#the longing is so strong to just. clean the wounds on his face and smooth back his hair and just TAKE CARE OF HIM

[wildsaltair]

UNMATCHED

[anlian-aishang]

Tired, burdened, annoyed by all those "morons" at work. There is only one medicine, and it lies between your legs.

// levi x reader, smut, oral sex, squirting, modern AU, fem!reader  // 1300 words // while writing this, i listened to 

People like you two were pulled in all directions. Your merits recognized in work and in play. Overtime at the office, overbooked for coffees with friends. During the work week, sleeping hours were about all you had to share with Levi, morning face washes and nighttime recaps now and then. Had you not moved in together, your relationship would be confined to Saturdays and Sundays, that was certain.

Somedays, it was dreadful. Mondays marked the start of separation. Wednesdays felt far from halfway. Fridays, though. Fridays made you forget. 

That look in his eyes, anticipation that teetered on mania. The twitches of his hands, a man on the brink. Tie half loosened and collar undone. Idiot coworkers and pointless meetings had nicked him to his last thread. With you alone, at last, the Ackerman’s composure snapped. Faced with his unravel, you bit your lip, yet still could not help but smirk. This was what you worked for. 

Hand instinctively snapped to the small of your back. Before you could blink, Levi whipped you to the sofa. A ballroom dip gone dirty. Left hand held your head - a finger on each of the important spots - temple, cheek, lips, jawline. Tongue swept yours in a dance, wordlessly communicating all he was about to do with you. 

That did not mean you were immune to his actions, though. Your startled shrieks as he hoisted your ankles beside his ears - Levi allowed a single snicker - and in that moment, you knew you were fucked. An inadvertent humbling as your stilettos scraped his neck on the way up, drawing a hiss more sinful than sex itself. 

Palm pushed strong against your stomach, Levi leveraged himself lower and lower. Fingers wound between your buttons wove you free on their way down. So familiar with your body, moves practiced to perfection were made to look effortless. Eyes closed in bliss, in exertion, his grasp easily found the hem of your tights. His pull easily found where to yank them to. 

Kisses marked your legs, fingernails traced their path: a crude connect-the–dots. Levi was always eager to remind you: your body was art. A canvas he corrupted with sweat, saliva, and swears. Painting you up - all the way to your middle.

At the sight of your slick, Levi growled between clenched teeth, “Dripping already.” Slowly, his finger glided between your split. End to end: arousal spilled over his touch. Your clean freak examined the glisten on his finger, feigning disgust, but the way his tongue savored your cream proved the opposite. 

Chapped lips to your soft, smooth skin. Eyes met as he spoke into you, “Seems like you’ve been waiting for this, hm?”

Face burned in humiliation, Levi swiftly ditched his sadism and soothed you with sympathy, “Me too, baby.” Hips rutted into the couch cushions, “Me, too.”

Actions were evidence of his words. Hard, fast, hungry, he began to eat you out. Clit rode the bridge of his nose. Tongue pried into your depths. White-knuckle grip spread you wide open - your secrets finally in his hands. And goddamn, did it feel good. 

Pantyhose calves on his cotton shoulders made satisfying sounds, not as satisfying, though, as the ones below. Gasps for air: he had delayed the pull away as long as possible, reluctant to leave. Long hums: the sensation of a hot shower’s first spray. Whispers of your name, as though it was a curse word.

Levi drank you down like a gulp of water on a humid hike. Ate you out like the first day after a fast. When you thought he would tire, his body showed just how desperately it needed you. Muscles rippled, tendons stretched, all in endeavor: you were life itself. 

“Missed you.” Levi moaned between smacks of his lips on yours. “Missed you too much.”

Too much, not so much. 

Indeed, so much would have been one thing. Too much was another. Come the weekend, he was so tired, but not too tired - not too tired to provide you the release you deserved. So burdened, but not too burdened - not too burdened to put your pleasure on his shoulders literally. So annoyed, but not too annoyed - not too annoyed to withstand your glass-shattering cries. In fact, those seemed to ease him.

Ease him in some ways, rile him in others. When you got like this, all felt right in the world, his universe no wider than this sofa. At the same time, with each of your screams, nerves stung along his spine. Hairs stood on end. He longed to love you, to destroy you. To praise you, to remind you who you belonged to. You were the mystery that snared him, one he tried to solve one lick at a time. 

Those were getting more frantic. Your fingers thrown in his hair and the dire calls of his name - shots of adrenaline in his pursuit. Thick gulps of your syrup - an adult sugar rush. Levi winked one eye open, split-second precision to catch the pulse of your abdomen. Ovaries danced. Nipples took a stand against their imprisonment, black-lace bra their cage. At your pathetic, dismantling state, a smile you could feel. 

“You’ve been such a good girl, such a good girl,” Levi cooed, cupping your thighs, slurping between breaths. “So patient, I bet you wanna cum, huh?”

The arch of your back answered better than words could. Still, even as your pussy twitched and as your dam began to crack, you clenched your fists in the couch, a sorry attempt to delay the inevitable.

You both knew, the longer the race, the better the finish. Dreams of this scene had propelled you through hell-sent day-to-days, the last thing you wanted was for it to end early.

But with a mouth like his, “you’re not gonna last, sweetheart.” Against his fingers, he could feel your waves build, could see the impatience in your yearning. Pupils had dilated in lust, but knowing that your demise, your nirvana, was near spilled love into that concoction. 

Beckoning, “Let go, princess.” You’ve had such a long week. “Come on, let me taste you.” All of you. 

From pleading to ordering, Levi’s voice drowned deep, “Cum on my face.” Use me. Surrender to me. “Cum on me.” Stern, then shouting, “Cum on me!”

The juxtaposition of soft and strict. Dichotomy of begging and demanding. Mentality fucked by his overstimulation, by the debate of delayed gratification, it could not handle one more head game. 

“Levi, I…” you writhed in his grasp, yet his tongue spared you no mercy.  “Le-Levi!!”

In the first rush, you knew you had made the right choice in submitting. Fuck foreplay. Whatever this was - that was all you needed in life. Levi’s head between your thighs - what bills, what schedule? Flooding him in your love, turning his face wet, coating each strand of hair - better than any promotion. Who needed one? You were Levi Ackerman’s significant other, that was a superlative in itself. A million thoughts in each of those ten seconds, none of them coherent, always interrupted by an immaculate moan or motion of his. 

With your first ounce of composure, you took a deep breath. In your second, you gazed down to him. Shirt wrinkled with divots beneath your heels. Jawbone dripping with God knows what. It had glued his clothes-transparent-to his skin-flushed. He did not seem to care. More than that, even, he seemed to adore. 

But in that aftermath, you could not help but wonder. What if you held out for one minute longer? Would he be even more wet? Even more red? Even more breathless?

By this point, he could read your mind and could see the first sparks of regret-his most hated look on anyone. Thankfully, he knew the remedy. 

“Who said you only get one?”

// masterlist //

[somethingclevermahogony]

5 Lines Tag

I was tagged by @illarian-rambling ! Thank you! This is a new one! These are from Testaments of the Green Sea A line about clothing:

Narul ran his fingers along the smooth linen which started at his midsection and ended shortly below his knees. It had taken quite some time to assemble the outfit, and in the end after finding no actual garments which could appropriately fit him, the attendants and seamstresses had resorted to wrapping his waist with an ornate table cloth, snatched from some store room and trimmed and shaped to more closely resemble the long pleated skirts favored by Chibalan nobility. A cloak made from snowy white sheepskin, the largest they could find, was draped over his shoulders, held in place by an ornate bronze pin in the shape of a snarling bear. His hair was combed and braided, bedecked with rings of Korithian silver and beads of Shambalan agate and Makoran Amber. As he rolled one of these beads betwixt his fingers, he dully thought about the fact that this tiny chunk of amber was in all likelihood, worth more than any sum of money that he had ever held. The attendants had even tried to shove a signet ring onto one of his fingers, an endeavor which would ultimately prove to be in vain. Failing at this, and the application of other more common jewelry, they took to him with bowls of a strong smelling paste, dying his skin with shades of rich red and earthy brown, covering his arms, hands, and chest with swirling wave-like patterns

An Angry Line: (Zatur is Zatar's pre-noble name)

“I told you, you’re just a dancer boy.” The spearmaster sneered as he stopped his assault, head held high. “Go clean your wounds, don’t be too disappointed in yourself and that miserable performance, not everyone is suited to the rigors of combat, I’m sure our king would appreciate a new cupbearer.” This time the chorus of ugly laughter was directed at Zatur. Humiliation warped and curdled into a deep and burning rage. His hands quivered, and red danced before his eyes. Rather than actual words, his challenge came in the form of a guttural bellow. The spearmaster was only just able to avoid the length of wood swung at his head like a club. “The fight is done! What are you doing?” The old man shouted, sas he stumbled back to avoid the young man’s frenzied attacks. The old spearmaster’s weapon began to splinter and twist from the ferocity of the assault. “Boy stop!” He cried out, eyes wide. But Zatur’s wrath could not be so easily tempered, with one last arching blow, he brought the wood down with such great force that it broke through his opponents weapon and smashed against the balding head with a sickening crunch. The spearmaster stumbled, and fell forward onto his face, a growing puddle of blood spreading from his head like a crimson halo.

a line that's muttered:

The runaways looked despondently down at the little clearing in the trees. The houses of mudbrick that had once stood there had been long since weathered down to their foundations by the flooding river and pounding winter rains. The smooth stone peaked from amidst the moss and the grass. There were no people to speak of, no merchants or bakers with food to offer, nor weavers to supply a warm blanket, and no plantbrews to tend to Narul’s condition. “Is this it? This can’t be it.” Suru muttered as he pushed a hand through his hair. His features were even more skeletal than usual, sharpened by hunger. The snails had been a flash of good luck, nothing more.  “We can’t go any further, Suru, or people are going to start collapsing,” Bira said softly.  Suru looked back at the flock of people which gathered behind him. They looked back at him with dirty faces and eyes bloodshot with hunger and fatigue. Suru groaned. “Alright, well, I guess we’re camping here for the night everyone. Find places to sleep and if you can, find anything edible.”

A line with taste:

After a moment of hesitation, he lifted the drink, if it could be called that, to his lips and drank. The taste was not particularly pleasant, like a mixture of horseradish, mint, and iodine, incredibly bitter. The accompanying sensation was even less pleasant, an intense burning, which filled his mouth, throat and nose, and made his eyes water.  “It burns a bit, but trust me, swallow, it will help.” Wadikir said with a bemused smile. Narul screwed up his face and forced the vicious substance down his throat. He could feel it, burning as it slid down. As it hit his stomach two things happened, he was hit by such a strong wave of nausea that he covered his mouth, in fear that he might vomit all over the table, and all at once the pain of his overstuffed stomach vanished, a moment a later so did the nausea. He shuddered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. “Better?” Wadikir asked, Narul nodded, and grimaced.

A loving line:

At that moment he was not looking at the whirling fire spirits. Rather, he gazed at Ninma, watching the multicolored lights twinkling in her eyes, coloring her face, first red, then blue, and then gold, the way her curls cascaded over her shoulders, the gentle smile twisting the corner of her lips. Ninma noticed and rolled her eyes. “We walked all the way here and all you can do is look at me, huh? You talked about wanting to see this place so much, and I walked all the way here just so you could gawk at me.” Jani smiled and pulled her close. “ I’m sorry, I just can’t help it.”  Ninma chuckled softly, and rested her head on his shoulder. And so they sat beneath the stars, basking in the warmth of the frolicking fire spirits and of each other.

Your lines are: A joyful line, A line with temperature, A line with fear, a funny line, and a line with color

I am tagging @scribble-dee-vee, @patternwelded-quill, @roach-pizza, and @hallowedfury

[demacianbrawn]

❛ you could try not getting so beat up for a change. ❜ it's given in a playful manner. muscles relay true feeling, hesitation, uncertainty. an apologetic nature belying the happiness she portrays, smile remains even slightly. content if only to see her brother for a little while. i'm sorry she wants to say & it lingers, wanting everything but to have left another chip in his armor.

a breath is caught as she fights back emotions, brows furrowing as she buries herself into a hug. even if he were to throw her away, he's always been her protector she wouldn't blame him. she doesn't think she'd be upset at all if he held her accountable for everything. ❛ or get bigger armor, i think the pauldrons aren't making your head look small enough. ❜

If Garen could squint they could still be children, how often had he come home battered up and bruised from practice swordplay? A game that got out of hand? Falling out of a tree? It was a vital skill for all soldiers to learn to clean and care for wounds and it was something he had done since he was a mere lad, sitting on a plush stool in one of the rooms of home, bandaging up a cut on his leg or soothing a warm cloth over a bruised and dirty shoulder. Lux had been present for a lot of these moments, sitting by his side or making idle chatter, her tone of voice whisking away to questions about his adventures and if the cut on his leg hurt a lot or just a little.

His armor was long gone, stripped away to better access his injuries. He felt naked without the physical protection, and even more bare from the mental sort. Garen couldn't wear that armor where Lux was concerned, and it seemed even more apparent when he could read the slightest emotion on her face, the barely noticeable hitch in her tone. His usual stoic veil could melt away in an instant every time he noticed every moment her heart ached from where it was worn on her sleeve.

There's a similar hollow hitch in his throat once she falls into his arms, her playful jabs only making him feel guiltier. A better brother would have been more open, more honest years ago. He wouldn't have hidden behind his twisted sort of justice that he clung too for perseverance. They were a proud and strong willed family and yet there were cracks beneath the smooth stone surface of their lives, not unlike the patricide that lined the halls of their country.

The terrorizing fear he felt whenever magic was unleashed near him, a spark he had to get over every time was nothing compared to the hurt and hollowness etched onto Lux's face that only grew at she got older. A monster was he that he ever allowed her to become so lonely in the parts of her that made her shine so damned brightly.

Garen wraps his arms tighter around her, a deep scoff of amusement his only initial response as he ignored the screaming of his bruised ribs. " It's supposed to be a joke. When I wear my armor my head is small, but every other time people call me a blockhead because it's big. I can't win. " His dry response and an attempt to lighten the mood doesn't last, even as he pulls back to offer her the slightest attempt at a reassuring smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes.

" Getting beat up is worth it, Lux. I know you'd do the same. It's what we do. What I will always do. " He didn't always, thoughts he didn't voice, an inner chastising. He thought he was too late, he'll always feel like he took too damn long to protect her when it counted.

" Now stop squeezing me so hard. You'll bruise me worse than the fight did. "

[the-crow-binary]

It's Mactor time. >:)

The context is that Mathias (pre-Elisabetha's death) somehow appeared in Dracula's castle (pre-CV3) and bonded quite a lot with Hector ( @beevean :3). Might be a little niche but eh, it makes at least two people happy <3 (beevean and me)

"Scar me."

Hector looked at his Lord with horror, as he took his hand and put it on his bare chest.

"Right here. On my heart." "My Lord, what are you…" "I need it, Hector."

He could never. He has been rough with him a few times, during their most passionnate moments, nothing that he didn't like. But hurting him to the point of leaving a permanent mark? Why would his Lord desire such a thing?

"Please…"

Mathias rest his forehead on Hector's shoulder, hiding his face from him.

"Why would you want that?" he asks, in the most gentle way he could mutter. "Because…"

The man paused. Has he ever looked as vulnerable? It didn't suit him.

"…Because I need to have a piece of you to bring home."

Hector felt a lump forming in his throat.

"It cannot be an object," Mathias continued before he could form a response, "I could lose it. Someone could steal it from me. I can't bear the thought... I don't want anything physical, but I don't want just words and memories either. Those can fade away, even the most precious ones… I need something that will forever be with me, something no one could ever take from me, not even myself. Not even time nor death. Even when I…"

He could not finish his sentence, but Hector guessed what he was thinking about. Who he was thinking about.

"…If this is your wish, then I will gladly grant it. But on one condition."

Mathias raised his head, and Hector let himself drown in his pitiful expression for a few seconds. Mathias was a man who knew to never betray any emotion, just like him. But, just like him... he had his moments of weakness -his moments of humanity-, that only a handful of people ever had the chance to witness.

He was honored to be one of them.

"I want you to scar me as well. It is only fair that if you leave with a piece of me… I keep a piece of you, too."

The tactician squeezed his arms, with a strenght that could almost stop Hector's blood from running. He never was so strong… Funny the effect despair can have on people.

"But your body… isn't it scarred enough?"

The Devil Forgemaster cracked a smile.

"Not until your mark joins the others. It will be the only one that matters, the only I will be able to look at with fondness, instead of disgust and shame... The only one to give me strenghth in my darkest times."

The grip on his arms lightened.

"But aren't some of those marks already caused by… me…? What if you end up hating the scar I made?"

Hector lay a soft kiss on his lips.

"It will never happen. All I care about is Mathias Cronqvist, the human. Not Dracula. He isn't you. And once you'll finally carve your love into my body... Then, I will be complete."

The older man sighed.

"God, Hector... Who taught you how to charm people like that…?"

.............

"Please, my Lord. Allow me to admire you in all your beauty."

Dracula took his protégé's hand and kissed it's back. Hector let him do, though it made him feel no better than a puppet to be played with. Things have not been the same since Mathias went away. Back to his own era, with his own... He wiped out the thought.

"How could I say no to you? Go ahead."

That's all he needed. Slowly, Hector moved his hands. He undressed his master, starting by the top, ignoring as much as possible his oppressing gaze. When his chest was mostly freed, he allowed himself to caress the cold skin. The flesh was clean, perfectly smooth. No matter how much Hector looked, how much he searched for the feeling of an old wound under his fingers, there was nothing he could find.

It was true, then. Mathias has long been gone... No, it was worse than that. The monster currently above him has never been his Mathias.

His new scar itched.

[fvitsk]

I started a text-based role-playing game with a created storyline involving Mortimer and Manco

Imagine that the scene of their first meeting turns out to be a bit... awkward. Mortimer wishes to form a partnership with Manco (to increase their chances of survival in a showdown with a larger gang). When he enters the room, he finds Manco in the bath (similar to the scene with Tuco in the movie 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly'). Just read the excerpt I wrote. When I reread it, it feels so intimate...

«Bitter smoke enveloped and filled the lungs, bringing a long-awaited drop of solace. Mortimer even relaxed his tense shoulders slightly, settling into the chair. His finely honed instincts, dormant for years, remained silent, leaving him calm. The sight of the man in the adjacent chair was more inviting than off-putting, particularly his current attire, or rather, the lack of it. The Colonel allowed himself to ponder that usually nudity was a sign of exceptional trust for him, but the man across from him was clearly not part of the timid bunch, as he didn't even flinch under another's gaze.

The Colonel let the smoke flow through his lungs and silently observed the actions of the hunter. Smooth motions, devoid of any flaws. Mortimer managed to catch sight of the man's hands and noted that they were the hands of a shooter, not a farmer. So, Manco it was. The one-armed man. Douglas contemplatively chewed on his pipe stem, thinking that the hunter probably hadn't revealed his real name just now. Refusing the drink would be taken as a refusal to continue the conversation, so he accepted the gesture, taking the glass in his hands and initially scrutinizing it, allowing the light from the fireplace to pass through the transparent glass. He then removed the pipe and took a sip immediately after the hunter. Yes, this whiskey was far superior to what he had sampled in the saloon. The guy knew his liquor.

Suddenly, Mortimer realized that he had also become the object of someone else's scrutiny, feeling the gliding gaze upon him. There was no shyness in the air, and he liked it. He, too, continued to gracefully study the man across from him. He quickly noticed that the water droplets had already evaporated from the man's body due to the warmth that filled the room from the fireplace. Clean and graceful skin without any obvious flaws or rough scars. Few could boast such from their profession. Either he was a newcomer who hadn't had a chance to collect wounds, or he was indeed an exceptional marksman. The Colonel leaned toward the latter. Brown eyes returned to the face. Now, without clothing and with wet hair, Douglas couldn't believe that Manco was even thirty. Delicate facial features, a strong jawline, light stubble, and only the wrinkles by his eyes from squinting gave away seriousness and some maturity. A professional habit — squinting, even indoors. The Colonel entertained the thought of wanting to know whether the man had blue or green eyes. In the dimly lit room, where the only sound was the crackling of burning logs, it was difficult to discern. Manco, kissed by the bright sun, was truly a handsome man.»

[full-of-mercy]

It feels like a thread of tension has broken, and like the occasional too-tight rubber band Nicholas wears around his wrists, its snap is liberating. A touch of adrenaline mingles with relief, spiraling through his reckoning, and it really is for the better that he is both on his back and held captive between strong thighs. Otherwise, with the fluttery feeling that vaults between his stomach and his ribcage, he might well float away.

Chuckling spools out into a purring groan, though Wolfwood cannot manage the same pitch and timbre of Vash's preternatural resonance. It does not stop him trying, low enough to vibrate - although that might just be the creak of the cheap mattress underneath them as they adjust, unmistakable with the intimate gravity he no longer resists rocking into. Once, twice, press-grind, abdomen cording, stark in the skew of pale linen. His ribs expand against the pressure of squeezing knees, still perfectly capable of breathing, of moving. He could topple them over, could rearrange their orientation with ease, but he does not. Instead he grips Vash's waist, kneading his thumbs over the changing textures of unbroken flesh and smooth-silvery scar over rippled strength. Fearless. Wondering.

Because of course he has wondered.

He can lie expertly to himself, but he cannot lie about this.

They have lived more or less in one another's skin for years now, one way or another. On the road, on Angelina, on transports, in tiny cramped rooms, in shared beds, out in the wilderness. Close proximity has become a source of comfort as much as it can spur irritation, bickering that has become something of a second (third, fourth) language, a sort of unspoken affection along with every excuse for casual touch. Stitching wounds, cleaning up after gunfights, tending hurts… they have seen one another in the nude.

Wolfwood has looked, curious but never daring to pursue or presume until now. Until this overt welcome. Clear signs. Signs even he cannot ignore, cannot help but answer, because they have pulled on a thread of want he could only imagine on lonely nights and with a scrap of stolen clothing, pining away between the pillars of guilt and longing.

Everything outside of this space has ceased to exist.

There is only this.

Steady, swift, he drops his hands to assist peeling leather away, flicking buckles open and pulling zippers to free Vash from his ridiculous gunslinger's attire. The notion of quick-release like Punisher's bindings comes to mind, flickering in and out, stashed for later.

Maybe.

When he looks down, when he arrests his own urge to flee, Vash finds Wolfwood staring.

Lips parted, rounded, kiss-swollen as he observes, as he breathes slow and deep, scenting like a beast, tongue curled against the backs of his incisors. Too pink, the seam, but sheened, promising, enough to inspire a dull throb as his hips tic-twitch against nothing. The color rides high on his cheeks and his eyes are blown so dark that his pupils swallow his irises.

He, too, must swallow.

Meeting eye contact with Vash branches heat lightning down his spine, an aching jolt, a pang of hunger. His nostrils flare.

And then without hesitation, without warning, he hooks his forearms under, grips buttocks, and pulls, leveraging the slippery coverlet and the breadth of his own torso to yank Vash toward his chest. Further. Closer. Gaze held, he tilts his face left and right, brushing the stubble of his jaw and cheeks to inner thighs. Closer, closer. Nearer. Kisses follow, methodical against old wounds and unblemished skin, against his own impatience. Nicholas endeavors to make it quite clear just where his destination lies.

A nuzzle to the crease of thigh and pelvis, the arch of his nose wedged in tight, inhale-exhale, humid and hot.

"I can hold my breath a long time," he thrums, low and carnal and utterly enamored, pressing a kiss to the pad below Vash's navel with another deep, deep inhale. "Do what comes natural."

A graze of teeth - gentle, gentle - before he cranes his neck and tips his chin, mouth blooming open to fit and form over Vash's sex. Tongue curling zig-zag, stroking from seam to bud and back with a rush of saliva, he echoes their earlier mauling in slow-motion, all with an abiding hum.

@full-of-mercy

Vash can't help but grin wide enough to expose sharp teeth, entirely too pleased about Wolfwood's reaction to his jokes. It's clear in the resonance as much as it is in his expression, vibration pulsing before calming further; he really wants to be careful with that, particularly given how they're positioned. Better not to answer some questions about physics directly.

His attention is wholly taken up by the man beneath him, anyway. That laugh. His expression. There's a kind of beautiful, exquisite aliveness that he's peering down at, close enough to memorize details, to be lucky enough not to have the words for what he's observing or he would make the dire mistake of speaking them out loud. Whatever this is, it remains nameless. Unlabeled, experienced rather than witnessed. He doesn't mean to laugh along, to partially cover up the sound of the laughter he's so intent on remembering well enough to play back in his thoughts later, but it's good to join in.

Like it's good to welcome touch. Not fleeting, not simply familiar, and a far cry from the routine of cleaning and wrapping wounds. Touch just to feel. Touch just to touch, for the sake of enjoyment. It kicks up a hum in the back of his throat, low and soft and harmonizing with the resonance in the short time it's present, Vash peering down through lowered lashes with something that looks a lot like hunger and fondness combined.

It remains a little surprising when there's no hesitation to touch scars. The ugly bits. The things he prefers no one else have to see, to deal with, but it's-- It's different with him. Them. That thought is too close to being dangerous to follow, but the grasp of his hips allows easy movement and good timing, ability to think quite easily going snow-static-fuzzy as he leans forward with a hiss of breath.

The knees which had barely been hugging Wolfwood's sides suddenly take to squeezing a bit more solidly, a tremor working through his body from the new point of contact. The squeeze isn't enough to be uncomfortable, he doesn't think. When he can think again; he's not too sure about in the order of events between the words the other man says and the way "not sitting on my face" makes Vash's entire body feel like it's suddenly overcome with fever.

He can feel himself-- Not fully opening yet... blooming? Petals filling, their spiral loosening, while still confined. Any, ah, possible dripping on the leather won't be too difficult to clean at this stage, and that's far too practical of a thought to keep his attention. The physical reaction is more than he expects, faster, and he's not sure what Wolfwood can feel through the leather, but it probably isn't too dissimilar to the start of a man's bulge--

I'm game. He... wonders. Hopes. The fear rises and falls in waves, but it's never powerful enough to get him to stop. It's a thrill sometimes, it's a good reason to pull away others, but it... this... Vash swallows. They aren't supposed to think. Alright, then It's false confidence. It'll have to do. For all he's sure that Wolfwood is aware of when it comes to him, what he is, he can't know what the other man is truly prepared for.

The movement is intentional. It's a little more awkward then it should be, maybe, lifting and walking back on his knees just enough to oh so deliberately lower and slide them both into a much more obvious position, more or less aligning them with a questionably rational roll of his hips. It makes him gasp, resonance stuttering as he sits up again, pleasure-warmth driving his fingers to being a little too quick about getting his pants undone and maybe one of those buckles is going to need a repair, but later. Later. He just-- He needs to get them open, to peel them off his hips just a little, just enough to at least partially expose--

It's the anxiety of uncertainty that drives the bud back to winding tightly closed, petals with slightly glistening edges still entirely too pink to pass off as anything remotely human. Vash doesn't know where to look, if he should look at anything; his eyes dart around a bit but focus on nothing, trying not to shy away or pull into himself, but-- "I-it's okay if you..." There are too many ways to finish that sentence, and they're all a little devastating.

He doesn't retreat in spite of the fleeting reflexive urge to, but holding himself still makes his legs tremble a little too long to deny. There's no point to hiding, no point in pretense. Too much thinking. Way too much thinking. Not nearly enough subtlety in finally glancing back at Wolfwood's face to try and measure his reaction.

[whatstheoccasion]

Law knows he takes things a little too seriously, and sometimes, he worries if it's too much for you. Basically, Law scolding you and freaking out because you let a bee sting you instead of him.

"Okay."

"Tch. You're not listening."

"Okay."

Law gives you his signature deadpan stare. You hide your face deeper on his neck.

"I don’t wanna fight, baby," you mumble against his skin. "You feel so soft."

He scoffs, all high and mighty, but he lifts you up higher on his back, strongly gripping your thighs. "We're not fighting," he lies. "You need to know this."

I can’t lose you.

It's left unsaid, the wind softly taking the words from his tongue along with a couple dozen leaves of the late Autumn. Law carries himself heavily, stepping on a bunch of brown leaves because he knows you like the sound. He'll die before telling you that.

It's miracously silent afterwards, the constant sound of crunches a white noise in the back of your mind as you hum and wait for your Captain to carry you both into the sub.

He's handsome, you think, once in the safety of his quarters. Law's white tank top is rightfully enhancing his arms, and he's all attentive golden eyes and a pouty mouth just begging you to kiss him.

But he lets the air be tense between you, like he wants you to know he's serious, and you notice with amusement how the smooth line of his back muscles are now stiff. But he's so pretty it's distracting, your stare following a single strand of his disheveled hair falling gracefully on top of his forehead, and you can't help but smile at the way his glasses are sliding down his nose. Handsome, handsome.

Law's frown deepens once he catches you smiling at him. He clicks his tongue, inching closer to your bruise and pulling his glasses back into place. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"You know what," Law rolls his eyes, gently pressing on the wound on your arm. "Stop looking at me like that."

He's so close you could lean down and kiss him. Your heart races at the thought of his lips on yours, his goatee tickling your chin. The feeling of his heart skipping a beat against your chest. You can't look away, and all of a sudden he lifts his gaze into yours, catching you staring at him again. Your noses are almost touching, and his gaze drifts to your lips for a split second before setting on your eyes.

But he pulls away too soon, setting his stuff on his metal tray and instantly cleaning it, and the moment is gone. You open your mouth to tell him thank you and hoping your puppy gaze will be enough to make him come lay down next to you for the rest of the night, before he cuts you off with a hard stare.

He points an earnest finger at you, completely serious. "You're going to listen to me now."

What follows is a long, long talk on how none of you know how the bees around this area work. And what kind of bee stinged you, because there are killer bees out there, YN. And it's dangerous enough out here already, but what if you were alergic, what if it bit you on your neck causing inflamation and rapidly approaching death?

You power through it until you realize he doesn't really want you to understand the mechanics of bee hives– he just needs an ear that would listen. So you sit, secretly counting on his eyelashes, and listen.

It finally stops after an hour.

He's gotten closer to you during his rant, your pretty face a sweet reminder you're here, now. Your smile is still there, slightly lifting the corner of your lips, and Law isn't strong enough to stare at you for too long, he knows that alright, so he takes off his glasses and sighs into his hands. The waves are easy on the sub tonight, the clickering sound of metal against metal and distinct laughter coming from the kitchen sounds like a lullaby to him. It's almost time for dinner.

He can't lose this. He can't. He would go bee hunting right now and would slaughter the offending little shit's entire colony and more if that's what it took to keep you by his side.

Lifting his head, Law catches your hands with his and delicately brushes his lips over the skin of your hand, ghosting over your palm. "I don’t want to see you hurt again for something so stupid, got it?"

He sounds as harsh as always, but you don't find it in you to tell him he's being dramatic. The slight tremble of his fingertips on your hands is already telling you everything you need to know.

"And definitely," he scowls, hiding beneath it. "not on my behalf."

You nod slowly, pulling him into a hug and laying him down on the bed with you. He lets you, his bones melting into your embrace, and the bed bounces slightly under the new weight. Law rests his head on your shoulder with a tired sigh, and as you sweetly thread your hands on his hair, little by little, his grimace begins to soften, even if his grip around your waist tightens. Right. He's learning. Not overreacting– just coping, and awkwardly trying.

He's getting there.

"Don't worry," you whisper kissing his hair and lacing your fingers with his, feeling the familiar coldness of his palm engulf you as he closes his eyes. "I got it."

[scyllas-revenge]

A Helping Hand

Pairing: Eomer/Reader

Rating: T 

Word Count: 841

Summary: You’ve managed to survive the Battle of Helm’s Deep unscathed—or at least, mostly unscathed. But much to your annoyance, a certain persistent horselord won’t rest until he’s sure you’re safe.

Read on AO3

“Let me see.”

Eomer reached for your hand the moment he saw the bloody fabric wrapped around your palm. Though he spoke gently, his voice held the quiet authority of a man accustomed to giving orders.  

But you were just as accustomed to defying them. “You need not bother, my lord,” you countered, scowling and trying in vain to tug your hand out of his grasp. “It’s only a small cut.”

“I think you’ll find the healers would disagree.”

“The healers are busy with more important matters,” you protested, gesturing to the makeshift infirmary springing up around you. The halls of Helm’s Deep were clogged with injured soldiers, crying children, and healers already running ragged in the aftermath of the battle. “I bandaged my hand well enough for now.”

Eomer shook his head obstinately. “Such an injury should receive all possible care, lest you wish to court infection.” Guiding you to an unoccupied chair in a quieter corner of the hall, he began to unwrap your bandages, ignoring your death glare. “Besides, you will struggle to hold your reins with that hand on our return to Edoras.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t insult me, my lord!” How many years had Eomer known you—how many times had he seen that you were more than capable of taking care of yourself? “I hardly need both hands to hold my reins! I am a far more skilled rider than that.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Oh, I can well imagine.”

Your reply died on your lips. Suddenly you were all too aware of how warm Eomer’s hands were against yours, how broad and strong his fingers were as they turned your palm upwards and peeled back your makeshift bandage. Heat crawled up your spine.

“Lord Eomer,” you tried again, your voice wavering slightly. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”

He only chuckled again and shook his head.

Your other hand clenched in your lap, and you took the opportunity to observe him as he worked. He looked terrible. Dark orc blood still splattered his armor, shadows bloomed under his eyes, and his hair hung lank and matted around his face. You had the sudden wild urge to sweep his hair out of his eyes, to cup his cheek in your hand, to—

“A small cut, did you say?” He met your eyes, brows raised dryly, mercifully pulling you from your thoughts.

“Yes,” you said stubbornly. But in the morning light streaming through the high windows in the hall, your hand looked worse than you’d remembered.

With a long-suffering sigh, Eomer flagged down a passing healer to procure a clean cloth and some water. Your hand stayed firmly in his grip all the while. “So then. How did you obtain this small cut?” he asked.

In a halting voice, you explained—how the Uruk-hai had stormed the doors to the caverns last night, after the walls of Helm’s Deep had been breached. How you and the other women had pressed back against the doors, holding them shut through sheer strength of numbers, muscles straining and shoes skidding on the smooth stone underfoot. How the wood had splintered under your hands, a blade sinking through the rotting wood and cleaving open your palm like a knife into butter.

How the Horn of Helm had rung out with the rising of the sun at that very moment, and you had known at last that you were safe—you had known that Eomer was safe.

As you spoke, his fingers stroked absently against the back of your hand. You weren’t sure he was even aware he was doing it—but oh, you were aware of it. You could feel nothing else—not the warm water he dabbed against your palm, nor the clear, stinging liquor that followed to cleanse the wound.  

“You are a brave woman, my lady.”

His words caught you off guard. “There was little of bravery in it. We were hardly wielding swords against the enemy, as you were.”

“Well then,” he said, rewrapping your hand with surprising skill, “as an apparent connoisseur of such bravery, allow me to declare your actions last night noble, and honorable, and—yes, my lady—brave indeed.”

A flush crawled up your cheeks, and you looked away. "Thank you, my lord.”

His answering smile put the morning sunlight to shame. “The pleasure was mine, my lady,” he said softly. He stood to leave, but not before lifting your newly bandaged hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. His lips lingered warm on your skin for a long moment. “I will see to you again when we return to Edoras." He murmured the promise against your hand, then looked up at you and winked.

Your pulse leapt wildly—but by the time you’d gathered yourself enough to respond, Eomer had disappeared among the throng of soldiers, healers, and citizens milling about the hall. You clutched your injured hand to your chest, the warmth of Eomer’s lips still vivid against your skin.

"Until Edoras,” you whispered breathlessly.

-

This was originally a much longer, more rambling, and less safe for work fic. I may write a NSFW chapter two to this someday, but no promises

[cottonkendi]

Betrayal | 7

MASTERLIST

Kunikuzushi x Reader

Word Count: 835

Genre: slight angst

Warning: implied violence

Synopsis: Help

Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

a/n: sorry for the long wait, took awhile for me to have some free time from uni... <;33

You remember the way that the lanterns had reflected upon Kunikuzushi’s eyes at the last Lantern Rite. 

Remember how they glistened like the stars. 

Your very own galaxy. 

And now, you stare back at him, but instead of the grandiose scenery of Liyue filled with lanterns leading you home, you are surrounded by the wreckage of the domain. Broken wallpaper littering the cut up tatami mats. 

Vases broken, paintings torn off from the walls. 

In the middle of the chaos stood Kunikuzushi. 

Eyes glistening with tears, porcelain skin now littered with harsh bruises that match his hair. 

He stares at you with eyes that look like they’ll like glass, sobs escaping his lips with every breath. 

“(Y/N)...” 

He whispers your name for the first time, hand reaching out for you before his legs give out, prompting you to run to his side, arms wrapping around him as his arms automatically wrap around you as well, face buried onto your neck as he sobs louder. 

“(Y/N)... d-don’t abandon me… please…” He whispers against you, his grip on your clothes tightening as you pull him closer to you if that was possible. 

You don’t know what to do. 

Your mouth feels quite dry as you continue to hold him. 

It does not feel like it’s enough. 

Holding him like this while surrounded by the chaos and hurt that he’s been marinating his sadness for who knows how long. 

He needs to get away. 

Get away from this domain. 

From this island. 

From this country. 

“Kunikuzushi… hold on. I’ll get you out of here.” Keeping your eye on him, you materialise out of the broken room and onto a Liyue hill, a waterfall a few feet away from you with the sun just about to set. 

Your personal abode. 

Perhaps this will help with smoothing out the cracks in Kunikuzushi’s heart… 

Settling down on the grass, you pull him onto your lap as he continues to shake in your hold. You hold him tightly, a hand caressing his back as he mindlessly babbles against your skin, interrupted every few seconds by his hiccups as he tries to pull you impossibly close. 

It takes hours. 

Hours of sniffling. 

Silence. 

Tears. 

It never stopped. 

And though you may not understand it all quite well, you can feel it in his chest. Can feel it as his heart breaks as he presses against you. 

His tears feel like venom as he tries and aggressively wipes them away with shaking hands. 

His palms are filled with crescent maroons, blood barely seeping out from self-inflicted wounds. 

Through those hours, you continue to hold him close, continue to caress his back and hair, whisper your words onto his ear, whisper so only he can hear. 

Whisper so he knows you only mean them for him. No one else can ever come close to him. 

You tell him of his worth. Remind him of who he is in your eyes and who he has always been. 

His mother, how terribly hurtful his words had been towards her when he explained, did not deserve his tears for he is strong and precious and worth every single celestial blessing that may fall from the skies. 

You utter such words in hopes that he would believe you. 

You utter such words hoping that he would realise that perhaps there is more to the story than what he can feel in the moment but how terribly insensitive would you be if you told him now. 

How ignorant would you be if you tried to ‘defend’ the electro archon. 

For now, you wish to only offer yourself up to him as his support. As the person he calls out to in times of such tragedies.

Hours of crying renders him tired, inevitably falling asleep in your arms. 

Carefully, you stand up, making your way to the side of the river, the waterfall’s thundering water merely sounding like background noise as you begin to clean him up, a cloth in your hand as you wipe away the remaining tear stains on his cheeks. 

With every wipe of the cloth, you wish to wipe away his anguish. 

With every tear stain that disappears, you hope that a thorn in his heart is plucked. 

“Kunikuzushi… the weakness that you speak of… I think that that is what makes you so strong. In a world full of pain, where so many choose to hide away from such emotions, you choose to embrace it… I wish to be like you someday. I wish to learn how to feel love like you do…” 

Pushing his hair away, you press your lips against his forehead and hope to take away his pain and keep it for yourself. 

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all rights reserved © cottonkendi, 2023. do not copy or repost any of my works! reblogs/feedbacks are very appreciated~

[grieverled-moved]

He wants to snap at the asshole, to go off on a long rant about how being reckless was stupid, something he damn well knows Seifer isn't, how he should keep his mind focused on the battle when they're out on missions over worrying about him. He was tough in his own right, having kicked the other gun-blader's ass on more then one occasion - sure Squall doesn't pack quite as much muscle as the other man does, but he was just as if not more resilient then him, just as battle hardened, having his own steadily built fair share of experience in fighting.

In their line of work as mercenaries, it was only natural to expect wounds, being injured, hell even dying if the mission went south. But as SeeDs & Garden Cadets, as they were now with all they'd seen & lived through - Seifer of all people should've known by now not to jeopardize shit just because Squall spilt a little blood, was wounded because of a faltering fuck up on his end.

But it's the knowledge the other had been worried - that his own fears of losing him forced him to react so instinctively - it reminds him of the past, how it's just always been such a Seifer-like trait, one he'd only been able to spot the patterns of now. How he'd recklessly broken out of Balamb during their first SeeD mission to help Rinoa, how that same blind urge to act often cropped up when people he cared about were in harms way.

He can't bring himself to fault him for it, knowing he was just as guilty of doing the same thing at times. Biting his tongue, he bars off whatever words he wants to lash the others way, caging them in before he soothes them down, helped admittedly at the other's teasing tone from beneath the cloth Squall jams in his face, rubbing away the bits of blood still flecking the other's skin. He should just shower - he wasn't truthfully too injured to not do it himself, but after that heart attack of a mission . . . Squall just needs to touch the other, to physically make sure the blonde bastard is alive, breathing, well under his hands as he is now. Still present & not just another body on the battlefield for them to drag back.

Teeth worrying the bottom of his lip, pressing into the skin with an absent minded focus, Squall continues to swipe the rag along his skin, continuing on more gently this time around after the other's complaint.

As he goes to brush the covered thumb along the bridge of Seifer's nose, to clean around the raised edge of his scar, wily arms are quick to snake themselves around his waist, tugging him in close. He follows the motion with a soft scoff, but gets settled comfortably without much else struggle atop the other's thighs, an ungloved hand coming to rest along the bend between the other swordsman's shoulder & neck.

Before he can mumble for him to sit still, to let him finish cleaning him up, there it is - that damned toothy grin, boyishly cheeky, is beaming back his way, jade eyes twinkling lowly in the dull light of the small bathroom. He pauses, hates how his heart stops, all before it resumes it's usual rhythmic beat, a bit of a flush colouring the tops of his cheeks as he sighs. A shake of his head, a roll of his eyes following not long after, but he smiles back, full of relief, all those harshly cut edges of his smoothed back out to be as polished as a rolled gem.

Discarding the cloth on his own lap, he reaches up to cup at Seifer's face between his hands, palms warmly cradling the underside of his jaw like he's something precious, fragile despite the known resilience Squall knows he carries. He swipes his thumbs along strong cheekbones, gliding along the underside of the others eyes in tender reverence as his smile softens. A myriad of emotions flicker across his face, before he decides to lean in, guiding the other in close to seal his answer with a chaste kiss. His nose bumps against Seifer's, a quiet laugh tittering free, before he rests his forehead against the bastard's own peering into half-lidded sights with melted fondness.

"Frustratingly? Yes." A snort, before his own eyes crinkle to amused crescents. "Could still use a shower though. You'd be better without all the leftover gunk & blood."

He still wants to chew him out on being reckless. But he let's it slide, focusing on the positives for a change. Thing's had gone to shit, but they made it out in one piece. That was what mattered.

@grieverled​ asked:

🛑 

send 🛑 to clean blood off of my muse after they protected yours. add + to reverse so receiver is the one cleaning blood off sender.

–

Squall is fine. 

That’s really the important thing, that Squall is fine and in one piece and lives to fight another day (hoo-rah). 

Seifer’s nose wrinkles as the thin washcloth makes another pass over his brow, cheeks, mouth, scrubbing at blood basically caked in his pores– you’d think, after saving his life, Squall might be the tiniest bit gentler. 

“I’d like skin left on my face,” he says, words muffled beneath the cloth, but it’s not malicious. Amused, really. 

He reaches, snags Squall around by the waist, pulls him right down into his lap. 

Squall is fine, and alive. He’s alive. 

“What d’you think? Still as handsome as ever underneath all this?” 

Seifer would do it again. And again. And again. 

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Fierce Dadity HC’s because I’m tired and like them-

Tying Wars up with his own scarf is Fierce’s go to when he’s doing something stupid? Can’t/won’t sleep? Fierce ties him to the bed with his scarf. Got himself injured and won’t see the healers? Wound gets wrapped with the scarf before the rest of him does so that he’ll stay still long enough for the healers to take care of him. Blaming himself and feeling guilty? (There’s a word but I can’t think of how to spell it.) Fierce burritos him and sits on him while refuting and arguing against every thought.

Similar things happen with Sky and his sailcloth. Can’t sleep cause of bad dreams? Sailcloth burrito. Feeling guilty over the curse? Fierce wraps him up tight enough that he ain’t going anywhere and gives him a lecture that’s an hour long minimum about how it isn’t Sky’s fault. Missing Zelda? Wraps him in the sailcloth and snuggles.

Warriors glared grumpily. "This is ridiculous and you know it."

"Hush, little soldier," Fierce remarked as he wrapped the wound. "Your incessant whining is distracting."

"I'm not whining--"

Fierce paused, laying a piercing, blank stare at him. Warriors shuddered a little, sufficiently schooled, and looked down. The sight of his own scarf securely snugged around his waist to keep him situated against the tree trunk made him flush in embarrassment again.

Warriors flinched a little as the mystical cursed deity finished his work, tying off the last of the gauze with a strong, swift motion. When Fierce cleaned his hands with some water, the captain dared to ask, "So can you untie me now?"

Fierce eyed him. "That depends entirely upon your ability to actually listen this time, Captain."

"I'm not completely insubordinate," Warriors tried to bargain. "I do listen on occasion."

"On occasion."

Warriors sighed. "It was a mistake, Fierce. I didn't think the wound needed immediate attention."

"You never do, Captain. If little Pup hadn't pointed it out you would have left it to get infected."

"I would not, I'm not that neglectful."

Fierce stared at him until he shriveled again. Giving up on the argument, he rolled his eyes. "I appreciate the assistance and I won't disturb the wound. Now will you please allow me some dignity and untie me?"

The blank, glowing gaze lingered a moment longer and then the smooth, marked face softened. "Very well. Behave, little soldier."

As the deity loosened Warriors' bonds, whimpering caught both their attention. Fierce and Warriors looked to the right to see Sky shivering in his bedroll, twisting a little in the blanket, clearly in distress. Warriors tried to get to him but was held down by impossibly strong hands.

"I'll handle little Songbird," Fierce said. "Stay here and rest."

Warriors bit his lip, but he nodded. As Fierce walked away, he looked down with realization and snapped exasperatedly, "Hey, you didn't finish untying me!"

Fierce was ignoring him by now, grabbing Sky's discarded sailcloth and slowly starting to wrap him in it. When he sat the young knight up to get the sailcloth around his shoulders, Sky shuddered and his eyes snapped open.

"It's all right, Songbird," Fierce said softly, tightening the sailcloth. "It was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

Sky panted for air, looking around wildly, "Captain--"

"He's safe," Fierce assured, motioning to Warriors with his head.

Warriors huffed. "Safe and secured. I'm okay, Sky, I promise."

"But--"

"Songbird," Fierce cut in, a little firmer. "You know what would happen to anything or anyone who would dare try to hurt you or the captain."

Sky took a steadying breath, looking Fierce in the eye, and relaxed visibly. The deity tucked him in a little tighter and helped him lay back down as the teenager fell back asleep, at peace once more.

[oneofthosesimps]

Lost in Blood

pairing: sukuna x fem!reader I nsfw

word count: 4013

summary: after you kill your next victim sukuna fucks his heir in your belly

warnings: BLOOD ( it's not yours but there's a lot of blood, like a lot), blood kink, angst, death, murder, rough sex, sub/dom, dirty talk, belly buldge, breeding kink, two cocks, double penetration (in one and two holes)

authors note: if you are uncomfortable with the idea of blood or the idea of you killing people, this fanfic is NOT for you!!! this is coming from the deepest corners of my head. if you've watched American Horror Story and remember the countess sex scene with her vicitms, this fanfic was inspired by it

all credits to the artist of this pic:

ゲオブバビ/Geobubabi

-----

Screams fill the room, cutting through the air. They resemble the knife in your hand, which slides through the flesh beneath you. You watch it tensely as it draws its lines, forming wounds of varying depth. Deep red blood emerges from them, running in thick drops along the pale skin and then slowly pooling in puddles. Green emeralds stare at you, vein-streaked and wet. Tears flow like waterfalls from the large eyes, roll down the roundish face and get caught in the dark hair. Mouth wide open, a high, croaking voice makes your ears ring. You look at the woman below you and tilt your head slightly, contorting your face as the blade of the knife cuts deeper and a large gash forms on her arm. Her voice makes your head ache, almost explode. It drowns out the sound of tearing flesh. One too high note from her and you ram the knife into her arm, piercing it completely and scraping the dark floor on the other side of where she lies. She cries out loudly, trying to wiggle her limbs and squirming under you.

"Let me go!" her voice shrieks at you, and your hand clutches the handle of the weapon. Behind you, you hear a deep, dark laugh. At the small sound, the little hairs on your skin stand up and the butterflies dance inside you, which puts a smile on your face. You stare into her eyes, which look back in pure pain. As she eyes you, her face changes, becoming panicked as she sees your eyes and realizes what lies hidden deep within them. With one smooth thrust you ram the knife into her chest, right in the middle between her breasts. It slides through the flesh and bone like butter. The brown-haired woman spits blood, which speckles her pretty face. Her breathing changes, becoming shallower and more frantic, and she gasps. You watch her begin to fight for her life and pull the knife out of her. Blood gushes from the wound, splattering towards you as your hand snaps back down and the knife disappears into her body again, this time further to the left of it. Apparently, you hit her lungs completely. Her gasping gets louder and you see in her face that at the latest now the moment has come when she has understood that she can't survive this anymore. You sigh softly and look at her sadly. She lasted shorter than your last victim. The blood spreads over her body, flowing out of here like a stabbed pig. It looks so beautiful as the fabric of her white kimono turns dark. Her eyes search your face again, slowly glazing over as you stab her body again and again. Blood splatters on your face, arms, legs, and kimono as the life crawls out of her. The screams have long since stopped, she looks past your head, mouth open to a soundless scream. You stop as soon as her eyes lose their shine and the twitching of her body ceases. That is always the most significant moment. The feeling is impossible to describe when you see someone cross over into the beyond. Your mouth twists in dissatisfaction, this was way too easy. Other people are so terribly weak and whiny.

You feel a strong presence moving behind you and a warm shiver runs down your spine. A wide grin appears as Sukuna kneels beside you and leans down to you. Four big eyes look at you and make your breath catch. His pointed teeth flash at you, "Did you have fun, my little human?" You nod at him, unable to speak due to his beauty, "You did so well." His large hand rests against your cheek and he strokes it gently with his thumb, smudging the drops of blood. Your eyes close in pleasure and you snuggle up to him, enjoying the coldness he radiates. Again, he laughs, quieter this time, and pulls his hand away. Immediately your eyes open again and you look at the god in front of you.

His gaze wanders over your face, red smears on your cheek, before he looks to the dead woman at his feet. Countless wounds decorate her still-warm body, her blood slowly stops coming out of her, forming a lake in which she bathes almost weightlessly. Two of his fingers pick up some of the red liquid and he licks it off while his eyes land on you again. Your eyes widen and you lick your lips as you watch him do it. "You want some too, little human?" You nod at him and open your mouth, sticking out your tongue. His eyes take on a darker colour at the scenario before him, his pupils widening and pushing out the red.

"So greedy," he murmurs, stroking your head, running his hand through your curls, "But her blood is dirty and bitter. You deserve better." You pull a slight pout at his words as he takes the knife from your hand. Your eyes watch him open his mouth and run his tongue over the blade, licking it clean. He turns the weapon so that the sharp edge rides over the muscle and slides in a clean cut through it. Your face shows your astonishment as his hand settles on your mouth. He pulls at your lips and opens them.

A blush rises to your face as his lips settle on yours and his tongue runs between them. He explores your mouth cavity, playing with you, and you moan. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him as your small hands knead the fabric of his kimono. The metallic taste of his blood mixes with your saliva and overwhelms your senses. The kimono slips off his shoulders, exposing his bare chest. Greedily you suck the blood from his tongue and a low murmur comes from him. One of his hands slides down your side and rests on your thigh. He caresses your tender skin, wipes aside the fabric of your clothing and his nails scratch over your leg. You caress his chest meanwhile, running over his muscles. Your fingertips trace the black lines before your arms wrap around his neck. You press closer and your teeth bite lightly into his lower lip, pulling at it. When he breaks the kiss again, he leaves you breathless. Your head buzzes and you cling to him. "More?" he murmurs against your ear, kissing the spot just behind your earlobe.

"Yes, please," you moan in a trembling voice. His wide grin settles on his face and his eyes glint. His left arm around your waist pulls you away from the fading warmth of the dead woman beneath you, his right hand around your thigh grips tighter. He lays you down, right next to your victim and he looks down at you. The loose belt of your kimono unbuckles. A low growl comes from him as he sees your naked body lying in front of him.

In the middle of a pool of blood, your petite limbs writhe. Your curls lie around your face, framing it and giving you a kind of halo - so he is right about you being an angel. Your pink cheeks and sparkling eyes shine so full of life, a total contrast to his appearance. Your breasts jiggle slightly with each movement, while your nipples harden as they touch the cooler air. His gaze wanders lower and saliva gathers in his mouth as he looks at the lips between your legs, his hard cocks pushing through between the fabric sides of the kimono. Blood rushes into them, making them stick out hard from his strong body. He loves it when you look at him and your eyes glaze over slightly, your mouth opens and the blush on your face deepens. He especially loves the expression you take on once you see his fat cocks. Every time you look at him as if they could never fit in you and every time he convinces you otherwise.

"Mmm, you look so beautiful," he murmurs, his nails scraping across your waist and stomach. You whimper and your hands form fists as they grip the now fully soaked fabric of your kimono. His fingers wander over the thin and sensitive skin above your cunt, caressing it, making you wince. A moan escapes you and you throw your head back as he caresses the soft lips. He strokes satisfied along your slit, smearing your juices all over you before his thumb lands on your clit. Your moans grow louder and your eyes roll up into your head as he slowly massages the little knob in a circular motion. After watching you all day, his patience is short now. Almost naked, covered only with the thin fabric of your kimono, you have taken lives again and again. None of his imagination makes him hornier than this sight.

"How wet you are already, little human," he taunts, eyeing the twitches of your body, "This can't be all because of me, can it?" His name drops silently from your mouth and his body vibrates with laughter. He increases the pressure on your clit and your lower body twitches uncontrollably again. Already, a knot forms in your stomach and the feeling is truly amazing. A tingling sensation spreads from your core, flowing to all corners of your body and you open your legs wider for him. You angle them and your own hand spreads your labia, leaving bloody fingerprints. The sight makes Sukuna's cock drip and twitch against his belly. He looks closely at how his thumb massages your clit, how your hole shines and turns white because of all the juice. His long nail keeps stroking your swollen lips, making them turn red and swollen. "Fuck, it's not all because of me. Your little cunt gets wet when you kill, right?" His body bends over you and his left hand dips into the puddle of blood beside your head to brace himself. He looks at your half-closed eyes and licks red drops from your cheek.

His finger moves from your clit further down and he puts only his fingertip into your tight hole. With this small movement you push your back through and moan loudly. He dips it in and out again and stretches your hole as good as he can. Sukuna has to moan as well when shortly after three of his fingers press into you and stretch you better and further, "You are such a naughty little girl." He spreads his fingers, pressing against your tight, soft walls and you stare dumbly at him as he begins to thrust into you in this position. Satisfied, he watches your face, noticing every little movement. Tears form in your eyes and your brow furrows as his middle finger sinfully massages the rough spot inside you.

Again, your legs twitch uncontrollably and your hands reach for his shoulders. You dig your nails into his skin and he enjoys the pain. “Deeper”, he groans. His eyes stare at you lustfully as your nails dig into his flesh and muscles. Your fingers leave deep scratches and in some places, blood comes to the surface. The knot in your stomach tightens as he doesn't stop. Your body tenses before you groan loud and long. You stretch out towards him, your vision exploding black and your eyes turning white as you twist your eyeballs.

As you come off your high, his long, broad fingers pull out of you. He pushes off the ground and grabs your thigh. A bloody handprint forms on your leg, which he smears slightly as he grips harder. His eyes settle on his fingers, from which your juice flows in thick drops. He catches them with his long tongue and moans with pleasure, "Better than any blood I could drink." Once he's done, he grins again and your legs wrap around his waist, trapping him. His tall stature above you looks down at you, "You were such a good girl today, you deserve a reward for that, don't you?"

You nod at him and your gaze falls on his large hand, which is gripping one of his cocks and pumping it lightly in his hand. The thick veins stand out and his seed begins to drip from him onto your lower belly. You have to bite your tongue to keep from losing your mind again right away. He puts the tip to the red lips of your cunt and feels the heat you radiate. Slowly he pushes into you and tears your hole. Despite all the fluid between your legs, which has increased again due to your orgasm, and the stretching by his fingers, he barely fits inside you. All that lube doesn't stop it from starting to burn and your walls from starting to pulsate. You whimper in pleasure and close your eyes. The mixture of pain and desire is like a drug.

"Such a good girl," Sukuna whispers to you and places his hand on your belly, feeling his dick bury itself inside you. As he bumps the back, his balls twitch and he moans out. Seeing your little body in front of him, taking his cock so well, drives him crazy. You've hardly gotten used to him, squeezing his cock, but he can barely stand not to move. Normally he would wait longer, give you time, but today it is impossible.

"I'm sorry pet, I can't be that patient with you today," he mumbles and wraps his arms around your waist. He lifts your body up and your bare chest meets his. This changes the angle and he slides a little deeper, stretching you wide and pressing painfully against your cervix. You can't stifle the cry as you sit in his lap and he burrows deep inside you. Without pausing for a moment, he lets you bounce up and down on him a few times. His lips are on your jiggling right breast and he sucks on your hard nipple, licking it and biting it a little too hard. Again, you scream out, the pain moves through your upper body. Fuck, he wants to fill you. He wants to fuck you stupid and leave you almost unconscious. His left hand slaps your ass cheek, he reaches into the fat and spreads your ass apart.

His other hand rub soothingly over your bloodied back before his right hand moves to his second cock. This one is waiting painfully hard for attention. He pumps this one up and down a few times as well, but the feeling hardly eases. His pre-cum gets smeared between your ass cheeks and serves him as a lubricant. You press tighter against him as you feel the fat tip against you again, this time further back. Your eyes squeeze shut as he uses the mixture of blood and juice to push painfully into you. Your little asshole is still way too tight and every inch forward makes your body twitch.

"Fuck," he lets out a long moan as each ring of your anus clenches around him, taking him in. He grits his teeth to keep from thrusting right in one go, "So small and tight. I should have taken this hole right away."

"Su-sukuna," you gasp against his chest, and his gaze falls back to you. He loses his control when he sees your red cheeks, when he sees you looking at him with your eyes half-closed and your tongue sticking out. Your face shows the most different emotions and features when you are near him but seeing your fuck face makes him proud every time and moves something deep inside him.

In one smooth thrust, he pushes into you a second time and you yelp. Deep inside he's sorry, but his head is too fogged with lust to grasp those thoughts more clearly. He growls loudly as your walls twitch wildly, milking him. Saliva runs down your chin and you claw into the skin of his chest, leaving deep marks here as well. You're so incredibly full and stretched. His cock forms a small bulge on your belly, which is further enhanced by his second cock in your ass. You have never seen anything so beautiful. How beautifully thick it will look when Sukuna has shot all his baby seeds into you.

"Show me how much you love this," he speaks in a dark voice. He could scare the shit out of one, but luckily only you see him like that and you would never be afraid of him.

With trembling hands, you hold onto his shoulders again. Your weak legs tighten and you push off of him, moaning loudly as his two cocks pull out of you before stretching you to the max again as soon as you let yourself sink back down onto him. His hands stabilize you as you move, while his eyes move back and forth between your face and where you are joined. His hands clasp your waist tightly again and he squeezes too hard, which is why he leaves dark marks.

"So big and thick," you moan, making him grin again.

"Just the way you love it, my little whore". You roll your eyes at his words and circle your hips to create more friction inside you. This time something else flutters in your belly. The feeling is short but intense and shoots right into your clit and cunt.

"Do you like that? Do you like it when I call you that?" You nod to him as his hands massage your waist, "Open your eyes and look at me."

You do as you are commanded and open your heavy eyelids. His eyes are by now jet black and look at you like dark obsidian. "I have never fucked a whore like you." Your eyes turn again and he smirks. "Never have I fucked a human who can take my two cocks so good and not tear right into two." Your body moves faster on top of him, the muscles in your legs starting to burn as you rock your body against his. But you keep bouncing on him and pushing his cocks inside you. Sweat forms on your skin and mixes with the blood. Sukuna watches a thick drop roll from your collarbone to your breasts and between them. His full balls slap against your ass cheeks and the sound alone makes the knot in your stomach tighten. He watches your next orgasm, which makes your body jerk, and takes over for you, fucking you through it as you give out. His speed is much more brutal and almost sends you over the edge again. This time your voice echoes through the room, his name falling from your lips again and again.

"Would you like me to pleasure you some more?" his deep voice vibrates against you. Your fogged head nods at him, even though your exhausted body is slowly losing its energy and strength.

"Of course," you hear him murmur with a wide grin. He pulls you off of him, leaving your holes empty and open. You moan out as you lose his physical contact. He forces you onto all fours, placing his hand in the small of your back, thus pushing your ass into the air. Your hands smear the blood beneath you. The image of what's happening tightens the knot in his stomach. Your ass stretches out to meet him, the hole stretched wide and looking for something thick. Your core is white by now. As your holes contract again, causing you to groan, creamy juice squeezes out of them and Sukuna almost comes. He just licks the liquid away with the tip of his tongue, clawing into your skin to control himself. Out of curiosity, he pushes his tongue into the dirtiest part of your body and his hips thrust forward into nothingness as your ass swallows him greedily, glad to have something shoving into it again. How he'd love to shove his cock back in there. Before he loses the last of his nerve, he pulls out.

He takes one of his cocks and pushes it back into your cunt, filling you to your cervix in one go. You moan again, enjoying the sensation. A feeling that he didn't know before comes out deep from his belly. He wants an heir. He wants you to squeeze his heir out of your little cunt. He wants to breed you round and thick, right next to the dead woman who was just full of life. When his second head joins his cock in your cunt, you lose touch with the earth.

At first with effort, he presses his cock to the other one inside you. You've never felt anything like this in your life. Sukuna behind you almost becomes an animal and lets out an animalistic sound, “You have to take it, my little whore. I want to fuck you pregnant, I want to push a baby inside you. You must suck up all my semen.” His voice is hardly recognizable, but his words leave you speechless. The thought takes over your head and a hot feeling arises in you. How it will be to carry his heir in you and then to be fucked by him. Can he then pump your belly even thicker?

Slowly he presses in to his other cock and splits you in two. Your screams grow louder and never subside as he fucks your brains out slowly, but with a steady rhythm. It feels like even the last vestige of your soul is leaving your body. Trembling fingers reach between your legs and you touch his wet cocks, which thrust into you again and again. The feeling alone makes you stretch your ass higher again, your back painfully pushed through. When Sukuna puts his hand in your hair and painfully pulls your head back, there is nothing more than mush in your head. His pointed teeth sink into your shoulder and he bites deep enough that blood oozes from the wound, which he licks away. "Such a good whore," he murmurs against your ear, "you taste so good, I'll never let you go." His words send a warm shiver down your body and pleasant goosebumps form, making your nipples hard again. His thrusts become harder, more brutal as he abuses your hole.

Your knots tighten as one body works with the other. Your voices echo through the room, mixing with the sounds his cocks create in you. A few more thrusts, then you come a third and final time for the moment. "Luckily, I decided to keep you back then," he growls as his balls pump themselves empty inside you. Two cocks at once fill your belly to the top, no one could keep that amount of juice inside, which is why most of it misses. He fucks you through his orgasm. As time goes by, his thrusts become less precise and slower before he pulls out of you and you hit the floor. Breathing heavily, you lie with your cheek in the remaining blood, most of it already drawn into your clothes or spread on you or him. Sukuna sits down backwards, bends one leg, and casually places his left arm over his knee. His gaze wanders over the living mess in front of him and his dead heart makes a little beat. He would make you walk around naked all the rest of the day to see your fat belly and his handprints on you. Again and again, he will come to you, bend you forward and look at your full, stretched hole. His pride could not be greater. His little human takes equal both cocks in her hole and will give birth to his heir. No, many heirs. Once you've turned around, forced your tired body to move, and can look at him again with wide dark eyes, a smile settling on your lips, he grins back, " A little break before I bring in your next victim, how does that sound?"

[rickgrimesdoingrickthings]

So they weren't going to kill or torture him for information? Interesting. That made him relax a little, his parted lips closing, relaxed. His eyes still held some sadness though. They weren't moving from there. They weren't running away. But they should. His eyes narrowed, tired. As they offered zero harm, Rick offered zero resistance. He listened to her words and watched her expressions, all with dedicated attention. His dull monotonous expression broke when she flirted again, making him blush, uncomfortable- a soft frown forming on his brow, followed by his eyes widening a bit more, staring her awkwardly when she said he should be taken to....her....room? And he should be cleaned and...given soft clothes? Was that...was that what she had said? The man froze for a bit, confused if he was just being offered some comfort or if....he was being pushed into some kind of abuse. Anyway....he shouldn't think too much about it as he used to do. He had to wait. He knew. He sadly knew he just had to wait. To think she called him handsome and said temptation was...high. His shoulders tensed and curled a bit. Didn't she think he was old? He didn't even know how old she was. Being younger when the world went to shit...probably made her way tougher than most. When Cain started to take him away, he followed, not offering any resistance. They weren't being brute, which was surprising. By the stories, he imagined he would be tortured to death or mutilated, remains spread in the woods or placed on some road to be found by the CRM. The CRM.....that community clearly knowing about their existence was such a big problem now. It mean either being wiped out or becoming part of it. He was taken to a large bathroom, a place that seemed communal. It was empty since most were working, organizing the place, burying the dead or being taken care of. "Call me Rick." A couple of her people approached alongside a tall lady- she seemed to be a doctor or a nurse, veterinarian, it was hard to tell, and irrelevant after the world had crumbled. Cain, the doctor, this man and woman who looked tough as fuck- maybe there were the bodyguards, who were there to make sure he wouldn't try anything- like running or taking the doctor hostage or something. It made sense, the strong woman always holding firmly this robust large knife- Rick would be lying if that didn't scare him a bit. One signed for him strip, the other turned on the water, the shower like a rather large fountain, the place's floor was a large clean rock, as if the whole community had been sculpted over a rocky area, rich of water. Despite no heating system, the water had steam coming from it- it was warm, naturally warm and so clean and pure. Carefully to not press his wounds, he took his clothes off, one of the guards taking it right away and examining the material- the jacket, the uniform- it was CRM stuff, great material, crafted by the organization, with its crest and all. Once nude, he turned his back to them and started washing himself. There was soap and a couple of folded towels. If there weren't people surveilling him, that shower could have been more relaxing- a constant blush on his face, tensed shoulders and curled back. He tried to forget everything for a while, close his eyes and focus on the warm water for a couple of minutes, but he knew he shouldn't take long. The infirmary was full because of the attack, so the doctor had Rick sit on one of the smooth rocky bench near the shower, so she could examine him. The tough looking woman stared Rick's face frowning all the time, ready to act if he tried anything- maybe she had lost someone, maybe she was just do wary. His shoulders were down tough, he wasn't showing any fighting spirit at all, his eyes distant, hands shyly over his crotch as he got checked and patched up.

The doctor threw one towel on the top of his head and the other on his lap when she was done, leaving. One of the guards pointed at the exchange of clothes. Rick got dried, always facing away from them, and got dressed. It was a loose, smooth cotton shirt and a pajama boxers, also very comfortable. His left arm and shoulder had been injured by the guards, as well as part of his ribs, chest, sides- he also had some marks and bruised on his back and some lesions on one of his thighs- the fight hadn't been easy- the guards had been rough and didn't go down without harming him. Soft fluffy gauze was used to dress his wounds, the 4 cuts on his cheek caused by the rings, which had a hard time to stop bleeding and couldn't be stitched due to the closeness from each other, as if a tiger had scratched him- a patch was placed over the gauze, pressed until it stopped bleeding. The same done to the other wounds. No stitches were done. He had nothing severe. The doctor had bandaged his left arm, advising to not move it much for now, to wear the shirt later, since his bandages and gauze should be changed every 8 hours. To wear the boxers shorts was already a challenge, but he did it alone. Now that the adrenaline was gone, the pain was rising, he was feeling the stabs and kicks he had received, and his cheek which she punched was hurting more than the rest. Once he was done, Cain took him to a corridor, floor made of polished wood, so clean, despite the attack, things were being organized fast, everyone there so disciplined and devoted, apparently. A room. A large room. He was taken to the door, it was opened, Cain let go of his arm and gave it a soft poke, placing a paper bag in his arms and ordering him to get in and wait inside. And as Rick did, he closed the door and rested against the wall, guarding it. It was Fox's room, as she had ordered. He looked around, his body heavy, hungry, he sat on the bed. Inside the large paper bag, some water bottles, a couple of sandwiches and cereal bars. Rick ate it all, neatly, keeping every crumb inside the paper bag. It was good and tasty, fresh flood. After he found the trash can to dispose of the paper, he sat on the bed and looked around. It was...a bit dark. He felt too heavy to walk to turn on the light, maybe it was better that way. Slowly he leaned on the bed, so comfy, the white shirt of his stomach, he buried his head against a pillow and fell asleep so quickly, curling a bit. His senses were totally off. He was so tired all the sound and light were gone. He blacked out, no idea of time or anything- it was just relaxing, he had pulled the soft sheet over his legs up to half his thighs, he was feeling a bit cold on the extremities, hands under the pillow- and feeling too tired, his body hurting for him to move any further.

@vuulpecula

Rick expected someone would just shoot him on the head. It would be the safest. But maybe they wanted info. He wouldn't give them. Not about the organization that looked after his girl, even if the CRM was evil- cruel- it didn't matter anymore- Judith was there and she was safe. She would be happy and grow up healthy, she would have a future. She would.

First thing before he dropped the radio was to press the silent emergency button- signaling he was still alive, even after the explosions. The CRM central already knew about the attack and the potential defeat of Rick's forces. They knew when they lost vehicles or when soldiers accessed the emergency lines of communication. "It was a mistake to fight me. I was the only chance your people had." Rick said, his eyes empty, looking at the void, his face not showing emotion anymore. Shock. He was still in shock. What they would do to him...what they had done to the other CRM soldiers the other time? Would Jadis be searching for his pieces in the forest? Would he never be found or...never stop being found? The man relaxed even, giving up. Such a mistake. To be kind. He regretted it. Strongly. If he had just arrived shooting and had killed everyone, that wouldn't have happened. An effective attack always the best medicine against a counterattack. "Yes. I tell her every day." Judith was his world, and his heard broke at the thought he wouldn't see her again. He used to be more determined, more fierce to his beliefs, force himself to BELIEVE he would win even when the chances were so low- But after he lost everyone, after he never saw his friends again after 7 years, after all went to shit and all he had was his girl... He had changed. His eyes looked so vacant as they held him, as she touched him all over searching for weapons- indifferent. Even if she had tried to harm him or make him uncomfortable, maybe his expression wouldn't have changed at all. He was a dead man walking- now, more than ever. Knowing she was safe at the CRM though, having a proper life, school, walls, protection, movies, friends... A soft smile formed on his lips, his eyes looking at nothingness still. Judith didn't need him to survive. It was ok. It was ok to go. He tried. He really had tried to stick to his essence in the end- the kindness- trying to give people a chance- to not massacre the weak, to at least give them a second option- he did try. And now he lost it all because of that. Her fist broke the distance in his eyes- interrupted his thoughts and his peace of spirit- the metal rings ripping into his skin, making four cuts on his cheek, as if some small tiger had slashed his face- and the wounds were quick to bleed, as cheekbone got purple due to the blunt, dry impact- it made Rick lose his balance and stumble back, almost falling, if the men hadn't held him. Now he was unarmed, soul already quit fighting, he just wanted it to end. He hated what he did. He hated the CRM. Judith was his light. Maybe he would be some insane rebel if it wasn't for her- maybe the Republic knew and that's why they treated her so well. "It's okay. At least I won't miss her...because I'll be dead." Then his eyes met the walkers tied to her throne- and he shivered. No. Death wasn't the end. His eyes widened a little bit, in despair. He didn't want... He didn't want to become some sick prize of hers...dead forever...agonizing hungry, falling in pieces... The thought of begging her to not let him turn crossed his mind, but that could make her do the exact opposite... Specially from people he had tried to save- or at least...reduce the damage the CRM would do to them either way. When they let go of him, he just stood there, blood running down the left side of his face, falling onto the floor, making her walkers more excited and thirsty. ... He was silent. His lips parted. "Don't make me turn. Just finish me off." Rick muttered, giving in to asking the request. "I wasn't....the best man. But I think I was a decent one. I fought for my family and tried to help others. That was my light and my doom." His features got really sad as his eyes kept facing the floor, a sadness he had been holding. He didn't want to cry in front of the enemies- but did it matter? It would all be over soon, and regardless of the truth, they could tell any story they wanted in the end. The cyan in his eyes got intense as tears pooled, but he didn't shed any.

[ejzah]

There’s Nothing Friendly About It, Part 3

***

Kensi pulled herself together by the time the nurses came for the next round of bandage changes and check his medication. Fortunately, they’d given up on asking Kensi to leave after the first couple days.

Even though it was beyond difficult to see the gruesome wound, such a vivid reminder of how close Deeks came to dying, she wanted to be there. If Kensi couldn’t be here for Deeks’ most vulnerable and terrible moments, then she didn’t deserve him at all. He’d been with her every step of the way during and after her coma; she would do no less.

Once the nurses were finished, Kensi washed his hair the best she could and brushed it so curls framed his face.

“That’s the neatest its been in years. Who knew all it would take is you being unconscious to let me get my hands on your hair,” she joked, imagining Deeks’ breathy chuckle. She smiled shakily, kissing his cool mouth when she was done.

Then she settled down to some outstanding paperwork Nell had dropped off, at Kensi’s request. She hoped it would keep her mind occupied for a few hours. Unfortunately, she found her thoughts drifting every few minutes.

She’d have to call Roberta soon. She’d put it off for as long as she could, silencing any guilt by reasoning that Deeks didn’t like her to worry and Kensi didn’t need the additional stress of Roberta Deeks causing mayhem. In truth, Kensi didn’t want to face Roberta.

She imagined Roberta’s confusion, followed by accusation, and finally anger, when she realized Kensi wasn’t by Deeks’ side. Kensi has always promised Roberta that she would keep her son safe. Once again, she’d broken that promise.

A firm knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts, and she blinked, realizing that several hours had passed if the waning sun was any indication, and she barely got through one page.

She cleaned her throat, quickly smoothing down her hair, and wiping moisture from her eyes. “Come in.”

Sam poked his head through the door, upper lip quirking up in a familiar smile.

“Hey Kens.”

“Sam,” she greeted, warily. The only one she’d seen since the shooting was Nell, and she hadn’t prepared for facing Sam or Callen.

While Kensi sat frozen in indecision, Sam moved forward and enveloped her in a hug. She barely returned it, arms stiff at her sides.

At any other time, his strong arms would have been welcome and reassuring. Now there were too many unknowns. However unintended, Sam might have shot Deeks, and she couldn’t separate her feelings from that knowledge.

God, she almost wished Nell hadn’t told her. Ignorance would have been so much easier that blaming the people she should trust most.

Sam pulled away after a few seconds, his eyes turning to Deeks.

“How’s he doing? Nell didn’t tell us much.”

“As well as expected,” she responded carefully.

“He’ll pull through this,” Sam told her confidentially, reaching over to squeeze Deeks’ blanket-covered foot. “He’s strong. Aren’t you brother?”

“The surgeons had trouble stopping the bleeding,” Kensi found herself saying. Each word felt like a razor blade working its way up her throat. “They say he should wake up soon, that he’s just experienced a lot of trauma from all the blood loss.” She paused and swallowed down the sudden lump that made it difficult to breathe. “But, um, he might also have brain damage.”

Her face crumpled as she admitted her worst fear, and she lost her tenuous composure, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Oh Kensi,” Sam said, pulling her back into his arms. He let her sob into his shoulder, murmuring words of reassurance and encouragement she barely caught, but appreciated nonetheless. Fisting her hands in the back of his jacket, she clung to him.

After several minutes, Sam leaned back, brushing her hair back from her damp cheeks.

“Hey, it is going to be ok. I know that nothing seems like it will ever be right again, but Deeks is strong like I said. More importantly, he has you.”

“I don’t feel very strong right now,” Kensi admitted, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“You are. And when you’re not, you got us. We you’re family.”

His sincerity made containing her emotions that much more difficult. Dragging in a hitching breath, Kensi turned away for a few moments, pushing down the sobs that threatened to bubble up again.

“Hey, how about we go grab some dinner?” Sam suggested. “The fresh air will do you good.”

“Oh, thanks, um, but I don’t want to leave him alone,” Kensi said, reaching for Deeks lax fingers. “I’m not really hungry anyway and I have all this paperwork.”

Sam frowned, but didn’t call her on her less than stellar excuses.

“Ok, well call me if you need anything. Anything. And I’ll be right here.”

***

A/N: So Kensi is feeling all the emotions.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Ergo Sum

Note: This is unfinished. It’s got editing notes everywhere, lacks full context and an ending. I’m loathe to say I won’t return to this, but it’s not on the docket at this point in time.

---

In the days following the events that could have signaled the end of the world, Cogita found herself returning to Jubilife Village more than she’d intended.

At first, it was to fit, order and procure some new clothes, which took time if it was to be done to her specifications. The seamstress, Anthe, was a lovely woman to chat with, and seemed excited by the prospect of new approaches to fashion. She was the reason Cogita’s path wound into the village beyond her initial [order].

The potato mochi certainly didn’t hurt. She was perfectly capable of making it for herself, and the man who ran the establishment set her ill at ease, but it was nice to enjoy a meal without having to partake in the preparation or clean up.

There were dozens of smaller reasons-- to visit with Enamorous or share tea with the Galarian Professor while perusing the Pokedex entries his wards put together-- but the most unexpected was the Warden stationed at the Training Grounds. The man largely kept to himself, which was something Cogita could certainly respect, and she might not have sought him out were it not for the village’s sky-falling friend.

The girl had been in a rush, sprinting past The Wallflower without really looking at it, and skidded to a halt in front of the Craftworks, doing a rather dramatic double-take.

“Oh,” Akari wheezed, clutching a side, “Sorry, Mistress Cogita, I didn’t mean to stare. For a sec there, you looked like...” She turned the way she’d originally oriented herself and stood on her toes, scoping out the leveled plane of the battlefield, then looked back, “It’s just the-- y’know...”

She tapped at the corners of her mouth, and Cogita found herself in the unfamiliar position of very much not knowing. Was it meant to be a hint that she had something on her face?

“Uh, anyway, I gotta run! Enjoy the mochi!”

And with that, the girl was hurtling up the stairs. Slowly, Cogita blinked at her retreating form, and returned to her meal; in a few minutes’ time, she even had a show to go with it. The angle was less than ideal, but the large Pokemon involved more than made up for that; it was a small wonder the Commander had allowed Alpha Pokemon into the village-- let alone Alphas still wreathed in the aura of [wilderness?].

It was odd the way they matched wits via their Pokemon, like it was all just a game. Akari knew how to fight for survival-- that much Cogita knew, even if she hadn’t born witness, personally-- but this lacked all the hallmarks. How could Pokemon that fought for their very lives turn around play fight so readily? The Alphas especially-- how did they harness their [wild] might whilst keeping the fragility of the surrounding humans in mind?

She watched the battle play out, watched Akari run to the opposite side of the field, heedless of the Wyrdeer she had to pass, and heard her laugh. Watched her take off again, darting across the village like a Mantyke on the water’s surface.

The Wyrdeer stayed put, patiently waiting for something, and Cogita-- long since finished-- stood and excused herself. As she climbed the steps, the scene gradually became clearer. Wyrdeer had sustained several heavy blows-- strong blows, if she had her terminology correct-- but hadn’t suffered the worst of Akari’s fight; it was waiting for its own turn as its teammates were tended to.

Kleavor was already righting itself, axes dug into the soft ground as it pushed itself up, and, as it [waited] on its side, Basculegion’s tail gave a mighty flap. Akari’s opponent smoothed a hand along its scales soothingly, wholly unbothered by the fact that they were in direct contact with an Alpha Pokemon-- and one that had been raging not two minutes prior, at that.

That willingness to be so close to a Pokemon-- physically, in this case, but in all senses-- was rare here.

As she made her way up to the landing, she clapped, the sound muted by her gloves. “My, my, but you know how to put on a show, don’t you?”

The man raised his head, frowning, and Cogita immediately understood Akari’s confusion.

She dedicated herself to a certain aesthetic, and it seemed she shared a fair amount of it with this person. It would be an easy mistake to make, were one in a hurry-- to see a long, black garment and light hair topped with a dark hat and make an assumption. The gesture to the lips, however, she hadn’t yet puzzled out.

“You can only hope to make your own entertainments out here,” He said, turning to his satchel in short order, and applying something from a jar to Basculegion’s fins, “I happen to enjoy participating in battle, but wholeheartedly believe that it can be a joy to spectate. It seems you might follow similar tracks?”

“No,” She said after a long silence, “It was certainly a spectacle, but I can’t say I find any [joy] in battle. The way of my people is to live alongside Pokemon, and while it may necessitate [battle] in the pursuit of survival, that would never be considered as a way to pass the time.”

He gave a low, dissenting hum, but focused on what he was doing for the time being. Once Basculegion had been dealt with, he turned to Wyrdeer and dug out two berries, twisting one in half to split it between this Alpha and Kleavor, and offering the other to Wyrdeer whole. Still, not so much as a flinch as the Pokemon accepted the food directly from his palm.

“You see it as cruelty, then? I can’t help but feel that I’ve heard that somewhere before...” / “I beg your pardon, miss, but I emphatically disagree. When you battle alongside a Pokemon, it helps you understand one another, no matter how important or [frivolous] it may be. Of course the end destination means a great deal, be it victory or defeat, but it’s always worthwhile to consider the tracks you follow along the way.”

[…]

From that point on, she’d stop to speak with the Warden whenever their schedules allowed for it. Though he was stationed prominently in the village’s Training Grounds, he still had duties to attend to in the Highlands; having met the Lady of the Cliffs, Cogita was quite surprised Sneasler was willing to share at all.

It was fascinating to speak with someone similarly displaced, though whether their differing [coping strategies] could be traced back to their respective points of origin, the method by which they found themselves in Hisui or Ingo’s amnesia, it was impossible to say for certain. Oftentimes, however, their conversations took root in the philosophical, rather than their commonalities.

Cogita could only imagine the two of them made quite the sight, suffering through the summer heat as they went back and forth, neither giving a second thought for the dark outer-layers making their situations that much worse. She’d had a parasol to offer her some semblance of shade as she considered the Warden’s hard line stance on what was and wasn’t acceptable training; eventually, he’d been forced to doff his cap and fan at his face with it, the coil of a braid tumbling down with the initial motion.

He’d never be swayed on the matter of battling-- the ideal held too dear in his heart-- but there was one victory Cogita was particularly proud of, silly though it may have been. It took weeks, but just prior to turn of the season, before the chill began to creep back into the air, she talked him out of that raggedy old coat.

The backbone of her argument had been a matter of function-- that, tattered and full of holes as it was, there was very little good it could do him against the elements. Ingo was resistant, citing that his Pearl uniform did the bulk of the work anyway, and that the feeling of the fabric weighing down over his shoulders was a comfort in an emotional sense. With time, Cogita had gotten him to, reluctantly, cede that it was doing more harm than good in most other aspects. If it could give him heatstroke in the summer, but not offer any meaningful warmth in the winter, if the destroyed sleeves and ribbons of fabric ran the risk of catching on stone or in the jaws of a wild Pokemon, didn’t that run antithetical to the emphasis he put on safety?

His ever-present frown had seemed especially severe that evening, as he took one of the shreds at the end of his sleeve between a thumb and finger

“I’m afraid I’m a hypocrite, then. Hazard or not, I can’t bear to see it decommissioned.” He’d said, and in that moment, Cogita knew she’d won.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever said anything about throwing it away.” She [idk] smoothly, “Adjustments can be made, holes patched and those fraying ends hemmed. It won’t be the same, but perhaps one day, when you’ve found yourself where you do belong, it will serve the same function it did here: a fond reminder of where you’ve been. Surely that’s more appealing than letting it fall to pieces?”

That had done it. He hadn’t backed down in that moment, but next she brought the matter up, he didn’t fight her on it. The look on Anthe’s face as Cogita had walked the pair of them to the Clothier would have been worth it in a vacuum, and it wasn’t even the [victory] she’d won. Ingo had let them talk through repair plans as he stood by, accepting the occasional triumphant look from Anthe with a silent grace; she’d been wheedling him over the state of his coat for months on end, and had half a dozen suggestions for every concern Cogita raised. The fact that she had, at one point after the odd friendship had developed, asked Cogita if she might be able to sway the stubborn Warden hadn’t factored into things, really-- Cogita had pursued the matter from a genuine desire to help. And, perhaps, the tiniest amount of wanting to pull one over on him once she’d realized their back-and-forth on competitive battling was a lost cause.

Ultimately, it was for Ingo’s own good, but that didn’t stop the poor thing from looking absolutely lost when he’d stepped foot back on Floaro Main Street devoid of both the coat and his cap, the dark kimono top in his hands an ironically cold comfort. Cogita sighed fondly and gave him a [?] pat on the cheek as she’d led him toward his own home.

---

It turned out wonderfully. Anthe’s frustration at not having been able to tackle it earlier had been countered by the amount of time it gave her to brainstorm. A sizable amount of fabric had to be excised, too frayed or otherwise damaged to be worth sewing into, and been replaced and restored to its former length. Taking advantage of the wide footprint and damage creeping up the back panel, Anthe had recreated the rough peaks of Mount Coronet, wreathed in snow and low-lying fog. The fading colors had been given new life, sunbleached browns and greys transformed into a dappled sunrise low behind the mountain, swiftly overtaken by a true, dark black.

On the inside, Anthe had created a second panel to capture and retain heat, then added a cache of pockets and pair of the tasseled cords the Security Corps favored, accommodating Ingo’s preferred [idk] of pokeballs: six catches in total, on which to hang them. At the collar, it fastened with a similar cord. When drawn closed, it would be perfect for the chill of Coronet, but wouldn’t kill the hapless Warden if he insisted on wearing it in the heat, so long as it stayed open.

The only true casualty were the sleeves, one split up to the bicep, and both so littered with the half-inch pinpricks of Sneasel claws that they’d ceased to be of any use at all. They’d been removed, and the holes they’d left behind sealed, leaving the garment’s weight to settle across the shoulders.

It was lovely. Practical regardless of the weather, easy to tear away in the event of an emergency and beautifully executed, all without sacrificing the comfort its original form offered. Perhaps the design sense was more indicative of the Diamond Clan than the Pearls, but this one had always stood out anyway, now hadn’t he?

Ingo spent several long minutes looking at it, circling the table it was laid out atop the same way he’d prowl around an active battle, all keen eyes and a churning mind. Finally, he stopped in front of it, one hand tentatively smoothing over the mountain-- and the distant plumed figure scaling its heights-- and looked first to Anthe, then Cogita, before settling on the seamstress.

“I can’t.” He rasped, “It’s beautiful, but my work would destroy it again.”

“And that is why you’re going to remove it before playing with any Sneasel kits.” Anthe [idk]. She quickly softened, however, “That aside, I daresay it’s Warden-proof, and if you manage to prove me wrong, then it gives me a chance to improve upon my craft. You’re certainly a master class in how to make repairs.”

Ingo looked away, cheeks dark. Anthe paid this no mind and caught him by the elbow, nodding to Cogita to gather the overcoat up as she steered them her shop’s mirror.

“Here, now. Let me know if the distribution of weight is off, won’t you?” She said, stepping back as Cogita handed it over.

Despite his misgivings, the tension visibly seeped from the angle of Ingo’s shoulders as he settled the coat and tied off its fastening. He shifted minutely, getting a feel for how it moved with him, and eventually reached up to the little gem of purple nestled in the tear over his heart. It was more vibrant than Gliscors tended toward, but matched the bracer on his opposite wrist perfectly, and as he considered its wide grin, something shifted in his own expression.

It was like striking a match in the darkness. All of the sudden, Cogita understood what Akari’s gesture had meant all that time ago; she’d been equating Cogita’s tight, false-looking smile to Ingo’s perpetual frown. Looking at him now, in the odd way he quirked his lips, she felt a pang for ever having assumed his expression was simply the product of a sour disposition.

“Thank you,” He eventually said, hand moving away from the bit of decoration to accept his hat-- its insulating layer back where it belonged and dyed to match the other half of his uniform, “This is so much more than I expected-- I can’t… What can I do to repay your kindness?”

Anthe’s smile turned from indulgent to slightly sharp as she turned on her heel and rustled around in a rack of clothes. She thrust something against his chest-- which unfolded into a long, cranberry peacoat with flowing black and white accents.

“A coat for a coat.” She said simply, “I want you to convince Irida to wear something reasonable out in the wastes. It can’t be healthy, the way she runs around up there.”

The subtle smile turned into a sympathetic grimace. “I’ll… do what I can. Lady Irida is rather set in her tracks.”

Anthe [idk] a heavy sigh, “And that’s all I can ask of you-- but if you’ve finally softened your stance, then there’s always hope that someday she might see some sense, too.”

“Ah. I didn’t exactly...” He turned slightly, looking at Cogita out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, I’m aware.” / “Perhaps Irida will take the advice better if it comes from one of her clansmen, but if that fails, I’m sure Mistress Cogita could wear her down just as well.”

“You give me too much credit.” Cogita said placidly, “This one let his [idk] cloud the truth, so it was simply a matter of letting logic win out. Lady Irida is already well suited to her home, so I’m uncertain I might fare any better.”

Sheepishly hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his cap, Ingo [idk], “Yes, well. I appreciate your commitment to setting me straight, Miss Cogita.”

She laughed and tilted the bill up.

“It was only sensible. I couldn’t have my favorite Warden injuring himself in an entirely avoidable accident, now could I? What would your family think once you’ve gotten back to your safety-loving homeland?”

And, though he ducked under his high collar at the endearment, Cogita had a baseline now. He could hide all he wanted, but she read in the creases along his eyes that, even if he wasn’t smiling, Ingo was happy.

She was glad for him.

---

“Ah, that explains a great deal, then. You’re part of a matched set.”

It was an inane thing to say. The two men in front of her-- despite the time and space put between them-- were entirely identical, their only differences the length of their hair and state of their coats. Certainly, nobody needed Cogita to point that out.

And, indeed, the rescue party looked rather put out. Not to say that her Warden’s mirror image seemed upset-- both halves of this particular whole were visibly elated-- but, unlike his brother, there was an underlying note of confusion to be read into Emmet’s expression. The last of the people visiting her retreat had no such camouflage. The tilt of her lips and narrowed eyes spoke volumes as she studied Cogita, and she could hardly blame her.

Cogita had endured her curse for generations; she’d had time to come to terms with meeting her descendants, one of whom this woman clearly was. To be entirely fair to Cynthia, it took some getting used to.

She wondered if, by Cynthia’s time, she’d finally been allowed to rest.

---

It was tradition for Cogita’s descendants to meet with her twice in their youths: presented once by their mothers, within the first few months of their lives, and a second time as they reached adventuring age, at which time they would seek her out on their own. Her daughters considered it good luck, and the practice helped ground Cogita in the present.

She would have a young face to put to a name, a generation to signify the passing of time, but rarely would she meet the girls again before they introduced their own daughters.

Cynthia was an exception.

The past several generations had mostly settled in Celestic Town, near what had once been Cogita’s retreat, making it easy for the girl to seek her out as she saw fit. It had been strange, almost difficult to adjust to at first-- though she knew how to interact with children on a limited basis, Cogita wasn’t in the habit of entertaining them regularly.

It was little worry, though. Cynthia’s heart held room for two loves: history and Pokemon, and she was easily sated with stories half-sanitized to maintain a young woman’s wonder. In time, her visits grew further apart as she took on responsibilities pertaining to her second passion, but they never stopped entirely.

Whenever a break stretched on, Cogita had to wonder if this was it, if the girl had finally found her way to Hisui and back, and what might she have to say on the matter?

On the opposite end of the spectrum lay her cousins. Their wayward Calla had taken up residence far, far away, and was unable to make the trip to Sinnoh for some time, between her own recovery and the sometimes-precarious health of her daughters. It was this distance that meant Cogita only met Irma and Emma once.

A great number of years later, Calla got in contact again, inquiring as to Cogita’s whereabouts so she might be able to meet her grandsons.

Cogita had spent several days puzzling over the conversation. Her line’s quirk had run strong since well before the Clans set foot in Hisui. For it to break now-- had something overridden it? There was Unovan folklore on the matter, wasn’t there? But no, that was about twins, which made sense; the odds of two sets in a row were phenomenally low.

Odd, now that she thought about it. There hadn’t been any whispers in the family about another member since Cecelia, so many years after her sister.

Eventually, she set the matter to the side, opting to wait and see before she speculated herself into orbit.

Several weeks after the fact, she opened her door to welcome not Calla and her mystery sons, but a pair of bright-eyed [idk] year olds-- hands joined together, her own enigmatic smile divided into a wondering frown and natural uptick of the lips.

Cogita didn’t need them to introduce themselves; she’d seen them take up the exact same [idk] lifetimes prior.

She’d have thought the memory would have dulled with the passing years, but beyond them she could see the phantasms of the Warden and his mirror image, hands clasped, expressions contrasting, but joyful nonetheless as they stood outside her tent.

If Cynthia had happened to run up at that moment, upset that her latest ‘expedition’ hadn’t borne fruit, Cogita might have believed that she’d simply had a premonition of the future all that time ago, had slipped through the ages to superimpose adults over the round, innocent features of youth.

Cogita was no stranger to tragedy, to watching loved ones move on where she couldn’t follow, but this was a new kind of hurt Arceus had bestowed upon her: to know that the boy so intent on waking her Clefable would share in her grief of being left behind, and that his brother doggedly trying to keep him in check would become so lost that he had little more than the ideals in his heart and a torn coat to cling to.

She’d circled around behind them, ushering them to the kitchen and retrieving a jar of tea leaves from a high shelf-- though whether she was hoping to sooth the twins’ nervous energy or herself, she couldn’t rightly say. Regardless, the traditional blend’s scent hung heavy in the air, making young minds suddenly aware of how drained their trek had left them and easing Cogita’s spirit as she assembled a late lunch.

Emmet hadn’t cared for the tea, but dutifully finished it with the addition of honey. Ingo had slowly warmed up to it over the course of the meal they shared.

(It had been a favorite of the Warden’s. As they’d faced each other opposite The Wallflower’s sun-worn tables, he would cradle his cup in both hands and allow the steam to waft up, eyes sharper for a heartbeat before the wind snatched the sense memory away.)