#the image of the straining muscles in his bare back in sharp relief against red rope... whoof

[halfbaked00q]

shibari. that's it, that's the post

[ahatintimepieces]

Creeping Vines

A gift fic for the lovely @smieska-draws‘ sick au! Luka seeks out the help of Mari, the florist, as a mysterious illness plaguing him grows worse and worse.

Word Count: 1983. CW: illness

His fingers grasped the clasp of his cloak, pulling the hood tighter around his chestnut curls as he tried to block out the breeze. It was actually warm out, maybe? The brick wall that he ran his quaking fingers across to keep steady felt toasty as it bathed in sunlight, but he couldn’t stop shivering. He stumbled on the cobblestone for what felt like the millionth time. He caught himself, dropping against the wall and taking a moment to reorient himself.

Was it a good idea to leave the manor without his beloved when he could barely walk? No. Probably not. But while Vanessa would have been glad to investigate in his stead, she had been gone when he woke up and he had been too anxious to wait. Besides, she had already been doing so much for him. She practically made caring for him during his illness her one job. He wanted to try and at least manage a short visit with someone he thought could help on his own.

But he wasn’t sure he was going to make it at this rate.

His breathing was labored as he glanced around. Kids and villagers ambled by. They didn’t look his way long enough to recognize him. With his ragged, old cloak and dull brown trousers and a crooked shirt that had been easy to throw on before leaving the manor, he looked more like a disheveled wanderer than their prince. Which was good! He didn’t particularly want to be recognized in such a state.

“Ah—ah!” His nose scrunched up as a sharp gasp heralded an impending sneeze and he quickly ducked into his elbow. “Ah—choo!” The force of the sneeze nearly caused his legs to buckle beneath him as the pressure in his head swelled. He gripped the wall and moaned quietly as he tried to straighten.

A strand of purple snot pulled away with his nose. Wincing, he rubbed his nose with his sleeve and wiped the strand onto the brown cloth. As he sniffled, he eyed the violet goop that held spots of black ash. His heart sunk in his chest.

He was getting so much worse.

Tightening his grip around the clasp, he pushed himself forward. Soon, he came to a familiar alleyway and turned the corner, unsure if he wanted to cry from relief or distress as the carts full of vibrant flowers came into view. Marigold, the florist and his dear friend, had her back to him as she trimmed thorns from roses.

“M-Mari,” he wheezed as he came to the shop. His voice was strained and using it caused him to cough. The cough magnified, sending tremors through his chest and he slid against the wall. Everything shook and he held onto the brick, causing his knuckles to pale.

“Luka!” Her voice sounded so far away.

It wasn’t until several moments after his coughing flittered out that the world stopped shifting beneath his feet long enough for him to open his eyes again. Marigold stood in front of him, her features creased in horror as she held out her arms, ready to catch him if he fell.

“Luka, you look awful,” Mari scanned him. “What on earth are you doing here? You should be in bed!”

“I-I need help.” He had to fight to articulate each word. A familiar, uncomfortable heat bloomed across his forehead and he swallowed thickly. Walking all the way from the manor might have been too great a strain on his body, but Mari was the only one he could think might have the answers he needed.

“Okay,” she said softly, “Let’s get you a chair and you can tell me what’s going on.”

He felt a warm hand gingerly pry his death-grip from the brick wall and he stumbled as she led him over to the counter with a stool. He lowered onto the stool and as soon as the weight was off of his legs, he slumped over the counter, still clutching the clasp with his right hand as he tried to pull the cloak tighter around his endlessly shivering body.

“You’re burning up,” Mari muttered as something soft pressed against his forehead.

He closed his tired eyes. His muscles ached and he knew he was trembling uncontrollably, but he couldn’t stop no matter how tightly he curled in on himself. The pressure on his head pulled away and he blinked, watching in a daze as Mari stepped away.

He heard the distant sound of water splashing, but he didn’t register where it came from. Even after Mari turned around with a wet rag and small cup of water, he vaguely tried to remember if there was a stream nearby (there was not).

“Why didn’t you head straight to the doctor?” Mari asked as she pushed the cup into his hand and held the damp rag against his forehead. “Scratch that, I thought Vanessa has been having the doctor visit the manor.”

“She has,” Luka breathed out, leaning into the rag. Despite how he felt ready to collapse, he smiled at the thought of his princess. He wished that she was beside him, using her ice magic to help abate his fever. But his brows furrowed as he thought about all the doctor visits and check-ups. “The doctor just thinks it’s a nasty flu, but I—” his voice cracked, and he paused as he sniffed. After swallowing and feeling the gunk caught in his throat slide down, he winced. “But I think it’s something else.”

“Drink some water,” Mari encouraged.

He remembered the cup in his hand and lifted the cool drink to his lips. Oh! The water was sweet and refreshing and felt so soothing on his throat. The tea Vanessa had been giving him to keep his fluids up was wonderful, of course, but the fresh water did help him to perk up a bit, especially after he downed the whole cup in just a few seconds.

“Why do you think it’s something else?” Mari asked as she took the cup back.

His right hand around the clasp clenched painfully, but this was why he came in the first place. He slowly pulled his hand away from the clasp and held out his palm for Mari to examine. She gasped.

Blossoming across his palm, was the outline of a dark purple flower with ragged lines shooting out of the petals like lightning bolts. The outline was flush against his skin, as if it were no more than a tattoo, but it pulsed and shifted on his palm. Mari cupped his trembling hand, helping him to still while she watched the flower petals flutter.

“It was there when I woke up earlier.” Luka couldn’t help the whine that laced his voice. “And the center hadn’t been filled in when I last checked. It’s spreading.”

“It’s some kind of magic?” Mari quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward.

“It has to be,” Luka said helplessly.

A magical illness. He had no idea how he caught it, or what it meant, but he just knew he was getting worse and worse. Each new morning felt like his energy had been further zapped from him and dark purple bags seemed to permanently line his eyes. Underneath the hood, his hair was knotted and disheveled, matted with salty sweat from his constant oscillating between feeling feverishly warm or unbearably cold.

Part of him did feel a little vindicated after the doctor repeatedly dismissed the severity of his symptoms, but even knowing there was something else wrong with him, he still didn’t know what and that was what scared him most.

“Please tell me you know what this is,” he begged. “What flower is it? Do you recognize the shape?”

“Uh,” Mari grimaced, giving him an apologetic look. “I’m not sure, hold on.”

She stepped away and his hand dropped onto the counter. It stung a bit, but hardly mattered compared to the rest of his aching. He watched as Mari’s vibrant red braid bopped against her back with her movement.

“I’ll copy the image and start looking through my books,” she explained, returning with paper and a pen. He nodded, holding out his hand so that she could record the flower.

Purple slowly stretched across the bottom of the petals, staining them with splotchy pigment, and Luka’s fingers twitched while his fever spiked.

He groaned, slowly lowering his head onto his outstretched arm as his cheeks flushed. The world tilted. His ears began to ring like a dissonant bell was stuck clanging in his head. He hissed, nuzzling into his arm and biting his tongue. A metallic taste pooled in his mouth. He didn’t think he bit that hard. Was he truly losing his mind or were his teeth feeling sharper? The ringing grew worse. His heart pounded as he felt himself falling through nothing. A sharp pain registered in his head, but he couldn’t place what happened as his breathing became frantic.

“Luka!” Mari’s voice was muffled, like she was calling to him from dry land while he was submerged in viscous water. His eyes shot opened. The vibrant sunlight shone as Mari crouched over him. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he looked around in a daze.

When did he end up on the ground?

Fear spiked in his chest and he hurried to push himself up. The sudden movement caused his head to throb, and he lifted the hand with the flower to it but paused when he saw not only that the bottom parts of the petals had grown a deep violet, but the jagged vines shooting from the flower had crawled to the back of his hand, pulsing with sharp looking thorns that traced his veins. He took his other hand and brushed his fingers across the stained skin. He met Mari’s startled gaze with distress twisting his features.

“I need help,” his voice broke. “Please.”

“I’ll take you to the doctor,” Mari said, looping his arm around her shoulder. “And then he can call the Queen so she can take you home.”

“It hurts so much,” Luka mumbled weakly as she pulled him to his feet.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Mari promised, carrying his weight as she guided him on the short walk to the doctor. “I’ll keep researching and meet you at the manor, okay? Or the Queen can come to me. You really shouldn’t be walking around.”

He could only nod, holding back the whimpers that were lodged in his throat. Before he knew it, he was laying on a cot at the doctor’s clinic, shivering as he gripped his cloak and as the doctor took his vitals and noted the strange markings that continued shifting on his hand like shadows. By the time Vanessa burst in, demanding to know why he left the manor without asking her first, Mari had left the waiting room, presumably to research what ailment he was suffering.

He returned to the manor with Vanessa, clinging to her side and breathing sighs of relief as she ran cold fingers through his damp bangs. He mumbled apologies and thank-yous all the way back to bed, where he asked her to stay with him until he fell asleep.

She continued to stroke his hair and encourage him to drink warm tea that was supposed to help soothe his symptoms.

“Thank you,” he croaked, nuzzling against her chest as she held him.

“There, there,” Vanessa cooed, brushing his bangs from his eyes. Her soft features smiled down at him. “Don’t worry, my prince. I’ll give you all that you need. You don’t need anything else.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he pressed deeper into her embrace.

“You’re too good to me,” he muttered as his eyelids began to feel too heavy to keep open. His breathing steadied as sleep overcame him. She grinned.

“I know.”

[calboniferous]

Duality

Even the light of life couldn’t escape death, regardless of how brightly it shone or how much it was needed. Watching the red stain spread across Qui-Gon’s tunics, Obi-Wan was painfully aware there were no exceptions in death. No mercy to the living. --- Pacific-rim inspired AU where Jedi can share minds through their force bonds. The synchronicity this gives them is legendary across the galaxy but the technique's greatest strength is also its greatest weakness.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are One during the duel with Maul and the consequences come calling.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32274517

Chapter 1 - Torn

Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon didn’t think it would hurt this much. They didn’t know they could hurt this much.

They had been hurt while sharing minds before – it was unavoidable with the kinds of missions the Master-Padawan duo took – yet the burning agony they felt now was a unique agony.

A simple misstep.

A feint the master would only fall for one in a million times but when the chips of fate tumbled through the Force, chance played its hand.

The bloody light of the sabre sprouted from Qui-Gon’s back and Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon was set alight. The physical pain of the Padawan mirrored that of his Master as blazing-white agony seared their chest.

Deafened by the blood rushing in their ears, they sensed more than heard Obi-Wan’s hoarse cry.

The Sith curled his lips in a vicious grin over Qui-Gon’s shoulder, teeth crimson in the light of his blade. He tore his blade from Qui-Gon’s body and the Master hit the ground, sabre slipping from their grasp.

Synchronicity broken, the bond stretched and sparked as Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon’s perception warped out of alignment. One half was crumpled on the floor, the other half’s knuckles white with his grip on his ignited sabre.

Obi-Wan’s breaths came fast and ragged as they he struggled to blink the image of himself trapped behind the ray shield from his vision.

It was all he could do to ground himself in his own body as the turmoil of the bond threatening to sweep him under the churning storm of feelings-thoughts-senses. He trembled.

A sickening weightlessness bled through the connection and Obi-Wan was acquainted with the sensation of his Master’s tethers to life unspooling. There was a nauseating tug as each strand pulled free, like stitches dragged one-by-one from a wound. Unbinding. Letting the raw edges split open and that oh so precious lifeblood spill.

Master, stay with me!

Even as he doubled down on their bond, his grasp on the psychic storm slipped.

The Sith stepped over the still form and, with his sabre slagging metal as it dragged across the floor in his wake, pinned Obi-Wan with his yellow gaze.

Hunger and cruelty were written in every line of his stance and satisfaction hung from his shoulders in a dark shroud. How anyone could take such vile pleasure in death was incomprehensible to Obi-Wan.

True darkness was found in the way the Sith’s cut Qui-Gon’s life threads as surely as a god cuts the strings from their mortal puppets.

Curled on the floor, unmoving, Qui-Gon had never looked so lightless.

Shaking, the pain Obi-Wan felt indicated that his wounded half still clung to life.

Barely.

Time dragged onwards. The shields remained.

Qui-Gon’s broken remains slipped ever closer to the veil with every passing second. Once a soul crosses the event horizon, no tether to mortality, however strong it may be, can defy the draw of death.

It is the singularity warping the fabric of existence.

The end of all things and yet, it is that from which all things came.

Obi-Wan once heard it likened to the supermassive black hole at the centre of the galaxy when he was a junior padawan and he dreamt of bent starlight for weeks afterwards. The vacuum of space silencing the cosmic screams of stars torn asunder and devoured thread by glowing thread.

Even the light of life couldn’t escape death, regardless of how brightly it shone or how much it was needed.

Watching the red stain spread across Qui-Gon’s tunics, Obi-Wan was painfully aware there were no exceptions in death. No mercy to the living.

 Azure blade singing in discordant harmony with Obi-Wan’s anguish, the lance of burning pain in his chest reminded him that he had to end this now. The ray shields opened and Obi-Wan leapt.

Unbalanced and heavy-handed, it was only the drilled muscle memory that kept Obi-Wan from following his Master’s fate then and there. The Sith had clearly anticipated this reaction and his vicious, satisfied grin showed it.

Red met blue with thundering force, blades screeching as they clashed, disengaged, and flashed to meet again.

He countered Obi-Wan’s wild strikes with equal ferocity but he had control that the padawan was blind to in that moment.

Giving ground, the enemy led the duel closer and closer to the edge of the platform with every exchange. Then, deflecting Obi-Wan’s slash to the side, the Sith kicked him square in the chest.

Obi-Wan slipped over the edge of the reactor platform, barely managing to catch a protrusion and save himself from the hungry drop. His sabre flickered out as it was lost to the depths below.

The echoed input from his Master was electric with fear as he watched Obi-Wan disappear from view. Relief flickered between them as they both felt the ache in Obi-Wan’s shoulders from the sharp stop, the muscles in his hands straining to hold on, and the sucking nothingness under his dangling legs.

Terror brought clarity and Obi-Wan felt the bond twist again – calling to him. He was the only half of their bond in motion, the only one who could fight. They couldn’t afford to be misaligned if Obi-Wan was to win.

We need balance.

Gritting his teeth against the mental static and disorientation, Obi-Wan dropped his last few shields around the bond and let his force signature meld with Qui-Gon’s.

They were lying on the floor. They were dangling over the reactor pit. Images and senses superimposed on top of each other as the halves eclipsed and became one.

The Sith paced above them, radiating triumph. He sneered down at Obi-Wan-and Qui-Gon then turned away, satisfied the Jedi’s end was imminent.

The Jedi, however, seized the opening and leapt. Bolstered by the Force and the strength lent from their wounded half, they flipped over the Sith, summoning the Master’s blade to hand midair.

Their strike was in motion before their feet hit the floor and in one swift flash of blinding green light, cut the Sith in two. A textbook sai tok.

A move shunned by Jedi teachings but they had no time for kindness.

The enemy’s face twisted in shock and rage as he tumbled into the abyss; bisected pieces eagerly swallowed by the darkness.

In the heartbeat after victory, Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon felt the lurch of weightlessness in freefall as Qui-Gon’s last tether stretched beyond its limit and snapped.

The hilt falls from their grasp as they run to their fallen half and crash to their knees at their side.

Simultaneously holding and being held, their injured bodies ached with the strength of their embrace. Though physically impossible, Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon couldn’t help but try to unite their vessels as they had their minds. Blurred with pain and confusion, they could only cling to themself and seek refuge in the Force that allowed them this Oneness.  

Unlike their mind, their bodies had no safe harbour to share.

Trembling, the adrenaline coursing through them rendered the world around them in abrasive clarity—durasteel floor bitingly cold under them and their tunics far too red. The metallic taste of blood filled their senses as Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon gasped for air and a wet warmth seeped through the hands desperately putting pressure on the wound.

A cry broke from them as the bond between them fractured. They could only hold on. Charred fabric clenched in stiff fingers as their breathless pleas to the Force went unheard.

With bruising gentleness, they pressed their foreheads together as if it would ease the mental strain. As if holding that much tighter would let the Padawan carry the weight of both minds with naught but the mortal tethers of one person.

Their limbs were too weak to hold their pieces together, too weak to let go.

A thought flickered through their mind from the part of them that is the Master alone.

Oh Padawan, you challenge gravity for me.

Eyes closed. Eyes wide open. Tears that are not their own dampened their cheeks.

Stay as One.

Pressure mounted as the bond stretched even further, wound beyond breaking point and yet remaining. Something about this impossibility reminded them of someone else.

Anakin.

He must be trained.

They will train him. They promised.

We- You must.

I…?

Obi-Wan…train him…

They did not understand, confusion and panic blooming in them as the body in their arms became leaden.

We’re right here, stay here.

They pleaded but gravity was merciless.

There was a soft sigh as Qui-Gon fell still. For a fleeting moment, they felt peace in the quiet around them before the force ripped and Obi-Wan-and-Qui-Gon ceased to exist.

Obi-wan-and-

-and-

-and-

There was only pain.

Obi-Wan knew why the stars screamed.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

27, 63 or 76 for the kiss meme!

So first of all, I apologise - this got a lot longer than I anticipated! I went with #76 - Top of head kisses, and decided to write a scene between Adiran and Riin. 

This scene takes place after the final round of the Red Fury - a Talveran tournament dedicated to the old god of war, Velos Devo. Adiran, after five years of training with Riin, managed to win his earlier matches and was finally up against the former champion. It goes... not so well.

The world returned to Adiran in flashes - shattered pieces of memory shaken loose inside his head. A roaring crowd. The smell of sweat. His skin, feverish inside his armour, brought to temperature by the blazing sun. It was the final day of the tournament. The final bout. He could remember the pull of his heart, insistent, like a hand tugging on a mother’s skirt. Remembered how he had pressed his own hand to his chest, leather gauntlet creaking, as though to still it through his plate. How many rounds had he fought? Six? Seven? He should know the number. Divider, he should live and breathe the number. But it eluded him, slipping from his grasp like an oiled vase. 

A sound broke through the images - a chair sliding over stone. Adiran dreamed it was a crow, shrieking in the cloudless sky above the arena.

Crosus waited, a mountain at the center of the sands. He was a man whose shadow stood a worthier opponent than any Adiran had already faced. Trained since youth in the barren stones of the Split, he had been named champion two times. Two times. To win once was to be favoured by Velos Devo, the old god whose name was only resurrected once every five years for contest. For glory. To win twice was a miracle - a feat for storybooks and legends. Three times would be utter madness.

Something soft brushed Adiran’s forehead. He flinched from it. In his mind, he shooed a fly from his face as he strode to meet his opponent in the red-lined ring. 

Sweat sticking to his skin, he positioned himself in the giant’s shadow. Brown eyes, shielded by a heavy brow, watched him quietly. He swore he read pity in Crosus’ gaze - a secret between only them, carefully kept from the crowd. Adiran had no time to question it, only to tighten his grip on his sword. A cry from the stands ripped the silence, sharp as an eagle’s talons. 

Begin. 

Adiran’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Rasping, he tried to pull in air, the shape of Crosus freezing, turning brittle, falling apart behind his eyelids. Hands were on him, strong, frantic, levering him up, turning him to the side. Pain lanced through his chest like a thousand tiny knives, stabbing holes in his bruised lungs. The air stuck halfway down his throat. 

Nauseous, dizzy, breathless, the arena returned.

At some point during the fight, he remembered stumbling. Pivoting, his heel digging a deep gouge in the sand. The shape of Crosus’ mace filled his vision, swung with two heavy hands. Muscles bulged, brown eyes blazed, pity forgotten, lost to the Red Fury. Chosen once again. Adiran barely had time to brace, his sword arm too wide, his shield knocked aside, his stance a panicked mess.

He saw the sky - a pale, piercing blue. 

The sun. 

The crowd. 

The sand. 

Adiran’s back exploded in pain as he slammed into the ground, the wind driven from his lungs. Mindlessly, desperately, he chased the lost air, gasping, helmet knocked askew, blinding him, mouth opening and closing in the metallic dark. His chest stuttered, spasmed, tried to rise but was stopped by something impossibly hard. Impossibly tight. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

There was a voice, deep, familiar, vibrating by his ear. Adiran strained, but the words eluded him, too low to decipher. A hand was on his forehead, holding back his sweat-soaked hair as he coughed, retched, clung to whoever kept him steady. His body felt made of hot coals - not blazing like a fire, but burning with a silent, agonising heat. Everything ached. He trembled like he was about to come apart.

Breathe, Adiran. It’s over.

He was in the arena again, lying helpless on the ground. Even in the darkness, white spots burst and swam in his vision. Adiran scrabbled at the sand, unable to turn, get up, do anything to save himself. Mindlessly, he struck his open palm to the ground once, twice, three times. Surrender. But no one came. Nothing changed. He fought to breathe, willing his chest to rise, begging for the hot summer air to pass his throat, panic rising when it would not. Death was not uncommon in the Red Fury. The contest’s very name made a grim promise to the cheering masses in the stands. Death was never the purpose - never the goal. But once the favour of Velos Devo, Lord of the Bloodied Hand, was cast, the rules of mercy and surrender all too often fell aside. As was expected. As was tradition.

Something tugged at his left side, then his right. Adiran’s vision faltered, his heart pounding an erratic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. It echoed in his skull - deafened him to the crowd. To Crosus. To a new voice, shouting, saying... something. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Just as the world began to sputter and dim, everything was suddenly drowned out by a piercing screech. The sound tore through his skull, jolted him back into his body. If he had air to give, he would have screamed.

He was dying. This had to be dying.

His back arched. His fingers went limp in the sand. Then, with an final, awful shriek, the weight on his chest was suddenly lifted. Air flooded back into Adiran’s newly freed lungs - he heaved it in with a mindless, choking gasp. The helmet was tugged from his head, sunlight flooding in, burning his eyes. Hands cupped his face, smoothed his hair, said his name over and over like a mantra. Like a prayer.

His name...

Adiran’s eyes flew open, wild and panicked until his surroundings finally began to take shape. He was in a room, a place dim and dull and far from the arena sands. He trembled, gasping, cringing against the pain as he pulled in breath after breath, unable to stop - unwilling to stop - even as his vision cleared and the agony of it threatened to turn his stomach. He was sitting up, a woolen sheet pooled at his waist. The bed beneath him was a familiar, simple affair. After a few more seconds of half-sobbed gasps, Adiran finally recognised the physicker’s ward. 

Riin’s arms were around him, holding him up, bracing him as though to protect him from a storm. “Breathe, Adiran. Just breathe.” His voice was low and familiar, but edged with something Adiran had never heard in it before. 

Fear.

“R... Riin...?”

The tall man shifted, pulling away, leaving just enough distance to take Adiran in with those amber-bright eyes. Adiran stared right into them, ragged and fraying at the edges. He was clinging to Riin’s forearm, fingertips digging into the man’s skin as the truth of the situation finally crashed over him. 

He’d nearly died. He’d nearly fucking died.

And for what?

“Adiran, stay with me.” The relief in Riin’s face, near palpable, wavered as he raised a palm to Adiran’s cheek. It was a strange gesture - strangely intimate - but in that moment Adiran simply accepted it. Needed it. He leaned against the palm, bone-tired, eyelids drooping even as Riin urged him to stay awake. The room blurred, sharpened, then blurred again, chased in and out of focus by the line of his lashes. 

“I’m okay.” Adiran’s voice felt raw as it limped from his aching throat, but he forced it out. “I’m alright, Riin.”

Riin made a sound, and if Adiran had any coin to spare, he would place a bet on disbelief. But, despite his companion’s incredulity, it was true. For the most part. He was alright. He could breathe. He was alive. Riin was there. 

Riin was there.

Something sparked at the back of Adiran’s weary mind, stirring him away from the edge of sleep. He forced his eyes open again - found his gaze flicking around the room. Ignoring Riin’s questioning glance, he struggled on; kept looking until he found what he sought, discarded on a nearby table.

His plate. 

The chest-piece, once a gleaming, princely silver, lay like a piece of mangled sheet, discarded by a blacksmith’s apprentice. The sides, fastened by a series of thick clasps, were warped and bent, crushed against each other, broken beyond repair. He remembered now. The mace striking his chest. It had flung him through the air. The blow must have caved in the front of his armour - crushed it against him. When he hit the ground, hard and heavy, it would have only made matters worse, bending and warping the already ruined metal.

But there was something else that caught his eye.

“I... how...?” The words were barely above a whisper. Adiran felt Riin’s grip on him tighten as the man followed his gaze, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The center section of Adiran’s plate, where the mace must have done its worst damage, lay entirely separate to the rest of it. From the neckguard down, a wide strip was missing, the edges jagged and twisted as though it had been torn. To see it defied belief - defied possibility. That was metal. Twice-forged steel. He remembered now, the moment when he had drawn that first breath. That skull-piercing sound - the thud of something heavy being cast aside. The palms pressed to either side of his face as he coughed and choked on air and blood. A pair of blurry amber eyes.

Riin must have leapt from the stands. Rushed the field. He had ripped Adiran’s ruined armour straight from his body. Torn it with his bare hands.

Opening his mouth, Adiran tried to form words, but found them impossible, each one slipping away from him faster than he could catch the next. He must have faltered, because Riin murmured something hastily, catching him and lowering him back down to the bed. How those hands could be so gentle, Adiran didn’t understand. Every time they had sparred - every time Adiran had cursed and struck and charged at him with everything he had - Riin had never hurt him. 

It couldn’t be real. He must be mistaken. Delirious. After all, he’d nearly died. 

Or maybe he had, and this was all just some strange, impossible dream.

The pillow was soft beneath his head. His skull still ached - thrummed with a pain so deep-set Adiran feared me may have it for the rest of his life. He groaned and said as much, and was rewarded by a quiet, relieved chuckle. It was a comfort, to hear him laugh. Even if it was at his expense.

“I can only imagine. Crosus does not hold back.” There was a pause, and both of them knew how much of an understatement that was. Dark eyes, wild at the edges. 

Almost tentatively, Riin spoke again. “My mother had a cure. When I was younger. For a painful head or a wounded mind.”

Adiran squinted his eyes open. Just a crack. Just enough to see Riin watching him, his expression... strange. Fond? Anxious? On another day, Adiran might have spent hours trying to decipher it. But as it was, he was exhausted. There was only so much he had left to give. 

So instead, he just groaned, and pressed his eyes shut once more. “I’ll take just about anything right now.” 

There was a pause. A moment absent movement or sound, save for a set of muffled footsteps passing outside the physicker’s ward. Then, a soft rustle of fabric. A quiet creak from the bed as Riin moved. Leaned. Even with his eyes closed, Adiran could feel Riin hesitate, his breath warm and gentle against his hair.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to the top of Adiran’s head.

On another day, Adiran might have teased the man. Rolled his eyes. In his dreams, he grabbed that beautiful, frustrating idiot by the collar and showed him how to do it properly. But, after so long teetering on the edge of consciousness, Adiran simply sighed, swallowed, and let himself drift away into a much-needed sleep.

[imagine-myhero]

Philonoist

Request from my AO3 page by Kittynation08:  Hello, i was wondering if you could please do kaminari x reader x kirishima in the fantasy au with nsfw please. Like they are going around with bakugou and kirishima goes into his rut and then kaminari joins in as well. Thank you and i really enjoy your fic

Pairing: Dragon!Kirishima x F!Reader x Dragon!Kaminari 

Word Count: 3.8k

NSFW UNDER THE CUT

“DAMN IT, YOU TWO!” Bakugou roars at the pair of mighty dragons in front of him as if they were mere fleas. The larger dragon, red scaled with black arched horns and claws, bows his head in shame and apology at the raging blonde barbarian. The smaller dragon, yellow scaled with no horns but a distinctly shaped patch of black scales along his neck, presses his belly and the underside of his jaw against the ground while averting his gaze from the man. 

What was supposed to be a successful and easy raid turned into a disaster when Bakugou Katsuki’s dragons got too worked up and began aggressively fighting each other when one had gotten too close to the other. The fiasco allowed a band of soldiers to escape with a large portion of his loot and, needless to say, the man was not pleased by it. 

“What are your problems?! I’ll kill you both if you don’t knock it the hell off!” Bakugou continues to fume. A moment passes under his furious glare before the dragons’ bodies release thick clouds of steam. The hot wind blows Katsuki’s hair back, but he otherwise doesn’t budge and impatiently glares ahead.

Two men emerge from the steam clouds, covering their bare bodies with silks and furs used as makeshift saddles in their dragon forms. The red dragon, now a tall red-haired man with a broad chest and shoulders, rubs the back of his neck and bares his sharp teeth in a sheepish smile. His name is Eijirou Kirishima. 

“Sorry, man. It’s… that time of the year ya know?” He says. Katsuki grinds his teeth and growls at them. 

“No, obviously I don’t know.” Bakugou barks back. 

“Mating season.” The other man fills in the blank, once the striking yellow dragon and now a man more slender than the other with yellow hair bearing a distinctly shaped black patch, and yellow eyes, “It’s our ruts. Our hormones are going insane.”  At the blunt explanation, Bakugou’s head dips back in surprise and his ears tinge red at the tips but he covers his embarrassment with a loud scoff.

“Well you listen to me, not your damn hormones. If you can’t keep from trying to bite each other’s heads off then you’re of no fucking use to me, so go deal with it and don’t come back until you do!” He shouts at the two men before stalking off angrily. Kirishima and Kaminari stare awkwardly at each other for a moment. 

“And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.” Kaminari lilts, smiling contagiously. Kirishima can’t suppress his laughter and shakes his head, turning in the opposite direction of Katsuki and cocking his head at Kaminari to follow. 

“C’mon, we’d better get out of here and ‘deal with it’ before Katsuki really loses it.” 

They both walk into the forest and separate to search for relief from the growing heat building up in them. As time passes, and the setting sun burns out into dusk to reveal the luminous full moon, Eijirou begins to sweat from the heat radiating from his tense body as the bestial desire within him becomes restless with hunger. The core of the heat screams for attention between his legs and strains against the fabric of his pants; Eijirou becomes hyper aware of the feeling of his clothes against his body, the sound of the breeze grazing by his ears, and the smell of—. 

Eijirou stiffens completely, pupils blowing with lust, and grinds his teeth against the shudder that runs through his body directly to his groin.

A woman.  

Kirishima immediately begins following the scent, thoughts becoming duller and hazier as the alluring scent permeates his senses. He soon finds you near the Enchanted Lake, humming softly to yourself as you pick the coveted fruits and berries from trees and bushes taking nutrients from the lake’s mystical waters through their roots. Your neck is exposed and your shirt reveals the valley between your breasts that travels tantalizingly down beneath. You look absolutely delectable. 

“Don’t you know the Enchanted Lake is dangerous?” You hear a husky voice growl out, startling you. Your gaze snaps up from your basket of fruits to see a young man emerging from the surrounding forest. His crimson eyes are fixed on you in an intense stare, his beautifully tanned skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, and his broad, bare chest heaving up and down slowly with purposeful breaths. He continues to approach you, and you can see the muscles tensing along his body. 

“So I’ve been told…” You answer. Before this man who exudes such a male presence you find yourself feeling like the only woman in the world and you aren’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. You slowly stand to meet the handsome stranger as he stops in front of you. It seems like he almost reaches out for you, but he stops himself before he does. His strong scent reminds you of autumn leaves and a crackling campfire. It starts to intoxicate you and you breathe in more deeply. 

“What are you doing out here?” He asks lowly, gaze dropping to travel the length of your body.  You suppress a shudder. In the back of your mind you know you should be wary of this strange man, but there’s something so mystical about him and your grip on those thoughts start to slip. 

“What are you?” You ask, voice no stronger than a breathy whisper. The red-haired man doesn’t seem bothered that you ignored his question. Instead, the corners of his lips pull upwards into a smile, revealing his sharp teeth. You gasp quietly at the sight of them and he chuckles, reaching up to  take a strand of your hair between his fingertips. 

“Take a guess.” He responds playfully. His head dips down of its own accord to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, hand in your hair falling to grip gently at your waist. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling of his hot skin brushing against yours. There, he takes a long, deep breath. You smell absolutely incredible. When he exhales, it comes out almost like a growl. 

You open your eyes to look at him and you catch the sight of red scales gathered over the back of his neck. His grip on your waist tightens a little and you suddenly feel the prodding of sharp nails in your skin. The man goes rigid and he forces himself back from you. When you see his face, it’s twisted in concentration and almost… pain?

“Sorry.” He grunts out, peeking one eye open to look at you and mustering a charming smile, “I don’t mean to scare you. I’m not usually like this.”

His breath hitches again and he closes his eyes with another grunt. Before your eyes, two glossy black rigid horns emerge from his head of red hair, curving upward and glinting in the moonlight. “Don’t get the wrong idea about dragons because of me, okay?” Your eyes widen at his revelation.

“You’re... a dragon?” You speak in disbelief, eyes widening in awe and wonder. You’ve longed for this moment your entire life, but never did you imagine your dream would ever come to fruition. You’re a seeker of knowledge; all things rare and unfamiliar are beautiful to you, but dragons… dragons always fascinated you the most. Little is known about them since so few men ever lived to document their observations or encounters with them, yet here one stands before you in human form— you didn’t even know dragons had human forms. And his is rather… well endowed, you notice as you glance down at the none-too-subtle erection the man is sporting with a blush.

You realize that spring has begun, referred to by many the season of “new life”. He must be affected by the breeding season. The thought has you feeling a bit hot and bothered with shameful images crossing your mind. 

“I… I’ve always been fascinated with dragons.” You admit shyly, looking at the man through your eyelashes. He looks back at you and clenches his jaw before letting out a breathy chuckle.

“Don’t say things like that right now, gorgeous.” He warns, “It’s hard enough already not to…” The man trails off, a blush coloring his cheeks. You can’t help but giggle at his out-of-place bashfulness. 

“Maybe you could… teach me a thing or two about dragons.” You suggest with as much nonchalance as you can muster, slowly reaching up to brush your fingers against the hard ridges of his black horns. He lets out a harsh breath and closes his eyes in pleasure, giving you a thrilling sense of empowerment. 

“You want to know more about me?” He asks in a low, husky tone. He looks down at you with heated crimson eyes as he takes your wrist and pulls it from his horns to his lips, “Who am I to deny you? We can come to know each other very intimately.”

He pulls your wrist over his shoulder, bringing you flush against his broad, firm chest. Instinctively, you brace your other hand against his chest and feel how hot his skin is. The man dips his head beside yours and he nibbles on your earlobe before gently latching his lips to the skin just below it and sucking gently. Your breath catches and you tilt your head to allow him more access, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. 

“What’s your name?” You ask. He pulls away, lips quirked up into a smile and he tilts his head slightly while he looks from your tempting lips to your eyes.

“Eijirou.” He answers, and you repeat it softly, enjoying the way it leaves your lips. He seems to enjoy the sound just as much as you, and he suddenly leans in dangerously close, trapping you within his mesmerizing eyes like wildfire. “This is your last chance to stop me.” He warns in a low voice that nearly makes you shudder. You can feel his breath on your skin and his hands latch onto your hips. 

“Sorry, no objections here.” You smile, reaching on your tiptoes and pressing your lips firmly to his. He returns the kiss with just as much enthusiasm, his grip tightening on you and pulling you closer. He coaxes your lips apart and as his tongue teases yours, you taste the heat— almost like spices. The two of you break apart breathing heavily, and you see his eyes darkened with lust and primal desire. 

“And your name?” He asks, nipping at your bottom lip. You answer and he swallows your name in another breathtaking kiss. He becomes rougher, kissing and marking down your neck while his hands slide up your waist to cup at your breasts through your shirt. You run your hands along his chest, scratching lightly along his stomach, over his nipples, and around his back where you feel the rough texture of scales here and there. Eijirou relishes in your touch, growling against your skin as he kisses along your neck and the exposed expanse of your chest and collar bones. 

The two of you sink to the cool dirt and Eijirou pulls your shirt away from your body, large hands engulfing your breasts and massaging them. He sucks and kisses at your neck, dragging his teeth along your skin while his thumb and forefinger rolls and pinches your nipple between them, drawing out a small moan from you as you arch your back into his touch. He nudges your thighs apart to rest over his hips on either side and you feel his hardness pressing against your excited heat. 

As he dips down to bring your nipple into his mouth, his hips rut against yours and his length rubs deliciously against your clit through your tight cloth pants. A moan escapes you again and you reach to grasp his horns, grinding your hips up into his in return. He groans and sucks harshly on your nipple, making you give a small yelp and buck your hips again into his. He shudders when you grip his horns tightly and pulls away from you to rip your pants and undergarments from your body, leaving you completely bare before him. 

The way he stares at your body makes you grow wetter with anticipation and excitement. Eijirou caresses your thigh, scratching lightly at the insides with his nails as he gently parts your legs. He takes in a deep breath, smelling your arousal, and lets out a long, low groan. His fingers trace your wet opening, teasing your entrance and rubbing over your clit before he slowly sinks two fingers inside you without any resistance, and you moan out in desire. He pumps his fingers in you for a few moments, scissoring them inside you, before pulling them out.

"I can't wait any longer." He murmurs, voice thick with lust as he discards his pants to reveal his need. He's thick and so hard you can see the veins along the side. You honestly aren’t sure how he'll fit inside you, but the thought oddly turns you on. Eijirou kisses you before turning you onto your belly. You get the hint and quickly slide your knees up beneath you to raise your core into the air as a presentation to him. The sound he makes when you do this is animalistic and raw, and suddenly you feel his body drape over yours, hot chest baring down on your upper body and jaw clamping down on the junction of your shoulder and neck. 

Your body twitches in anticipation, but only for a few seconds before you feel the large head of his cock pressing into your wet opening. He pushes his hips into yours, his rock hard cock sliding deeper within you and stretching you until your mouth is gaping open and your nails are digging into the cool dirt for something to ground yourself with. 

You've never felt so full. Eijirou is quick to begin thrusting into you with deep, pulsing thrusts that don't see more than an inch or two of his length leaving you. You feel lost for breath as he sharply thrusts against the deepest part of your core, his girth rubbing against your walls in the most pleasurable way. You hardly recognize your own voice in the moans Eijirou draws from you. 

Eijirou withdraws from your neck and you hear and feel his harsh panting in your ear. His breath is hot, and you see wisps of dark smoke curling around your neck from his breaths, reminding you of what he is and sparking a surge of even more arousal in your core. He starts pulling back more, thrusting more fully into you and you hear the slap of his skin against yours. The change in force has you crying out beneath him and pushing your hips back into his, making him grunt and moan. One arm wraps around your hips and pulls them flush against his while he begins to rub at your throbbing clit.

"F-fuck! Eijirou…" You moan out desperately, hips jerking at the new sensation, though his grip tightens to keep them still against his onslaught of pleasure. He lets out a loud groan when you tighten around him from the added pleasure. With the added stimulation, you feel the coil in your lower belly tightening quickly. "Sh-Shit, I'm—" You try to hold yourself together, to pull your hips away from his devilish fingers that are hurling you to the edge so damn quickly, but it only presses you further against him and him further into you. You gasp. 

"Eijirou!" You nearly scream at the sensations, but just as the coil within you is about to snap, Eijirou stills completely. You nearly cry out at the sudden loss right at the critical moment, but the chilling sound of the furious growl that you feel against your back from Eijirou stops you immediately. You whip your head around and gasp in shock when you see another man at the edge of the clearing, watching you. In panic, you try to scramble out from under Eijirou, but he grips you with enough force to stop a lion and holds you against him, though he drapes his body over yours in a way to hide your indecency. 

"Kaminari" is the only thing you can make out between Eijirou's rumbling snarls. It must be the man's name because he responds. He moves closer despite Eijirou's obvious protests, albeit cautiously. He's handsome; leaner than Eijirou but alluring in an almost cat-like way. 

"C'mon, man." He calls out in a pleading voice, reaching down to palm at his groin as if he can’t help himself, "There's no one else around here for miles and even if there was I wouldn't smell them over you two. You know how much torture it is to witness this without any relief of my own?" 

He looks terribly hot and bothered. You find yourself rubbing your legs together out of sympathy just looking at him, eliciting a mix between a groan and hiss from Eijirou as he tries to stand his ground. You then notice the yellow scales lining the stranger's arms and shoulders and realize he too must be a dragon with the way he interacts with Eijirou as if he knows him well. The thought has you excited, and that excitement throbs all the way down to your filled core, causing Eijirou to dig his nails into your skin. 

"Eijirou…?" You whisper softly, not taking your eyes off Kaminari. He seems to understand what you're asking. His hand runs along your thigh in response as he mulls it over. Now that he's had some relief, he has a tiny bit of clarity that agrees to give mercy to his friend. And to you as well it seems. 

Eijirou hums at Kaminari and lifts your upper body gently onto your hands before resuming to softly thrust into your heat to rekindle the burning embers of your prior passion. The sight of yellow eyes on you makes your body tingle in awareness and you try to muffle your moan in embarrassment. Kaminari's lips twitch upward in a mesmerized grin before he slowly advances toward you again, disrobing as he does. He's not as thick as Eijirou, but he has considerable length with a slight curve. 

He pumps himself as he takes the final steps towards you. Eijirou growls slightly and thrusts a little harder and faster into you, making you squeak, but does nothing else to stop Kaminari. You stare hungrily up at him as he gets in front of you and caresses your jaw softly. You brace a hand against his thigh and lean to lick at his cock. He sighs out in pleasure when you take the reddened head into your mouth and suck gently. You ease him further into you mouth until you feel him against the back of your throat and Kaminari grips your hair in his hands and he groans loudly. Eijirou begins to thrust harder, rocking your body and bobbing your head up and down Kaminari's length. Kaminari's hands help keep your rhythm to Eijirou's thrusts and you start sucking at him fervently once you're comfortable. Kaminari's head tips back and he pants out in grunts and moans, tugging at your hair and running his fingers along your scalp in a way that has you moaning as well around him. 

Fingers find their way to your clit once again and another pinches your nipple in tandem, and you shriek in surprise and overwhelming pleasure. Eijirou's fingers rub at your sensitive pearl with a speed and precision that has tears pricking the corner of your eyes from the white-hot pleasure. You pull off Kaminari’s cock and cry out desperately, bucking back into Eijirou.

"Ei- Eijirou, I can't— I'm— Ah!!! I'm cumming!" You babble before closing your eyes tightly and letting out a high-pitched moan when you finally are thrown off the edge, tumbling into absolute bliss.

Eijirou grunts in approval, thrusts never slowing, and grabs your arms to pull you up fully onto your knees. You can only moan and whimper as he rides your orgasm out, the only thing preventing you from falling face first into the ground a limp, blissful mess being Eijirou holding you up by your arms. Eijirou suddenly bites down hard on your shoulder and buries himself within you as far he can manage and releases into your heat with a guttural moan.

He pulls out of you slowly, and you feel the product of your passion dripping down your thighs. The spent redhead falls backward to lean against a large rock behind him while breathing heavily. You open your eyes to see Kaminari in front of you, pumping himself quickly to the sight of you so blissed out. You beckon him and he wastes no time in getting on his haunches, gently pushing at your shoulders to lie in Eijirou's lap as he yanks your thighs over his. 

You moan from the oversensitivity when Kaminari rubs himself along your soaking folds, bumping your clit and giving you shocks of pleasure. You feel Eijirou's hands run along your chest and cup at your breasts, and then Kaminari pushes within you, reaching a depth that leaves you breathless. When he withdraws, the curve of his cock drags against your sweet spot and you yelp, thighs jerking against his grip. He grins at your reaction and squeezes your thighs excitedly. Kaminari starts thrusts quickly in and out of you until you're seeing stars with a fast-approaching second orgasm. 

"Kami— n-nari…" You groan, reaching down to grab his wrists on your thighs for something to ground yourself with. "O-oh!" 

"Shit," Kaminari groans, thrusting frantically as he approaches his release. The feeling of his blunt nails digging into the meat of your inner thighs and scratching electrifies your core with pleasure-pain and you cum hard, clamping tightly down onto Kaminari with a shout. Kaminari joins in right along with you, pressing himself as far against you as he can while his cock releases thick spurts of cum inside you.

Kaminari collapses onto your equally limp body, still within you and breathing heavily. You close your eyes tiredly and smile at the relaxing feeling of Eijirou carding his fingers through your hair and along your scalp. 

"So," Eijirou begins and you can hear the smile in his voice, "Did you learn what you wanted to about dragons?"

You giggle in response and open your eyes to stare up into his warm, red eyes. "Absolutely. All that and more." 

"Ah, this was to learn more about us, was it? Well maybe it doesn't have to be your last lesson then." Kaminari suggests, voice muffled from his place between your breasts, eyes still shut in contented afterglow. You bite your lip and grin at his words.

"I am quite the avid learner.” 

[flyingkiki]

Stars

For @moonchildmaybe​ Thank you for this prompt! I had fun writing this. 

Sweet little piece of our favorite birbs. Enjoy!

~~~

All Raven really wanted was to spend some quality time with Tim. 

They were on different teams, operated in different cities, and only saw each other every so often. She would much rather have had mind blowing sex right now or maybe early dinner – whatever came first – than potentially get blown up by the Joker and his manic group of henchmen.

Raven hated to admit it, but the Joker frightened her. In the rare encounters that she had with him, his manic mind always pushed roughly against her that made her stomach churn and her emotions strain. Considering her half-demon heritage and her history, that was certainly saying something.

She briefly glanced at Batman who was busy battling it out with the Joker. Looking over her shoulder, she spotted Red Robin trying to subdue Harley. The Joker, Harley, and their goons were dead-set on robbing the Gotham National Bank and blowing up the whole block in the process. Apparently killing everyone within the block was essential in the sick games the Joker liked to play with Batman.

Raven tried to manipulate her powers to capture the Joker and Harley, both carried explosives and high-powered firearms, but with the way they were firing at them and their manic emotions, she barely could keep focus.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she frowned as burly men masked in ugly clown masked scurried away from her flying form.

A bullet grazed her shoulder just as she tried to dodge a punch from one of the goons she intercepted. The goons were trying to plant explosives around the block. Wincing and feeling a slight trickle of blood down her shoulder, Raven flew in the air and her powers snapped around her fingers. This was getting fucking frustrating.

“Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos!”

Raven flew a little higher and with a frustrated growl, threw inky tendrils around three of the goons closest to her. Dropping their explosives and struggling in their captive hold, the goons yelled in protest and tried to pull out their firearms at Raven. Anticipating their intentions, Raven threw them against a brick wall and quickly used a nearby lamppost to wrap around their unconscious forms. The police will have to worry how to pry the criminals out later.

Flying over to the remaining four goons, she briefly cast a worried glance at Red Robin when she heard Harley’s manic laughter followed by loud gunfire. She narrowly avoided the rain of bullets from one of the larger lackeys and sent two of the henchmen flying into the bank’s outer wall with a sharp blast of her powers.

Spotting the last two of the goons scramble away with their explosive devices, Raven easily vaulted over a car and flew off to give chase. Calling her powers, she quickly threw a dark blast at the two to knock them out. However, her eyes widened in surprise as she felt the dark intentions of one of the larger built mans and she heard his cackle through his clown mask.

“No!” Raven shouted and flew back as one of the men quickly turned around and threw the beeping explosive device at her seconds before they were hit and knocked out by her dark powers. Knowing that the explosive device could easily knockdown the old apartment complex next to her, Raven quickly pulled up her power and in a split second encased the explosive device just as it exploded a few feet from her.

Raven yelled over the loud explosion and felt the wind knock out of her as she desperately tried to contain the impact of the explosion. Feeling herself thrown back in the air, Raven growled and concentrated on keeping the explosion encased in her powers. She definitely had not expected the explosive device to pack such a punch – it could easily blow out an entire building.

She felt her arms strain and her energy waiver. Raven gave one last push of her powers to steady her flying and ensure her powers swallow the explosive blast.

There was a loud explosion behind her followed by the familiar laughter of the Joker. Caught off guard and feeling panic rise within her, Raven lost control of what was left of the explosion contained in her shield. The blast hit her square on the shoulder, throwing her right into one of the nearby apartment buildings.

“Raven!”

She felt her body hit the brick wall of an apartment building. Curling into a ball and trying to pull up some protective barrier, she felt her body tear through the corner wall of the building and painfully land in a heap of brick a few meters away. Over a series of loud explosions and gunfire, Raven faintly heard Red Robin shout her name again and the screams of people living in the apartment she just got thrown through. Why weren’t they evacuated?!

Heaving herself up from the rubble and wincing at the throbbing pain radiating through her body, Raven prepared herself to fly off to help Red Robin and Batman. This fucking fight was slowly testing her patience. Rage stirred within her and Raven breathed to steady her erratic emotions.

Raven stood up and groaned as she felt her ribs protest. Just as she was about to fly off, Raven turned her head sharply towards the apartment her body neatly blasted a hole through. Feeling the spike of panic and fear from the building, she ran towards the screaming that came from the hole in the apartment. From the six floor, there was loud screaming as part of the floor that stuck out groaned loudly and finally gave way. To her horror a little body came tumbling down with the floor.

Why wasn’t this building evacuated?! Panic welled up in her chest.

“Gotcha!”

Raven flew up and caught the little warm body and cradled the baby (?) close to her chest. Deciding it was not safe to fly back up to the apartment just yet to return the baby, Raven quickly checked if the coast was clear (and if all the goons were accounted for), and unsteadily flew into one the alleys nearby. It seemed like Red Robin had Harley subdued already, and Batman was making progress with the Joker.

Collapsing against the dirty brick wall of one of the evacuated buildings, Raven groaned as her body protested. She just got thrown through a fucking apartment complex, this was not how she imaged her visit to turn out.

The baby cried loudly in her arms, demanding attention. Adjusting her hold of the baby, Raven looked down was surprised to find large, tearful light blue eyes stare up at her. The baby looked just a little over one-year old, a dark curly haired girl and chubby cheeks a little dirty from the rubble of the building. Her little duck onesie was covered in little grime and she looked fussy and afraid.

“Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay,” Raven whispered, and gently pulled the crying baby close to her chest and patted her back gently. Her hand cupped the baby’s head and soothingly hummed.

The baby sniffled loudly and fisted Raven’s cloak. Raven felt the baby’s frantic emotions push against hers. Sighing softly, Raven’s hand glowed against the dirty duck onesie and her powers gently calmed the baby down.

“There,” Raven whispered, carefully watching the baby. She smiled slightly as the baby settled in more comfortably into the crook of her arm and began to play with the red broach that held her cloak together.

“Ah, no,” she whispered softly as the baby tugged at the broach. It surprised her how strong babies could be sometimes. While her interaction with babies were mostly limited to Ma’ri, Raven had a fairly good idea how to take care of babies. Gently taking the baby’s hands away from her broach, she held the baby close to her and found herself enjoying the little weight and warmth the baby had to offer.

The baby giggled and made herself comfortable on Raven’s lap. Taking the empath’s hand, the baby let out an inaudible babble and began to play with some of the rings on Raven’s fingers. Settling back against the brick wall, Raven tried to get a little comfortable to allow some of her bones and muscle to heal. She faintly heard gunfire in the background and police sirens and cast a concerned glance at the entrance of the alley. Pulling up a protective barrier around them just in case, her grip on the baby tightened.

“Raven!”

Purple eyes narrowed and despite how her body screamed in protest, she easily pulled the baby close to her body protectively and crouched into a fighting position. Her left fist glowed as she watched Red Robin round the corner and quickly raise his hands in surrender. “Whoa, easy.”

Sighing in relief, Raven dropped her glowing fist and removed the protective barrier. She slowly stood up and watched Red Robin approach them. “Are you hurt?” she asked, eyeing his body for any visible injuries.

Red Robin rolled his shoulders as he walked up to her and shook his head. “Nothing a hot shower can fix.” He stopped in front of her and took in her torn, bloody cloak and the dried up blood on her forehead. His expression hardened. “You’re hurt,”

“I had a bomb blow up in my face and I was thrown through a building,” she replied. She winced when she moved her arm to adjust the fussy baby in her arms. “I’ll heal when we get home.”

Raven watched him frown at her in concern and study her intently, a look she was quite familiar with. Too tired to argue with him that she was alright, the baby in her arms wriggled in her arms and whined. Breaking eye contact with Red Robin, she looked down at the baby in her arms and allowed it to cuddle closer to her chest.

“Made a new friend?” Red Robin smiled lightly and stepped closer to the pair. His smile widened when he watched Raven’s eyes soften and gently rock the baby. It was always special to see Raven let her guard down.

Raven gave him an amused look and adjusted the baby so Red Robin could take a closer look. “She fell out of the apartment that I blasted through.”

“Hi!” The little girl in Raven’s arms waved at Red Robin, much to his amusement.

Red Robin chuckled and gently reached out to ruffle her curly hair, much to the little girl’s delight. Smiling up at the masked hero, she continued to hold a strong grip on Raven’s cloak. “Cute,”

“Her eyes kind of remind me of yours,” Raven admitted, while looking down at the baby and gently pushing some curly hair out of the little girl’s eyes. The action made the girl yawn and cuddle closer to Raven.

Red Robin watched captivated by the sight of Raven’s gentle movements with the baby. The sight of Raven with a baby stirred something within him and he inhaled slowly, trying to control the warmth that spread through his body. Raven seemed to have caught the shift of his emotions because she looked up sharply at him, purple eyes widening slightly.

Eyes widening behind his mask, Red Robin cleared his throat and placed his gloved behind her back. “Let’s head back, we need to find her mother and go back to the cave,”

As they stepped out of the alley, an Arkham Asylum armored vehicles drove past them and people were slowly pilling out of buildings. It didn’t take long for the two of them to find the baby’s mother, when a frantic looking woman burst through the crowd and spotted the two heroes.

“Clara!” The mother was close to tears as she nearly dove into Raven. “Thank you so much,”

“Mammam!” The baby let go of Raven’s neck and turned towards the woman. With a sob, the woman plucked he baby out of Raven’s arms and cuddled the baby. Looking over her child’s curly hair, she let out another little sob and looked at Raven tearfully. “Thank you so much for catching and protecting her,”

Raven nodded and offered a slight smile. “It was no problem.”

“Say bye, bye,” The mother told the baby. Clara turned in her mother’s arms and did a little wave at Red Robin and Raven. Offering a toothy grin, she flapped her arms. “Bye, bye.”

Raven smiled. “Bye, bye.”

They watched the mother and daughter pair disappear into the crowd. Raven blinked and dropped her arm limply to her side. She sighed softly.

“Raven, let’s go. You’re still bleeding.” Red Robin gently held her elbow.

She was pulled out of her reverie at his gentle touch and stopped looking at the crowd. Turning to the masked hero, she nodded. “Right. I think I need to set my shoulder.”

“Let’s get you back to the cave,”

~

Tim woke up later that evening finding Raven gone from their bed. Slipping on a pair of boxers, he silently padded up to his balcony and found her curled up on the wooden balcony bench staring up at the clear evening sky.

“You’re going to catch a cold you know,” he whispered softly, leaning against the balcony entrance and folding his arms over his bare chest.

Raven was dressed in one of his shirts. Her legs were tucked under her and she was leaning against the wall looking pensively up at the night sky. Blinking, she tore her eyes away from the sky and her purple eyes met Tim’s soft blue gaze. “Hey,”  

“Hey, there,” Tim sighed softly and his arms dropped. He offered her a soft smile and watched as purple hair stirred softly in the cool evening wind. “Mind telling me why you’re out here and not in our really nice and warm bed?”

Raven cocked her and watched him. “I couldn’t sleep,”

Tim blinked, a look of worry crossed his face. “Is something wrong?”

“I –” Raven paused and blinked. A soft wind pushed some of her purple hair into her eyes. Looking up at him, the corner of her lips lifted. “Sit with me? I’m cold.”

Tim chuckled softly and nodded. “Scoot over,” he walked over to her and gently nudged her down the bench. Sitting down, he pulled her into his lap and pressed her against his chest. Wrapping his arms around her waist and across her chest, they both sighed comfortably at the newfound warmth. Resting his hand just a little over the swell of her breast, he squeezed her closer and hummed into her hair. “Better?”

Raven nodded, her long fingers intertwining with his at her waist. “Much better.”

From Tim’s bedroom balcony, they had a beautiful view of the Wayne Manor’s expansive garden illuminated by the full moon. The clear sky above them offered a picturesque background of stars dotting the night sky. Save for the occasional creaking of the house and the sounds of rustling leaves, the evening was quiet and peaceful. They settled into a comfortable silence, relishing each other’s warmth and physical contact.

“Raven?”

Her fingers absently stroked one of the raised scars on his forearm. It was a battle scar from an old fight with the Joker. Her index fingers rested over the raised flesh as she heard the worry in his voice.

“When I used to live at Azarath, my mother and I would spend some evenings stargazing,” her voice was a low murmur which Tim could feel softy against his chest. “Azarath had a really beautiful night sky, you could see galaxies from our planet.”

Tim tilted his head and watched as a wistful smile played on Raven’s lips as she looked up at the starry sky above them. He felt a warm rush of emotions as he watched her unguarded expression. He hummed softly to encourage her to continue.

“When my mother would come and visit me during my training with the monks, we’d go up the highest point of the temple and watch the stars at night,” Raven swallowed and her purple eyes traced the outlines of constellations she saw above them. “Those were the rare moments she’d spent time with me,”

His fingers curled gently into the swell of her hip as he pictured a young Raven with her mother sitting on top of an Azarath temple watching the stars at night. Tim knew everything there was to know about Raven, and he knew her history with her mother. It was never a pleasant thought to have a parent who spent little to no time with their own child and to have a child hungry for her mother’s affections.

Purple eyes blinked and watched the distant stars flicker and disappear behind moving clouds. She absently returned to tracing the raised flesh of Tim’s forearm. “I really liked those moments.” She paused and inhaled softly. “But I wish we had more moments together,”

She breathed in slowly and she continued to gaze out into the distance. A few more stars appeared from behind moving clouds. “When I saw the mother and Clara, her baby, tonight, I just thought how difficult it must have been for her to be separated from her child. I felt her desperation,”

“Rae, it must have been difficult for your mother to be away from you,” Tim said, chasing after her train of thought.

She twisted in his embrace and her fingers wrapped around Tim’s forearm like an anchor seeking for a semblance of balance. “I know,” she whispered and her eyes locked with blue eyes. “But I – I just do not want my own child to ever feel like I was missing in her life as a mother. She shouldn’t feel like I was distant and she had to seek for my presence in her life,”

Tim felt his breath catch in his throat and his chest tighten. His eyes widened and he saw the urgency and worry in her purple eyes. My child. Today’s image of Raven gently holding Clara the baby close to her chest had his heart beat a few beats faster and he felt himself warm at the thought. “Raven,”

She felt his warm hands slide up her arms and cup her face. Her hands slipped over his and held them pressed against her cheeks to help her ground her emotions. She swallowed and watched the emotions that danced behind Tim’s eyes. “My child shouldn’t feel alone,” she whispered.

“Raven,” Tim breathed softly and dropped his forehead against hers. “She won’t. You’ll be there and you’ll do great as a mother. You’ll have your moments of watching the stars together, and you’ll have so many other moments to share together. It’ll happen,”

He pressed closer to her and their noses touched. He felt himself chasing after her doubts and desperately wanting to ease her out of the worries that kept her awake tonight. His heartbeat was loud in his ears and the thought of a child, a little girl or boy that looked like Raven sent excited sparks down his back. A little child that looked like her, in her arms, showered with love and affection. He smiled lovingly at her. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll be there.”

They never talked about children, the topic never really came up. But did Tim want children with her? Of course he did. Now that it was kind of on the table, he’d follow her lead and support her. He gently stroked her cheeks with this thumbs and smiled. “You won’t do it alone. I’ll be there, we’ll do it together,” his nose gently nudged hers and he continued in a whisper. “If this is what you want,”

Her fingers tightened around his and a smile played on her lips. “Yes,”

Tim chuckled and pressed forward, lips brushing gently against hers before swooping in for a deeper kiss, greedily drinking the soft sigh from her lips. He cupped her cheeks, chasing after her lips. Pulling away gently, Tim smiled at her, blue eyes twinkling in mischief. “Good, because I want to be a very active participant in making this child,”

Raven laughed, suddenly all her fears and doubts dissipating into the crisp Gotham midnight air. Catching his amused smile, Raven leaned forward and kissed his cheek affectionately before wrapping her arms his shoulders and pressing herself into his warmth. She smiled when his strong arms wrapped around her. “I love you, Timothy Drake,”

Tim pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck. “I love you too, soon-to-be Mrs. Raven Drake,”

She squealed softly when Tim suddenly stood up and held her close to his chest. Her arms quickly wrapped around his neck, as he walked them back into his bedroom. “Now c’mon,” he grinned boyishly at her, catching her amused expression. She yelped as he dropped her on their bed and her body bounced on the ridiculously soft mattress.

“I think we need to practice our baby making skills,” he grinned wolfishly at her and began to slowly crawl over her.

Raven chuckled and smiled brightly up Tim. Wrapping her arms around his neck as he pressed close for a deep kiss, her left hand slid into his hair and in the moonlight a diamond ring twinkled teasingly.

Melting into the kiss, Raven sighed. Everything was going to be alright.

[saltskinandasociopath]

welcome home

summary: 

“I lied. I told him I was looking at a photo of my husband - my accomplished, intelligent husband who I didn’t deserve at all. Not a dumb, pathetic boy who can’t keep a thought in his head, " Kibum says.

The blood rushes to Jinki’s cheeks as he feels the familiar, overwhelming burn of embarrassment and insult. His whole world is turning soft and pink and malleable with him.

pairing: onew/key

notes/warnings: written for the summerof5hinee kinktober festival, for the spaces humiliation, dirty talk, and filming/picture/video kink.

The photo is abstract in close-up, a constellation of blurry moles and freckles across a pale swatch.

If Jinki lays it across the top of his naked thigh, it’s almost a perfect match.

1 reads the ink on the back, if he chose to look. Its edges are soft over the years, just over a decade since Kibum clicked the button. A sweet memento of their relationship: the only one of its genre Jinki gets to keep.

The rest of them are wherever Kibum sees fit. One morning he woke to find them laid out in neat rows and columns on the kitchen table. A chronological review showed the gradual dissolution of Jinki’s state of mind. All thoughts discarded from him at that moment, the plan executed as perfect as Kibum’s smile.

He’s made jokes about putting all his photos into flipbooks, something he can tuck into his back pocket beside his wallet and phone. A bland, generic cover to them, so he can review Jinki’s spread form in meetings and on lunch breaks. No one will know what’s behind his smile is his husband of ten years, deep in subspace, eyes glassy with arousal.

Jinki only gets to keep this one, this innocuous close-up. Beyond the edges is the hem of pale pink shorts pushed into a wrinkled mess. The story that preceded it: Kibum’s large hand sliding possessively up from his knee, his other hand clutching the camera and pressing the click . It doesn’t include Jinki’s pleading erection, highlighted by the bunched-up, thin material. It doesn’t include his furious sobs when Kibum finally lets him release.

Jinki clears his throat and puts the photo to the side. Kibum will be home soon enough from his latest trip, peppered throughout with texts and the more typical photos of the well-heeled traveler, sustained on long phone calls in which he complained loudly and often about the assholes he was forced to do business with, to start, and ending with quiet i love you ’s and the even sound of sleeping Jinki has to hang up on. Welcoming him home is enough of a pleasure on its own, regardless of the shade. They’ve toasted his return with soft nights in, cuddling in bed; going out to Kibum’s favorite restaurant and Jinki’s favorite bar, pleasant tipsiness and goofy flirtations like they’re near-strangers again, only imagining falling into bed together.

They could celebrate along the lines of the photo, which Jinki would prefer tonight. Kibum had sent him a photo of his own earlier, himself seated in the airplane. His eyes were sharp and intelligent above the mask. After the airplane would be the taxi that took him home to Jinki, and he had received a quick text assuring him he had landed safely over an hour ago.

Lost in his thoughts, he’s only brought out of it by the sound of a key turning in the door. The stiffness of his movements belie how long he had been adrift in his own wonderings; he sputters along in his mind trying to bring it back to the here and now. He slips on his socked feet, victim of the wood flooring Kibum praised when they first saw the place. The hallway is lined with picture frames of their life together, incredible artwork Kibum picks with care, and the odd plant. At the end of it he sees a dark head bent forward, no doubt setting his bags on the floor. Jinki’s heart patters that furious, familiar rhythm of relief and pleasure from seeing Kibum.

“Hey you,” Kibum says as soon as he sees him. He wears a small smile that Jinki meets with a bigger one that only disappears when their kiss takes its place. It reappears as soon as Kibum pulls away slightly, immediate need to touch satisfied. The bag still on Kibum’s shoulder is starting to fall down to his elbow. Jinki goes to save it and put it on the counter.

“Was your trip good?” he asks. “You want to go take a shower? I can start putting your things away.”

From behind him, Kibum makes a noncommittal noise that Jinki turns to decipher.

Kibum holds one of his photos in his palm, careful only to touch the edges. Otherwise it would grease up the image: a slightly younger Jinki, his lips bitten red, a tear formed at the corner of his eye.

“Oh,” he says. Kibum was never inclined to slow plays or insinuations, and his lack of patience is only amplified after weeks apart. He should have seen this coming, but Jinki always makes room for him to feel otherwise. Sometimes it makes him a little slow.  

Kibum carefully reaches around him to put the photo on the counter. He lays a kiss at the side of Jinki’s neck, nosing away the soft collar of his sweater.

“Do you want to?” he asks. His breath skirts across Jinki’s skin teasingly. Jinki nods and Kibum closes the distance to press a chaste, sweet kiss once more before he pulls back and they begin.

“I was looking at that on the way home. I had to lie to the driver about what it was, when he asked. You know what I told him?”

Jinki shakes his head, and Kibum tuts.

“I told him I was looking at my husband - my accomplished, intelligent husband who I didn’t deserve at all. Not a dumb, pathetic boy who can’t keep a thought in his head.”

The blood rushes to Jinki’s cheeks as he feels the familiar, overwhelming burn of embarrassment and insult. His whole world is turning soft and pink and malleable with him.

“Can you do something if I ask you to?” Kibum says. Jinki’s tongue is dry, so he nods quickly, eyes to the floor. “I need to set something up and not have it spoiled by clumsy hands. Go get dressed for me the way I like. You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he says. Kibum starts at his response, and Jinki can sense the doubting, incredulous curve of his smile, the burning edges of it.

“If you can manage that, then you can wait until I say so. You can come when you’re called.”

“Yes,” Jinki says again, and when Kibum kisses him in dismissal it’s hard, demanding. He hasn’t said a thing about if Jinki can touch himself, but Jinki is dumb but trained well, not about to take the liberty without Kibum’s explicit word.

Jinki fights the urge to ask for one more kiss, one more soft caress, because he’s missed Kibum so much, but the play has already started, and his options are limited. This is what he wanted, and there will be time for that after. There always is.

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

His mind was already lodged in the past, so he digs out the pink shorts. The hem brushes the edges of his palm when he has his arms at his side. They leave his legs bare and shyly exposed, and what is covered is thin and wispy. He pulls his socks off next, flexing his toes cautiously against the cold floor. Last to adjust is his sweater and shirt, gone in a single swoop and deposited in a pile on the chair in the corner. He’s hungry for the embarrassment, the vulnerability and pathetic sight of his arms crossed protectively across his chest, the involuntary disclosure of his belly muscles jumping at Kibum’s knowing touch.

They both would like that.

The change only takes a few moments; it makes sense Kibum hasn’t called yet, but it doesn’t make his hunger any less. He leans his forehead against the wall, creating a strain that prevents him from wondering too expansively about what Kibum has in mind. It could be anything. Kibum is creative, and smart, even after the years they’ve spent together. This dynamic is reliable, trustworthy in how it plays on each of their needs - Kibum likes to tease, to push. Jinki likes to be diminished, naturally sensitive and retiring. Even so, Kibum tries to find new things that inject the sense of discovery once again.

It’s okay. They trust each other. They know their boundaries. And even if Kibum will put him off-balance, he will always pull Jinki back. It’s non-negotiable.

His palms are sweating, he realizes. He rubs them against his side and shivers at the cool brush of air conditioning against his wet skin. It wasn’t on earlier; Kibum must have turned it on. It has the effect he suspects Kibum was seeking - his nipples have stiffened and would brush, sensitive, against any shirt he dared to put on.

Maybe Kibum was trying to keep him from putting a shirt on, but Jinki latches onto this new idea, the awareness of how they would stand out apparent beneath thin, white material. He throws the shirt over his head and takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, the bashful pale skin exposed on his legs, the dark suggestions dotted on his chest, begging to be tweaked.

He’s a dumb boy, but even a dumb boy can figure out the math that will get him fucked.

There’s a knock on the door, followed by Kibum’s voice.

“Come out for me.”

Jinki follows his summons, opening the door. Kibum’s hand closes around his and guides him out with determination. At first nothing seems different at all, focused as he is on Kibum, the freshly showered smell of him, the dusting of water around the shell of his ear. But then he pauses, beside their wedding photo.

Another photo has taken over its corner, Jinki, eyes closed, mouth open to accommodate Kibum’s slender cock. The tip of it rests on his fat bottom lip. The camera flush has illuminated the wetness of saliva on Jinki’s waiting tongue.

“Something wrong?” Kibum asks, as if he’s stupid for pausing at such a sight. Jinki hasn’t seen that one, but the memory of it comes in a rush. Kibum had been lounging casually on the couch, and Jinki bracketed by his knees, lazily nudging at Kibum’s zipper until he had feigned impatience and relented. The TV had buzzed with meaningless chatter behind him, reflecting off of Kibum’s glasses. The small sounds of the camera on the phone being turned on, the fake shutter sound and flash stuttering his eyes open for a moment. Stars into his vision, fading out into a red and pink miasma as Jinki sunk down the length of Kibum’s cock and swallowed.

The photo obscures most of Jinki’s body in the original image, replacing his public politesse, neat and purposeful in its placement.

“A good day,” Kibum says. His voice is so beige he could be talking about either scenario.

Jinki agrees mutely with a nod, and continues to be towed along, helpless in its Kibum’ wake. He’s given a similar treatment to the other hallway decor, and pauses occasionally to let Jinki stare. It reminds Jinki of a dog owner pausing to let the dog sniff at something utterly ordinary to the owner. So Jinki lingers at this image: of himself, supine, smearing at the corners of his mouth; his legs stretched out, his cock peeking out of his boxers. The last one is one Jinki hasn’t seen before: it’s mostly of Kibum, unlike the rest of them, his face in profile. It’s taken over Jinki’s shoulder, the line of it along the bottom of the frame. He must be seated in Kibum’s lap. He can barely see how his mouth is hanging open, a fringe of hair disarrayed and obscuring even that. Kibum in the photo looks up at him, tenderness in the lines of his face..

It’s the edge of Jinki’s climax, it must be - the moment before Kibum lets the interplay’s premise fall apart, the hands that catch Jinki’s descent gentle and tender.

Kibum took him from their bedroom centuries ago, it seems. The last photo is meant as an out, but Jinki doesn’t want it. Everything else has been steadily building up sturdy walls of self-consciousness in Jinki, like he can hardly bear to be in a body so faithfully and intimately documented.

They reach the living room, where Kibum’s bags have been replaced by more photos, placed with care among their daily items: another on the fridge, another leant against the television. There’s a small, polite display of them on the couch. When Jinki starts towards them silently, he sees the category of them: the dildo by itself, his own fingers spreading his cheeks apart, the slow, methodical entry of it. Jinki remembers the broken sounds that tumbled out of his mouth.

Kibum prompts him, asking if he likes it. By his tone it’s obvious he’s repeating himself.

“Yes,” he answers, looking at Kibum properly. The other man looks briefly pleased, and just as swiftly replaces it with an airy sense of dismissal.

“I can do a lot when you’re not here distracting me with your begging,” he says. Jinki flushes again, and Kibum looks at him more critically. His gaze sweeps up and down. He suddenly reaches out to pluck at Jinki’s nipple.

“I like this. You managed to keep blood flowing to what you call a brain long enough.”

Jinki squirms, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Oh, you think you’re cute. Don’t you?” Kibum asks dangerously.

Jinki gives a shy shrug, blush crawling down his chest.

“And do you think being cute and dumb is reason enough to fuck you?” Kibum presses on. He pushes the heels of his hands against Jinki’s hips until he falls to the floor. He scoots clumsily backwards, the rug pulling at the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down and exposing a dark tumble of hair. Kibum only pauses once Jinki’s back is against the couch. He reaches down and out, like he’s going to run long fingers through Jinki’s hair. Instead, he skirts past the contact, an insubstantial phantom suggestion of soothing. One of the photos is plucked between his fingers when he pulls back. He flutters it in front of Jinki’s eyes too fast for him to tell what it is.

He’s already gasping from excitement, already crumbling into a pink haze.

“I spent my entire trip thinking about this. This - “ he pauses and lets Jinki’s eyes adjust to understand the photo, the half-moon circles left by Kibum’s hands into the thick flesh of his ass. “- pathetic, slutty boy who could barely speak to ask me to fill him up. I asked him what he wanted, and all he could say was yes, yes . Pathetic. How he manages to make believe he can function is fucking beyond me.”

A bizarre giddiness sweeps over Jinki. It’s circular, a perfect circular route that takes one moment of humiliation and builds on it. As soon as they knew their limits, and that first photo was taken, printed, pressed into Jinki’s hands by a curiously hopeful Kibum, they would be able to perpetuate. All the divots and grooves of pleasure are well known now, committed in ink that can be pulled out at any time, and send Jinki careening down again. Kibum loves to take the photos, a meticulous record Jinki delights in, knowing they are secure and safely entrusted to Kibum alone. It’s for the two of them, a constancy that shows with every shade their trust and love.  

It roils within him, the eroticism of now, the warm memory of pleasures past, and the steadfast trust Jinki has in Kibum. The tight pressure points of Kibum’s finger against his scalp; the line of his arm as he braces forward; the glint of his eyes - they are all parts of what they’ve built together. And here is Jinki’s role: a pleasurable surrender to sensation, a yielding up of his body, a confession of inadequacy. It’s all Kibum’s to trigger; all Kibum’s to tease out.

In this space, it’s just Kibum and the disparate pieces that may reform into Jinki afterwards. Kibum uses the hand holding the photo to tilt Jinki’s chin back until it’s lying flat on the couch cushion. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of Kibum brushing away the other photos. His eyes focus as he begins to loom over Jinki. There’s a bulge in his pants. Jinki’s mouth starts to water.

His mouth is already open obediently, but Kibum squeezes, pressing his thumb and fingers on either side to force Jinki’s tongue out, pink and wet. With his other hand, he undoes his belt, button, and zipper. Jinki looks up at him.

“Too much coordination to ask of you,” Kibum says, and Jinki nods - of course. He can’t be counted on. He pushes his tongue out further.

Kibum releases the grip on his face and moves up to sweep Jinki’s eyelids down, gentle in his touch. His body relaxed, his mouth open and waiting, the first press of Kibum’s cock against his tongue is bliss.

His length is moved in gradual, deliberate motions; he raises to kneel partly on the couch and push his cock further in, to the back of Jinki’s throat. The change in position blankets Jinki’s sense - the smell and taste of his cock, the fresh smell of the shower and soap on his skin; his arm to the one side, balancing, and his leg to the other. Above Jinki is Kibum’s chest, his shoulders, his neck, his lovely face.

It’s what he wanted, when he was waiting, and he could always trust Kibum to know and to bring him to this place. He was more generous than he deserved, to not only press him into the headspace of comfortable dumbness and submission, but to do so in his own artful way that made the descent an easy, inevitable slide. His cock is a hard length in Jinki’s mouth, the weight of his presence intoxicating and smothering. Jinki doesn’t deserve the gift of it.  

He lies there, embarrassed and humiliated just to be in Kibum’s impeccable orbit, even as he yearns to be used in some way, to have his face fucked, to be a cute, dumb afterthought for Kibum to indulge in. As frivolous and empty as could be asked for, that’s what he will be. The humiliation of it all, the unflinching documentation of how long Jinki has sought this out, how long Kibum has tolerated it: it’s warmth, it’s pleasure.

It’s what he needs, and he opens his mouth wider. He lays slack and free for Kibum to bury his cock in.

“There he is,” Kibum says roughly. He rewards Jinki with a sweet touch to his cheek. “There’s that sad, slutty boy of mine. You never can hide it, can you, Jinki?”

Jinki shakes his head. He can feel a tear bud to life at the corner of his eyes. Kibum’s thumb lurches out its path so it can streak his skin, another mark to his vulnerability in this moment.

“I missed you,” Kibum continues on. His voice remains tinged with roughness. Jinki fights not to gag, eager for more. “I missed you so, so much.”

Jinki breathes in through his nose, sharp and keenly aware of his own hardness, the dark streaks betraying his leaking cock. The lights surrounding Kibum’s head make it difficult to see the features of his face, and sting when Jinki tries to see.

He shouldn’t even be trying to see. He knows it’s Kibum there; he knows the weight of him, the smell of him, better than he knows himself. If Kibum’s here, if Kibum’s is deigning to use him, he has no right to ask for anything else.

He knows well the sound of Kibum approaching the finish, the near erraticism it brings about in his rhythm. There’s no denying it, and he hopes that this’ll be another photo, another memory to cherish and hide away for their future. Jinki’s head is full of fuzzy anticipation for the stagger-shot moment, when Kibum will gasp and fold over, press a kiss to the back of Jinki’s head, guide his cock out of Jinki’s mouth, ask him to swallow like a good boy. And then he can start thinking about his own relief, jerking himself off as Kibum watches, criticism lurking at the tip of his tongue.

It changes in a moment, though. Kibum pulls out of his mouth and kneels over Jinki’s bare legs. He roughly pulls at Jinki’s shorts, making him cry out in a startle as his own cock is revealed. Kibum smiles, breathless, wolfish.

“Let’s compare,” he says, and Jinki doesn’t understand, not until Kibum presses his own cock against Jinki’s and wraps his hand around it, pumping them both off at the same time. Jinki moans helplessly at the sight, at Kibum’s insistent placement of the two of them together. His cock next to Kibum’s is fat and purpled with pathetic need, and Kibum’s is slender and slick and primed to finish. He could have just let him come after, in the afterthought of Kibum’s usage, a scrap of his own pleasure, but Kibum is continuing to chase after Jinki’s orgasm, refusing to let him go until he collapses.

What can he do but accede, as humiliating as it is, his own issue pulsing out and coating his dusky hair right alongside Kibum’s. Kibum has his left hand wrapped possessively around the back of Jinki’s neck in a familiar motion even as he shudders through it. A few moments to breathe squeeze their way into this space. The fuzz in Jinki’s head is like steel wool, sharp in its conflicting feelings.

Kibum pulls his hand back and digs into his pocket. The disruption of it pulls Jinki into a sleepy, blinking awareness.

His other hand, the one sticky with their cum, is held out expectantly. Kibum is his steady ground, his rock. He puts Jinki back together again, when Jinki breaks apart in his hands.

Gravity is what it is. The shutter of the camera goes off as Jinki’s tongue flickers out to clean up the mess.

He wonders when he’ll get to see that one.

[ronniesshoes]

#15 for not_the_drummer

Warnings: Drunk bassists. Guitarists getting their hair cut for that same reason. Oh, and more sex than actual plot

Still high on post-show adrenaline, Freddie bounces down the stairs to deliver a slap to Brian's arse, smacking a kiss to John's cheek on the way. The show had been outstanding: they weren't too bothered by the cameras, the crowd had sung along, and the shoulders of the dressed up superman had offered an excellent view of the audience. An even lovelier view had they been treated with when Roger took off his shirt for the last couple of songs. The tie on him is a good look, Freddie thinks - a bunny tail butt plug and a pair of ears, and he would make the loveliest little plaything.

Reaching the dressing room, Freddie calls out Roger's name, but the drummer is nowhere to be found, and his enthusiasm deflates slightly. He had looked forward to a quick shag in the dressing room to take off the edge before going back to the hotel to eat and then engage in a second, much slower round, with champagne and strawberries and sensuous massages.

Just then, Roger appears, still in tight trousers but with a clean t-shirt on, messy hair sticking to his still damp forehead. He greets him with a sly smile and a quick kiss, but ducks away again before Freddie can even attempt to grab his arse. Instead, Roger reaches for the red tie hanging loosely from around Freddie's neck, his smile turning lazy.

"Always liked you in a tie," he murmurs, baby blues flicking over Freddie's body while clever fingers work on loosening the garment around his neck.

The tie slides off Freddie's neck, and Roger balls it up and stuffs it in his pocket. "Why don't you go wash up and then we'll meet back at the hotel in," he glances at his watch, "half an hour?"

Freddie doesn’t get to formulate a reply before Roger has turned around. He watches him disappear out the door, the back of his neck prickling pleasantly.

50 minutes later, the driver pulls up in front of the hotel, and with a quick thank you, Freddie hurries out the car and inside the warm, lit reception. He generally makes a rule of being fashionably late, but to keep people waiting when there's a good possibility that they are naked and willing is just plain bad form. Pressing the button for the lift, he curses both bassist and guitarist.

A wail had had him jumping out of the shower before the soap was even out of his hair, only to find Brian in tears, hair stuck in a hairdryer that a clearly intoxicated Deaky had appeared with at some point while Freddie was in the shower, plugged in and set to work on the poor guitarist's hair. It had taken Freddie a good twenty minutes to get it out, and then the hair that had been stuck in the dryer looked so awful he had to cut it, making tears well up in Brian's eyes again. 

Suppressing a shudder, Freddie exists the lift, grateful to know that he won't have to deal with either man for the next 12 hours.

"Honey, I'm home!" he calls as he enters the hotel suite, snorting to himself because he imagines it's the kind of thing John would say whenever back in his bubble of domestic bliss, and drops his keys on the counter before toeing off his shoes. The suite is dark, and he cautiously makes his way to the bedroom, hoping for the sake of the drummer that he hasn't fallen asleep.

A few candles flicker when he opens the door, illuminating the features of the figure in bed, propped up on his elbows and with a sultry smile on his lips. He is wearing Freddie's tie, and black lace hugs his slender hips, his skin golden in the warm light. His hair is attractively mussed, and his lips are curiously swollen like he's been going down on someone for the past hour.

"There you are at last." Roger's voice is husky when he speaks, "been lying here waiting for you. I swear I'm so aching hard, could barely contain myself."

When he gets up on his knees, the thin, see-through fabric of his knickers proves that he's not lying, and Freddie licks his lips. There's something undeniably dirty about the image of Roger lying alone in dark, touching himself while waiting for him to arrive, and Freddie feels his cock swell.

"C'mere," Roger whispers, reaching out to touch him. Freddie is drawn to the foot of the bed where Roger is waiting, and when Roger's fingers brush over his jaw and lips, a shiver runs down his spine. The drummer looks at him for a moment, eyes lazily scanning his face before he lowers his gaze and presses a kiss to his neck.

Closing his eyes, Freddie lets his hands skim up Roger's naked sides while clever fingers make short work of the buttons on his shirt. When it's halfway open, strong hands find their way inside, hot mouth sucking kisses to his chest.

"What do you want me to do?" Roger mumbles, lips tracing his jaw, fingers reaching down to brush over his clothed crotch. Freddie's hips buck forward.

He opens his eyes, rubs a thumb over Roger's lips until they part. "These lips would look magnificent wrapped around my cock, don't you think?"

"Yes," Roger rasps, pressing his body close to Freddie's, his voice dropping to a low whine, "I want to. I wanna taste you, feel your cock on my tongue. God, I want it so bad."

"Well, since you beg so prettily, I shan't deny you," Freddie says, because he's a giver.

He lets Roger help him ease out of his trousers, and Freddie sighs in relief as his cock is freed. Roger is straining against the delicate fabric of his underwear, and Freddie makes a mental note to get him out of them before they burst at the seams.

Once Freddie has arranged himself on the bed, Roger crawls towards him on all four, presses a short, sweet kiss to his lips, and then lowers his head. Roger's hair is tickling his thighs, a stark contrast to the tight fist around the base of his cock. Eyes flicking up to meet Freddie's, Roger's lips pull into a smile that makes him dizzy with want, and he reaches down to tangle his fingers in blond locks, urging him on. Roger lets himself be guided until his lips are almost touching the head of Freddie's cock, then he flicks his tongue over the tip, collecting the pre-cum oozing from it. His lips close tightly around the head, and Freddie bites back a moan.

What Roger might lack in finesse, he certainly makes up for in enthusiasm, and Freddie distractedly wishes he'd thought to bring a camera with him because Roger on his knees in tie and lace might just be the loveliest subject he can think of. A particularly hard suck and generous fondling of his balls have him bucking up into the wet heat of his mouth, but Roger doesn't bat an eyelid.

"Don't get too carried away, Rog," he breathes when it becomes clear that he isn't going to stop anytime soon. Roger looks up at him, eyes wide and looking almost innocent, before releasing him with a wet 'pop'. Eyes still trained on him, he licks his swollen lips, and Freddie brings him up for a bruising kiss.

Freddie can taste himself in Roger's mouth, sharp and bitter and desperate. Roger's hands are tight on his hips.

“Freddie,” Roger whispers between kisses, leaning back until his back hits the mattress. He looks absolutely delectable spread out like that, all for Freddie to have whichever way he chooses. Settling between Roger’s legs, he rubs a hand over the lace fabric, and Roger groans, spreading his legs wide and letting his head fall back, golden locks in a pile on the crumpled sheets. 

Freddie gives his own cock a few languid strokes. "You are so hungry for my cock, aren't you? Just sucking it makes you all hard and aching."

"C-could've come right there," Roger agrees breathlessly, "please, Freddie ..."

"You look so pretty in these," he says thoughtfully, tracing along the hem of the underwear and circling a jutting hipbone with his index finger, "it'd be such a shame for you to ruin them, we might just have to take them off."

Roger's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded when he looks at him, his tongue coming out to swipe over his lips, chest heaving. A sigh escapes him when Freddie hooks a thumb under the strip of lace and peels off the knickers, and Freddie pauses to really take in the sight of him - hairline dampened with sweat, plump lips pink and shiny, skin flustered, nipples hard and cock standing proud.

He tangles the piece of lingerie between his fingers letting one end hang free, and Roger is watching him through hazy eyes. His stomach muscles clench as Freddie lets the delicate fabric graze his skin, and Roger shivers, eyes falling shut. Enthralled by the sight, he continues to tease the drummer with featherlike touches of black lace until Roger props himself up on his elbows again to watch as he lets them tease his inner thighs, letting out soft whimpers all the while. His lower body jerks suddenly when his cock is touched, and Freddie's own cock stirs in response to Roger choking out his name.

He is about to move on from there when Roger rolls away and sits up to open and look through the drawers in the nightstand. Freddie scoots up behind him, mouth catching his earlobe. 

"You won't believe how good you look right now," he whispers, tongue flicking in the dip behind his ear and continuing with wet kisses to the back of his neck. Roger stills his movement, ever so subtly leans into him, his warm backside against the length of Freddie's body. His hands settle on Roger's hips, pulling slightly until the drummer shifts so he's down on all four. He trails kisses down his spine, the skin warm and smooth against his lips, and he can feel each shaky breath Roger takes. When he reaches the small of his back, Freddie sits back on his feet to take in the sight of the younger man. Teasingly, his palms slide up the back of Roger's thighs, follow the curve of his buttocks. Roger is quiet, his body taut, but Freddie feels him shiver when he brushes his lips over the light hairs which dress his lower back.

He presses a kiss to each buttock, parts them gently, and Roger is trembling with need and spreading his knees far apart as Freddie breathes hotly against his arse. He flicks his tongue over his opening, feels the tight ring of muscles twitch against his mouth, and Roger shudders and whimpers into the pillow.

"I'm gonna make you come so hard you won't remember your name for days," he purrs, and he knows Roger can feel it all over, his hips pushing back against the wet strokes of his tongue.

"Fuck," Roger whimpers as Freddie licks him open, his back arching beautifully.

"I might just have to, dear," he whispers, removing his mouth, and Roger whines at the loss. "Where'd you put the lube?"

"Here," the drummer breathes, reaching back to fumble for the bottle of lube lost somewhere between the sheets. When he finds it, he sits up on his knees, pours a generous amount of lube out and rubs his hands together to warm it up, getting his palms slick with it. Freddie lets out a low hiss when a strong hand wraps around his cock, begins to pump slowly. Roger is watching his own hand move along his shaft, and Freddie involuntarily leans closer when he licks his lips. Roger looks up again, and Freddie captures his mouth in a kiss sweetened by the slick pressure of his hand around his cock. When he breaks away, Roger lets go of him, lies back down on the bed, feet flat on the mattress and his knees spread far apart. He rubs a slick thumb over his opening, eyes falling shut as he works himself open.

Eyes still on the show being put on for him, Freddie picks up the discarded underwear, tentatively twisting them to see if they'd work as makeshift handcuffs.

"That's enough," he says, grabbing Roger's wrist when he moves on to his balls, rolling them in the palm of his hand and making them glisten with lube.

"Then get on with it," Roger urges.

A little impatient himself, Freddie lines up, the tip of his cock nudging Roger's entrance. Roger stretches his arms above his head, preening under his gaze. Freddie takes that as a sign to begin, and he pushes past the ring of muscle, slowly, closely watching as the grin on Roger's face is wiped off, his lips parting to let out a stunned sort of noise.

The tight heat around his cock almost too much, and Freddie can’t stop the swear leaving his mouth.

“Move,” Roger urges, pushing his hips against Freddie’s.

Freddie lets out a snort that ends in a gasp. “You’re such a bossy bitch, darling.”

A smile stretches Roger’s lips, and Freddie fights to keep his pace, already barely able to contain himself. He inhales deeply the scent of sweat and stearin, and his eyes flick to the bedside table in an attempt to distract himself. 

“Candles and everything, I'm impressed,” he whispers, groaning when Roger clenches around his cock, “no injuries?"

"Of course," Roger says with a grin, bringing his red fingers to Freddie's lips.

Freddie kisses them lightly before speeding up his pace, and Roger tangles his hands in his hair. "No roses?"

"I only had, ah, half an - fuck," Roger breathes, pushing back forcefully.

"So this is what you got me for our anniversary?" he asks, reaching up to tweak a nipple that makes Roger jerk in pain, "what a lousy present."

Roger tightens his grip in Freddie's hair and brings his face close to his own. Freddie is moving in and out of him in long, slow strokes, and Roger sighs out his name. "First time we fuck does not make for an anniversary."

Freddie snorts softly and kisses down his neck, making Roger squirm and beg.

“Please, Freddie,” he moans, and Freddie kisses his noisy mouth. Blunt nails dig into his shoulder blades, and Freddie is so close already.

"Yes,” he breathes harshly, "wrap your hand around your cock and come for me.”

Roger chokes on his breath and complies, knuckles grazing Freddie’s stomach as he pulls tight and fast on his cock. Freddie picks up his pace, toes curling as he strains for release. 

“Fuck,” Roger swears, and comes hotly between them. Freddie follows with a groan, hips jerking desperately in an effort to keep up with the rush of orgasm. He collapses onto Roger with a grunt.

For a minute, they lie together in a sticky, heaving pile. Then Roger pushes him.

“Move, you heavy sod,” he laughs, “I’m starving. What took you so long anyway?”

“Now?” Freddie asks, confused. He accepts a kiss from Roger and rolls off him.

“Before,” Roger says, giving himself a quick wipe with the sheets and rolling out of bed. He winches as he stands. “I was this close to driving back to the stadium to retreat your sorry arse.”

Freddie watches him dig through three drawers before finding the phone book. He brings it back to bed along with the phone, almost tripping over the wire. 

“I had to cut Brian’s hair,” Freddie says, reaching out to lazily run his fingers up and down Roger’s side.

Roger looks up from the phone book, puzzled. “Why on Earth did you have to cut his hair?”

“From what I gathered, Deaks assaulted him with a hairdryer.”

Roger lets out a soft snort. “Of course,” he says, lying back against the pillows. ”Sushi?”

While Roger orders, Freddie plants kisses down his chest. His tongue dips down his bellybutton, and Roger squirms, stopping mid-sentence and glaring down at Freddie who smiles innocently before lowering to his mouth to suck more kisses to hot and salty skin. When he moves to press kisses to his inner thighs and still sensitive balls, Roger slaps a hand over the receiver and hisses, "stop that!" before continuing with his order.

“You’re so cruel to me,” Freddie sighs when Roger has finally hung up.

Roger slides a hand into his hair. “I’m buying you food, you ungrateful bastard.”

"Hm,” Freddie says, thinking of tragic take out boxes and disposable chopsticks. He skims a hand over Roger’s still damp stomach and smiles. “And I'll eat it right off you, dear." 

[writingreactsandwords]

Hi! Could I get DAI LIs (pre-romance) reacting to a Desire Demon taking the appearance of the half-naked (or fully naked? Demons don't play around) Inquisitor to try to seduce and possess them? (maybe the team ended up in the Fade and got separated or something). In detail, if you feel like it, and maybe also non-LI companions reacting to seeing their leader like that, if you -really- feel like it. Hope I'm not asking too much!

Jumping right to it, anon! You’re not asking too much at all, though I do deeply apologise if this bloody essay of a post pops up on your dash when you’re not interested.

But honestly, long/big requests are no trouble. Might just take a little longer! I hope you like it! (Spoilers for Inquisition and Trespasser! Not, like, too NSFW but I wouldn’t want my mom reading it. Foul language ahead, buckaroos.)

Cullen (pre-romance):

Demons he knows too well.

When he sees her standing there, something inside him cracks for a moment. Cold, polished stone floors. His heavy Templar armour, the pain and sweat. The blood on the floor, the smell of abominations and growing, pulsing, rotting flesh. Her image is blinded briefly by the white translucent walls that had caged him, had trapped him in with anything that Uldred had seen fit to punish him with.

And then, as always, the cracks melt together again. A little tighter, more strained, more fragile. But his eyes can see what’s there.

It’s wearing her skin, her voice. And Maker is she perfect, the sight of her breaks whatever convincing he’d done to persuade himself he wasn’t as besotted as he felt.

Demon, he reminds himself, and the anger comes back. That it took what he wanted and wore her like a gown, took her body and made his first sight of her like this when she was unwilling, unaware. That it would use her as a game piece to break his mind makes the rage burn red hot in his chest.

“Cullen,” she whispers, and somehow he hears it as if it’s in his ear despite the distance. “Love. Darling. Aren’t you going to touch me?”

The leather of his gloves makes a soft noise as it curls around the grip of his sword. 

“Stop,” he says, and is ashamed of how his voice is strangled and cracked. Ashamed of how he can’t look at this thing.

“She doesn’t want you, Cullen,” she said, stronger and harsher, the tone of someone doling out hard truths. “I am the only version of her you’ll get. Give in to this. I’m soft. I’m real. As real as you want me to be.”

“Try harder,” he growls out, and his eyes are shut when he strikes the killing blow. 

Solas (pre-romance):

The Fade was, undoubtedly, a place of strange beauty. With its gravity-defying topography, electric greens weaving through the air and clouding the horizon with mist. The ever-present sense of danger, of eyes and fingers creeping up spines unseen. The Black City, as they called it, hung close enough that he felt he could reach out to touch it.

Yet none of it was as strange as her.

All softness and muscle stood like some terribly lifelike, terribly beautiful sculpture. She was the opposite of the rocky pitted ground. The opposite of terror.

Her presence made everything different, but it wasn’t her.

“This won’t work,” he warned, already gliding the staff into his usual stance. The spirit looked at him with hooded, sweet eyes. She was so beautiful, though admiring her here felt like a betrayal of trust. Like he should be admonished for being a peeping tom.

“I know,” it said simply. Her voice felt like something hard and sharp in his chest. “You don’t have many weaknesses, Wolf.”

He watched her and raised a dark eyebrow.

“She is one of mine?” He admired her, yes. Despite many- despite all of his better judgements, he couldn’t help but try to charm her. Couldn’t help but take solace in her, marvel at her intelligence and empathy.

It was wrong. He had not, wouldn’t (couldn’t) allow it to go further. The spirit’s spiteful grin made him shudder.

“She will be, Wolf. As you will be hers.”

He watched her as the disguise melted away in front of his eyes, a demonic violet woman stood in the Inquisitor’s place. Curiosity burnt, but he looked at it with icy eyes.

“Stand and fight.” He had to get back to the others, to her.

Cassandra (pre-romance):

Cassandra is a practical woman. She has never stilled her sword when she knew the enemy and knew the intentions behind them.

She knows now as the Inquisitor stands in front of her, naked and smiling, that he’s not him. He looks like him, certainly. Down to every hair, every dip and curve, the face she’s committed to memory despite it being downright pathetic. And… Below. Places she’s definitely not seen are still undoubtedly him.

But she knows what it is. A desire demon. Characterised, when in it’s ‘true’ form, by purple skin and long curling horns. Often female. Certainly not female right now, she thinks. Her eyes dart down, and her shame is amplified by that subtle, smug smile.

Her shield lifts when he reaches toward her.

“I could give you what you want, Cassandra,” he says in a perfect replica of the Herald’s voice. “Love. Sex. Passion. Take my hand, love. I’ll give you what he won’t.”

I want him, the real thing, she thinks though she shames herself for how soft it is. She has been tested many times before, in more difficult situations than this. 

“Die, demon,” she hisses.

Dorian (pre-romance):

Dorian knows the tricks of demons as well as any mage. They enter his dreams, his life, wait with bated breath for the pleasure of owning a man with such power as he. Sometimes desire demons, yes, offering sex and some of his deeper wishes in trade for something harmless on the surface yet terribly wicked beneath.

He’s spent far too much time with their shadow to be scared of them.

He watches the demon taking strong, graceful steps across the ground of the Fade in the body of the Inquisitor with bored eyes. Mind games. Taking his surface attraction of the man they called a leader and standing in his naked body. Trying to tempt him.

Still, Dorian remains quiet. 

“The Herald wants you,” the demon said in his voice. “He thinks about you at night, in his more… intimate moments.”

“Does he now?” Dorian asked, bored. “Whatever you’re trying to entice me with, it won’t work.” He adjusted his staff in his hand, an eyebrow raised.

“But he doesn’t care about you,” it said, ignoring him. Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t love you. Won’t love you. He just wants to fuck you, like all the others.”

Demons lie and trick, and besides, why in the name of the Maker would I care? He tells himself, even as something inside him hurts and his grip on the weapon tightens so much that splinters dig into his palm.

“You’re smart, Dorian. There’s nothing out of here for you. There’s nothing you can fix or do. But I can give you everything. I know you love him. I look like him, I sound like him, I can build you a reality that loves you back.”

Every word just makes him angrier, and his resolve doesn’t falter once as the mana charges up from his fingertips.

Josephine (pre-romance):

She wasn’t even meant to be here.

Josephine’s cheeks were already dark red from panic, her breaths short and her fingers gripping the ruffled sleeves of her shirt. She thought the rifts led to the same place, yet here she was, with no Inquisitor beside her-

Until there was. She felt the presence before she saw it, turned terrified with images of demons conjured, stood weaponless against an enemy triple her size. She spun, unprepared but ready- and came face to face with a person.

“Oh, Inquisitor! I-”

The press of their lips to the edge of her jaw is… unexpected. Unpleasant, almost. It’s not that she hasn’t thought about it. About them. Of course she has, they’re… The Inquisitor. Strong, brave, intelligent. Yet the mix of terror and surprise and relief and- something just being wrong has tainted it anyway. Rotted it, soured it.

The press of them naked against her breaks whatever shock was keeping her still. She nearly fell as she stumbled away from them.

“I-Inquisitor?” She said, her fear and embarrassment amplifying tenfold. They’re stood bare, mouth curled up into a smile clearly meant to be alluring but doing nothing but setting off warning bells. “You are… Not the Herald.”

“I could be,” it says with their voice, “if that’s what you want, Josephine.”

A desire demon, then. She watches it speechless, almost admiring of how complex their disguise is. Brought from her own mind, likely- her cheeks stain darker as she realises its naked form is from her own shameful fantasies.

It’s cunning, clearly. Clever. A creature of crafted deals and words, this she knows. But so is Josephine.

Stood weaponless against an enemy. Not quite. The Inquisitor would be looking for her, she knew. All she had to do was stall.

“Let us talk about what I want, then.”

The Iron Bull (pre-romance):

Bull doesn’t like demons, though he sure as hell likes the view.

Lately, the Inquisitor has been playing on his mind pretty bad, though he’s not certain why. There are some pretty clear reasons- they’re stunning, strong, genuine. They’re funny. They think he’s funny.

So the demons picked up on that, huh? He thinks, flinching as he imagines phantom fingers digging into his mind, his thoughts, picking out his daydreams and fantasies. Until they could build up the visual that had been pacing his conscious and cover themselves with it.

He knows people are weaker than they want to be and think they are, but still. That he was so easy to figure out is humiliating in its way. Terrifying in others.

“So what are you, then?” He asks, quietly. The demon’s eyes spark, something malicious and amused that don’t fit his Inquisitor’s features. It makes their body look more like a costume. A hot costume, admittedly, but with none of the character.

“I’m yours, Bull,” they say, almost sing-song, breathy and gentle. It works its way inside his ears until he can imagine the real Inquisitor saying it. Saying it in Herald’s rest, whispering it in his ear, saying it on top of him, underneath, anywhere.

He can’t help letting his eyes drag across them as they step even closer, head tilted just a little bit, hands sliding over their own skin.

“You’re good,” he nods, “but I fucking hate demons.”

He brings down the axe as they snarl.

Sera (pre-romance):

“This isn’t fucking real!” Sera yells, her voice straining against her own pitch. There’s green fucking everywhere, and there are floating rocks and- and- there are demons and shit and it’s the Fade and you don’t piss about in the fucking Fade and you don’t see the girl you’ve been pissing fantasising about in your actual dreams all naked and shit in front of you and-

“I’m as real as you want me to be, Sera,” she says, eyes sparkling with delight and- other stuff. Sera’s been squeezing at the grip of her bow awkwardly for the last however long naked Quizzy’s been stood there.

Like, what, a minute? Too long. Too close. Demon. Solas had even gone through the types- what’s this one? Desire.

She looks so… Her. It isn’t right. It isn’t close to right. Everything’s wrong and the actual Inquisitor is off somewhere with the others, or alone, and here Sera is having a stand-off with her fantastically naked body-double.

“Nothing’s real here,” Sera says, “except me. You’re just some- some piss demon.”

“Oh, Sera…” The Inquisitor says, her voice all moan-y and it’s never like that usually however much she wishes it was. “Look at me. There’s no danger in me. I’m just what you want. What you need. I might not be real, but the real Inquisitor… She wants nothing to do with you.”

“Fuck off,” she says, shaking, even though she’s letting the Inquisitor’s hand reach towards her, sliding over the air above her hip and it would be so good.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, love.”

And suddenly - venemously - her mind hisses, not real though, and she’s slamming the bow into the demon’s pretty face.

Blackwall (pre-romance):

“Inquisit–” Blackwall chokes on his words when he sees her. After the destructive wake of realisation has settled - and it takes a while, embarrassingly - his first thought is, absurdly, it’s been too long. He looks at the Inquisitor’s nakedness bluntly, unable to do anything else.

The would-be Warden does take a bitter sort of comfort in his self-flagellating, denying habits. I don’t deserve it is a common thought of his, so the last time he took relief in another person was…

It’s been too long.

He watches her with a dry mouth, words clawing up but choking out somewhere between the centre of his chest and his throat. He plants his feet a little more firmly into the pockmarked ground of the Fade, don’t forget this isn’t real, and curls his finger into fists as the supposed Inquisitor makes her way towards him.

Maker, she is… He wants so many things he can’t have.

The Inquisitor did not let them step into the Fade without knowledge. They all knew of the demons. They all knew they’d be more susceptible alone. “End it quickly, firmly, and do not give them a chance,” the Commander, Cullen, had told them. An ex-Templar with experience enough to look a little haunted at the thought of demons.

Despite it all, he’s allowed her to come this close. It. It to come this close. He breathes heavy when she, it, it raises its hand. Soft and warm and it lands on his bearded face not chastely, anything but; those eyes look at him with promise. Her mouth opens, wet and shining and-

“Thom.”

The illusion breaks. He raises his sword.

[thefantasticalcoyote]

For @promptis-fanweek Day 4, the prompts “hurt/comfort” and “please don’t leave me” which, oh boy. I love pain and I’ve read all the Prompto whump fics but well....haven’t seen this specific injury done yet. I’m sorry. 

Title: Though Underexposed   Rating: M Warnings: Severe Hand Trauma, Blood/Gore Summary: Prompto gets badly injured after a mid-battle landslide, leaving Noctis to figure out how to fix things before it’s too late. 

 In hindsight, fighting a behemoth at the edge of the cliff was a bad idea. However, at the time ending the battle had seemed much more advantageous than trying to lure it away into less dicey territory. Noctis’ muscles had ached and they were nearly scraping the bottom in terms of curatives, so he’d focused on taking the creature down even as the battle forced his back closer and closer towards the precipitous cliff.

Just as Noctis felt he might give out from exhaustion, the rapid-fire combo of a greatsword and bullet to the behemoth’s skull finally cracked it wide open, sending the beast reeling into its death throes. Preemptive victory cries went up from his companions, and Noctis opened his mouth to join them when the behemoth crashed against the ground and sent violent shockwaves trembling through the earth that didn’t stop even when the creature’s death throes jerked to a halt.

Noctis stuck his arms out, balance suddenly thrown off at the vibrations roiling underneath his feet. His eyes widened, sweeping about the cracks suddenly forming in the stone below, one in particular zig-zagging sharply between his legs. He swore as the earth under one foot shifted, suddenly lower than the other.

He shouted out a warning and prepared himself to warp over away from the earth breaking apart beneath him, to where he thought the rest of his party stood, until he remembered Prompto was farther away from them, closer to the edge of the cliff that had started to tumble down towards the ground far below. Ignoring Ignis’ cries of warning, he sprinted towards his other friend, who seemed dazed—had he been hit by some kind of ailment during the battle none of them had noticed?—and grabbed the wrist still extended out in front on him, gun clasped in his fingers.

Noctis opened his mouth to shout Prompto into action when the ground beneath the both of them gave completely away.

The world up-ended around Noctis as he fell, hand squeezing tightly around Prompto’s wrist in a desperate attempt to secure himself though his friend was in the same predicament. He curled his arm over his head and tucked his chin towards his chest, hoping to protect his skull as he tumbled down the cliffside, body battered by stones and debris as the landslide carried him down, down, down—

Despite his vise grip around Prompto’s wrist, the force of collapsing rock slamming into his back and chest soon winded him, sending crushing pain wheezing through his lungs—enough to force him to loosen his hold. Before he could react he felt Prompto’s arm jerk out of his hold, his desperate cry of the blonde’s name drowned out by the deafening crumble of stone and earth and one awful, chilling scream.

He had no further breath himself when he finally impacted the ground below, his voice hollow at the sharp pain in his ribs as he rolled down the rocky, uneven incline. More stones bounced and clattered around him, one catching the top of his head with a sudden, stinging pain. He winced, curling in further on himself as he let his body tumble to a stop, hunched and still as he listened to the sounds around him, waiting for the thundering noise to stop.

Once Noctis was fairly sure the slide had ground to a halt, he opened up from his curled position, palms planted as flat as they could on the rough ground as he propped himself up on his hands and knees. He coughed and knit his eyebrows together, trying to force away the dizziness from his vision. Ugh.

After a couple moments of steady breathing, he managed to push himself up into a crouching position and took a look around, trying to find where he’d landed—and more importantly, where Prompto had gone.

He saw nothing, immediately, aside from broken rock and earth strewn about. The chaos of the landslide must have had tossed them apart from one another. He could no longer see Prompto, but the terrible scream he’d heard as they’d tumbled down the cliff turned his stomach to ice as he coughed more dust from his lungs, trying to squint through the haze.

“Prom?” He called, voice rough from exertion and dirt, too weak to carry far. He swallowed, getting more saliva into his throat before trying again. “Prom? You okay?”

He strained his ears, trying to hear a response and not think about the likelihood that Prompto had been knocked unconscious—or worse. He stilled even his breathing, though the blood pounding in his ears refused to quiet.

Thankfully, he could still hear the muffled sobbing despite it.

Noctis pushed him up to his feet so quickly he nearly lost his balance, boots slipping against the crumbled rock as he surged in the direction of the crying. It couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else, and as the noise grew louder and clearer Noctis’ stomach knotted tighter and tighter in fear of what he was about to find.

He carefully rounded a particularly large rock, shaking hands propped up against it as he scanned the ground, eyes falling on the dusty boot that abruptly came into view. He shoved against the rock, rushing over to his downed friend.

Prompto was splayed out flat against his back—or as flat as he could be lying with broken, scattered rocks stabbing into his spine. His body was splotched with dust and half covered in rocks, his face turned away from Noctis’, though he could hear his moans of pain all too clearly. Despite his friend’s battered state, relief washed over Noctis as he slid down to Prompto’s side, grasping the largest rock pinning him down. At least he was still alive.

But the moment Noctis tried to pry the rock off of Prompto’s limb, his body jerked like he’d been shocked by lightning. His head whipped around, eyes wide and wild with pain as he screeched. Noctis started and nearly dropped the rock, but managed to toss it to the side before his numb fingers lost their grip. He fell to one knee, trying to clear away the rest of the debris as Prompto curled on his side and clawed viciously at his trapped forearm.

“Prom, hey, what’s going on?”

Prompto could only shake his head, cries mindless from pain Noctis still didn’t understand. He felt ill with worry as he finally cleared off the last of the rubble, his vision suddenly going off-kilter as he tried to comprehend what was underneath.

It looked like some kind of disgusting red flower had bloomed from Prompto’s wrist, taking the place of his hand. Strips of flesh and bone were only barely visible thanks to the blood pouring from the horrible wound, running in streams down his arm and dripped onto the dirt below. Prompto got one brief glimpse of his hand before he choked and jerked his head to the side, eyes screwed shut. He managed to bite his lip for a couple seconds before he couldn’t help it and vomited, a dribble of fluid splattered out onto the ground.

Noctis’ sight churned, stomach tempted to follow suit.

Prompto’s gloved hand came to press up against his mouth, teeth biting into his knuckle as he fought to stay conscious. As Noctis watched, his mangled hand twitched with involuntary movement, as if wanting to join its sibling in smothering Prompto’s cries.

His face blanched, eyes moving away to stare at nothing for a moment, though the image of Prompto’s injured hand refused to leave. Noctis squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the pained little gasps and wheezes and muffled whimpers of gods no made it difficult.

It wasn’t like Noctis hadn’t dealt with severe injuries before, but somehow cuts and gashes and gunshot wounds to the torso or limbs seemed less bad than this. It disturbed him on a deeper, more visceral level than the usual wounds he’d witnessed. Prompto’s hand no longer looked like it even belonged to a person any more.

Noctis swallowed, feeling acid start to creep up into the back of his throat. Gods, disgusting as this was he wasn’t going to let it get the better of him, not when Prompto desperately needed his help to get through this. Any further hesitation on his part pushed Prompto further and further away from the help he needed to get his hand back to normal. If he suffered any kind of long-lasting damage after this, Noctis would never let himself off the hook.

He had a potion on hand, but if Prompto’s bones were crushed out of alignment—and there was no way they weren’t—it wouldn’t do much good. Curatives could fix fractures and cracks providing the bone had mostly kept together, but Prompto’s hand had been flattened beneath the rock, and Noctis knew all those tiny, pin-like bones were probably smashed out of place. Giving him a potion would probably do more harm than good at this point.

Noctis hissed under his breath, trying to weigh his options.

He couldn’t warp with Prompto—and probably shouldn’t, considering how bad the sudden movement would hurt his hand—but he could probably go to get help on his own and direct the others down to where they were. Sheer as the terrain was, Gladio and Ignis had access to the car and any supplies there they could use to help get Prompto up the incline to safety. He summoned his sword back into his hand, eyes flickering all over the broken rubble of the cliffside until they landed on a chunk of rock near the top that looked fairly stable. It was bit of a long shot, but if he made it he could swing his way up and get Prompto rescue all the quicker.

He strengthened his stance, rearing back to throw his sword to the point he’d fixed on, when—

“W-Wait!” Noctis froze at the voice, shuddery and raw like it’d been scraped up from the rugged terrain beneath them. Fingers—the undamaged set, his mind grimly provided—grasped at the leg of his jeans, twitching with lingering strength as they struggled to hang on.

“Please…don’t leave me…”

Noctis’ heart plunged into his gut.

Shit. Did Prompto really think he was gonna just abandon him? He opened his mouth, but found he didn’t know what to say. Prompto just kept going, like talking was the only thing he could manage to do, but then he started moving.

“Don’t…don’t leave me behind…I can…” To Noctis’ horror Prompto placed his mangled hand besides the other against the ground and, after a terse second, tried putting weight on it. He dropped to his knees, either on purpose of because the agonized cry Prompto let out sapped the rest of his strength.

“Hey, don’t—stop it, all right?” His voice came out a little harsher than he wanted, perhaps, but he hated seeing that mess of flesh and blood tremble and twitch and try to work like a normal hand would. He braced a palm against Prompto’s shoulder, pushing weight off the crushed hand as best as he could without touching any other injuries he might not be aware of. Noctis could already tell from the pain smarting through his own body that he’d have more than a few cuts and bruises to take care of later, once they were back safely with the rest of their party.

He lowered his head when Prompto failed to look at him. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder as firmly as he felt he could.

“I’m not going to leave you, all right? Just trying to figure out how to get you some help. Okay?”

After a moment, Prompto managed to nod, his eyes slipping up to meet Noctis’ for a scant moment before they returned to the ground beneath him, arms losing their last bit of foolish strength.

Noctis took a deep breath as he finally got Prompto to lay back down on his side, trying to reign in his train of thought once more now that his friend wasn’t actively trying to make his injury worse.

He knew the smarter course of action was still to leave Prompto and get help as quickly as possible, but the way his eyes screwed shut through the tears—like he was trying to hold back despite the fact that if there was ever a reason to cry, a mutilated hand would definitely be it in Noctis’ opinion—kept him from leaving Prompto’s side. Rationality begged him to leave, but the memory of Prompto grabbing onto him, whispering through his ravaged voice, begging he not leave kept him glued in that patch of blood-splattered rock, trying to think of a new plan.

At some point he’d started petting Prompto’s hair—as a means to keep his friend calm or ground himself, he wasn’t sure—fingers stroking through the locks matted with dirt and probably blood. Noctis was bleeding too, he could see the open abrasion on his arms and feel something wet trickle down the side of his temple, but his own injuries felt superficial, especially compared to Prompto’s grievous one. He was well enough to move, to walk, to help his friend along as he needed it.

And he desperately needed it.

Noctis wished he had something to properly splint Prompto’s hand before he started moving him, but they were surrounded by little more than rocks and half buried grass. The bandana from around his friend’s arm, loosened but thankfully not lost in the fall, helped to barely keep his hand together—as well as hide it from Prompto’s dazed eyes.

The cry of pain that came when Noctis slung his uninjured arm over his shoulder was inevitable. He set his expression tightly and tried to power through it as he forced Prompto to lean against him as he rose

“Y-Yeah, I know….sucks, right?” He voice lifted into a grim levity as he watched Prompto’s boots numbly scrape against the uneven earth. He half-expected Prompto to hang completely limp, but to Noctis’ surprise he managed to support at least part of his weight. The tips of his feet dragged against the ground as he tried to walk in time with Noctis, but at least he was lucid enough to try.

It was a good enough sign to convince Noctis to continue.

He glanced towards the fallen cliffside, realizing he hadn’t bothered to look up since they’d fallen down here. It was far—far enough that he marveled the fact that, as terribly injured as Prompto was, it hadn’t been worse—but not necessarily insurmountable. In fact, the cliffside’s collapse might even help him hike back up, considering the pile of debris near the bottom had created a slight, more manageable incline.

Despite that scrap of good luck, Noctis knew the cliffside was probably incredibly unstable thanks to the collapse, but going around would take too long and run the risk of getting lost further away from the rest of their party. He placed the sole of his boot firmly against a rock that looked fairly sturdy, testing it for a couple of seconds before leaning it weight on it and easing him and Prompto up atop it.

So far so good. Noctis allowed himself a sliver of optimism as he sought out his next foothold. It crumbled a bit underneath him, sending a couple of pebbles tumbling downwards, but otherwise held. He squeezed his forearm tightly about Prompto’s waist, supporting him close as they start climbing.

Noctis grew so used to the sound of his own haggard breathing and little more, that he started and nearly lost his balance when Prompto spoke up, voice so thin and worn he didn’t catch what was being said though it was right next to his ear.

“Prom? What’s that?”

His friend’s eyes were glassy even when he blinked to try to clear them. Prompto’s sigh sounded rough, like what he said had him too exhausted to try again.

“Guess….guess I won’t be taking any more pictures….huh?”

Noctis felt sick. He saw the bound hand had started to bleed through the bandana, staining the little white bone designs a deep red. He tore his eyes away, focusing back on the rocky path he’s trying to carve out.

“Dude, shut up. We’ll get you someplace where they can fix this kind of thing. It’ll be fine, all right?” Noctis tone, though wavering, offered no room for debate. Not that Prompto was up to fighting—he merely nodded weakly before hanging his head forward like it weighed more than the rest of his limp body. Their steps fell out of pace with each other as Prompto supported less and less of his own weight, but Noctis wasn’t about to let that stop them. Not yet.  

Before long, the sun started to crest over the damaged edge of the cliff up above. Noctis panted, old dust and new sweat crusting uncomfortably on his skin. There was so much more ahead.

He was starting to really feel his injuries now, as any remaining adrenaline started to ebb away, replaced by weariness. He longed for safety, for a warm bed, a tent, the backseat of the car, anything. He wanted to lay down besides his friends, besides Prompto, comforted in the knowledge that he was going to get the help he needed and come out of this as if nothing had ever happened. He wanted to wake up to Prompto laughing, camera nestled in its customary hand as he admired the pictures he’d snapped of Noctis drooling in his sleep.

A new wetness broke down his skin from the edge of his scalp. He took a deep breath, lungs tightening. The edge of the cliff finally eclipsed the sun, the rocks around him starting to shadow a deep, rusty brown.

Noctis finally stopped, legs wobbling as he rested the side not supporting Prompto against a particular large rock his mind couldn’t currently figure out how to tackle. He just needed to rest for a moment, though he knew it was a bad idea to stop. Prompto’s eyes were closed, skin paler than usual. The blood stained in his blond hair looked brighter. Fresher. That wasn’t good.

But Noctis’ legs weren’t listening to his commands. He winced, fingers curling, nails scraping against the rock. Damn it. Damn it.

He lifted his head, blinking against the fading sunlight above, and before he sagged against the rock and passed out, he thought he heard a voice—close, far, he couldn’t tell past the sudden ringing of heartbeat in his ears—call his name.

Noctis did, in fact, wake up drooling, but the sounds of Prompto’s muffled laughter and click of his camera was sadly absent.

But the sight of his friend laying in the bed besides him was just as good.

Noctis sat up quickly, but a throbbing in his head forced him back down with a wince. He rubbed his palm against his temple as he kept himself propped up on the elbow, blinking away the spots of color that’d started to pop in his vision.

He managed to identify the white walls and charts common to a clinic around them, sending a wave of relief through his body. Good. Prompto had been taken somewhere safe. From his own bed, Noctis could see that his right hand now sat resting against his chest, completely wrapped up in a thick white cast. Though the injury was hidden from view, Noctis’ breath hitched at the memory.

He hoped they’d been able to fix it.

Noctis stayed, watching, until Prompto finally started to stir. After a long moment his eyelids started to flutter, eventually opening up in slits of hazy blue that blearily focused on Noctis before taking in their surroundings.

“Oh…hey…” As raspy as Prompto’s voice sounded, it was a hell of a lot better than the agonized cries from before. Noctis managed a smile and a tiny wave.

“Hey yourself.” He shifted onto his side, mindful of the soreness of his own injuries. He could see the cuts and abrasion had been mostly healed—probably thanks to a potion or two—but the slight sting of regrown flesh remained. “You doing all right?”

Prompto’s right arm jerked as he tried to give a thumbs up. His brow furrowed, then relaxed when he glanced down to his chest.

“Oh….right.” He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear away the same image that was permanently burned into Noctis’ own mind.

“Ugh….that was…really not fun…” Prompto moaned, his other hand coming to rest atop the cast.

“Does it hurt?” Noctis whispered, studying his friend’s face. “Like…not to rub it in but…that might’ve been the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Jeez…” Prompto laughed, though his voice stayed low and muted. “It was pretty nasty though. Least I can’t really see it anymore.”

A lump formed in Noctis’ throat as he watched Prompto caressed his injured hand. He tried to put the bloody image behind him and focus on the present.

“I’m…I just hope they fixed it up right. For like….your camera and all.”

Prompto tilted his head, looking away from his cast as he looked across to the other bed, expression now tinged with something that looked unfortunately like guilt.

“Y’know…when I woke up from surgery…Ignis told me that you’d passed out carrying me….had your head pretty bashed up from the fall…you didn’t have to do that just to save my camera hand.” Prompto wiggled his free fingers. “I could live with just one, probably,” he tried to joke, though Noctis wasn’t buying it.

“Dude, come on, sometimes your pictures are the only things that keep this trip bearable.” He folded he tucked his hands into his armpits in an attempt to look serious, wincing softly at the sting. “Wasn’t gonna let some stupid rock take that away from you.”

Thankfully, that guilty expression of Prompto’s soon devolved to one of gratitude. Now feeling better himself, Noctis shifted and extricated one arm from around his chest. His hand groped out as he cleared the small space between them. Prompto, thankfully, took the hint and met him halfway with a shy lock of fingers.

Their joined hands hung between the beds, a periodic, comforting squeeze passing from one to the other until neither knew who’d started it. Noctis watches Prompto start to slip back into sleep, and just when he’s about to follow suit and get more much needed rest, he hears something small and soft that has his waking up with warmth.

“Thanks for not leaving me behind.”

[lightshears]

Saunter.

She awakens in the dark of the night to a dull ache that blooms within her ribcage. She sighs and shifts, eyes opening slowly and then closing, the blackness around her impenetrable. Her hand moves on instinct to her side, her fingers ghosting over her flesh. 

Then she feels it. 

Rey snaps up from her cot with a gasp and kicks the old blanket around her legs with force. She blinks, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. It descends upon her like a heady wave. Trickles down her neck and travels down her spine.

She grits her teeth and closes her eyes. Rey places a palm on her forehead, feels the beads of sweat forming, the stubborn throb wrapping itself around her temples, and braces herself, back hunched. The air of the cabin shifts from warm to cold and a shiver rocks her frame. It feels like the vacuity of space, never-ending. 

A sudden pain ricochets through her ribcage and she yelps. Her right side burns, just below her breast. Rey lifts her shirt, confused, and touches her heated skin with broad swipes of her fingers but there’s nothing there. She stands up. 

All sound is drowned out with such violence it makes her dizzy. Sucked through a vacuum. She hears his breathing and it’s just like the crashing waves against the jagged onyx formations of Ahch-to. The grumbling, metallic noises of the machine she stands upon disappear and there is only pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. 

The bond buzzes, giddy, and all that is left is the echo that bounces off the walls billions of light-years away. 

Her eyes blur as striking white lights engulf her room in seconds. Rey hisses and covers her face, lets her eyes adjust until she can see alabaster skin streaked with ash and blood, stretching, arching, raging through the space between her fingers. She smells the bitter scent of medicine and burnt flesh and hears whirring, the beeping of machinery. 

Rey lowers her hand. 

It’s a medical bay. Uniformed personnel and whirring units move around him with frenzy. His broad torso is bare and a snarl is curled around his full lips. Her breath hitches. One large hand is clutching his frayed gambeson, the other one clutches his side, fingers curved like talons, blood seeping within the gaps from a wound located below his breast that she cannot quite see with clarity. Her hand trails down her side automatically. His eyes are downcast, and Rey feels so much shame and heat and she can sense him trembling so hard from rage it makes her physically recoil from it. 

They are speaking to him, pleads laced with fear as they try to coax him unto an electric bed but then one of them gets too close, too close, goes too far and touches his shoulder. He whirls around to face them, eyes dark and deep and terrifying, his massive frame quaking, a growl rumbling deep within his throat. He bends, the tendons in his muscled arms stretching, and he grunts. A brutal wave ricochets from him, and the machines compress and explode. He sends all of them flying. Rey feels the violence of the force, and her fingers shudder. 

Her heart races and it is like thunder in her ears. It quivers without control until it becomes a furious synchronized roar. 

And then it connects to his. 

And Ben stops. 

His name flows through her mind like water. 

Ben. 

His head snaps up, his jet-black hair falling over his brow, wide eyed. 

Rey. 

He says her name like a prayer. Rey wants anger to take hold of her. But nothing comes. There is only pain and the betraying sort of longing that accompanies it. He pins her down with his stare, and Rey cannot look away. Ben’s chest heaves powerfully as his eyes drink her in, all of her in, with that same intensity that haunts her dreams. She ends up doing the same. 

He takes one step towards her, possessed. 

She steels herself. An unbearable image crosses her heart, his hand on hers. Softness. That same kind of saccharine pain bursts through her entire body, her throat closing up on her, making it so difficult to swallow. The tension seeps into her core. 

“Leave.” he says shakily. 

Rey flinches. For one second, she thinks he is talking to her. But then his personnel stand up, shaken and unsteady. 

They hesitate. 

“Supreme Leader…” 

Rey digs her nails on the flesh of her palms. 

“Leave.” his voice drops dangerously. “The med droid stays.” 

They nod curtly and scurry out of the room without a second glance. 

The door hisses shut. 

And then they’re alone. 

Rey becomes hyper aware of his state. She breaks eye contact with difficulty and her gaze travels down the long sharp planes of his collarbone, skimming through his right breast, a blush creeping under her cheeks, until they reach his wound. It’s still dripping with blood. 

What happened? 

She does not say it out loud but she knows he hears it all the same. 

It hurts me too, she thinks. It’s an unfiltered thought. Rey bites her tongue. 

He shudders and blinks hard. He slowly looks down. The bloodied hand violently clutching his side relaxes and Rey’s side throbs with relief. The tension in his shoulders loosens. 

The med droid beeps insistently and it breaks his concentration. Rey has time to assess his injury. It’s raw and ribbed and twisted but she can tell that it’s not dangerous. Rey mindlessly takes a step forward. He needs to lie down, to get it checked. She knows he needs that stitched up or otherwise it will mar his skin. Her eyes trail across his big abdomen and they catch a glimpse of the bowcaster wound. 

She feels his heated gaze on her. Something changes in the air and her stomach clenches. There’s fire and warmth and yearning. 

Are you worried? his fragmented thoughts skim through her mind. Are you?

He takes a step back, and she feels a beckoning pull. Rey’s thighs quiver with the strain. He takes another step back until his back is pressed against the bed. She follows him. 

Ben folds his massive body and lies down, never breaking eye contact with her. He lies there before her, exposed and open and trembling. 

The droid chirps and moves towards his wounded side, begins its treatment by wiping off the blood, poking at the torn up flesh. She flinches, feels the stretching of skin below her breast. Ben lets out a heady sigh. 

Once more, he beckons her with his eyes. It’s effortless, like breathing. At first she is cautious but Rey feels dizzy and there is so much skin and an ache that is shared and she hasn’t seen him in so long and there is sweat that is pooling on the spot where his sternum meets his neck and she ends up close enough to touch his breast. 

“Tell me where you are.” his voice is deep and urgent. 

The force is fresh, dark and turbulent. 

She says nothing. 

Rey studies the ways in which his ribcage rises. He looks both angelic and demonic against the white. 

Rosy red washes over his skin, it’s on his cheeks and throat and ripened chest. His hand twitches and it rises softly towards her. 

Rey stiffens. 

He arches his back, goading her to touch him. Please. 

His large hand opens and she hesitates but the bond whines. He whines. Rey bites her lip. She places her hand on his gently and an electric current ricochets and travels upwards, her arm stiffening. His eyes widen and she sees his pupils dilate. He exhales with force, his hand curling around hers. 

He is wild, untamed, but he purrs in her hands so sweetly. 

“Tell me.” 

He places her palm on his chest. Rey shivers. His hand is splayed out, engulfing her fingers completely, warm and tender, and something inside her whimpers. She feels a sort of superficial calmness, the one that hides behind it a vicious and hungry supernova. 

“Tell me.” he whispers. 

Then the bond starts flickering. She recognizes the hum, the finality of it. A violent wave of desperation engulfs her. It’s so powerful it leaves her breathless. Then she realizes, it’s coming from him. Rey gasps, looks him in the eyes. The brown has shifted from soft to feral. His hand clenches around hers and it hurts. 

“Rey,” he growls. 

The connection is about to break and he is not letting her go. Rey panics. She senses the jagged twist of his heart and his sharpened power anchoring her to his side and it’s excruciating. She grips the metal handle on the bed as leverage and pulls, tries to pull her hand from his but he holds it to his breast, straightens and rises to his full height. He completely covers the light until he slowly becomes only a pitch-black silhouette. 

Then he gets inside her head and it’s a toxic swirl of his thoughts and oh, no, hurt hurt hurt hurt why did you leave me why did you leave me there it hurts it hurts you left me you left me. Rey cries out, tries to dislodge herself from him but she can’t and he is enraged and hurt and lonely and lost, and she knows, she knows because she has felt the same treacherous thoughts inside her dreams and she whimpers and bares her teeth at him. 

Rey closes her eyes and tries to center herself in the Force. 

There is a monstrous rumble that overwhelms her senses. She falls. She falls backwards, gasping for air, lands on the floor of her cabin, in the impenetrable darkness of the night. His voice follows her here until the engine of the Falcon drowns it out. 

Rey! 

Her side begins to ache.

[spoldhamauthor]

The Dragon Has Wings

One

The leaves littering the forest floor were slowly freezing, their veins picked out in silver lines where ice began to form. The night sky showing between the trees was a deep shade of blue, the air still and somehow expectant. A pale moon shone on the girl’s long black hair.

The rope binding Crystin’s hands to the stake bit cruelly into her soft skin, rubbing it raw and bloody. She had long given up struggling, the knot too tight and too well made, all her efforts now concentrated upon survival in place of escape.

She shivered violently beneath the thinning cotton of the over-large tunic that had once belonged to her brother. It was soaked a deep red around the neck and chest, where it too was beginning to stiffen with the cold. At least the bitter air had muted the scent of his blood.  She closed her eyes against the memory of his death, the violence she had suffered at the hands of his murderers since. The ache between her legs was still painful. Hard on the heels of her grief came rage. She welcomed it; it gave her strength, but now was not the time to let it to consume her.

Unable to stand any longer, she sagged against the stake. Her arms took the strain. She bit her lips as fresh agony tore into her wrists. It wouldn’t be long before she would be forced to stand again, but she had to find some relief, however fleeting, for her bruised and aching lower body. Near desperate, she fought against the tears that welled, knowing that to give into them would undo her completely.

Something stirred beyond. Tears checked, Crystin held her breath. She scanned the trees that bordered the clearing for any sign of movement.

There were wolves in this forest, she knew. Boar and bear, not to mention the monsters she had been warned of since her earliest childhood. The sound came again; she let out a mixed sigh of relief and frustration. That was no forest animal nor fantastical beast; that was nothing more than the snoring of one of her captors.

She glanced over at the makeshift covers the men had made with their hides and skins, draping them over low hanging branches. Warm beneath them, cosy next to the embers of a fire, they slept soundly. Their horses were nearby, tethered and calm. That they had not taken fright was a small comfort; it confirmed that there was nothing dangerous lurking in the shadows.

Crystin shivered, her body spasming painfully. She could not prevent a small cry escaping as she struggled back to her feet, her arms now crying out for rest. She hoped exhaustion would overtake her soon, that she might sleep regardless of the torture her body was forced to endure.

Another sound, not snoring this time.

She tensed, as frozen as if the ice had caught her up. Helpless, unable to fight or to run, she warily watched the edge of the clearing, a sense of foreboding growing ever stronger. The air seemed thicker, more alive; a palpable tension weighing it down. She glanced back at the sleeping men, wondering for the first time if what approached might be her salvation.

Someone stepped from the cover of the trees into the faint light at the clearing’s farthest reach. A man; tall, broad in the shoulder, well-muscled beneath his rough smock and bearskin vest. He looked at her, a faint trace of amusement in his features. He took a step closer, raising a finger to his lips, bidding her remain silent. Then, to her amazement, he winked.

All trace of amiability vanished when he reached into his vest and withdrew a long-bladed knife. His breath rose in small plumes as he turned his back on her, beckoning silently to someone behind him.

More figures detached themselves from the shadows. The man in the bearskin made a small gesture. One of the figures moved towards the horses. A few moments later, the beasts were free of their tethers, snuffling gently as they were led away, heavy hooves thudding into the hardening earth.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Crystin looked over to the hides, expecting the snoring sleepers beneath them to wake at the noise. They did not stir.

Doubt began to cover Crystin. Perhaps these other men were not to be her rescuers after all. She wondered if she should scream, raise the alarm. She looked down at the blade held with such practiced ease in the big bear-man’s grip and changed her mind. Like as not she would barely open her mouth to make the sound before he opened her throat to silence it.

Crystin looked up again to find he was looking hard at her, an eyebrow raised in question. She shook her head; ‘no.’ She would not give their presence away. The man grinned an easy smile.

Crystin shivered again, this time nothing to do with the cold.

Assured of her co-operation, the man lost interest in her. He turned his attention to the makeshift camp. The sleeping men numbered seven. Crystin watched as the newcomers moved, a strange detachment coming over her; captive witness to a quiet carnage.

The men rounded the dying fire, their backs to her, each of them brandishing a blade of some description. Bearskin man lifted a part-burned stick from the embers of the fire, its end glowing a wicked red. He blew upon it, eliciting a few small flames. When it was properly alight, he crossed to where a hide was stretched in a V-shape over a branch, bending to thrust the fiery limb beneath it. He stood back, waiting.

Crystin held her breath. For a moment she thought the deathly cold ground or the stiffly frozen hide had been enough to quell the small flames. Then there were shouts of surprise as the sleeping occupant within woke to find himself burning. He burst from his covers, frenziedly patting himself down, realising too late that he had company. From Crystin’s viewpoint it was as if he simply walked onto the blade of a waiting knife. He was able to do no more than murmur his shock, a bubble of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. His attacker slid the knife out, wiped it on his victim’s shoulder as he fell, then readied himself for more action.

The other sleeping men had begun to stir. One of the hides moved stiffly as its’ occupant ventured out to investigate. This time it was not bearskin man but one of his company who despatched him; a knife drawn sharp and deep across his throat. He fell with a dull thud, the lower half of his body still covered and warm in his makeshift tent.

Something between a cry of alarm and a roar of anger rent the frigid air. A hide at the furthest end of the row was thrown aside as the man beneath it rose up, a wild-eyed image of vengeance. An axe felled him before he got much further.

What followed was less a fight, more a slaughter. The sleeping men had been caught unawares, some of them still tangled in their bedding as they rose to the challenge. It was over before it had begun; the men who had violated and abused Crystin so casually, who had murdered her dear brother for trying to protect her, all dead in less than a few heartbeats. Part of her rejoiced. A deeper, darker part of her seethed.

She watched as the victors looted their victims, taking hides, belts, weapons and boots. She thought herself forgotten as bearskin man gave a command, his men turning obediently, carrying their haul into the depths of the forest as silently as they had come.

He turned and made towards her. Crystin choked back a sob of fear. Up close the man was even more imposing, the stench of him reaching her ahead of his massive frame.

She clutched at the stake now as if it offered her comfort. The man smiled grimly, leaning in so close she could feel his foul breath warm on her cheek.

“Now why would your captors post no sentry as they slept?” He asked the question as if he had no expectation of an answer, “Why would they tie up a slip of a girl like you, I wonder? Why not bundle you up in their hides and have you keep them warm?”

His voice was low and deep. Crystin tried to swallow but her mouth was dry, her lips cracked. He withdrew his knife and put it to her neck before sliding it up to hover over the rope that bound her.

“Shall I or shan’t I?” he mused aloud.

Crystin held her breath, scared to do or say anything that might provoke him. He looked down at her, stroked her cheek gently, planted a soft, repulsive kiss on her cheek.

“I think not, Scrapling. Not today.” He hid the knife deep in the folds of his bear skins, turned and walked away, never once casting a second look behind him.

When she was sure he had gone, Crystin slumped against the stake, her legs weak with relief. She had thought he was going to kill her. That was a good thing, she reflected when her heartbeat had begun to slow again and the rush of blood in her ears was not so deafening. Before he had come she had begun to think she would welcome death. It seemed now that it was not so. Her will to live was as strong as ever.

A few yards away lay the bodies of seven dead men. Looking them over disdainfully, Crystin thought back to bearskin man’s question. She knew why they had not posted a sentry; because they thought themselves invincible. Those men had worn their arrogance like cloaks around their thick necks. Well now they had choked on it. Crystin was glad they were dead.

Yet even now they posed a problem.

Despite the freezing night air, the scent of their blood was bound to travel. The fire too low to be any kind of deterrent, she was defenceless against the teeth of a wolf, the jaws of a bear, the voracious snout of a boar; or of any other beast following its nose to an easy meal.

It was only a matter of time before they came, she knew. Ignoring the agony in her bones, she stood, straining to pull the stake free of the icy ground. It did not move even a fraction. All she succeeded in doing was grazing her already bloody wrists against its edges. She gave up on that, to resume wringing her swollen hands against the ties of the freezing rope. It was useless; she was stuck fast.

A howl carried across the night, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The unmistakable call of the wolf.

*

Croenarth leaned against a rough trunk, watching the girl thoughtfully. His men had gone ahead with the horses, he would catch up with them soon enough. It was a firm rule amongst them that women were unnecessary, yet there was something about this one that was giving him second thoughts.

He could have cut her loose with a flick of his knife; it would have been no hardship to him and no burden either. Once loose, he would simply have left her to make her own way in the snow.

He scratched his beard, wondering what it was about her that had stayed his hand. For a heartbeat, he considered bringing her along; flinging her over his saddle and daring any of his men to challenge him.

He brushed the thought aside, flapping his hand as if at a fly, shocked and disgusted at himself. He was growing soft in his old age. What possible use could any of them have for a girl?

He turned, following the trail of hoof and footprint, quickening his step when the snow began to fall again, threatening to cover the tracks. He would ponder over the girl no more. Let the forest have her; it would dispose of her just as well as any other carcass.

[gray--dragneel]

Bite me

[ofwolvesandshatteredshields]

Parallax

Chapter 1/7. 2.8k words. Shiro + Keith, gen. Rated T.

After the assault on Zarkon’s fleet, Shiro wakes to find himself prisoner of a Galra ship that’s under attack. But when he reunites with the paladins, he discovers there’s a very good reason why they stopped searching for him.

(ao3)

——

Shiro wakes.

He can’t breathe. What woke him? The drowning? His lungs won’t fill. He struggles, straining to swim to the surface, his arms diving forward—

To find glass. Through the haze of nauseous pink he spots it, finally, the concave reflection, the starburst of cracks just to his right. He pulls his arm back, the Galra arm, and strikes.

Slowly, through the liquid pink jelly, but the arm is inexorable and on impact the glass bows out. He struggles for breath, his mouth and nose clogged with whatever it is that submerges him, and hits it again.

No sound of shattering reaches his ears but the glass bursts apart and fluid medium pours out through the splintered hole, releasing his body from suspension. He grabs the jagged edge with metal fingers and drags himself over it, bending to convulse with coughing as pink jelly comes up his throat and drips in globs onto the floor. But he can’t stop because something’s wrong. He’s drowning and trapped—was trapped.

At last he hauls himself out of his fractured prison and falls ungracefully to the ground, where his stomach seizes and pink jelly erupts in a burst from his nose and mouth. He retches, pressing his slime-smeared forehead to the floor. More coughing. His body curls up, his chest hurts. And his stomach too, burning. He clutches it with his human hand and comes up with warmth in red. The jagged glass edge gouging into him as he crawled out. His head is spinning but he probes the wounds anyway. Not too deep. He’ll live.

Where is he?

There’s gel in his eyes. He swipes at them ineffectually with a jelly-coated hand and peers around. Galra ship. He knows the inside of Galra ships. Behind him, a wide glass tube, broken now after his escape. At the top the ceiling is deformed, a huge dent sticking out of it and bending the metal ring at the top of the tube. Electricity sparks from exposed wiring, flickering interfaces dangling free. That must have disrupted whatever was keeping him under.

So what made the dent?

Shiro retches again, more pink gel spilling out of his mouth. He’s covered in the stuff, the thin black suit he’s wearing soaked through. Sounds. Gunfire, muffled. Beyond the door. Another level, maybe. The ship is under attack.

Voltron. His fists tighten. It might not be them. It might be someone else. He doesn’t even know what happened. He was in the Black Lion just a minute ago. Or maybe not. How did they take him? How long was he here? Did any of it—

Did any of it even happen? Maybe he never escaped. The witch would do that, she cut off his arm already and she would play tricks on his mind to hurt him. He resists still, after all, when he can. Not always. She can control the arm.

Does that mean it wasn’t real? That Voltron was something she made up? That Keith never—

A thundering boom and the sharp shriek of tearing metal. Shiro cringes, covering his head. No. He can’t hide. He can’t be taken and kept captive again.

He splays a hand on the ground and pushes himself to his feet.

There’s a ragged split in the ceiling at the corner of the room but the more urgent part is the pair of robot sentries tangled together on the floor beneath it. His first instinct is to take cover but he can’t because that wouldn’t help, so instead he dashes toward them—staggers, wobbling, crashing to a knee as they attempt to rise. Not good enough. He scrambles forward, grabs a rifle barrel with the Galra arm and yanks it away, flips it and fires.

The sentries go down, blast-holes seared into their machinery. Shiro squints up at the tear in the ceiling. Energy projectiles shoot past—the insidious purple of Galra technology but also a livid yellow-green in the other direction. Shouting floats down to him in some staccato, guttural language he can’t understand.  

The Galra are under attack. He sits at the base of the wall, clutching the rifle to his chest. That might be good. Or the attackers might just shoot him on sight and take apart the ship for scrap. Footsteps beyond the open door, and Shiro curls up tighter, praying they don’t see him, whoever it is, praying he can stay out of this mess and make an escape on his own—

A trio of Galra sentries dash past. Shiro lets out a breath but then the footsteps abruptly halt and he pushes himself off the wall, diving behind his broken prison as the sentries appear again in the doorway and begin firing.

He huddles behind the glass, the gun still warm in his hands. He should fire back before the glass breaks and he loses his cover. But instead he sits there frozen, fingers tightening on the rifle. There are three of them, and he’s only one person. If he leans out they’ll kill him. At his back the barrage of energy, glass shards showering to the ground around him. It’ll be destroyed soon. And then what? There’s no more cover here. Then it’s just the guns and him.

A harsh whine, hissing and thuds from behind him. Shiro peers through the glass and sees the distorted image of the sentries falling, yellow-green energy whizzing over them. Followed quickly by the appearance of their attackers.

They’re big—bulky and tall, all over seven feet, each wearing a winged helmet. Shiro might know them if he could see their faces. Then they start shooting at him so he hits the ground, hiding his head, and calls out, “Don’t shoot! I’m a friend!”

Maybe. But it’s all he’s got. The gunfire stutters to a stop, and footsteps thud toward him. Shiro tosses his rifle down and raises his hands.

One of the aliens barks at him in a language deep and guttural but fluid at the same time, one he might understand if he had the tech in his suit to assist him. But not now. All he can do is point at himself. “Voltron,” he says. “I’m a paladin of Voltron.”

The alien stops, seeming—as much as they can with their face covered—taken aback. They look up and exchange words with their two comrades. Shiro catches the word Voltron and something that might be paladin. Relief pounds through him with the rhythm of his heart. Not some trick of the witch. He was in the Black Lion yesterday—something, maybe not yesterday, but whatever the case his friends probably think he’s dead and he needs to get back to them.

The alien grabs him by the arm and drags him upright. A little rough, but human conventions don’t apply across all species. Shiro stumbles, and his legs are shaky but still work all right. His strength is there, his balance catching up.

His rescuers march down the hall and he hastens to follow; the one who dragged him up goes at the back. To keep an eye on their rear, Shiro thinks, although he feels caged in and can’t imagine that’s a mistake. More explosions rumble through the Galra ship, vibrating the floor. The one in the lead stops and cocks their head as if listening, then turns and says something to the others. When the three of them start marching again it’s double-quick, and Shiro must jog to keep up. He still coughs as they go and staggers, leaning against the wall and covering his mouth. Pink gel bursts through his fingers. The alien behind him plants a hand on his back to keep him up to pace.

The crackling stutter of Galra weaponry, and Shiro puts his metal arm up instinctively. More sentries behind them. His guardian spins, a livid green shield flaring to life in the air before them as they return fire. The sockets in their armor glow and whir. Whatever species this is, their military technology is pretty advanced. The aliens barely slow, putting down cover fire but maintaining their advance. Retreat, rather, is the sense Shiro gets. Whatever they wanted here, he thinks they’ve gotten it.

A door bursts open to his left and a dozen sentries pile through.

They’re behind the shield and muscle memory takes over, Shiro grabbing with his human hand and slicing down with the Galra one. It sears with energy, and machinery splits and sparks, broken parts falling from rent metal. Melted wires hiss from the collapsing carapace.

Shiro blinks, surprised at himself somehow. But why? He can fight the Galra, he’s always been able to do that. Why does this strike him as unexpected?

How long was I under?

More sentries. The alien’s rifle whirs, changing into a weapon that bears a sun-bright green blade. The shield flickers but remains, dissipating the sickly purple gunfire from the end of the corridor. Cover. He needs to fight. They’re outnumbered.

It’s easy. Sentries are easy. Whatever artificial intelligence they’re programmed with isn’t very innovative, and fighting them gives him déjà vu every time. The hot stink of melted components fills his nose, and he huffs out a breath, searching out more opponents. But all the sentries are dead.

Time to move on. The alien pushes him (shoves him, really, but he doesn’t complain) and they advance. Muffled explosions rumble out from other areas of the ship. Shiro concentrates on not falling on his face. The soles of the suit are slippery with gel.

At last they burst out into the hangar. A translucent green shield blocks the far end—beyond, the hangar doors have been…warped, or melted, or something; they gape open. But the shield protects the atmosphere. The alien barks words at him and Shiro hurries to a boxy-looking fighter, clambering inside with the others; his guardian is right behind and the door slides smoothly shut behind them. The fighter lifts off instantaneously, bobbing a little. The alien grabs Shiro’s arm and sits him down firmly on a bench. He leans out to see through the cockpit windows.

They zoom through the barrier and into open space beyond. The cockpit windows flicker and screens appear, showing what must be the rear feeds—a single Galra ship retreating behind them, more fighters streaking away from it. There are strange distortions in the hull. Shiro squints, trying to make out some detail—

The ship disintegrates.

Or something. It…twists, implodes, and is destroyed, no more than glittering fragments drifting in space. The aliens in the bay make a fluttering noise. It sounds like amusement.

Shiro leans back in his seat. The gel is drying and he sticks to the bench. Okay.

What happened to him?

——

He has a week to think about it.

The aliens return him their planet—not truly their planet, because the dominant population appears to be a smaller, purpler species. (The aliens who rescued him are a solemn grey in color with the exception of their bat-like, pastel-pink ears.) The smaller species are warmer towards him and attempt hospitality, but his rescuers keep him at a distance from…anyone, really. They feed and clothe and shelter him, but without Altean tech to translate he can’t even ask why they’re being so cautious. He’s a paladin. Shouldn’t they know what Voltron is? Doesn’t the whole galaxy know by now?

Without any outside help he’s left to figure things out on his own, or try. The planet is cold and he sits in his room with two blankets over his shoulders, frowning at the palm of his metal hand. The last thing he remembers is…

The Black Lion. He was in the Black Lion, he had his bayard, they’d won, they’d beaten Zarkon and won. He was going to head back to the castle.

But he wasn’t alone in his lion. Not Zarkon, either. It was…

Shiro presses his knuckles to his eyes. Familiar. Familiar like his days fighting for blood sport on a Galra ship. He didn’t see her face, but it was the witch. Had to be. Because she can control the arm, so why not the rest of him?

No. She could control the arm, but he made Pidge take a look at it and she added in some code of her own, locked the arm so nobody could move it but him. Shiro rests his head in his hands and takes a long, shaking breath. The witch can’t control it anymore. But she did drag him out of the Black Lion. Maybe she had help—he saw plenty of those acolytes of hers during his year as a captive. And then she stuck him in that glass tube for…

About that.

He leans back and stares at the ceiling, trying to figure out how long he was under. His muscles are strong as ever, so it can’t have been too long. Then again, he was also continuing to breathe somehow with pink gel filling his lungs so they could have supported his muscles as well, with…some kind of tech The Galra are master thieves and vivisect alien societies for their secrets. As a result, their own ability grows far faster than it has any right to. Although whatever his rescuers did to that Galra ship was both impressive and not something he’s ever seen before. Still, considering they’re sharing a planet with a much smaller, happier, more amiable race…he suspects they did fight the Galra once. And lost.

None of it answers his question. How long was he under? Shiro raises his metal hand, inspecting it again for any remnant crusts of gel. More importantly, are the rest of the paladins okay? And have the Galra recovered from Zarkon’s defeat? What if they did? Without him, the paladins can’t form Voltron, and without that—well, who knows? They’re only four, plus Allura and Coran. Without the the threat of Voltron to protect them—

No. They have to be okay, all of them. They have to.

Of course, stuck here there’s no way to know. He doesn’t even know how to thank the aliens who bring him food and clothes. Shiro rises. Might as well stretch his legs. He heads for the door—

—and stumbles as the room disappears around him and he’s standing in space, but it’s warped like the Galra ship behind the fighter he fled in and there’s a rushing sound in his ears like an ocean flooding his head—

—until the room reappears and he lands hard on one knee. What the hell was that? He stares at his hands. Whatever it is, it’s gone. Maybe a side effect of his time on that ship. He gets to his feet and heads for the door again.

It’s a week of uncertainty and intermittent snow and gruffness from his rescuers countered by sneaky sort of hospitality from the planet’s natives, until on the eighth day one of the dark gray aliens—the same one who keeps a dark, suspicious eye on him whenever he leaves the house—who comes to retrieve him, motioning. Shiro, for lack of anything else to do, follows.

When he gets outside he think he’s dreaming because Keith is there. Keith is there in his red armor and he looks okay, uninjured if angry but he’s here and okay and Shiro can ask him what happened and how long it’s been and if he and everyone else have been all right—

But Keith grabs Shiro by the front of the shirt and hurls him to the snow-dusted ground and in the time it takes Shiro to look up there’s a sword-tip at his throat and Keith is staring down, eyes blazing. “Who the hell are you?!”

Shiro can’t think of anything to say.

He needed this. He needed to see Keith, needed answers and to not be stuck in a house where he was alone and useless and something had been done to him—something has been done to him and he doesn’t know what. And Keith is standing there with snowflakes in his hair, ready to kill him. “Keith,” he tries, and raises an unsteady hand. “It’s me. It’s me.”

“No it’s not!” Keith shouts. He steps forward and the sword-tip slips just past Shiro’s throat, coming to rest under his jaw. “Stop lying! Who are you?!”

“It’s me!” The words burst out of him. “It’s me! Keith, you have to believe me, it’s me—“

“No it’s not!” The sword is gone but Keith grabs Shiro’s shirt again, lifts him and slams him up against the wall of the house. “We know you’re not the real Shiro! He escaped months ago!”

Shiro’s gut twists. “What?”

“Keith!”

A familiar voice. The rest of the paladins are there too, approaching, Pidge and Hunk and Lance and—

Can’t be.

Shiro stares, praying it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, but nothing changes. It’s him, standing there in paladin armor, looking just as shaken as he feels. “Keith, it’s okay,” Shiro says—the other Shiro, his breath misting in the freezing air. “I…I think he might be right.”

[feynites]

♕: Holding hands and ♡: Accidentally falling asleep together for Squishvir (preferably cannon!Squishvir) if that's alright with you and if you're feeling inspired :D

Technically this is non-canonical (because their lives are not so kind in canon) but takes place in the canon setting rather than an established AU. Also, it came out NSFW, although all the platonic prompts are in there too. I hope that’s alright!

Uthvir’s hands do not invite holding.

Most of the time, they are covered. Scarlet gauntlets with claw-tipped fingers, sharp plating on the backs of their palms, edges that are liable to catch and scrape any unwary hands who do not know how to navigate their points. Even when they are not covered, however, they are still sharp. Narrow, with razor-edged nails, sometimes stained in the blood of their kills, or that of presumptuous rivals.

Uthvir’s hands hold weapons very well. But they do not need them to be dangerous. Their nails can tear through skin and sink into flesh, shred veins and gore eyeballs, rip throats or simply threaten too, as the corded strength of their muscles do the heavy lifting. Their hands can snap necks, catch swift-running prey, and summon up sparks of deadly dangerous magic.

They look as dangerous as they are.

Desire’s hands are plump. Soft flesh on each finger. Calloused from holding weapons of her own, and wider than Uthvir’s, but shorter, too. Her nails are round, more often than not. Her knuckles dimple, and her palms are paler than most of the rest of her. Wrinkling where they bend and curl and close around the stem of her goblet, or rest atop Uthvir’s own.

They can do damage. Ostensibly. Desire is a peacekeeper, after all. But Uthvir has never actually seen that. Only hints of it, in the surety of her hold on the haft of her hammers and axes, and the unwavering grip she can take on the ropes they like to wrap her in. When she wears gloves, they are usually fingerless. Soft and decorative, and sometimes she uses them to seal lotion against her palms, to keep her callouses from hurting.

Her nails are painted white, today.

She reaches for them, and easily laces her fingers through their own. Uthvir is not wearing their gauntlets. Their own dark nails stand out in contrast. Outside, the city is winding down the aftermath of a merchants’ ball. A celebration which lit up the market district, closed but to those influential enough to merit an invitation. Andruil had declined to make an appearance; Uthvir had only gone because they knew the peacekeepers would be there. Knew there would be a chance of finding a decent distraction, and possibly making a few good connections, too.

The daylight has long since fled, though. The revellers retreating to other forms of entertainment, making other kinds of ‘connections’. Though, all sorts can come in handy, especially for the merchants of the city.

Andruil keeps a rest house near the market district, for when her higher-ranking followers - or even she herself - need to do a lot of business there. It is not empty, but Uthvir can acquire a room there with little fuss. They walk with Desire, out of the shaded alleyway that they’d followed her to. Straightening the top of her outfit, a little, and some pins in her hair. Letting her hold their hand until they reach the street, and then they pull their own away again.

The Red Hunter does not hold hands, like a besotted lover taken in by a public bid for courtship.

They offer Desire their arm, instead.

She takes it. Easily navigating the points of their armour, unperturbed by the shift, as they make their way down the streets. Servants hurry to and fro through discreet paths, already working to clean up the aftermath of the celebration. The ball had been outdoors, spilling through the market square and the decorative gardens nearby, and there are discarded glasses and flickering runes, still fading across the streets. Not a well-planned event, Uthvir thought. There had been too little coordination, too much drink and not enough entertainment. Bored revellers had started spilling away from the party well before its end. 

Uthvir had watched them. Moving between points of contact. Veering close to the guards set up to ensure that poor planning did not result in vandalism or too much violence.

Desire sighs, and gives up the battle with her hairpins as they walk. She pulls them out, fluffing her hair with one hand, before sliding them into her belt. Her fingers tap against their arm. White nails on red armour.

“That was tedious,” she tells them.

“I am sure we can think of something more interesting to do,” they reply.

Her lips quirk.

“Of course we can,” she agrees. “But I am still dead on my feet. No acrobatics this time, hm? I lost count of how many circuits I had to do around the whole district. The managers came by the barracks to demand security before dawn.”

Uthvir raises their eyebrows.

“What for?” they ask. They have not heard anything particular about insurgents or unrest in the city of late.

“Thieves,” Desire explains, with a sigh. “Or imagined ones, anyway. The festivities got most of the merchants away from their storehouses at a predictable time, and for some mysterious reason, assuring them at all their officially recorded wares could be tracked did not seem to do much to assuage their concerns.”

Uthvir hums in understanding.

“One might imagine that some of them had unrecorded wares they were concerned might disappear without recourse, if they were feeling so bold as to make that accusation,” they muse.

Desire chuckles.

“Imagine being so bold as to ask peacekeepers to guard your illegal merchandise,” she agrees, lightly. “I am sure our merchants would know better. Still, Commander Victory has decided that the celebration was as good a time as any for a surprise inspection on several warehouses. To better guard the contents, you see.”

“Ah. And you were walking your circuits to make certain that the merchants and managers would see where ‘the peacekeepers’ were, I take it?” they surmise. Guards on the outside, and inspectors sneaking in through the back doors, no doubt. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.

Desire inclines her head.

“All down the main roads, in front of the big doors, chasing off would-be vandals and loiterers,” she agrees. “The last time I marched this much I was a foot soldier.”

Uthvir takes a moment to give her a more critical look-over. She does look tired, they concede. Some strain around the eyes, more visible now with her hair down, and her lipstick has faded somewhat - though they bare at least partial responsibility for that - and her steps are heavy. The weapon at her back seems to weigh on her more.

They veer up the path towards the market district’s housing segments, and head for the little stone-lined road that leads to Andruils’ property. Nestled next to a slightly larger building, where Falon’Din’s tradesmen keep their base of operations. Three of Andruil’s own merchants linger by the doorway, in varying states of intoxication.

“Hunter,” the least sauced of them greets Uthvir, with a nod.

“Try not to let anyone fall asleep on the lawn,” they advise. “I have a peacekeeper with me, and she will write up citations for public indecency.”

Desire snorts, and waves her free hand.

“Not if I do not see it,” she counters, and the merchants sag a little in visible relief. “Though if any of you feel like groping one another, at least take it to the bushes. Discretion is paramount to the city’s image, and so on and so forth.”

The merchant sighs.

“Mostly trying to work up the coordination to get in through the door,” he admits. “I doubt more misadventures are on the docket for today. Though, our lady should be pleased. We negotiated a new trade deal for iron from Lord Dirthamen’s lands. Much cheaper than what we had before, in exchange for first refusal of dragonbone from the northern hunting grounds. Heh.”

The merchant snickers, pleased, and one of his compatriots decides this is the height of humour, and keels over laughing. Uthvir recollects the distinct lack of dragons in the northern hunting grounds for the past three hundred years or so.

“Well done,” they permit, before at last drawing their soft, squishy peacekeeper inside with them.

Desire looks bemused.

“Merchants are bizarre,” she asserts.

“I take it you do not want to play a game of Bedroom Trade Negotiations?” they reply, heading down the carved halls, and checking the house’s records for an unoccupied room. Fortunately, there are some, which means they will not have to chase anyone else out tonight. 

Desire snorts at them.

“What? ‘Eat me out and I will pour hot wax on you’? That kind of a thing?”

“Hmm. Let me have at you, tied up, for an hour, and you can hold my hand again,” they counter, smirking.

“Oho,” Desire replies. Her grip shifts, sneaking down towards their wrist, as they make their way through the halls. They pause. The halls are not empty. Several doorways are still open, voices drifting up from occupied rooms, and there are a few merchants emulating their fellows over at the front door, only in the communal sitting areas instead. Desire’s hand moves to their wrist, and they wonder whether it would be more conspicuous to withdraw, or to simply let her have her way, and keep their countenance aloof enough to refute the image.

But they need not have worried, it seems. Because after a moment, she only drags her touch back up towards their elbow.

“I like holding your hand,” she whispers to them, with a wink.

“Easily pleased, aren’t you?” they drawl.

“Mm. In some respects,” she agrees, with a certain glint in her gaze that promises a little more challenge in the bedroom.

By the time they actually get there, however, she is leaning against Uthvir in a way that speaks more of exhaustion than arousal. They close and ward the door behind them, and let Desire rest her hammer at the door beside it, before moving to take stock of the chambers, and their supplies. The servants seem to have put everything in order. There is a bed, and a small resting couch. A carved hearth, and supplies in the supply cabinets, and water flowing from the small wash basin in an alcove by the door.

Desire eases off her armour, undoing the ties and sighing in relief as she frees herself from them. She strips without hesitation. Peeling off her boots and breastplate, shin and wrist guards, rounded pauldrons and shining thigh plates, belt, and then breeches, and tunic, until she is left in only a few small scraps of silvery cloth.

The sigh she makes is so profound in its relief, Uthvir can feel their own armour pressing a little uncomfortable against them in turn.

Not enough to strip naked, by any means. But after a moment, they take off some of the heavier pieces, and lay them next to Desire’s. Watching out of the corner of their eye as she heads for the bed, and flops onto it.

“I am not sure I can actually move again,” she admits.

They snort.

“I will move you, then,” they offer. Heading over, and taking a moment to admire the view, before they snake a hand beneath her and lift her up. She hums appreciatively as they settle her back down against the pillows, in a position more befitting of the bed.

Her fingers trail down the side of their cheek, and she spreads her legs a little further apart.

They accept the offer, and climb onto the bed, and settle between them. Respecting her obvious preference for little fanfare, this time, as they push aside her smallclothes, and tease their nails over her for a moment. They soften them in short order, though, and begin pressing their touch into her, as she stretches her arms up over her head, and sighs.

“Just head on in,” she tells them, wrapping her legs around them. “Go hard as you like, I only want to lie back and get fucked right now.”

She is wet already, at least, and not liable to be done much harm by it. Uthvir inclines their head, and undoes their own belt.

“As you like,” they agree.

She bites her lip, grinning, as they line themselves up and thrust into her. A little more resistance than usual, but the sound she makes is purely appreciative. Her hands move towards their shoulders, gripping their collar as they begin to rock in and out of her.

“Harder,” she tells them.

They slow down, smirking as she curses, and tightens her grip further.

“Contrary ass,” she accuses. And then gasps, as they take their time pulling out, only to thrust back into her hard enough to make the bed legs scrape on the floor. Her breasts sway. A few more thrusts like that, and they start to escape from their bindings altogether. Uthvir lets out a pleased purr, and reaches for the fabric; slicing the middle of it clean open with a flick of their thumbnail. Desire sighs appreciatively, and wriggles her way out of the scraps together. Clenching around them, the next time they thrust into her, and rocking her hips up to meet them.

They keep their pace slow and deliberate, though. Dragging their nails across her skin. Watching her flush and darken with their activities, as a few stray beads of sweat build up, and she breathes encouragements in between her moans. After a while her answering movements start to get less coordinated, though. Too tired. Uthvir takes her by the hips, claiming control over the whole moment, and angles her themselves. She comes not long after that. Tightening around them, pulling them downwards. They oblige her with a biting kiss to her lips, and accidentally slide out of her; and end up coming on the soft skin of her thighs, in turn.

She sags back against the pillows. Arms around their shoulders; and they find that they do not mind it, today. Her fingers trail into their hair, as she pulls them onto the bed beside her.

“Just give me a moment,” she asks. “Then we can really get to it.”

“If you would rather sleep, I can live with that,” they tell her. “There is always the morning, anyway.”

She laughs, breathlessly.

“I would rather never sleep,” she admits, oddly melancholic, for a moment. “I have no idea how so many people do it. Uthenera. Alone with your dreams for all eternity. I would rather just die, to be honest. At least there is a little mystery with that.”

Uthvir frowns, and pulls back a ways. Desire presses a hand over her eyes, and lets out another long breath.

“Death is no mystery,” they tell her. “Just a finish line.”

“Oh, and you are so sure, are you?” she counters, glancing at them from between her fingers.

They let out a breath of their own, and shrug.

“Perhaps not. But I would rather not gamble on it,” they decide. “The dead are gone, either way. The sleeping are not, but, most of them may as well be. Both fates are a kind of defeat.”

“I feel defeated,” Desire tells them. Quietly.

Not the kind of admission they think she means to make. They do not know how to respond. Sleep is more optional for them, but, they have never really known anyone to share their aversion to it. And they are not certain it is for the same reasons, either. Desire’s eyes look old, and she stills seems tired. For a moment, they are thrown by it. Unsure of how to proceed.

But then she runs her hand down her face, and turns towards them. Curling onto her side, as she presses into their chest, and inadvertently buries their nose in her hair.

“Just let me rest a bit,” she asks, again.

They settle a hand onto her back, and nod in easy agreement. She feels soft and warm against them, befitting the easy nickname they once bestowed on her; back before they knew her name. Desire. Like… the one they try not to think of, when they can. Old, stolen memories, of some things they would be glad to never experience firsthand, and one thing they know they never can.

They are not entirely surprised when Desire’s breaths even out, as she rests against them. Muscles going utterly slack, heart beating to an even tempo, as they close their own eyes, and let themselves rest a little, too. Desire smells like sweat and sex, and just faintly of vanilla. They shift, putting more of their back to the wall, and tucking themselves into their pants again. But she doesn’t wake, and after a while they drift a bit. Not quite dreaming. Not quite sleeping. Just listening to the world, and Fear’s whispers, and the living blood pumping through both of their bodies.

Their gaze catches on the golden detail work up at the top of the bedposts.

Owls hunting mice.

Desire sleeps until morning, and they are gone just before sunrise.

[spoldhamauthor]

The Dragon Has Wings

The Dragon has wings with which to fly

To cast long shadows across the sky

 The Dragon has teeth with which to rend

To tear the wound that will not mend

 The Dragon has eyes with which to pierce

Many-hued and mighty fierce

 The Dragon has fire in its breath

To offer warmth, before your death

 The Dragon is real, this you know

For these ancient words do tell you so

*

 One

 The leaves littering the forest floor were slowly freezing, their veins picked out in silver lines where ice began to form. The night sky showing between the trees was a deep shade of blue, the air still and somehow expectant. A pale moon shone on the girl’s long black hair.

The rope binding Crystin’s hands to the stake bit cruelly into her soft skin, rubbing it raw and bloody. She had long given up struggling, the knot too tight and too well made, all her efforts now concentrated upon survival in place of escape.

She shivered violently beneath the thinning cotton of the over-large tunic that had once belonged to her brother. It was soaked a deep red around the neck and chest, where it too was beginning to stiffen with the cold. At least the bitter air had muted the scent of his blood.  She closed her eyes against the memory of his death, the violence she had suffered at the hands of his murderers since. The ache between her legs was still painful. Hard on the heels of her grief came rage. She welcomed it; it gave her strength, but now was not the time to let it to consume her.

Unable to stand any longer, she sagged against the stake. Her arms took the strain. She bit her lips as fresh agony tore into her wrists. It wouldn’t be long before she would be forced to stand again, but she had to find some relief, however fleeting, for her bruised and aching lower body. Near desperate, she fought against the tears that welled, knowing that to give into them would undo her completely.

Something stirred beyond. Tears checked, Crystin held her breath. She scanned the trees that bordered the clearing for any sign of movement.

There were wolves in this forest, she knew. Boar and bear, not to mention the monsters she had been warned of since her earliest childhood. The sound came again; she let out a mixed sigh of relief and frustration. That was no forest animal nor fantastical beast; that was nothing more than the snoring of one of her captors.

She glanced over at the makeshift covers the men had made with their hides and skins, draping them over low hanging branches. Warm beneath them, cosy next to the embers of a fire, they slept soundly. Their horses were nearby, tethered and calm. That they had not taken fright was a small comfort; it confirmed that there was nothing dangerous lurking in the shadows.

Crystin shivered, her body spasming painfully. She could not prevent a small cry escaping as she struggled back to her feet, her arms now crying out for rest. She hoped exhaustion would overtake her soon, that she might sleep regardless of the torture her body was forced to endure.

Another sound, not snoring this time.

She tensed, as frozen as if the ice had caught her up. Helpless, unable to fight or to run, she warily watched the edge of the clearing, a sense of foreboding growing ever stronger. The air seemed thicker, more alive; a palpable tension weighing it down. She glanced back at the sleeping men, wondering for the first time if what approached might be her salvation.

Someone stepped from the cover of the trees into the faint light at the clearing’s farthest reach. A man; tall, broad in the shoulder, well-muscled beneath his rough smock and bearskin vest. He looked at her, a faint trace of amusement in his features. He took a step closer, raising a finger to his lips, bidding her remain silent. Then, to her amazement, he winked.

All trace of amiability vanished when he reached into his vest and withdrew a long-bladed knife. His breath rose in small plumes as he turned his back on her, beckoning silently to someone behind him.

More figures detached themselves from the shadows. The man in the bearskin made a small gesture. One of the figures moved towards the horses. A few moments later, the beasts were free of their tethers, snuffling gently as they were led away, heavy hooves thudding into the hardening earth.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Crystin looked over to the hides, expecting the snoring sleepers beneath them to wake at the noise. They did not stir.

Doubt began to cover Crystin. Perhaps these other men were not to be her rescuers after all. She wondered if she should scream, raise the alarm. She looked down at the blade held with such practiced ease in the big bear-man’s grip and changed her mind. Like as not she would barely open her mouth to make the sound before he opened her throat to silence it.

Crystin looked up again to find he was looking hard at her, an eyebrow raised in question. She shook her head; ‘no.’ She would not give their presence away. The man grinned an easy smile.

Crystin shivered again, this time nothing to do with the cold.

Assured of her co-operation, the man lost interest in her. He turned his attention to the makeshift camp. The sleeping men numbered seven. Crystin watched as the newcomers moved, a strange detachment coming over her; captive witness to a quiet carnage.

The men rounded the dying fire, their backs to her, each of them brandishing a blade of some description. Bearskin man lifted a part-burned stick from the embers of the fire, its end glowing a wicked red. He blew upon it, eliciting a few small flames. When it was properly alight, he crossed to where a hide was stretched in a V-shape over a branch, bending to thrust the fiery limb beneath it. He stood back, waiting.

Crystin held her breath. For a moment she thought the deathly cold ground or the stiffly frozen hide had been enough to quell the small flames. Then there were shouts of surprise as the sleeping occupant within woke to find himself burning. He burst from his covers, frenziedly patting himself down, realising too late that he had company. From Crystin’s viewpoint it was as if he simply walked onto the blade of a waiting knife. He was able to do no more than murmur his shock, a bubble of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. His attacker slid the knife out, wiped it on his victim’s shoulder as he fell, then readied himself for more action.

The other sleeping men had begun to stir. One of the hides moved stiffly as its’ occupant ventured out to investigate. This time it was not bearskin man but one of his company who despatched him; a knife drawn sharp and deep across his throat. He fell with a dull thud, the lower half of his body still covered and warm in his makeshift tent.

Something between a cry of alarm and a roar of anger rent the frigid air. A hide at the furthest end of the row was thrown aside as the man beneath it rose up, a wild-eyed image of vengeance. An axe felled him before he got much further.