when you’re finally left alone, the two of you with each other, there’s no hesitation when you come together.

He lays you out beneath him and has you sobbing, back arching into the pleasure he draws out of your body, playing you like a maestro. Because he knows you, after all. He knows exactly how to trail his lips across your skin, your neck and stomach and thighs, painting marks across your body like it’s his personal canvas. He knows exactly how to have you twisting underneath him, how to pull those pretty sounds from your lips, fucking you with his fingers and his tongue until you’re a shaking mess. He kisses you sweet, merciless, letting you claw at his skin as you beg for more, more more more, wanting it, needing it, wanting him, needing him.

And you know he’ll give it to you. He’ll give himself to you, give you everything you ask for. You know how he wants to see you fall apart and you know how to move your body to have him gritting his teeth and staring in awe. You know how desperate he is to worship you, to show you his adoration and reverence, and you open up for him, unfurl like a flower, dripping nectar. When he finally presses into you, hot and long and thick, it’s so good you could cry. You draw him in-in-in, into your body and arms and heart, pressing your lips to the sweat at his brow, the taste of skin and salt and Jungkook bursting across your tongue.

There’s no Drift here, no curl of memories and unspoken thoughts between you. It’s physical and human, the crash of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, the thrust of his cock pressing into the dripping folds of your cunt. It’s the other half of that connection, the final piece, this thing you have with Jungkook, this perfect balance you have with him. It sears itself across your body and into your soul: it’s pleasure and passion and devotion carved into each touch of your lips and fingers, each roll of your hips, each time Jungkook makes you cum, gasping for him.

When he’s finally come apart inside you, spilling into your willing heat as you shake beneath him, arms and legs wrapped around his body as you pull him as close as you can, unwilling to let go—it still doesn’t end. You’re so wrapped up in Jungkook, in his arms, his heart, and you know he won’t let you go, either. He presses his lips against yours, chases those kisses, quiet and chaste to open-mouthed and dirty as the mood takes you, and then Jungkook rolls over you again, a spark in his eyes as he decides he’s still hungry for you.

You know, now, that all that time ago, when you carved that space for him into your chest, he’d done the same for you. He’d laid his heart at your feet and waited there, kneeling, for you to accept it, patient and willing. Staring at you with all the deep love you never thought you deserved, never thought you’d receive. But here he is. Here he is, love burning in his dark brown eyes. Eyes that have seen all the damaged, aching parts of you and love you anyway.

“I’m yours.”

Jungkook shines so bright at your words, a supernova of joy. His smile is so wide and his gaze is so soft, for you, for you, for you.

“Everything I am is for you,” he murmurs, letting the words curl into the air, settle across your skin, sink deep inside your chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel this touch of him inside you, wrapped around your heart.

And when you lift your hands, he comes so easily. He presses his cheek into the curve of your fingers, lets you hold him, lets you cup those lovely cheeks in your palms.

“I love you,” he says.

Right now, in this instant, there’s nothing but him. No kaiju, no Jaegers, no crumbling world, nothing. There’s only him, and you, together.

“I love you too,” you reply—and when you smile, gentle and tender, Jungkook falls in love all over again.

Burns bright for you.

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