#the kind where the noise is ripped out of the middle of your throat

[ourbastardofsorrows]

i remember the first time i consciously let myself cry loudly, and it felt freeing and fake at the same time

[batfleshh]

OMG adding into the priest!price idea just imagine him figuring out how much he loves boypussy and fucking reader while he forced him to read tbf bible out loud while he’s being fucking wrecked by price.

YEESSSYEYSYSYYEYEY

Omg imagine this big hairy ass loyal religious man fucking the shit out of you!!!!

QUICK NSFW WARNING FOR LIKENGAY SEX AND RELIGOUS STUFF, you call him father and ur like ftm CAUSE YK IM IN A MOOD

Not proof reading this

Ty anon this gave me the biggest boner 😻✊

“P -Please Father, I can’t do it!”, you squeal as John pounds into your dripping cunt, your chest heaving as you try to steady your fingers to open up the religious book he had placed in your hands moments before. You’re bent over the pulpit where the book is usually sat, trembling hands trying to keep it steady as you blink away the tears of overwhelming pleasure clouding your eyes. He gently shushes you, tugging at the small chained necklace with the crucifix hanging in the middle at your throat. His cock digs deeper into you as he pushes his hips forward, ushering you with a low tone to carry on with what you were doing.

“Go on, boy,” he grunts, feeling just as dirty as you do as he reels his hips back, just to push them back forward. He flips through the chapters, each and every story flashes by until you reach a particular verse. He smirks to himself, a sly smile pushing up his facial hair as he grabs at your waist with one of his hands. You pant and moan as you try to focus on the words, ‘Galatians’ in bold at the top of the page. He trails his finger across the book for you to watch, stopping right at a verse. He then removes his hand from the thin page, placing both of his hands on your waist.

“Read.” He orders, beginning to thrust with a slow but rough pace. And you do, the words tumbling out of your mouth like fallen snow in an avalanche.

“The a- acts of the flesh are ob-vious!” You choke out, beginning to whimper as his pace picks up. You swallow down any kind of saliva forming in your mouth; continuing. “Sexual impurity and debauchery!”

Words like that only continued after. Berating any kind of disgusting acts in the eyes of the lord. Anything dirty, impure, improper, sinful. You choke down a sob as you get degraded by the text, knowing just how dirty you are in the hands of this priest. The only mortal being able to judge you. But here he was, this highly privileged prophet, slamming into your pussy without a doubt in his mind, pridefully ripping any kind of noises from you.

“I!- F- Fuck- warn you as I did b- before!”

You attempt to continue to shout, only to have the rest of your speech broken off by a sharp wail, leaning forward to put your head down on your arms. The feeling of him inside of you was too much, the feeling of him stretching you open a reminder that you were open to sin. Open to judgement. Oh, how it made you so riled up. Made you so unable to form coherent sentences. Price understood, chuckling as he leans over to finish the verse, his pace slowing up but more deep with his thrusts.

“Those who live like this,” he starts to groan, leaning forward to whisper into your ear with his low but rough voice. His scruffy facial hair scratches against your cheek gently, his hand coming up to lift your chin. Your head is raised up, teary eyes forced to look up at your creator. Him, forced to look down at his corrupted follower.

“Will not inherit the kingdom of God.” He finishes in your ear with a grunt, his cum spilling into you warmly. And you can only do the same, cumming around his cock with a loud moan, eyes still looking up for your God. Your head drops down on your arms, huffing and panting as Price slowly pulls out of you, thick fingers going down to spread open your pussy, chuckling as you whimper at the feeling of his hand. He watches his cum flow out slowly, your tear stained face looking back at him is enough for him to give a fake pout back, willing to help clean you up. He should think about making you read aloud more often.

DHDHJDJD IDK WHAT HAPPENEND I WAS JS HAVING THOUGHTS

[grandlinedreams]

hello!! I've been reading your law works recently, and I absolutely love the way you write him- you just capture his character so well :,)

hopefully it's not too much to ask, but can you write about law/reader soulmate au? I don't have anything too specific in mind because i'm really not too good with making prompts 😔

maybe a bit angsty though? I would also prefer if it was in the canon setting, but modern au would be fine too :)

Thank you in advance!!

OH I'M A SUCKER FOR SOULMATE AUS as I've said before I think dkdjs my brain's still booting up for the day but absolutely!! Couldn't resist adding the quote I was thinking about yesterday because Law is so Kaz Brekker coded istg

[Heads up!: talk of soulmates/red string of fate, little bit of angst, fluff, the 'fell first vs fell harder' trope]

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

The question makes Law pause where he's in the middle of reading about a blood-borne pathogen, looking up and over. Splayed out over his bed with your own book in your hand, you stare back. He frowns.

"Why are you asking?"

You shrug. "It's in this book," you say, "It's talking about how there's different ways to look at it. If they're two pieces of the same soul just separated and always trying to make it back to each other, or if something called a string of fate ties them together."

Law makes a noise in the back of his throat. "That sounds ridiculous."

"So you don't believe in them?"

"No." He watches you for a moment, studying you. "Do you?"

You hum, lifting one of your hands and focusing on your pinky. You can almost see it, the neat knot of red tied around the knuckle, string that loops and weaves aimlessly through the air. If such a thing exists, you wonder where it leads, then about where you wish it would.

"No," you answer at last, "I suppose I don't."

ㅡ

If Law lets himself think about fate tying you to him with red string, it's far less romantic. But there must be something that keeps you in his orbit, silent pull to bind you to him.

It scares him. Scares him for how badly he wants to let you in, expose soft underbelly and trust you won't sink your teeth in and rip it all apart.

The push and pull is how he copes with it even though he knows it's unfair to you ㅡ taunts you with what could be, then pushes you away. Open and shut, over and over.

You're tired of it, he knows that. So he apologizes, not sure what exactly he's sorry for. Sorry that he only knows how to take and less how to give, that he only knows how to lose.

You understand that. He knows, you've told him before. But even you have your limits. "I will have you without armor, Law," you tell him, "or I will not have you at all."

He knows it isn't fair to you. But he wishes things were different, that he were different ㅡ and that when he lets himself think about that red string, it wasn't wrapped around your throat.

ㅡ

Law's emotions are a house of cards and his defenses a glass house ㅡ and all it takes for both to crumble is, of course, almost losing you.

It's through no fault of his own, but he still feels sick as he dabs at the blood threatening to drip down into your eye.

"What you did was beyond reckless," he scolds sharply, wraps soft worry in barbed wire, "if you'd stuck to the damn plan, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"Sometimes you have to improvise." He gets the feeling you're not just talking about the situation at hand, but he doesn't care to analyze it at the moment.

"Whatever. You sound like that idiot Strawhat." He wants to keep scolding you, hammer home just how dumb you've been ㅡ but you're watching him, and the thin rubberband of his patience snaps.

The kiss is far from gentle. It's messy and clumsy, tastes a little like blood and gunpowder, but that hardly matters when you're kissing him back with the same kind of desperation.

ㅡ

Law doesn't put much weight in the idea of soulmates. It's a romantic connection at best and baseless for proof at worst, straddling somewhere in the middle.

But he supposes he does like the idea that you've always been meant for him, and he for you ㅡ that orbit gets easier to accept when he puts it that way. Or perhaps the atoms that make the two of you up have simply existed together for long enough in the grand scheme of things to echo through, even now.

You laugh when he tells you that, reaching to tug at a lock of his unruly hair. "Putting a scientific spin on it takes the romance out of it, Law."

His eyes flick to your lips and back. "Does it matter?"

Your expression turns thoughtful. "No, I suppose it doesn't." If you want to say more, Law doesn't know because he leans in to kiss you.

Be that you're a soul split in half trying to reunite or truly woven together by a thin red string, Law doesn't know.

What he does know is that you're in his bed, kissing him back, and that's all that matters.

[whimsiandwild]

Claws

Pairing: Gortash x gn!Durge [Durgetash]

WC: 894

Warnings: It's filth. It's smut. It's consensual. It's bloody. It's everything you'd want for them. Oral sex [giving]. blood play, praise/degradation kink

A/N: Please be kind. I haven't written smut or fanfiction for a very long time. Thank you to @ixora111 for this magnificent prompt. Enjoyt the gremlin king, all.

You glared up into the dark, taunting eyes of you lover, rage swirling your insides as Gortash flashed that arrogant, knowing smirk at you.

Enver Gortash.

You hated this fucker with a passion, but needed him just as desperately. It was almost as if your soul wasn’t whole unless he was within your vicinity, your father be damned.

“Now, now, kitten,” he chuckled, running the rough pad of his thumb over your lips. “We’ve barely even started and there’s already murder in your eyes. I excite you so quickly? Pathetic, really.”

If he hadn’t tied your hands behind your back, you’d throttle him to within an inch of his life… and then use his body at your will. It was truly embarrassing how feral the man made you, sauntering around like the king of the fucking castle, shirtless and delectable as always. You had known where this was going the moment he’d ordered you to his quarters, and you’d gone willingly. Disgusting. You were a child of Bhaal, the chosen of Bhaal no less, and here you were, almost prostating for the man. You’d never live down the shame.

“You know what’s coming, why aren’t you ready?” With a deep breath, you swallowed your pride and let your mouth fall open and slack, enraged by the pleasure his approval sent buzzing through you. “Well done, kitten.”

You expected him to do the usual; fuck your throat with his fingers until he decided to gag you with his cock; but he lifted his gloved hand, your eyes widening in shock. Before you could speak to protest, he’d shoved his clawed index and middle finger into your waiting mouth, the metal scraping the top and causing you to cry out.

To your surprise, he was uncharacteristically gentle, slowly sliding his fingers down your throat as far as you could take them, a savage glint in his eye as you felt the cold sting of the claws brush against your delicate flesh. You had to breathe hard through your nose as he went further, your eyes watering as you refused to give this cunt the satisfaction of you gagging; you could already taste your own blood trickling down your throat as he began to fuck your throat slowly.

“You were always so skilled at taking what I offered, kitten. Such a greedy little thing,” he winked, your teeth almost clamping down on his knuckles until he stuck his claws into the skin behind your tonsils; you were unable to stop yourself retching this time. “Any more of that and you’ll be lucky I don’t rip out the entire thing, you little cunt.” His tone was vicious but his gaze was filled with lust, especially as you gave a muted moan at the threat. “Gods, you are depraved.”

Gortash began to move his fingers faster, losing some of their gentleness and leaving small nicks in your delicate flesh, your fists clenching behind your back. Heat was pooling in your stomach as you let him continue his sadistic abuse, your desperation for him becoming paramount as you shifted position. It didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Absolutely not.”

Yanking his fingers away, enjoying the growl that left you as he injured your tongue, blood dripping from his claws as he undid his breeches. Gods, he was rock hard and leaking, and you needed to taste him like it was the first time all over again.

There was no time to think before he slammed himself into you, your eyes bulging at the sudden fullness filling your throat. The guttaral noise that left him as he pressed himself flat against you, your nails clawing at your palms as he did, left you weak, pitifully pliable, completely at his will. He thrust with abandon, lost in the pleasure he was forcing you to bestow against him.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he hissed, his cock coated in your blood and saliva, his hips snapping as he gripped the hair at the back of your head to hold you in place. “It’s always a huge.. nngh.. mess with you, eh, kitten? A monster here, a few dozen corpses there… it’s enough to make someone sick.”

You sucked in your cheeks, your mind reeling as he stuttered for a brief moment before continuing his assault. There had been many an occasion where you’d shoved him atop one of the bodies you’d mutilated, needing to have him then and there, blood coating you both and viscera surrounding you; they’d been some of the best orgasms you’d ever had in your life.

As you felt him swelling, his thrust sloppy as he picked up speed, you realised no one would ever know how to please you like him. No one would ever know you like him. And it made you feel ill. This was nothing more than a mutual partnership. A very beneficial one. Nothing more.

Gortash almost doubled over as he spilled into you, hot and salty as you swallowed around him, only causing more convulsions from the man, along with a strew of curses.

He staggered backwards, shoving you onto your back as he tried to catch your breath. Blood matted the hair at the base of his still hard shaft, the man gazing down at you hungrily before falling to his knees.

“Very good, kitten. Please, allow me to repay the favour..”

[wannab-urs]

Build Me Up Buttercup | Ch. 5

You never call, baby, when you say you will

Summary: A party. A rescue. A conversation.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Frat parties come with their own warning. Frat boy getting handsy. Mentions of death. Grief. Angst. Reader is dumb. Joel being vulnerable as hell.

A/N: I struggled really hard with this chapter. I'm still not sure if I love it, but it tells the story I wanted to tell. This will be the second to last chapter, I think. Thanks for reading babies, I love you all! Also I'm aware it's the middle of the night, but if I don't post this rn I'll delete it lmao.

Frat parties are objectively the worst place to be on a Friday night. There’s loud, shitty music being blasted over a stereo system some asshole’s dad bought for them. There’s about 100 people crammed into a space made to house three or four at the most. And there’s the douchebag pressed into your side, yelling in your ear about football or something. 

Em and Coop convinced you to go out after you filled them in on the Professor Joel tea. Coop told you she thought it seemed too good to be true. Em suggested the frat party, and subsequently a frat boy, as a way to get him off your mind. Neither one of them were anywhere to be found now. They weren’t usually ones to ditch you, so you assume they really wanted you to go home with someone tonight. 

“Are you even listening to me?” the aforementioned douche yells in your ear. He’s tall and broad and you may have even found him attractive once upon a time. He’s not really your type anymore.

“No. Not really,” you yell back over the music. He moves in closer to you, crowding you against the wall.

“That’s alright baby, we don’t have to talk,” and he crashes his mouth into yours. You push against his chest, trying to get him away from you, but he doesn’t budge. His hand slips under your tank top and you drop your shoulder into him and shove him away from you. 

“Fuck you, dude!” you scream at him, getting stares from several people near you. You storm out of the room, hearing him call out “Fucking bitch!” at your back. 

The sea of drunk people grinding on each other makes the door hard to reach, and you can feel panic clawing at your throat as you shove through the crowd. Tears well up in your eyes, making it hard to see, and you’re so overwhelmed by the noise and the people all around you that you can’t catch your breath. 

Finally, you make it to the door and burst outside as a sob rips from your throat. The smokers on the porch eye you warily, but no one bothers you as you make your way to the side of the house. You lean against the siding and drop to the ground, pulling out your phone. 

You have a couple messages in your group chat, a “happy hunting ;)” from Coop and a “wrap it before you tap it,” from Em. They’re idiots, but you love them. You take a deep breath and pull up your contacts, searching for Joel’s name. 

The phone rings for a long time before he picks up and gives you a sleepy, “Hello?” You can’t bring yourself to say anything for a long time, just breathing into the phone. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, seeming more awake now, worry creeping into his voice. You start fully sobbing now, not just about the frat boy but about everything. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Can- can you come get me?” you whimper, ashamed that you need him right now. 

“Of course, darlin’. Where are you?” 

“Farmer Avenue. It’s a frat party.” 

“I know it. Be there in 5, baby. Do you need me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No, it’s okay, J- Joel. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” 

You hang up the phone and shoot the girls a message telling them you’re heading home with someone and you’ll fill them in tomorrow, promising you only had one drink and you’re fine. 

A big white truck pulls up to the curb and you scramble off the ground, half jogging to the truck and yanking the door open. Joel stares down at you from the driver’s seat, and you suddenly remember you’re supposed to be mad at him. Kind of hard to be pissed when he’s saving your ass like a knight in shining armor… white steed and all. 

“Hi… thanks for the rescue,” you mumble as you pull yourself up into the passenger seat. 

“Anytime, sweetheart, put your seatbelt on,” Joel says gently. 

You put it on and look out the window, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world for having to call him. 

“Can I ask what you were doing at a frat party, darlin’?” And that makes it a thousand times worse. 

“No,” it’s none of his fucking business what you do in your free time.

Joel sighs and rolls his eyes, “My place okay?” 

“Won’t your wife be pissed?” you snap at him, shooting him a glare. He doesn’t respond, but you see his hand tighten on the wheel. 

“Doubt it.”

You’re both silent for the rest of the short drive. 

Joel pulls into the driveway of a small, one story brick house and is out of the truck and in the door before you can even get your seatbelt off. You make your way inside and find yourself in the living room. There’s a couch separating the entryway from the rest of the room and bookshelves on either side of a TV on the far wall. There aren’t a lot of decorations and, honestly, the place looks like a bachelor pad. Joel appears from the hallway with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in his hand. 

“I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed. Bathroom is on the left, bedroom’s on the right. It’s the only one. You can’t miss it,” Joel snarks. 

“Okay. Thank you,” you squeak, a blush rising to your cheeks. If there’s only one room, he probably doesn’t have a kid living here. Maybe he got divorced? But then why would he have a picture of his ex-wife on his desk? “Actually, Joel…” you trail off, trying to find the courage to ask him what you need to ask him. “Can we talk?” 

“It’s late. You’ve been drinking-”

“No! I only had one drink, like 2 hours ago. Please, Joel.” You won’t be able to sleep until you talk to him. Anxiety and dread will keep you up for the rest of the night, going over every possibility. 

Joel heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “Go change, I’ll make you some tea.”

You walk over and take the clothing from him, staring up into his face for a moment. He looks tired and sad, a deep crease between his brows and a look in his eyes you haven’t seen before. Joel turns and heads to the kitchen. You shake your head and go find the bathroom to change. 

A few minutes later, you sit at Joel’s kitchen table as he pulls the kettle off the stove and pours boiling water into two mugs. He sets your tea in front of you and  sits at the table across from you. It’s a small table. The whole house is small. 3 people wouldn’t live here.

“So. Who are the woman and kid in that picture, Joel? I need to know,” you ask the question that’s been on your mind for two full days. You dread the answer.

“My wife Ashley and my daughter Sarah.” You meet his eyes. It’s exactly the answer you expected, but you had hoped it wasn’t true. 

“So I am your side piece. You really thought I’d be okay with that Joel? What the fuck is wrong with you?” All your anger comes rushing back to the surface.

“They’re dead.” 

Oh. Oh shit. “Fuck.”

Joel looks down at his mug, twirling it in his fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Joel, fuck.” You are so fucking stupid.

“Don’t.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ Don’t apologize. No way you coulda known, darlin’” 

He doesn’t sound angry with you. Just sad. So fucking sad. His shoulders are hunched in and his whole face is pinched and his breaths are coming out shaky. You have no idea what to say, so you don’t say anything. You stand up from the table and warily make your way over to him. You settle a hand on his shoulder and he immediately turns and buries his face in your stomach, wrapping his arms around you. You slide your arms around his head and hold him close, savoring the feeling of him pressed against you.  

He takes a few more shaky breaths. “It was a car accident. 20 years ago… I- I was driving,” he whispers into your (his) shirt. You drop a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, Joel,” you breathe into his hair. 

He squeezes you hard, then pulls back and peers up at you, eyes watery. “It was a long time ago. Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“I’m sorry I just ran out on you. And didn’t call. And skipped class today. Fuck Joel, I’m such an asshole.” Joel stands up and kisses you on the forehead. 

“We can talk more tomorrow, if you want. It’s late, let’s go to bed darlin’.” He grabs your hand and pulls you to his bedroom. There’s a large bed in the center of the room, a nightstand on the right side but not the left, and a dresser under the window. Again, the evidence that he lives alone is all but screaming in your face. 

You stand in the doorway as he strips off his jeans and tosses them into the corner of the room. He pads over to the bed and crawls under the covers, laying on his side facing you. “You comin’?” He looks at you with wide puppy-dog eyes. 

Your mouth quirks into a one-sided grin. He looks adorable right now. Nothing like the hardened asshole you thought you knew. You walk around to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers with him. You press your chest against his back and throw your arm around him, nestling your face into the crook of his neck. You press little kisses against his clothed shoulder and squeeze him as tight as you can. 

“Goodnight, Joel.”

“Night, Darlin’.”

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[lacheri]

Hey uuuuuuuuh can I get uuuuuuuuuuh... Number 34 with a side of Levi please? iluthankiesmwah

i'm half asleep posting this but this was too fucking cute to not hop on IMMEDIATELY

cw: a whole lot of cussing and a whole lot of fluff, i'm clawing at the walls screaming "when", minors/ageless blog dni

wc: 900+

prompt event: open until sunday 12/11!

34. why are you so cold?

You are truly fucking evil, Levi thinks. You must be some kind of sadistic devil, purely and irrefutably cruel and wicked. You must have planned this, plotted and schemed this treachery — traitor, you fucking traitor.

It’s the dead middle of winter, the temperature unyieldingly frigid despite the thick insulation of walls that surround the two of you. It’s almost his birthday for fuck’s sake, and yet here you are, slumbering away on his bed with every square inch of his comforter, without a single drop of sympathy. The plush edges are tucked so tightly under you, so compacted, you’ve managed to spin yourself a cocoon of warmth, leaving Levi to brave the harsh cold all by himself.

And the thing is you were so sweet before you fell asleep. Lurring Levi into bed with those eyes of yours, (the big, puppy dog ones, the kind you only use when you’re laying it on extra thick. As if Levi isn’t going to jump at any opportunity you present him to please you. Ridiculous.) pouting and asking so delicately — can we cuddle? Please Levi?

Nestling yourself right up against his side, throwing your arms over his waist, peppering kisses into his goddamn neck, you created the perfect storm. Get him all soft and sleepy, putty in your claws, melting at the attention, just to tear the illusion of security to shreds.

Yeah, you planned this. You had to, you fucking thief.

Levi’s eyes narrow into slits. He had awakened to the realization he was covered in goosebumps, teeth chattering in his sleep. And you, you were the reason as to why. 

He wonders if you’re as comfy and content as you look. The sun is probably pissed off somewhere in the sky wondering where all the heat on Earth is coming from. Little does the sun know it’s coming from the most unassuming source, Levi’s double crosser of a girlfriend.

He should teach you a lesson. He should rip that blanket right out from under you and encase himself in its snugness and spare absolutely none of it to your shivering form. If you want to be greedy, he’ll match your selfishness so quickly it’ll make your head spin.

But as Levi reaches for his revenge, the fabric gripped in a fist, he goes rigid.

Because you’re fucking purring. You’re sighing happily, a sweet noise of comfort squeaking it’s way out of your sleeping throat, and suddenly Levi feels as if he was about to kick a puppy.

Evil, he repeats. You’re evil.

His fingers relax against the blanket, and he groans, berating himself for being such a softie. 

His eyes linger on your face, or at least what he can see of it. The comforter rests right under your nose, obstructing a clear view of your expression, but he imagines you’re probably smiling. And why wouldn’t you be? So safe and warm, wrapped up in his only blanket, surrounded entirely by the scent of him. He thinks you breathe a little deeper upon that thought just to spite him.

The anger that flooded his veins only moments ago dissipates into nothing. Instead the vengeful hand that only meant to bring you suffering smoothes over your forehead, drawing patterns over your temple. You hum, pushing your head further into his touch, and suddenly Levi can’t remember why he was ever angry in the first place.

Probably survival instinct, he thinks. That’s the only reason you stole all the blankets. Your body is just trying to bare the cold.

Besides, if you really were evil, how could you be so cute? And god fucking dammit you are cute. Angelic, even, with the way you look so peaceful and docile and fuck — he can’t take that away from you.

So Levi sucks it up, sinks down into the mattress, and huffs up at the ceiling. He’ll fall back asleep eventually, he surmises. That or his body will shut down due to the cold, whatever happens first.

As he tries his best to get comfortable, shimmying closer to your radiating heat, you stir. He swears under his breath for inconveniencing your tranquility, and loathes himself entirely when your eyelids flutter.

“Levi?” you slur. “What’re doing?”

“Go back to sleep.” His voice sounds rough, the chill makes his teeth rattle when he speaks. 

“C’mere,” you pout, untangling yourself from under all the tucked in edges. You lift the comforter, silently inviting him to join you.

A savior, that’s what you are. You’re kind, merciful, and thoughtful.

Levi sighs out a, “Thank fuck”, and eagerly accepts your summoning. When he situates himself in the gracious embrace of your warmth, he lets out another sigh of relief. He’s still shivering, but it’s calmed since he’s slotted himself next to you. 

As he finishes his settling, his hand comes to rest on your waist, and you jolt backwards with a hiss.

“Levi?” you ask, sleep still thick and syrupy on your tongue. He hums in response, already lost in the temptation of a subconscious state. “Why are you so cold?”

Suddenly, Levi is wide awake. He laughs, hard and muffled with his face pressed into the pillow beneath his head.  

“Don’t worry about it,” he says after his laughter dies down, though your confusion grows. “Go back to sleep.”

And then you’re back to purring, and Levi’s back to calling you a devil, but only because you’re just too sinfully sweet and his poor heart can’t handle it. 

Yeah. You definitely planned this.

LACHERI © 2022: all writing content belongs to LACHERI. I do not allow reposts or translations.

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Prologue: All Roads Lead Home

League of Legends | F!Reader x Various

Crossposted on AO3 here

Chapters: Prologue | Viego: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

SFW

I'm trying to get into the habit of making regular updates, so I'm starting with crossposting my new League of Legends x Reader fic.

Summary: Turns out that Runeterra isn't the only place that has a Void. Plucked from your world into one of a video game with nothing but stolen time powers, an inability to die and a middling recollection of lore, you're prepared to do just about anything to get back home again. You just have to find the right Champion to help.

Prologue: All Roads Lead Home

Turns out, it's not just Runeterra that has a Void, that has Watchers. The Void is a space beyond existence, between worlds, a nothingness impossibly given shape by reality, warped into being by something completely antithetical to itself. The difference is, the things in the Void in Runeterra reacted to reality as one does to a particularly itchy bug-bite. The things in yours reacted more like a kid who put that bug in a jar, and then shook it around to see what it'd do.

You're visiting family when a hole rips open in the ceiling of your bedroom. Out reaches a hand, except it's not really a hand, because it has teeth for nails and mouths for fingers and a bulging stomach for a palm. You sit, rigid with fear, as it creeps down. Something like a tongue lolls down from its mouth, layered with so many eyes it hardly has skin, and it skates right over you to your sister, asleep in her bed across the room from you. It picks her up delicately, almost dainty in its movements, and a different kind of fear bolts through you. You're up so fast you almost trip, heart thudding in your throat, and throw your lamp at it. Except it's still plugged in, so it just makes an ungodly clattering noise. It lashes out with its tongue at the noise, and you go flying across the room, crashing into the mirror built into your wardrobe door. It hurts, of course it hurts, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug. You get up, a mirror shard gripped in your hand so hard it cuts, and you swing at the thing wildly. You manage to lodge the shard in its eye, and it drops your sister with a shriek that makes your ears hurt.

Then, the thing makes a strange noise, and you realize it's laughing. In a voice that is barely a voice it says, “Ahhh, this one has more fight. You'll do, little thing.”

And then you're asleep. When you wake up, you're in the Void.

—

The thing keeps an eye on you, literally. It's set into your palm like a tick. It watches your every move, and it's never so interested as when you're fighting for your life.

It takes you a while to realize it's why you can't die. Or, well, you can, but you come back. Every time you come back, the eye is closed, and it's the only blessed moment of privacy you get in this monstrous shithole. It also takes you some time to realize it's not just bringing you back, it's bringing you back in time, to before you were hurt. Your clothes reknit and undirty, your still-healing scratches vanish. You learn to use its powers for yourself–to freeze the thing that's lunging for your face, to accelerate a thrown bone spear until it instantly appears in its target, to dodge by suddenly being where you were thirty seconds ago instead.

You don't know how long you're in there. You don't know how long it takes you to track down the thing that took you, and kill it. You don't know why it laughs when you rip its guts out, why it slurs out congratulations until it can't speak anymore. You do know that you take its power, all that energy with nowhere to go but into its last living vestige in you. You also know that having the ability to manipulate time doesn't mean manipulating space, and trying to rip yourself back in time to before you were taken kind of just rips a hole in everything. Except where you are is barely anywhere, and so you fall into the parts of the Void that are so deep they aren't anything, and you aren't anything either.

And then you wake up in fucking Runeterra.

—

You learn about the rules pretty quickly. You crash land in a crater, and a nearby village is lucky enough to find you and kind enough to watch over you for the week you sleep. When you wake up, they ask you your name, and when you try to answer you cough up a single jagged shard of mirror glass. The shard. The eye might be gone, but even dead, that thing still finds a way to fuck you over.

You can't tell anyone anything about your time in the Void. Your name is confiscated, as is the fact that this whole universe was some shitty game. The edges of what you're allowed to say are difficult to map, considering you'd really rather avoid coughing up glass. On the bright side, you still can't die, and time is still yours to control.

You repay the village by healing some sicknesses, rewinding the ill to their hale and healthy times. Luckily you're not in Demacia, and your apparent magic doesn't garner many questions. Then, you gather the supplies you need for a long trip, and set out.

Someone in this fucking world has to know how you can get back home, and you've got a shortlist of everybody whose somebody in this place. You're immortal, and you have all the time in the world. You just have to find the right Champion.

[sorrydearie]

#: shaky hands :) :) :) :) :)

berlermo + sick whump prompts

“You’ve been hiding this from me. Why?”

It wasn’t an accusation, not exactly. There was no malice behind the words. No hatred, no ire. Martín didn’t have enough strength left for it. 

He was too exhausted, lying there on the living room floor, feeling empty and drained and like a mere shadow of himself – like someone had shoved a fist into his chest and ripped out his miserable little heart. 

There had been so many times in the past when Martín had wanted to punch Andrés, and God knows the bastard would have deserved it. Whenever he had brought home another one of his women like a tomcat dragging in a dirty rat, when he would just up and leave in the middle of the night to chase a flight of fancy, when he wouldn’t listen to Martín’s practical concerns because think about the aesthetics, Martín!

But he’d always held back. 

Until tonight.

Martín hadn’t been able to help it. It was as if a switch had been flicked: he’d seen red when he had found the doctor’s note among Andrés’s things. 

Helmers Myopathy.

Andrés’s mother's disease. 

A death sentence. 

Andrés was going to leave him. He’d fuck off and die, like the selfish bastard he was, and leave Martín to wither away by himself.

Next to him, Andrés heaved a sigh. The air rattled inside his lungs, hollow and damp. There was a faint whistling noise when he spoke, too; Martín thought he might have broken his nose when he punched him. 

“I never meant for you to find out,” Andrés said matter-of-factly: water is wet, the sky is blue. I never intended to tell you. “But I should’ve known it was pointless. You’re as nosy as Veroni—”

“Don’t!” Martín gritted his teeth. “I’m not one of your fucking wives, I’m so much more. So don’t you fucking dare compare me to them, you fucking piece of shit.”

Something sparked to life inside his chest. Righteousness, a red-born fury. 

He had been Andrés’s best friend for the better part of a decade. He’d been at his side, always. Together, inseparable. They’d been destined for greatness, to burn as bright as Icarus chasing the sun. 

Where had they gone wrong? In what world did it end like this – without their heist, without their reward. 

Nothing.

Fucking nothing. 

Martín had written the most beautiful mathematical poem for Andrés – a declaration of love, if you so will – and now he’d never get to show him.

Andrés would never know how far Martín was willing to go for him, what kind of beauty he inspired in Martín. What he’d create in his name and lay to his feet, like a humble offering to a cruel and vain god. 

His throat tightened and he blinked furiously, staving off tears. The ceiling blurred into a sheen of white, the hanging lamps turned into glowing stars. Did heaven look like this? Was this what Andrés would see when he—

When he died. 

Andrés’s hand found his. Squeezed, as though he wanted to hold on to him after all, as though he wanted it as badly as Martín. 

A sob caught in Martín’s throat.

He wanted nothing more than to turn his face and curl up next to Andrés. To have and hold him, so close, so tight, so possessively that not even Death himself would dare to take him from Martín. 

“You are right. You’re so much more, you’re—” Andrés trailed off. He was searching for the right words. The ones that’d pacify Martín. The ones that’d mend what had been broken.

(Martín wasn’t sure they even existed. He prayed they did.) 

A few beats of silence, then Andrés sighed. Half exhale, half resignation.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” he said again, sounding impossibly tired. “You worked so hard on the plan, I couldn’t let you throw it away. Not for anything in the world, not because of this. Giving up was never an option.”

He hesitated.

Martín's heart pounded in his ears, so loud he thought Andrés might hear it.

“If tonight was my last night,” Andrés went on, intently, “I’d want to spend it robbing the bank of Spain.”

With you. 

The words hung in the air between them, unspoken. Always unspoken. 

“Don’t take that future away from me, Martín.”

Martín’s chest seized.

His fingers curled around Andrés’s, his grip tight and unyielding.

Andrés never begged for anything, wouldn’t even dare to bat an eye in the face of Death. 

But he pleaded now, with Martín. 

So how could he refuse him?

(How could anyone refuse Andrés anything he wanted?)

“We’ll do it,” Martín said quietly. A promise, an oath, a vow. “We'll rob the bank of Spain. It’s our right.”

And after… 

After, Martín would find a way to keep Andrés. Forever.

[theoddcatlady]

Lump in my Throat

Flight… delayed by another four hours… due… weather conditions…  

I put my headphones back in, resolving that there wasn’t a chance in hell I was getting back to Chicago tonight. I cringed as the left earbud kept crackling and going out, only for it to finally cut out for good and leaving me getting only half the song.  

Frustrated, I yanked them both out, now fully exposed to the noise of an airport terminal. The snoring of the man next to me, somehow sleeping through the chaos. The ‘I’m a platinum member’ complaining loudly to anyone who will listen about how he gave the airline too much money to be stuck in this backwater town. The mom who was talking way too loudly about personal matters on her phone while her three children screeched like banshees and got in everyone’s way. The guy refusing to cover his mouth while sneezing and coughing, and he did both a lot. The arguing couple about how this was ‘all your fault’ and ‘maybe this trip was a mistake’. And in the background of it all, the rain pounding on the roof above us, preventing anyone from taking off.  

I decided to put my headphones back in to at least muffle the sound when the middle child zipped right past me and ripped them right out of my ears with one of his flailing arms. “Will you watch where you’re going!?” I snapped.

This finally got the attention of the inattentive mom, who looked at me like I just took a dump in her latte. “Don’t you shout at my child!” She yelled, shaking her finger at me.  

I responded by getting up and heading right for the bathrooms. If I stayed another minute I might just snap and slap the bitch.  

I slammed open the door and just stood by the sinks, taking several deep breaths and counting down from ten. I could not lose it out there, if I lost it out there, I might get kicked out of the airport. And in a small town like this I’d probably be shit out of luck when it came to getting a motel to stay at.

It probably took a few too many seconds to realize that the smell in the air wasn’t just the likely disgusting toilet stalls, and that I wasn’t alone. I turned to see a woman in the flight attendant uniform, holding a lit joint in her hand.  

We just stood and stared at each other for a moment before I laughed. I just shook my head and laughed. “Rough day?” I asked.

A nervous smile spread across her face. “Yeah, you could say that. Er, don’t tell my boss and I’ll let you have some?” She asked.

“Nah, I don’t smoke, but thanks anyway.” I sighed and rubbed my temples. “I was going to hit someone if I stayed out there for another minute. How do you handle it?”  

“Um?” She lifted the joint up and now we were both laughing. The kind of laugh that comes when you’re tired, there’s nothing left inside, so it’s either laugh or cry. When the laughter died down she coughed quietly. “I’m Fiona,” She introduced herself.

“Zoe.”  

Fiona nodded before extinguishing the joint and throwing the remains in the trash. “Well, that’ll help me get through the rest of this. Let’s hope the weather lets up so we can get back to Chicago,” She said.

“Preach. It.”  

We both walked out of the bathroom, I was feeling a bit better, I turned to thank Fiona for chatting with me when the ground shook beneath my feet. Before I could even react, Fiona shoved me, sending me flying into a wall.  

It was like Armageddon- the ground churning and tilting, the growl of the off white floor splitting and opening up right beneath Fiona’s feet, the horrified scream that ripped from her lips as she dropped into the abyss, one more glimpse of her bloodless face and then she was gone.

The shaking slowed and came to a stop, and it would’ve been like nothing happened… except there was now a canyon in the middle of the terminal.  

I stumbled to my feet, my ears still ringing from the sound, before I looked out into the airport. I recognized the sleeping man from earlier, milling about while he stared at the chaos, the sneezer helping the woman arguing with her boyfriend earlier up off the ground, and the mother, screeching at the top of her lungs-

“Where are my babies!? Where are you!? Reece? Declan? Maisie, where are you, baby?! Oh my god, they fell in! They fell down there!” 

There was no sign of the platinum member either. Feeling like I was in the middle of a dream, I milled over to the group, looking for any sign of the children. Some pieces of the roofing had fallen down, but I didn’t see any sign of those kids. Sure, they were obnoxious, but… I glanced down the crevice. I knelt down and looked for any sign of the bottom. Could kids really survive dropping down that?

I heard someone clear their throat and I glanced up to see the sleeping man from earlier. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, clicked the button, and threw it down. It spun around before it clattered on the bottom. It might’ve been dark, but it seemed that it wasn’t nearly half as deep as I’d thought. It just looked that way because of the dark.  

Either way, it wouldn’t have been a great fall.

“I saw one… one of those kids, at least, fall down there.” The man stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing at the floor. “Some guy tried to grab him before he fell but he ended up going to. I think that’s a cave down there.”

“They really built an airport over a cave?” I mumbled.  

The man shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t know. Either way, I’m going down,” He shrugged off his jacket, “I think I can climb on down. Coming with?”  

Without even thinking about it I nodded. “I’m Zoe,” I said.

“Roger,” He said before hopping right down, someone clambering down the walls like a spider.

I got up, brushing off my jeans before looking around. “Hey, I’m going down there to look for the kids! Anyone else coming along?” I shouted.

Having everyone’s eyes on me at once was intimidating, but the sneezer and the woman both joined me. “Ma’am, stay up here until the emergency crews get here. Don’t worry, we’ll go get your kids,” The sneezer said before he began the descent.  

I was reminded of the rock walls I climbed all the time as a teen as I lowered myself down the crevice. There was more than enough space for me to clamber down, but without a harness I felt completely out of my depth. Each time my foot slipped on the way down I thought ‘this is it, I’m gonna fall and break my fucking neck’.  

The wall didn’t go down the whole way, I only figured out when I started dangling. I glanced down and saw the light, I only had a few feet to fall. Those few seconds of dropping made my heart fly into my throat, and I never felt so glad to have wet shoes as I dropped into the water that was nearly up to my calves in depth.

Roger was already on the ground, sloshing through the water and shining his light on the stone walls. “I’ll be damned. It really is a cave,” He said.  

The Sneezer dropped down, almost falling on his ass on that last jump down. “All right, I heard you two introduce yourselves,” He sniffled and wiped his nose, “I’m Archie. Sorry, I got a cold. Where do you think the kids went?”  

“And I’m Payton- fuck!”  

I barely caught the woman tumbling down, taking several steps backwards and nearly twisting my ankle in the process. She glanced around before putting her hands to her mouth. “Gabriel! Babe, are you okay!? Where are you?!”  

As far as I could see, we were the only ones down here. I grabbed my phone and flicked on its light. “Maybe they went down this way. It’s downhill, maybe they took off in the dark?” I suggested.

Roger shined his light the other way, revealing it was a dead end. “Probably. Good news though- I didn’t find any bodies in the water. They didn’t die in the fall,” He said.

Payton shuddered as she grabbed her own phone. “Jesus Christ, the last thing I said to him was that we were over. If that’s the last thing he heard-”

“Like Roger said, they’re not here, meaning they got up and walked away,” I interrupted, setting a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get moving, they’re still probably hurt and those kids are probably scared half to death.”  

The four of us walked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being Archie’s sniffles and the splashing water beneath our feet.  

I broke the silence first. “I saw one of the flight attendants fall down here too. Fiona, we talked in the bathroom a bit. She shoved me out of the way before I went down this hellhole too. So we’re looking for three children, two men, and one women… why haven’t we seen anything?” A shoe, a piece of clothing, I could barely ignore the chill going down my spine.

“Maybe the attendant hurried them out,” Archie offered, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “Afraid it was going to close up on them. Oh jeez, you think another shake will take this place down on us?”

Mental images of being crushed underground flooded my brain and I nearly went weak at the knees, but Roger shook his head. “I don’t think it was an earthquake. This cave’s only got a little water in it now, but with all the rain, I think it was a flash flood. Just weakened the ground under the terminal and well, you saw what happened. Maybe the smallest ones could’ve been washed away, but not the adults. They probably did just get right back up and chose to high tail it out,” He said.

Archie coughed and groaned. “Tell you what, this sure isn’t going to help me get over the flu,” He groaned.

“Sure it’s not the coronavirus?” Payton weakly joked, to which I could just about feel Archie rolling his eyes at.  

“Not the coronavirus. Just a stuffy nose and a sore throat.”

Payton laughed and shook her head. “Sorry, that’s… that’s just what Gabe would say. Always made stupid jokes like that.”  

Archie coughed again, groaning as he pounded his chest. “Air feels weird down here,” He wheezed.  

“Maybe you should climb back up? Wait for the emergency crews?” I asked.

Archie shook his head. “I’m not going to wimp out when there’s people hurt and scared down here, especially the kids,” He said.  

Roger cleared his throat loudly. “Thanks, Archie, but if you really need to turn… back… what the fuck?” He flashed his light over to the side of the cave, where there was dirt rising out of the water, just enough for some plants to grow.

I waded over, bending over to get a better look at the plants. Each a muddy brown, the stems bare until the top, where there was a trio of wide leaves and a bright blue bulb in the center. “I’m not really a botanist, but these are freaking weird,” I said, teaching up to give it a poke.

Roger caught my hand last second. “Don’t. They might be poisonous,” He scolded, sounding like a worried parent.  

I stood back up sheepishly. “Anyone know what they are?” I asked, getting only a bunch of head shakes and shrugs in return. “Okay then. Let’s just keep looking for the others.”

We only took a few more steps before Archie stopped coughing and started gagging. He stumbled to a stop before collapsing to the ground with a splash. Roger bolted back to Archie, supporting him and preventing him from falling backwards into the water. “Archie? Archie, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” He said.

All Archie got out was “There’s something in my-” before his neck snapped backwards with a painfully audible crack. I ran up to him next, shining my light in his open to look inside.

I froze when I saw a familiar blue bulb right between his inflamed tonsils, surrounded by those muddy leaves. The shock of seeing that in his throat made Roger drop Archie, who dropped back into the water, head disappearing below the surface before the plant sprouted above it, its leaves unfolding around that bulb.  

I ran. I fucking ran down the cave, screaming at the top of my lungs. Payton was right on my heels, while Roger was just frozen, kneeling there next to Archie’s still body.  

I heard the gagging behind us before we turned the corner and found the original people who fell down there.

I recognized the platinum card member first, leaning up against the wall, the stream bubbling over his legs with his neck bent sideways at a ninety degree angle, the plant sprouted from his gaping mouth. I stumbled back and away, nearly tripping over what I thought were just rocks under the water until I looked down.

The plants were sprouting from three tiny bodies under the water. I fell to my knees and grabbed one of the children by the shoulders, pulling them up to reveal it was the same child who’d ripped my headphones out not even an hour before. His body was cold, still. Far too still.

But their eyes were still wide and alive, stricken with terror as they stared at the plant sprouting from beneath their teeth. I dropped them back, watching them fall beneath the brackish water before looking up.

Payton was knelt next to the body of her boyfriend, bawling as she stared into his far too alive eyes. She looked at the plant before getting a steely look in her eyes and getting back up. Grabbing the plant by the stem, she screamed at the top of her lungs as she pulled with all her might, ripping out the plant… and most of Gabriel’s esophagus with it.  

I heard the most disgusting gurgle as the boyfriend fell forward, his neck lolling in an unnatural position as the light in his eyes faded and blood flowed out of his mouth. Payton was left holding onto the plant, staring at the roots that intertwined with lumps of bloody flesh. She then dropped to her knees, laughing the kind of laugh that only came from someone who’d lost their fucking mind.

I turned away the moment that laughter turned into gagging and continued running downstream, feeling tears rush down my face and my chest seizing with sobs. I ran and ran, my fingers growing numb while they dug into my phone case, and I didn’t stop running until I saw the light that signaled the exit.

I stumbled out of that cave onto a rocky beach. The rain had finally slowed to a light sprinkle, and I collapsed on the ground as I desperately inhaled the cold fresh air.  

I listened to the waves for a few minutes before I realized I was hearing something else… someone’s wheezy breathing. I pulled myself up and looked up to see a body slumped right by the exit. I recognized Fiona by her uniform first, her face had turned a shade of bluish green and eyes popped wide with such horror I couldn’t recognize the woman who’d shoved me out of the way and saved me from falling down the crevice.

I crawled over to her, intertwined my fingers in with her ice cold ones. Her eyes stared into mine.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I coughed in an attempt to clear my throat, “I’m sorry this happened to you.”  

I heard this desperate whine and maybe it was just the wind, but her head shook a little. I coughed again, that lump in my throat growing stronger. “This was my fault. You shouldn’t be-”

With movements slow and jerky, Fiona grabbed onto the stalk growing from his throat and ripped, ripping out several inches of the plant, still so much more down her throat. My face was sprayed with her blood, and I stared at her eyes.

“Breathed in… the spores… run,” She hissed before ripping the rest of the plant out, taking her tongue with it. With that, she flopped to the ground lifeless.

I got up. And I ran, ran away until I was far away from that fucking cave. But I think it’s already too late for me.  

That lump in my throat isn’t going away.

[4awny]

did someone order some filth?

"Why is there always an interruption whenever we're finally getting it on?" Said Craig, who just about had enough with it. "Why can't you just ignore it?"

"I know, but- shit. I'm so so sososo sorry." Kenny addressed, reaching for the vibrating phone in his pocket. "It could be Karen." He then saw the name on the screen. "It's Cartman."

Craig didn't say anything, but his face told him exactly what he was thinking. Kenny knew he probably shouldn't take the call, but he did it anyway. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you? I've just been to your house."

"Erm? I'm out. Is it urgent?" Meanwhile, Craig was already bored with their conversation and bowed his head down to Kenny's groin so he could continue with what they were doing. Kenny's eyes followed with curiosity and his mouth fell into a cocky smile when he felt wet lips wrap themselves around him.

"Yeah, it kind of is. I've just had an eureka moment and it's too long for me to put in a text."

Kenny's fingers slipped into his black hair. "Can it wait til tomorrow? Kinda busy."

"Not really. I can just tell you now, are you alone?"

He didn't answer straight away. He needed to quickly think up an excuse. "No- with Stan."

"You're with Stan?" Cartman asked after a pause. When Kenny confirmed it, the brunette suspected as much. "Well that's a lie, because I just came off the phone to Butters and he said he's with Stan. Said they haven't seen you all day. So, I'll ask you again. Are you alone or not?

Kenny stuttered out another excuse in hopes that it would cover up the giant plot hole he just made. "No, no. Did I- did I say Stan? I meant to say Kyle. I'm with Kyle."

"Kenny." There was a long sigh. "I'm only going to ask you this one time and if you lie to me again? Then me and you? We're gonna have a huge problem."

He would have felt somewhat threatened if he wasn't in the middle of getting the best blow job of his life. He couldn't help but challenge his friend. "Sure thing, Eric." He joked, "Ask away."

"Are you with him right now?"

A cheeky snicker left his throat. "Sorry, but ya gonna have to be a lil bit more specific than that."

Cartman was certainly not in the mood for playing games. "You know who the fuck I'm talking about, stop fucking with me, you little-" He cut that part short, having to hold back his tongue. "Are you with Craig Tucker, yes or no?"

"Even if I was, what's it gotta do with you?" Kenny bit back, as if anyone had any right to dictate to him what he could and could not do.

"I knew it." Cartman made a distasteful noise with his lips. "So, not only are you so financially poor that you're selling your asshole for five bucks a go, but you're now a poor excuse for a friend too."

"Craig Tucker doesn't seem to think so." He replied quietly.

"Craig Tucker," Cartman recited the name like it was the most revolting thing in his life. "-is a fucking loser, with loser friends and a loser life. He's a stupid motherfucker and if you're gonna-"

Craig pulled away with an irritated huff. "Oh, fuck you, you annoying piece of-" He ripped the phone from Kenny's grasp. "Call this number again and you're gonna be answering to my nut sack, now fuck off." He hung up the phone and tossed it somewhere to the floor. "No more distractions, kay?"

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31878976/chapters/97216218 

enjoy it, ya filthy animals x

[dxncingwithastrxnger]

3. interlude: choices

A/N: So I’ve been planning things out more and I’ve got a pretty good idea on how I want this all to go and now Imma prolly spend all day writing again, lmao. But surprise!!! I know this is super short, but it counts as a whole chapter and it is VERY important!! It may be called interlude but it is not at all a filler, I promise you. I’m really excited about this, I can’t wait for us to get further into the story!!! Enjoy!!!!

Pairing(s): N/A

Summary: They say that change is everywhere. That it happens all the time. Every second, every minute, every hour. But it's our own choices that decide what those changes are and how they affect us and the people around us. And while sometimes those choices can lead to absolute joy, they can just as easily lead to complete devastation.

Tags: Police, ambulance, body bag, crime scene

Song Inspiration: N/A

Word Count: 464

Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

~*~

[Series Masterlist]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9]

[Read on AO3]

[Author Masterlist]

~*~

He pushes past dozens of people. None of them are who he's looking for. He steps through the yellow and black barriers without much thought to it. His eyes scan the scene before him as he jogs forward. There's so much noise. So much chaos. Flashes of red and blue take over his vision every few seconds. A rattle catches his attention. His head turns to face the doors of the building as he stops in his tracks, right in the middle of everything. The doors are opening and his breath hitches.

It's something you really only see on tv, not in real life. And he suddenly wishes it could've stayed like that for him. But this is very much real. The rattling he'd heard was that of wheels. His eyes roam over the large black bag being carted off and he tries not to imagine what kind of shape the person within it could be in. He was grateful for the zipper that blocked anyone from seeing them. He swallows around his now dry throat, his eyes following the bag on its journey to its ride, leading him right to who he's here for.

He immediately heads over to the man, calling out to him as he does so, but he receives no answer. He stops when he's standing right in front of him. The man with golden blonde hair and bright red eyes. But something's off with him. He's completely still in his spot on the cold, concrete bench. His clothes are wrinkled and out of place. His hair looks like it's been ran through and pulled at almost to the point of being ripped from his head. And his eyes. They were usually so full of life, sparkling with mischief and amusement. But there was none of that now. Now they were just dull, vacant, unseeing orbs.

He waved his hand in front of his face with another call of the man's name, but there was nothing. No reaction at all. The blonde just kept on staring straight ahead with no expression on his face, not even blinking. He frowned, taking in the items in the man's hands. A pen and a clipboard. Looking closer, he realized what the clipboard was for. The man in front of him was holding paperwork for a witness statement. He swallows, trying not to panic at what that could mean. He looks back to where the body bag was now being strapped down, getting ready to head to its next destination. Who is that? What happened to them? He looks back to the one sitting in front of him, his brows furrowed in confusion. And what does it have to do with him?

~*~

A/N: Soooo, what do you guys think happened?? Very mysterious and vague angst 👀👀 Do you enjoy the puzzle I’ve now sprang on y’all?? Cause I sure do 🤣 But seriously, I hope you guys liked it!! Let me know your thoughts, as usual!!!

~*~

Tags:

@darkelf-7​

[Lemme know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series and any other stories relating to it!!!]

[irrfahrer]

“You’re covered in blood! Is it yours?”

"Wir Lagen Vor Madagaskar Und hatten die Pest an Bord In den Kübeln da faulte das Wasser Und mancher ging über Bord Ahoi! Kameraden. Ahoi, ahoi Leb wohl, kleines Mädel, leb wohl, leb wohl"

The song the sailors had sung on the ship was still stuck in Zivs mind like an echo and she found herself humming it while she rubbed the red liquid that smelled sour and fresh into her pelt. It was not only a echo in her mind- the melody gently swept from the middle of the bay outside the harbor towards the dock in the tact of the waves and the melody tasted of salt, heavy, making one gasp for air because the throat had turned dry and aching. It was so late in the night that the rushing of the waves beneath the wooden dock sounded almost loud in the Tynnans ears, and the ships lay on by the dock looked like quietly sleeping seacreatures swaying in the tact of the waves with the ship set on anchor in the middle of the bay in quarantaine looking in the little starlight like a looming giant ready to swallow the docks and everyone living near. The lights of the harbour were nothing but wisps in the black night and the noises of teh late night were swallowed by the breeze. Ziv wasalone nothing but a shimmer of white fur in the low starlight that could even be mistaken by one of the hanging down sails of the ships bound to the dock for the night. From what her translating device had told her the ship put on anchor in the middle of the bay like an island, had been put under quarantaine because of a plague, yet when she had swamm there with her medical tools in her backpack, she ahd only needed to climb up half the side of the ship or the scent to hit her in the face like a miasma- sweat of fever, vomit, and a certaine scent in the feces. Before Ziv had sneaked past the sleeping sailors who had not been infected yet into the belly of the ship where the sick had been locked in, she had already known what would await her even after she had taken a closer sniff on one of the sick men and had taken a sample to look at through a miroscopic lnse: Typhoid Fever. Night by Night Ziv had returned to the ship b swimming through the bay, first she had isolated the bacterium in  the foul watertanks of the ship and cleaned it with chlorine to prevent any further infections- not exactly something thatwould be comfortable to drink but not high enough in concentration to kill any of the sailors-, then in the following night she had cleaned the belly of the ship with alcohol and had started to treat the sick with antibiotics. Ziv had not bothered to hide well on the ship, although she had made sure that she was not seen when swimming to the ship- after all the sick sailors were feverish and who would believe them if they said that they were treated by a furred little thing that would give them vinegarwater with strange little drops in it.

By the others voice Ziv flinched so hard, she was, for a second, turning around with her teeth bared and claws drawn and ready to jump and rip out the guts of whatever had approached and startled her so suddenly like that predetor that was despite milions of years of evolution still stuck at the farest edge of her brain. The second ended as soon as it came and the smile returned to the Tynnans adorably fluffy face, splitting her muzzle almost in half.

For a second she did not knew what the other meant and her ears flicked up as if she was a confused animal. The wet noise of her fur when her ear moved made her realize that she was still coverd in antiseptic salve that she had smeard all over herself to kill every kind of bacteria she might was still carrying on her fur or skin and in the low light the ironheavy salve must have looked like blood. Laughing almost relieved she grabebd for the bucket of seawater standing to her hindpaws, grinned wildly, winked and Without breaking eyecontact Ziv simply turned the bucket over her head, making the water rush over her like a icy veil and wash off the red liquid. Still laughing the Tynnan shaked like a happy puppy, getting rid of the rest of dampness ticking to her silverwhite pelt: "Nope! On my way here I massacared a swarm of fish and had a kriffing feast all for kriffing myself!" A breeze came from the ship in the middle of the bay, carrying with it another verse of the song and Ziv found herself looking over her shoulder, ears turning after the melody that had followed her every night she had been swimming to the ship to definfect the rooms and treat the sailors locked to die in the belly of the ship like dangerouse animals. "Ahoi! Kameraden Und endlich nach 30 Tagen Da kam ein Schiff in Sicht Jedoch es fuhr vorüber Und sah uns Tote nicht Ahoi! Kameraden,Ahoi,Ahoi " At the edge of her mind she wondered if what she was doing actually helped the people on the ship, or if they would be forced to stay ont he ship until their water and food had ran out, even when they had recovered under the Tynnans treatment. It remainded her of the time she had been stranded in a starstation because of a sickness that had broken out, with dead space around her cold and black like the waves of the sea now around the quarantained ship. Wringing carefully the rest of the oinment out of her fur and even more carefully making sure Henry would not come near it, she flicked a ear in his direction- even if she knew that the red oinment had killed any bacteria clinging to her and what she was washing off herself was nothing but dead biomatter, she did not wanted to risk for the other to come into contact with it considering the bacteria was made for his species biology. Suddenly the young woman felt cold, as cold as the breeze on her damp fur that swirled through the hanging down sails of the ship by the dock and made the waves beneath the dock that were as black as ink rustle quietly: “Aren´t pups suppose to sleep at this hour?” [ @lighthouseborn ]

[patrickswhore]

Karl Heisenberg X male reader

A/n: i couldn’t find any gifs of my daddy so I made one 😂 also sorry for not updating for a while, schools been tough but I’m in self isolation so I have plenty of time to write 😂 also light smut towards the end.

I stood at the back of my house, chopping wood for the burner. The snow fell heavy, making the wood crunch as it hit the cold ground.

I could see my breath as I breathed out in exhaustion. This winter was gonna be tough for me and my family. As the only man in my household and newly turned 21, I was just waiting for my sisters to play match makers and find me a young lady... hopefully that would be a while. In my village, being attracted to the same gender isn’t really a thing. So I’ll just have to suck it up, marry and have kids... you know, conform to society.

I walked inside with the lumber, shaking to get the snow off me like a wet dog. I placed it by the fireplace and threw a few blocks on the fire.

I hung my jacket on the coat rack and walked to the living room where my sister was sitting, chatting with a friend and drinking tea.

“Where’ve you been, (Y/N)? Fooling around with a lady?” My sister asked sarcastically, making fun of my lack of luck with women.

“Very funny, Paula” I rolled my eyes and walked into my moms bedroom, knocking softly on the door before entering.

Mother was laying in bed, looking at the ceiling. I knelt by her side, taking her hand. Ever since father passed away she hasn’t been the same, she lays in bed all day, not talking nor eating much.

“How are you feeling, mother?”

“....”

“I haven’t found a job yet.. but I promise I’ll find the money for your medicine, mother.... I promise”

She didn’t answer, she just kept on staring. I sighed and walked out the room, closing the door softly behind me.

“(Y/N), one of the neighbours came with this letter for you when you were out”

My sister handed me a letter, my name on the front in a crude handwriting. I opened the letter, it had a beautiful wax seal, decorated with a horse. The letter read:

Dear (Y/N)

Congratulations on your 21th birthday. You’ve been selected to come work for Karl Heisenberg at the factory on the outskirts of town. You’ve been selected because of your high grades and physical attributes. Please report to the factory as quickly as possible.

Kind regards, Karl Heisenberg.

My heart skipped a beat, Karl Heisenberg was asking me to come work for him. I couldn’t believe it, I rushed to me and my sisters room, quickly putting on some clean clothes and my prayer shoes. I ran into my mothers room, kneeling besides her once again.

“Mother, great news! I’m gonna go work for Lord Heisenberg...”

“.....”

“I love you mother, I’ll be back soon”

I rushed out, giving my sister a peak on the forehead and storming out the front door and into the freezing weather.

I walked up the hill to the metal doors, the factory was up and running, making a hell of a lot of noise. I banged on the heavy doors before it slowly opened on its own, revealing a room filled with scrap metal.

I heard the cracking sound of an intercom before hearing a low voice speaking.

“Ah! (Y/N) great you’re here so quickly. Please make your way to my office, all you have to do is make a left where you are and walk straight. It’s as easy as that, I’ll be waiting”

That must be lord Heisenberg speaking. I straighten up and walked as I had been instructed to. The condors were cramped and dimly lit by red lamps. I felt like the further into the factory I got, the more a putrid smell started to emerge. I finally reached the door, knocking two times.

“Yeah come on in!”

I slowly pushed open the metal door and was pleased that the wretched smell was now being overpowered by the scent of cigar smoke. There he sat, his back turned to me as I slowly shut the door. His hair was long and rugged, and he was toying with a small knife between his fingers.

“It’s great to finally meet you, (Y/N) (L/N). My men has had their eyes on you for a while, but you’re more impressive in person” the man stood up, he was taller then me to start with, but also physically more pumped. I was kinda scrawny, but the winter without my farther had put some meat on my bones.

“It’s an honor to be able to work for you, lord” I bowed my head slightly before looking up and finding him much closer then before. He put a finger under my chin, inspecting my face from different angels.

“My men were right, you surely are a very beautiful man”

My breath hitched in my throat.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me, boy... we both know what you are”

“So that’s why you brought me here... not for work”

“Well a special kind of work, if you catch my drift”

“....”

He let go of my chin, moving a step back. I couldn’t deny it, he was extremely hot, but the thought of not being able to sustain my family drove me mad.

“Don’t worry, you’re getting a job at the factory too, and I’ll pay you handsomely for your services.. I know how much your family needs the money”

A stone lifted from my heart. What had I done for mother Miranda to gift me with such fortune? A well paying job and a handsome boss, who could ask for more?

“When do I start?”

“Well, immediately. But first, I have a question” he asked walking closer to me, slowly pushing me against the wall behind us. One hand on the wall besides my head and the other on my waist.

“Do you find me attractive?” His head was inching closer to my neck. His smell was intoxicating, a mix of sweat, cologne and rusty metal. I couldn’t get enough of him.

“Yes, very much”

“Good, because I need you to fix something for me” he grabbed my wrist with the hand from my waist and guided it to his crotch. I cupped his growing bugle as he made a low growling noise, almost like a dog. I started to softly stroke it as he removed his head from my neck, setting his hat on a nearby table before going back to my neck, kissing and biting along the side. I softly grabbed his dick, sending a shockwave through his body. He pulled back, looking at me through his sunglasses, I could slightly see his eyes which were full of lust. He put both his hands on my waist before moving me to the table, turning me around and bending me over it.

“You like that? You dirty man” he huffed, grinding against my ass, a hand on the back of my neck and another under my shirt on the small of my back.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you hear me?” He gave my ass a hard slap, I cried out in pleasure and surprise, gripping the edge of the table.

I could hear his belt buckle being undone as I waited. Suddenly a voice over the loud speakers outside.

“All four lords, report to the castle immediately. Glory be to mother Miranda”

“You have to be fucking kidding me, what does that super sized bitch want now?” He huffed in annoyance buckling his belt again. I stood up, sitting on the table which I had just been bent over.

“I’ll be back very soon” he placed himself between my legs and gave me a passionate kiss, I of course, kissed back.

He put on his hat before storming out the door. I sighed and hung my head. Fuck...

Bonus:

“You’re late, Heisenberg” Alcina snapped as Karl stomped inside.

“I was in the middle of something”

“In the middle of what? You’re such a-“ she stopped dead in her tracks as Karl sat down, completely forgetting about his huge bulge.

“Oh.. I see, you’ve gotten a bit too happy for one of your experiments again”

Karls eyes widened as he swung his jacket over his lap, covering his crotch.

“Shut up bitch, and stop looking at my dick”

“ watch your mouth, child. Moreau, wanna bet on how long this one is gonna last until he kills him?”

Moreau giggled before getting hit in the back with a sheet of metal.

“Not this one, freak!.... this one is different”

“Mhmm, let’s see about that”

“I’ll rip your fucking over sized head off, you stupid bitch!” The hammer flew into Karls hand before Miranda interrupted.

“I’ll fucking show you... he’s the one”

[colibrie]

Prompt: Night Terror

Trigger warning: bites and blood

"Twilight?" Warriors began, carefully shifing closer to his friend.

Every eye in the camp was on them, the collective weight of their trepidation boring through his back and into his heart. In contrast, Twilight appeared oblivious to the attention his screams had garnered. Big eyes stared through Warriors, dark pupils blown so wide that they nearly swallowed the familiar sapphire. The silence of the night was periodically broken only by the soft crackle of the campfire and their ranchers ragged pants as he heaved for air.

The Ordonians back was ramrod straight, painful cords standing out on his neck and shoulders as one hand dug deep into the earth beside his bed roll. The other hand hovered over his chest, the tips of his fingers brushing the leather cord that he always wore, even in sleep.

"Rancher, you're freaking out the kids," he prodded, his attempt at humor falling utterly flat as it failed to get any kind of response from the other man.

"Come on Twi, time to wake up," he tried again, reaching out to gently shake the other man's shoulders.

Seconds later Warriors was on his back, his arms raise for protection as his fellow hero tried to rip his throat out. There was a cacophony of noise and movement as the rest of the group threw themselves into action, multiple voices crying out for the Ordonian to stop.

Once again, Twilight didn't respond. Inhuman snarls ripped free from the ranchhands chest, his lips pulled back to bare teeth that snapped with deadly purpose at Warriors throat. Instinct brought his arms up, and Warriors couldn't hold back a cry of pain as Twilights canines dug into the meat of his forearm.

"Enough!"

Times arms force themselves between their bodies, one thumb snaking up under Twilights jaw to force the younger man's teeth to release their prize. More hands joined in, helping to pry Twilight up and away from Warriors prone form.

"Wars! Wars are you okay?!" Wind asked as he grabbed Warriors good arm, slipping underneath it for support as he hauled Warriors up into a sitting position.

"Yeah," he wheezed breathlessly.

"Give me your arm," Hyrule commanded, digging in his pack for a potion and bandages. "We need to get that bite cleaned and covered."

"Where's Twi? What's wrong with him?" Warriors implored, wincing as Hyrule began to clean the bite.

"Time and Wild have him on the other side of camp," Legend answered as he settled a blanket around Wars shoulders. "They are trying to snap him out of whatever spell he's under."

"It's not a spell," Four countered as their smallest moves to throw more logs on the fire. The extra light and warmth they brought hylighted the outlines of Time and Wild as they pressed Twilight back into the shadows, their voices soothing in comparison to Twilights inhumane shrieks.

"What would you call that then?!" Wind objected, giving Warriors a silent squeeze in support.

"It looks like a night terror. I used to have them a lot after my first adventure. I still get them sometimes," Four explained. "Grandpa said he'd find me in the middle of the forge late at night, hammering away at an empty anvil. I never remembered it when I woke up in the morning."

"Did you ever try to rip someone's throat out with your teeth?" Legend asked dryly.

"No, that's a new one. But we all have our own things to deal with," Four admitted.

The howls from the shadows were slowly lessening, each cry trailing off into whimpers, with the gaps between them becoming longer.

"I'm almost done," Hyrule murmured, winding clean strips of linen around Warriors forearm with careful fingers.

"What do we do now?" Wind inquired.

"We head back to bed," Four answered. "Twi doesn't need an audience for something he's not going to remember come morning.

"Guess that means I should get back to the watch then," Warriors said.

"It was basically my turn anyway. You might as well just go to bed," Legend offered, though his tone made it into more of a demand.

'I can finish the watch Legend. It was just a bite," Warriors countered, feeling oddly defensive as the cries from the dark ceased all together.

"You can take more of Skys shift tomorrow," Legend stated, snatching up his sword before heading towards the rock where Warriors had been sitting earlier.

Warriors signed, but let Hyrule and Wind tow him back to the disarray of the bed rolls. The next few minutes were spent getting the sleeping arrangements back in order, but soon he was ensconced in his blankets, absently stroking a snoring Winds hair as he watched Time and Wild carry Twilight back into camp.

The rancher was out cold. The only remaining sign of their earlier struggles was the blood that stained the other man's lips and chin. With out that, Twilight looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling metronomically as Time placed him back into his bed roll and tucked the covers up to his chin.

Wild met Sky by the fire, greatfuly accepting a bowl of warm water and a rag from the Skyloftian before returning to his mentors side. Warriors watched him idly as their cook dipped the rag into the water, and then as he proceeded to gently scrub the blood away from Twilights chin, lips and teeth.

[wri0thesley]

I propose slow loving sex with Gojo thank u for ur time

propose and you may receive

prince charming - gojo x reader (2.5k)

[comments and reblogs are much appreciated! // my jjk masterlist] 

warnings: afab reader, no pronouns. not sfw. minors dni! light fingering, piv sex, coming inside, soft. . . soft . . .

Most people who know Satoru Gojo would tell you that the man has two modes. Two ways of being. There is the way that he is from day to day; the laugh, the shovelling of sweets into his mouth, the constant stream of upbeat nonsense and jokes that few people are able to keep a proper track of. This is the Satoru Gojo he is with his students, you think – when the weight of being the strongest does not weigh so heavy on his shoulders.

Then, there is the Satoru Gojo in battle. There is the lift of his blindfold, the way that his blue eyes bore into his enemies – the self-assured way of talking, the ruthless precision with which he deploys his skills. This is the Satoru Gojo that does bear the weight of all of his strength; but his lips still quirk at the corners, he still cracks a joke sometimes though his tone is steely. They have shades of one another, those two personalities - but still, they are the two personalities that he chooses to show the world.

You, however, are permitted to see a different side than most people do.

You see Gojo now, with his body over yours, his soft lips brushing your jawline. You see him with his big hands, cupping your face so he has more access to your neck and your ear, the kisses coming slow and soft and relaxed. He is a large man, despite the fact that he is tall, lithe muscle as opposed to pure brawn – he cages you beneath him like he never wants you to be able to escape him.

You do not want to escape him. Not least when you finally manage to capture those lips in your own and you taste sugar on his tongue. As his teeth nip gently at your lower lip and a breathy sigh is transferred into his mouth; as his long fingers run down your body, appreciating you with a soft hum.

“I’d ask what I did to get so lucky,” he murmurs, voice low and throaty, “but I think I deserve you.”

Some things do not change; Gojo’s arrogance is always there, beneath the surface. He is lucky you find his self-confidence charming, your lips sliding into a smile as your own hands gently push up the shirt he’s wearing. His skin is warm and soft beneath it (you dread to think how expensive it was; Gojo spends money like it’s going out of style, and you have a myriad of gifts to prove it).

“You don’t shut up, do you?” You ask him, mildly, your smile not leaving your face. He laughs softly, and it feels like wind blowing through a field of flowers.

“You love me for it,” he says, all fondness, and he’s right. His shirt is parted from his top half and you admire him; unmarked skin (you suppose his technique means he’s free from the scars so many other jujutsu sorcerers learn to live with), the lean but taut muscles of his abdomen and shoulders. You run your fingers over him and he sighs, leaning into your touch like a cat. Your thumb brushes the hollow of his throat as you take a handful of his pale hair and drag him down into another kiss.

If nothing else, it occupies his mouth.

You can feel his hardness straining in his ripped jeans (pre-ripped for his convenience, with an eye-watering price tag, but even you have to admit that they make his ass look rounder and cling to his thighs and crotch in a way that makes you needy and heated if you stare for too long) as he moves his body against you, half-grinding.

You’re on the couch. You really should move to the bed – heaven knows Gojo’s is big enough for both of you – but there’s something domestic and sweet about Gojo kissing you here, amongst the remains of the sweets he’d been feeding you and with a romantic comedy neither of you are watching any more playing on the screen.

It’s so easy to feel like everything with Gojo is a life-or-death situation – to ascribe more meaning to a brush of his fingers on your shoulder or a murmur of ‘I’ll be home later tonight’ than you really need to.

This, though - this is simple, and easy. It lets you forget the world outside, just for the moments in which Gojo’s body is pressed against yours – lets you think of yourself as a normal couple.

There is nothing more romantic to you than the thought of you and Gojo being able to be just anybody.

So you spread your legs further apart so he can settle between them, sighing as his mouth moves from your own to brush kisses over your cheeks and the bridge of your nose instead.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he tells you, as he pulls back and tugs on your own shirt – you allow it to be removed, thrown onto the ground where you may never see it again. Much more interesting than the lost shirt are Gojo’s hands, large and warm, sliding up the expanse of your stomach and to your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh. He undoes the catch of your bra as if the motion is as easy as breathing – and maybe to him, it is. Upon your flesh being newly bared, he sighs, leaning down to kiss the swell of the curve. To find your nipple with the warmth of his tongue and tease it to hardness as he flattens his tongue against it and laps at you, the motion sending little electric shocks of pleasure to the place between your thighs. You sigh and squirm, and he gives the hardened bud a gentle graze of his teeth as he pulls back to look at you.

The sight of his blue eyes concentrated wholly on you and all of the distilled starshine contained within always makes you lose your senses for a moment. It should be unfair, you think, for him to look like that. For those wide blue eyes to seem so innocent when you know that he is not--

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells you. You know that he’s telling you the truth; Gojo is not the kind to mince his words. His hands rest on your waist, curving down over your hips to tug at your bottoms and make short work of those too. You lift yourself slightly to allow it, Gojo wriggling so that he can get them off without ever having to really move from between your legs. The bottoms go the same way as your shirt, and you are below him now in nothing but your underwear--

Though that’s barely covering anything. Gojo sighs to see the pale white of the piece you’re wearing has gone translucent from the gush of your slick, clinging to the outline of your folds and showing him just how needy the kissing and the touching and the groping has gotten. He trails a finger down and brushes your mound through the fabric, ghosting over your clit.

“This is for me, doll?” He asks you, a smirk on his face that you want to kiss off.

“You know it is,” you breathe, lifting your hips – and the smirk softens into a smile.

“Maybe I like hearing you say it,” he murmurs, increasing the pressure of his touch so he is rubbing you through the cotton; his big fingers pressing against your clit, making your hips jerk. You don’t know if you want to jerk away from the sensation of the fabric pressing against your swollen nub, or jerk into the pressure that you want so badly – so you settle for circling your hips, panting soft little noises.

Gojo smiles at you and the expression on his face is dazzling. Your heart skips a beat; he’s so beautiful. You’re so unbelievably, amazingly lucky--

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, leaning and kissing your cheek, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and lick and suck at the skin there. Your back arches as his attentions send yet more shivers down your spine, set you aflame even further. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear his face was warm – is he blushing? “If you could see yourself, you’d understand--”

“If you could see yourself,” you tell him, through the pounding need in your chest, “you’d understand exactly why I’m looking at you like that--”

“Oh, I know,” he preens, though his face is still warm. He hooks his fingers into the wet underwear and pulls them over your thighs. “I know why you’re looking at me like that! I’m gorgeous-- but . . .” He seems to stumble over his words before he manages to get a good hold on them again, before he pulls back and the flush on his cheeks is only barely there. “You don’t know how gorgeous you are, and . . .” He places a hand to his chest. Your underwear is dangling from his thumb, though you’re not entirely sure how he fully tangled you out of him in the position the two of you are still in. “It breaks my heart!”

You smile despite yourself.

“You’re being too romantic,” you tell him, though your insides are secretly all aflame and bubbling. “It’s not like you.”

“I’m wounded,” he says. One hand lands on your thigh, drawing circles and patterns on the slick skin – his middle finger gently nudges the very outside of your sex, teasing the puffy lips apart so he can brush your clit. Your gasp dies in your throat. “I’ll have you know I’m an absolute Prince Charming, baby--”

And he’s giving you that charming smile, even as that same finger presses deep inside you in one swift movement and your knuckles clench on the couch cushion. You groan aloud, lifting your hips to allow him deeper, to make you feel fuller--

Your eyelashes flutter, eyelids somewhere between open and closed, but you still see that Gojo’s own gaze is fixed on you. It’s tender. Loving. You feel strangely exposed beneath it – but at the same time, you feel warm and comfortable and right as he adds another finger and stretches you out on it, scissoring them apart. He brushes the spongy spot of your walls that always hits different and you sigh, murmuring out his name--

“Satoru,” you’re practically whining. “Satoru, faster, please—”

“Prince Satoru,” he corrects you, with a grin that’s slightly crooked to one side and more charming than it has any right to be. He pumps his fingers in and out of you a few more times, until they are thoroughly coated in your wetness, until the fire inside you has been suitably kindled and your breath is uneven and your face is hot – and then he pulls them out.

You don’t have time to whine.

Not with the sound of his zipper, the sound of him kicking off his expensive jeans – the heat of him settling over you on his knees and taking your hips to slide you easily onto his cock.

He groans out your name like it’s all he ever wants to say.

“You feel like you were made for me,” he says, and you reach up and grab a handful of his hair again. He lets it be pulled with only the softest sigh – lets you bend him over you so the two of you are cheek to cheek, chest to chest, so close that you can feel his heart beating. “Fuck, doll--”

He’s right. He fits inside of you like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle; warm and tight and perfect.

It’s a triumph, for Satoru Gojo to be lost for words – but he stops speaking as he fucks you slow and soft. It’s not that you and he only usually fuck hard and rough – but his job is stressful, and he is teasing and smug, and it’s more usual for you to be bent over on his bed as he pulls your hair and runs his mouth than it is for anything like this to happen.

He doesn’t seem to have any complaints about it, though – and neither do you. How can you complain when he holds you so gently? When he kisses you like he’s savouring the taste of you instead of devouring you?

He’s not speaking, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t noisy – he’s panting, groaning, moaning. He’s always loud in bed – he has almost no self-control when it comes to pleasure, you don’t think – but the noises also go right through you in only the best of ways, making you shiver and shudder. It’s unfair that his voice should sound so good. It’s unfair that he should have almost no flaws--

Some people might say his personality is a flaw, you suppose, but you unfortunately find him charming.

You wrap your legs about his waist and his cock hits deeper, brushes that same spot inside of you – but you find you do not care so much about the orgasm as you care about having Gojo in this embrace.

Not caring about it, though, doesn’t mean that is not going to happen – not with the slow thrusts of his hips, or with the sight of him with his lip bitten and his hair all mussed up from your tangling.

You’re not sure if Gojo has ever found something that he isn’t good at, and fucking you is no exception. His cock hits every spot inside of you and seems to find new nerves you didn’t know would feel so good when stimulated; your entire abdomen (hell, your entire body) feels like it’s on fire. You were slick enough before he’d entered you, but now you can feel your own arousal pooling on the couch cushions beneath you – you can hear how wet Gojo’s cock must be, on the push-pull of him fucking into you. The glide is slick and silky and searing, and your fingers flex on his back, as the tight string inside of you readies to snap.

“Sat-- I’m-- ‘m gonna--”

Your words are lost to the feel of him, to the haze that seems to descend around you whenever you and Gojo are together. You see the curve of his smile, hear him softly whisper;

“S’alright, baby--”

A stroke of his hips that has the flat plane of his pelvis pressing against your clit and you let yourself go, tumbling into the bright lights of your oblivion, your thighs tightening reflexively about him as if you want him to drown inside of you. Gojo sighs, groans, moans out your name as your cunt milks him for all he is worth, squeezing around him – and, he, too, lets go. Heat. Warmth. Gojo’s cock, twitching, heavy and perfect and right inside of you.

“I love you,” you whisper, against his collarbone, in time with the beating of his heart – and Gojo looks at you as his hips continue to roll slow and leisurely, eking out the final drops of his release as it settles inside of you like a claim, and he smiles slow and soft like honey or syrup.

“I know,” he says, quietly. “I love you too.”

He stays inside of you, on top of you, in the embrace, even as his cock begins to soften. Enjoying your warmth, your presence, your closeness.

Maybe he is a Prince Charming.

You’re not going to say that aloud to him, though.

He’d never let it go.

[imagine-darksiders]

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper. 

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...? 

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window. 

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud. 

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom. 

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then... 

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen. 

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation. 

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state. 

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches. 

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister?  Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...” 

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you. 

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?” 

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.” 

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...” 

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him. 

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so.. 

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.” 

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.” 

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his. 

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close. 

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs. 

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack. 

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last. 

This one is no different. 

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.