#the thick ones ( particularly on the snake ) are going to be a bitch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jjungkooksthighs · 5 months ago

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The longer that he keeps his fingers attached to her, the more desperate she becomes. Her voice lifts higher in pitch with her whines, and her hips have begun to move with a mind of their own as they lurch and lug up and away from him.

One particularly forceful push of his digits into her clit makes the feverish sparks igniting her core kindle even harsher a sensation, her hips bucking against his. The movement causes her mouth to be dislodged from his own, a string of saliva threading itself from his mouth to hers before breaking.

He watches it, and then the hand that he's got leashing her around her throat only closes tighter in punishment as those eyes harden like shards as he gives an order as cold as any winter night. "I wasn't asking when I said you're going to cum around my cock with that used cunt of yours, whore." His other hand grips at her hip, and without any warning, he forces her hips to still. Like this, he has a perfect view of those pretty eyes of hers that remind him of hazel. They are blown wide, a product of the pleasure that had taken her over. And as he chokes her lightly, all that defiance lighting those irises up before has been doused in favor of the haze of lust that clouds them. "You can handle it, and you will handle it. I have to make sure you do not forget what it is to be ravaged by me. To be used like a cock sleeve and be made to feel like nothing but a hole for me to fuck after how much of a little bitch you've been to your alpha."

He watches a myriad of expressions contort her lovely face, and he doesn't need to tap their bond to know why those brown brows of hers pull together as she whimpers at the feverish pace his digits rub her engorged button with.

With his knot fully stretching her from within and his hand grasping her with an iron-clad hold, she can't move anymore. With his other fingers curled around her neck, there is little she can do but cry out in the hopes that he will allow her mercy.

"You will not get mercy from me this night, you harlot." He melds his chest to her spine, the erectness and softness of his nipples skimming her skin as the pleasing feeling of lightness ebbs and flows from where he holds her by her neck. "You wonder what I could possibly be upset about, but I have already told you several times over. Did I fuck you so hard that you don't even remember, slut?"

Words are just as hard to come by as the air that strains to reach her head from how tight his clutches are. None of it hurts, for he knows just where to push and squeeze after having explored her body and learning of all that made her tick so many times before.

It's all she can do to beg.

He always liked it when she begged.

"P-please, alp-"

She's silenced when that traitorous tongue of his snakes along the edge of her jaw before it slides up her cheek. "That's not the answer I'm looking for. How pathetic that you only know how to beg like the whore you are." He drums his fingers against the sore, aching bud of her cunt, his warm breath treading along the trail of saliva he'd left on her face as he tells her, "I'm angry with you because you deceived me. You humiliated me. You rejected me." He seizes her mouth with his, his sight wandering to the lone female who stares at them through the window from behind a thick tree trunk in the distance, her lips parted and bitten.

His voice is there, in his beloved mate's mind, who he wishes could see how fucking much she's got him tied around her little wheat colored finger.

I won't stop until you've felt what you made me endure. And that bitch outside? She can watch as long as she wants. She'll never know the feeling of my fingers playing with her pussy. She'll never feel the big, thick cock that makes you fucking scream. She'll never get to have my tongue claim her body.

He leans into her, her back bending without her mind's input under the weight of him. With his knot still locking them both together, all she can do is bear it as he squeezes into the sides of her throat with one hand while he kneads the letters of his name into the bud of nerves crowning her cunt with his other as her fourth orgasm threatens to crash into her.

His eyes find hers again, the hold he has on her neck leaving her nowhere else to look. When they fall on hers and she sees him, really sees him, that's what sends her over the edge. His own pupils are dilated, the coldness dwelling in them capturing her in its icy cage.

"Show me you're sorry and come. Come all over my fingers and cock until your body can't take it anymore, whore."

Her vision swirls with the intensity of the orgasm that washes over her. A silent scream is all that she can let out with how all her energy is spent on trying to obey him, letting herself get lost in the pleasure for the fourth fucking time in a row. Her eyes roll to the back of her head from this, her eyelids heavy and drooping as she tries her best to hold herself up. She can't help but feel weak in his hold, his chest and upper torso towering over her own form easily. "S-sir..." she cries out now, air not reaching her lungs now, making her pant, her heart beating crazy fast. "N-no.. n-o more, sir-!" she begs, whining loudly from the overstimulation, her clit pulsing almost painfully now, a shiver running down her spine as if to try and overcome the sudden heaviness she feels in her limbs. She shakes her with what little strength she's got, her tiny hands balled up in fists as she hits the bed with no force, trying to overcome the pins and needles she feels throughout her body. "s-sir.. j-" she stutters. "K-kook!" she yelps when his hand strums at the sensitive bud again. "P--please!" her walls flutter around his knot faster as her previous orgasm aids in pushing her closer to the next one. Her eyes widen when she feels him lean down on her, pushing her into the mattress in the process. "F-fuck!" she curses, crying out loud now. She couldn't possibly take anymore! "K-kook!" she cries out again, begging. "Please!" tears run down her face, a few falling to the cushion below her, staining the fabric a darker shade. Her hips jerk away from his hand yet again, adrenaline rushing through her, fueling her with some more energy, strength returning to her arms. She tries pulling away a bit, but it's useless with the way his knot has her tightly bound to him. She cries out in frustration, begging him for an alternative now, her voice a whisper for she's far too weak to muster up any strength or courage to speak louder. "I- i c-can't!" she shakes her head again, a yelp leaving her when she feels the coil in her abdomen get tighter, her legs trying desperately to close shut. "I-i'm s-sorry, sir! P-please!" she continues, her pitch getting higher by the minute, desperate for mercy. "I- i w-won't ever forget t-this lesson, sir! N-never!! N-never! ever! please! please, i'll be good! I won't be a brat!"

Five times you have taken advantage of my love for you." The solid plane of his chest covers her back as he presses himself down onto her, his hips forcing hers forward until she's on her knees beneath him once more. "Four times I have made you fall apart for me.” His fingers depress themselves even deeper against the fragile flesh of her throat as he takes her earlobe between his teeth, "The next time you come, omega, will be your last.”

The female beneath him trembles at that last word.

It has a cocksure grin lifting the muscles around his lips.

He laughs, the sound dripping with derision. “Of course, that’s assuming you do not pass out on me. If you do, I will just have to continue your punishment until you can take it.” The way that that dark, sharp laughter draws itself out and etches itself everywhere that their bodies meet makes familiar desire ink itself into her very veins. There’s a challenge in what he says, for he knows his little hellion too well. Dangling a threat before her was too easy when he had his knot inside her and she had nowhere to go.

Despite the fact that she can’t even hold herself up anymore, she unthinkingly devours his bait.

She turns her head so she can peek up at him from a fan of dark lashes and those hazel eyes tell him everything that her mouth will not. Her lids droop from the exertion of their…activities. Even the way she lethargically blinks, as if doing so is a trying task, cannot cover for how her irises have swelled to the point that the whites of her eyes are hardly even there anymore. Her mouth remains ajar just the slightest bit, the sliver of saliva oozing from one side dampening the cushion beneath her in a dark stain. Her arms have gone limp, her fingers failing now to even clutch at the soft material under her.

It makes him harden inside her.

“Did I fuck you too hard, whore?” He croons sarcastically, his fingers running over her sizably engorged clit as he stiffens between her walls, “You certainly fucked me over one too many times with your misbehavior. It’s only right I return the favor and put you in your fucking place, slut.” He groans as her walls start to flutter around him, his digits expertly roving and roaming all over the bundle of nerves crowning her cunt even as she whimpers pathetically under him. That has him groaning, his cock rubbing against her as he shifts his hips and she’s helplessly split open even more on his knot.

“That’s it, my love… take it,” he husks. “You love this, don’t you, you little whore? Being my favorite fucking cock sleeve must be nice, isn’t it? Because I only want to fuck you.” He observes the way she quivers, her breaths shallow and sporadic while her heart pounds in her chest as he makes it race. “Even when you’re acting like a bitch, all I can think about is sinking my cock into any of your holes and having my way with you until that attitude is pounded out of you.”

Her response is but a note of a sound. The tremors wracking her body shake her with even more ferocity in the spike of her heartbeat.

More. There was more he could do. More he wanted to see. And the female who still watches them from afar? She could watch. His mate was putting on quite the show, and he’d learned that females were skilled in the art of gossip and rhetoric when it suited them. This one that clings to the tree outside their den would be no different.

No doubt she’d scurry back to her little friends and let loose her lips to spill what she’d witnessed.

And he wants this creature beneath him to be completely exposed. Not only figuratively, but physically as well. Like that, he can do to her what he knows will send her over the edge this last time.

The hand he’d been using as a collar around her neck releases her as he flips them over, his back now resting on the cushion while her own limp body sits atop him. The world turns for her, but she doesn’t even register it. The second that she takes that first deep breath of air, his fingers are there, dragging themselves down her spine. It’s excruciatingly slow, but as his digits continue to descend, the ones he has attached to her sex speed their ministrations.

She doesn’t even know shes biting down until he’s murmuring, “Go on and grit your teeth, whore. It won’t stop me from taming you.” The long digits he’s been trailing down her back fall between the cleft of her ass, and then she sucks in a breath, her head beginning to spin from his antics and the rush of oxygen.

The view he’s got right now is one straight out of his daydreams, and gods, he surely was blessed to have this specimen on top of him all to himself.

He makes a low-pitched sound akin to a growl, and the vibrations that start near his throat go all the way down his cock and straight up her cunt before directly shooting up her spine the moment that those devious fingers of his push against the puckered skin of her asshole. The fingers he’s got latched to the other side of her hasten to an ungodly pace as the friction from them has her eyes rolling back into her skull.

Despite the pulsating, tingling sensation that has begin to sear into her pussy, she moans.

He licks his lips, wishing he could devour that delicious sound.

“Tell me you love me. And then you'll admit to me why you’ve been such a bad girl for me these past few months.” He teases her other hole, his fingers pushing against it yet never breaching as he urges, “Do that, and your punishment will be over. Do that, and I shall take my knot out of you and let you go to our bed where you will stay from how weak and tired this body of yours will be after all I have done to you.”

#alpha jungkook asks

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narrators-journal · 1 year ago

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Sexual healing

I hope this has enough spanking in it, I’m never too sure how to make spanking HOT enough lol. I at least had a fun time writing it? I know it’s not particularly LOVING, but tbh I always got the vibe from Machi that she was a lesbian, so I mayyyy have made a colder bitch than Illumi lmao. Other than that, just another Ao3 ask!

Kinktober prompt list: Here

Kinktober Masterlist: Here

CW: Spanking, Hisoka gets pegged, handcuffs are included. I may not have focused on the prompt, but it is spicy regardless!

Feitan and Uvogin? Healed. Dinner? Had. The members of the phantom troupe? Accounted for, and in one piece. All around, Machi Komacine considered her night free to herself. After all, her usual thorns in the side were either drunkenly passed out, or dealt with after that day’s mission. Plus! Hisoka Morrow, the painted, colorful bastard, wasn’t included in this job! She was free of him and his mind games.

So, taking down her light pink hair from its usual fluffy ponytail, Machi slipped into her sleeping bag, letting out a content sigh when the blissful comfort of a mattress seemed to turn her bones into jelly. After so long af sleeping in abandoned buildings or stolen cars, the healer didn’t care about the creaky, cheap mattress. It was a mattress.

Yet, an early bedtime wasn’t in the cards. Judging from the sickly familiar pattern of knocks at her door. Grimacing, the healer rolled over so that her back was to the door. Firmly ignoring it, only for the bastard to sing, “Macha~ Be a dear and let me in~”

So, with a mix of a sigh and a groan, Machi unzipped her sleeping bag and basically threw herself from the cheap hotel bed to stomp over and rip the door nearly off the hinges. “What the fuck do you want, Morrow? Why are you even here?” She spat, sapphire eyes narrowing darkly as she glared into those snake-yellow, smug eyes staring down at her. “I missed you! So, I came to find you.” Was the sappy response Hisoka gave, batting his lashes at her, jesus christ she’d kill for lashes that thick, and playing sweet. But, the sugar made Machi’s stomach churn. “Fuck off.” she spat again, trying to slam the door in the clown’s face. However, he was quicker, and got his foot in the door before she could entirely shut him out. ”Oh come on, Machi! Let me in, I’ll make my visit quick.” He promised, unbothered by the woman throwing her weight into the door to try and force his foot out of the way. Until, finally, she gave another groan and just caved, going back to the bed to pack up her sleeping bag. And, when she turned around, sure enough, the tall psychopath had followed her in.

The silence of his movements brought a shudder, but the healer bottled it up, knowing that any sign of how much Hisoka scared her would draw out whatever game he wanted to play, or demand he had for her. So, she turned her attention to tying her long hair back into its usual style. “Alright. What do you need sewn up.” She said coolly, ignoring how close he was to trapping her between the bed and his well-muscled body as she walked over to her duffle bag to dig out the pin cushion she kept her needles in. Making a conscious choice to crouch down instead of bend when she did. “Nothing,” He hummed, his syrupy tone dropped in favor of a more bored one. A glance over her shoulder revealing that the clown had gone from flirtatious, to more casual. Which, only meant one thing. “God damn it, Hisoka. Don’t you have a boytoy or something?! Some poor bitch you’ve baby trapped?” She snapped, standing up to glare at him again, her hands on her hips like an annoyed mother. Yet, her harsh tone didn’t seem to phase the pink-haired man, barely getting him to lift his yellow eyes from some mystery stain on his outfit. “No, everyone else is so boring. And Illumi said that if I try to bargain for sex a second time, he’d put a needle in my urethra.” He sighed, pouting at her like he wanted her sympathy for that.

Which, Machi did show. After all, while the phantom troupe were a ballsy pack of villains, even they were scared of crossing the Zoldyck family. And, personally, Illumi Zoldyck was Machi’s personal nightmare. With bottomless, soulless pits for eyes, suffocating nen that he used for a terrifying ability, and such a clinical, almost robotic personality, Machi would sooner face the devil than that man.

Though, on some level, maybe the devil was a far more likely encounter than people normally had. After all, he currently sat on her bed, giving her puppy dog eyes.

So, with a long sigh, Machi pinched the bridge of her nose, gritting her teeth in pure annoyance. “Fine. But I’m gagging you.” She told the tall man, getting a thousand watt smile that would’ve been charming if it was from anyone else. But, that aside, the healer simply turned back to her dufflebag to fish out some handcuffs, ball gag, and a vibrantly purple strap on that she kept for a more desirable partner.

By the time she turned back to Hisoka, he was already naked. His vest and pants were torn off as if he was some bachelorette stripper rather than a murderous psycho, but she didn’t bother questioning his speed or skill with stripping down. “Get on the bed. Face down, and put your hands out like usual.” she ordered, watching the scarred man eagerly climb onto the cheap, creaky bed, his ass already in the air. Machi coming over to cuff his wrists together once he was in position. “Open.” she added, a little perturbed by how readily Hisoka opened his mouth to let her put the thick rubber ball in his mouth and secure it around his head. Or, maybe it was the glitter of lust sparkling in his yellow eyes, either way, she didn’t know how to feel.

Regardless of that, though, she just went about the usual steps of their ‘hook ups’, as Hisoka called these meetings. Strolling down to the foot of the bed to kick off her sleep shorts and pull on the base of her sex toy, ensuring the silicone dildo was secure before moving to stand behind him, staring down at the round rump eagerly awaiting whatever she was going to do.

It wasn’t a surprise that Hisoka was so horny for whatever sex he could get, but it still somewhat annoyed the healer that he was so okay with being pegged, and, even after her setting such a firm rule on that being her only form of sexual contact with him, him asking for it.

"You really need to find someone else to 'scratch your itch'." Machi huffed, slapping the homicidal clown's ass, knowing well enough that he couldn't answer through the gag she'd tied in his mouth. "Like a prostitute."

Despite her complaints, though, the woman gave another slap to Hisoka's ass. At least enjoying the chance to cause the annoying bastard some pain for all of the healing he demands of her, and his general flirty pestering. If he got some sense of pleasure out of her strikes, that was up to him, but for her, the sight of the powerful man on his belly, handcuffed to the bed posts with a ball gag keeping him silent was more cathartic than arousing. But, if it kept him from dragging himself to her for free healing, she was willing to tolerate his sexual appetite.

So, she grabbed the bottle of lube and stroked a thin layer of it onto the pink silicone strap on she wore. Then, she simply lined herself up and pushed into Hisoka, thanking whatever god there was that he had been gagged when he let out a pornographic moan.

But, she ignored his theatrics and simply grabbed onto his hips when he pushed back against her and began moving. Tuning out each lustful noise and letting the pink-haired man push his ass back to meet her thrusts eagerly, only focusing on humping into him and pacing herself. After all, the last time she’d rushed one of their ‘hook up’, Hisoka had whined and purposely increased her work load to spite her. So, she made sure her thrusts alternated between slow, deep movements, and quicker ones.

Plunging the pink toy into Hisoka, clawing into his scarred skin, and sprinkling in a few harsh slaps to the meat of his ass, Machi still found no pleasure in her companion, but she did feel a small seed of pride and power sprout in her chest. After all, while Hisoka Morrow was far too annoying and deranged for her to consider dating him, he was still insanely powerful. He almost never stopped training and pushing himself, which the pink-haired woman would’ve respected far more if he wasn’t so...indescriminate with that drive. So, while she did hold a bit of respect for his fighting abilities, and maybe a little for his sadistic joy, there were simply too many factors for the woman to get more than an ego boost out of the sexual aspect of their meetings.

Finally pulling herself out of that rabbit hole, Machi let out a slow breath and focused back in on the man she had tied down on the hotel bed. Noting his dishevelled pink hair, sweat-beaded skin, and muffled, needy moans as she lifted her hand and landed another severe blow to his, surely sore by that point, ass again, getting a more emphatic moan in response. Which, she took as a good sign and switched to a faster pace. The mulling over of Hisoka’s ambiguous, confusing signals could be pushed off for the time being. For now, she focused on the joy she got out of leaving an angry patch of red on the scarred man’s ass as she fucked him.

#Hunter x hunter #Hisoka x Machi #hxh #kinktober #Kinktober 2023 #Hisoka Morrow #Machi #prompt #Ao3 ask #spicy #lemon #not sfw

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revenant-ao3 · 8 months ago

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The Hounds of Fate - Ch 7

Read on Ao3: here

Shoto sits in that empty room with only the soft buzz of the overhead light to occupy him. Time slips by, syrup-thick, and it’s always there; a faint hum that fills the void with white noise.

The light never goes out.

One hour or ten, it doesn’t matter. His captor sees fit to leave him drowning in fluorescents. It makes estimating how long he’s been here especially difficult. His circadian rhythm is going to be irreparably fucked after this, he just knows it. (Not that he had much of one to begin with. Thank you, undiagnosed trauma response.)

He wonders if it’s supposed to be a subtle form of psychological torture. Drive away his sense of time and ease of sleep, make him pliable in his captivity. Ridiculous and a waste of electricity – not that he’s particularly inclined to care about their expenditures. If they want to rack up an even higher bill on something ineffective, all the better. He hopes they look at the bill and weep.

Isolation is nothing new to him. Growing up, it had been a regular state of affairs, hardly a punishment. On top of that, he’s grown accustomed to finding sleep in the most unlikely of places at the drop of a hat. They’ll be quite disappointed, he thinks, to find these methods ineffective against him. He can almost certainly handle being alone here longer than Murmur can handle leaving him be. That man is far too chatty and interested in him to stay away. Unfortunately.

Though, he muses darkly, that also means Murmur won’t be tormenting anyone else.

Better him than one of the other captives here. He can handle that bastard, loathe as he is to take that burden. That doesn’t mean he has to be pleased, however. And he’ll be sure to let his opinion be known. He’ll just have to keep his temper in check, that’s all. A tall order he’s going to pretend is just as simple as coping with solitary confinement.

Wouldn’t want to get too violent, now would we?

He frowns at the waspish voice, a little too rough in tone to be his usual inner dialogue.

I’m not that violent, he reassures himself.

That reassurance feels fake, consolatory. He thinks of the wide eyes of Laelaps and that woman staring at him in dismay. Fear. A fear so genuine it begs for mercy, a plea for their lives. Of flesh rent from a body and a piercing scream. Shoto feels no rush of power from their submission, no joy or pleasure from inciting terror. That has to count for something, right? He doesn’t harm them because he wants to or because it tickles some perverse part of him. It was a necessity; always a necessity. The ends justified the means, at least he thinks so.

Isn’t that what they all say?

He’s only slightly familiar with the paperwork a hero has to fill out after an arrest that requires any measure of excessive force. His father has bitched one too many times about filing another misconduct report for Shoto to ignore them all. They’ve always found it in Endeavor’s favor – in every pro’s favor because a pro’s word is writ. It was necessary. For the greater good. I regret having to use such measures, but—

He’s heard it all before, from Endeavor and other pros alike.

I’m no better than they are.

It’s a sickening, gut-churning thought. He’s run and run so fucking far, trying to escape the snares and snakes waiting for him, only to find himself back at the start. Shoto stares at his right hand, expression vacant and chest aching. He’s poisoning his mother’s quirk, using it in the exact same unapologetically violent way Endeavor uses his.

Damn it. Damn it.

His thumb aches all over again as he clenches his fist in frustration. He wanted to do better, be better. Wanted to become someone his mother wouldn’t hate or see as a monster, but here he is, playing the part of the beast in her shadow all too well. At least she can’t see me now. She’d hate me even more.

He huffs at the thought.

Small fortunes, and all that, he supposes.

(Regret is a slow and bitter poison, he learns.)

---

Time passes funny when there’s no way to track it.

It’s been long enough that the pulse in his hand has dulled to barely noticeable and he's counted the speckles in the ceiling tiles twice over, give or take some miscounts.

He thumps his head against the wall and stares at the door. It seems to taunt him. He knows he can’t sit and bemoan his rancid nature or wonder about Dabi’s unnerving stare. Oh, certainly cannot twiddle his thumbs, counting the seconds until some pro comes to his aid. If they haven’t found this operation already, they likely won’t now. It’s too well-rooted to be new.

But Eraserhead, a voice pipes up in the back of his mind, Eraserhead must be looking. I know he’s looking. He wouldn’t let this go.

Shoto grimaces, trying desperately to muzzle that little voice. Hope, above drugs and hostages and manipulation quirks, is his most dangerous enemy. Because if he lets himself hope, lets himself fall into the role of a child waiting for a hero again only to be let down, he doesn’t know if his spirit will recover. It's hard to dim that spark and ignore his gut that wants to point out and scream, Eraserhead is different. He cares. He's good. Every interaction he's had with the hero so far only highlights that point but Shoto wants desperately to wash it away. Like a dog hit one too many times, he's grown wary of authority figures and hands extended like they want to help. They never do. They never do.

I need to focus. These people need me. Ignore everything else.

That, at least, is a decent motivator. Thinking of that dead-eyed woman and the unknown amount just like her being kept like animals in these halls ignites a spark in his hollow chest. He can do this. If he’s a monster – and he’s unfortunately certain he is – then he can turn his monstrous gaze on those responsible. Let him capitalize on his rage and power to save these people.

And that brings up a curiosity.

They didn’t bother to cuff him again. In all the time that’s since passed, no one has come to restrain him. Perhaps they realized it’s useless to try. It makes him wonder just how many cuffs he managed to break while being transported because he’s almost certain that there was at least one. Four sets of stun cuffs at the minimum can’t be cheap to replace. It also must be pretty embarrassing to have a teenager fresh out of their pre-teens breaking out of your shackles and prison so easily. Best not give another chance to be shamed, he supposes.

Or, maybe Murmur is just being obnoxiously smug, waving freedom in his face while knowing Shoto has his hands metaphorically tied.

His brows slant as he glares at the door.

Asshole.

Like he's executing the world's worst party trick, the door swings open just as that thought crosses his mind and reveals Murmur. Per usual, the man is smiling all tranquil and friendly; a true poster child of Boy Scout benevolence. It wouldn’t shock Shoto if being called an ‘asshole’ actually summoned the man like he's some sort of shitty demon. It feels fitting for this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

The teen quickly stands and shifts into a defensive stance. There’s no weapon visible on Murmur and no aggression in the way he moves as he steps into the room, but that doesn’t relax Shoto’s tense posture. Nothing good can come from his presence.

He’s caught between the desire to glare a hole through the man (not yet successful, but further attempts may prove fruitful), or staring at the wall behind him like he doesn’t exist to irritate Murmur in a mild, non-inconvenient way. That’s when he notices two figures hovering just behind his captor. They frame the doorway, nearly out of sight but still visible enough to stare at Shoto. Clearly security of some form. And creepy security at that.

The quiet duo wears matching masks, one black and the other white, finely decorated and shaped to resemble kitsune. Now, Shoto isn’t exactly the religious sort, far from it, in fact. Even still, he’s well-read enough to recognize homages to Amaterasu and Tsukuyomi. If those kami exist, he sincerely doubts they’d be pleased two thugs are dishonoring their images. And what kitschy designs, too.

He doesn’t have time to wonder if their quirks relate to their chosen patrons because Murmur shifts into his direct line of sight. It’s as if the unremarkable nature of the man drives him to seek attention, discontent with being ignored or overlooked, especially by those he seeks out so hungrily.

That warring desire to be petulant rises in him again. To be, or not to be, that is the question. (His old tutor would be irate to learn he’s weaponizing Shakespeare to aggravate his captor.)

It’s only the thought of the other captives that keeps him from exercising the full extent of his bratty nature. No matter how deeply the desire burns in him, he can’t let them get hurt for his own petty whims. I’m not that monstrous.

Not yet, a different voice echoes back, too amused sounding to be anything less than malicious. Shoto makes a mental note to punch Dabi the next time they cross paths, because he's certain they will. The scarred man was pretty clear on that front.

He barely withholds a grimace, eyes narrowing into a glare as he watches Murmur approach. The door clicks shut behind him, separating him from his watchful guardians.

They’re alone now.

The way the man’s smile widens and how he wrings his hands in anticipation sets off Shoto’s nerves. There’s no telling what this bastard’s intentions are, especially with that odd look in his empty eyes. His defensive posture strengthens.

There must be a threat on Shoto’s face or in the sharp angle of his body because Murmur pauses his approach, hands raised placatingly. The pacifying gesture does nothing to soften the malice that radiates from him.

“Before you get any clever ideas, I’d like to warn you that I have someone monitoring us. It’d be unwise to attack,” he says pleasantly.

Shoto’s gaze narrows, honing in on the way the man’s jaw ticks around that smile. Discomfort? Uncertainty? Whatever it is, he’s wary of the danger Shoto poses, even in this position of uneven power.

Good. He should be terrified.

And he can’t attribute that biting comment to that new, venomous voice that’s taken residence in his head. No, that rancor is all his own. This time, he doesn’t mind it.

While there’s nothing more tempting at this moment than to freeze Murmur into a glacier so large, that global temperatures would drop, he knows better. It’s not his life on the line. He can feel frost creep up his fingers as he pushes back the biting, keening urge to attack. If getting out was as simple as taking down this one man, he’d have no hesitation in breaking the bastard into pieces.

Unfortunately, life is never that simple.

There are too many unknowns to account for. Who is monitoring the situation? How quickly would they react? Is another victim being held up as collateral? If Shoto can coax out some of that information, then he can make a more informed decision on what to do next.

That makes it slightly easier to will away the ice from his fingertips.

Murmur notices, grin sharpening as he steps closer. When he reaches into his coat, Shoto tenses all over again. That tension turns into confusion as Murmur pulls out a slender tablet and presents it to Shoto.

“Here you go.”

Shoto stares at the offered item like it might suddenly grow teeth and snap at him. Then, he glances up at the man, brows pinched in confusion.

“What is this?” he asks suspiciously.

Murmur sighs, but he sounds amused by Shoto’s distrust.

“Proof of my word,” he says. Then, he taps the screen to life.

Rather than take the tablet, Shoto tilts his head to get a better look. On it is a crisp live feed of another cell identical to the one Shoto’s in. Sitting on the floor, curled in a ball, is the woman Murmur had been threatening. It’s hard to tell from her position, but she seems no worse than the last time Shoto saw her. At the very least, he can see no wounds or blood on her clothes.

How terrible it is that this meager display of subhuman treatment is nearly enough to make him sigh in relief. The woman is alive, in one piece, and still in this facility.

If this footage is genuine.

He can’t be entirely sure of the validity of what he’s seeing, if it’s pre-recorded or actually live, but even the chance that she’s okay makes him certain he’d done the right thing.

“Perfectly unharmed, just as I said.”

And Murmur breaks his moment of peace by speaking. Naturally.

Shoto stares at the husk of a woman for a few breaths longer before dragging his gaze up to his captor. Murmur is far too pleased with himself for having done the bare minimum required to be only slightly better than actual roadkill.

His captor tucks the tablet away again, eyes only briefly leaving Shoto before darting right back.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks, sickly sweet.

What the hell is with him?

This can’t be normal, all this appeasement and reassurance. It’s doubtful he’s gone to such lengths for his other captives. Just seeing the state of that woman and her apparent disposability is enough to make that obvious. If he really wanted to, he could have drugged Shoto while he was unconscious. That’d solve this entire run-around before it even got to this point. But he didn’t. No, instead he’s trying to build some sort of rapport here, as stupid as that is.

Shoto brushes right past his question with no intent on answering. It’ll be a cold day in hell when he believes or trusts anything this jackass says. Instead, he narrows his eyes and lets his features fall into that stoic mask he’s perfected over the years.

“This is a lot of effort for one person. What do you want with me?” he asks, voice cold and demanding.

Murmur blinks at him, face momentarily blank with surprise. Then, his smile reappears, wider now and verging on manic. It makes Shoto want to step further away from him but he’ll be damned if he lets this guy know he’s unsettled.

When Murmur talks, his voice rings high with amusement. His words come out in a huff, like he can hardly believe he has to say them.

“I’d think it’s obvious. I want everything.”

He waves a hand vaguely in Shoto’s direction, as if that can somehow explain that incredibly vague declaration.

Everything?

A cold stone drops in his gut.

He has to re-evaluate the lengths he’ll go to pacify this bastard and protect these people, he fears. But even edging near that thought sends his heart skyrocketing. Threats of pain and torture are hardly terrifying to Shoto. He’s quite familiar with the many layers of agony, but this...this undefined everything conjures prospects that his young mind hadn’t thought of since being targeted.

Pride be damned, he shifts further away from the man and raises a defensive hand coated in spiking ice.

“What do you mean?”

His voice is far steadier than the rabbiting heart in his chest. He manages an air of disgust and rage when what feels is really fear. For once, he hopes that spark of anger finds him again because he doesn’t like this helpless feeling. He’d rather be consumed by the flames of hate than drown in fear.

Murmur’s face slackens for a moment before something in him cracks and he laughs. He laughs like Shoto said something extraordinarily comedic. His face is buried in his hands before he peeks between his fingers, eyes wide in such a manner that is makes Shoto’s skin crawl. For the first time, he sees a hint of the true madness driving this man.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he asks breathlessly from behind his fingers.

When he drops his hands and lifts his head, he is all sorts of ruffled. Shoto gives a sharp shake of his head, having absolutely no clue what tangent this man is on now.

Murmur’s smile is almost hysterical now as he continues, “How wonderfully perfect you are.”

Shoto’s unaffected mask cracks just a bit as he curls his lips in distaste.

“I’m not perfect.”

He spits it out and wishes it could strike the man like a punch.

The masterpiece, the prized one, the favored child, Endeavor’s crowning piece and magnum opus, nonpareil, perfect. He fucking despises those sentiments because it humanizes what it took to make him this way, softens his jagged, broken edges like they’re non-existent. Or, worse, like he is only his surface – his quirk, his strength, his name. He’s not perfect. He’s angry and tired and bitter and so fucking fucked that he can’t tell the difference between pain and safety, comfort and danger.

Murmur waves away his rage like it’s a gnat. Some of that frenzied energy has drained out of his captor and he looks closer to the composed man he likes to portray, but there’s still a malignant gleam in his eyes.

“I’m not speaking of your personality or other such arbitrary things. I mean physically, genetically,” he says as he glances over Shoto once more.

Warning spikes sprout from Shoto’s right side like a porcupine and his left side smokes lightly. That only serves to ramp up that instability fueling Murmur. He sighs, awed and starry-eyed.

“You are a marvel of nature.”

It sounds affectionate and far too kindly coming from this bastard. Yet at the same time, he sounds as if he’s speaking about a thing. There is nothing in his tone or his face that hints at understanding Shoto is a living, breathing person.

And Shoto cannot for the life of him understand what the hell he’s talking about. Sure, his quirk is strong and pretty rare, but to go so far as to call him a marvel of nature? That’s way more than a stretch. There are people out there with quirks that alter their entire body into something almost inhuman. Even the Iida family with their mild heteromorphic traits are more unique than him. For all intents and purposes, he’s a normal human with an abnormally strong quirk.

“Objectively speaking, I’m not that different from other people,” he says, voice pointedly disinterested. He doubts it will convince the man whatever fanatical ideas he has are wrong, but it’s worth a shot.

As he suspected, Murmur just seems to clench his jaw, almost angry that Shoto is denying this.

“Wrong. So, so wrong.”

He steps closer, crowding Shoto back to the wall. The spines of ice are the only thing that keeps the distance between the two. Shoto’s eyes widen and he bares his teeth like it’ll keep the man away. It doesn’t stop Murmur from gripping his chin and tilting his head left and right, inspecting him with fervent eyes.

“Chimerism is already rare among people, yet you have that and quirk chimerism. It presents itself so pleasingly and powerfully, too,” he says softly as he looks over his split features, eyes darting from smoke to ice, blue to gray. “That is a statistical improbability so unlikely, I’d sooner turn dust to diamonds than replicate you.”

That… Shoto didn’t know that. There’s no way that’s true.

And yet, Murmur is staring at him like he’s something divine.

Mollified after his impromptu inspection, Murmur takes a step back and smiles sedately once more, like nothing more innocuous than small talk just occurred. His ability to snap back to this false state of composure is unsettling, like an actor switches masks.

Shoto barely has the presence of mind to subdue the shaking in his hands. Fear coats his tongue. He doesn’t want to look at Murmur, doesn’t want to see the rapacity in his stare or the dehumanizing way he appraises Shoto.

“There are people who’d pay a genuine fortune for you,” Murmur states, voice pleasantly neutral again.

Shoto’s gaze finally flicks over to catch his. He tries to force all his fear down and all his hate up so it can leak out of his glare.

“I’m not for sale,” he says through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

If he comes at me again…He can’t guarantee he won’t get violent. Shoto hopes and prays that doesn’t happen because he doesn’t want someone else to suffer because of him, but… But he can’t take those greedy hands on him. It disgusts him, makes him angry and rabid, and most of all, it makes him afraid.

He’s no good to these people broken or sold, he reassures himself. He’ll have to defend himself because otherwise no one will be able to help them. It’s logical, rational.

Fuck, he hopes it doesn’t come down to him or them, because he’s scared of what he’ll pick.

Either his blank expression is still holding strong or Murmur is entirely uncaring of his distress – either is viable – because the man just gives him a pleased look.

“Quite right. You’re not.”

And that gives Shoto pause. He isn’t sure if he feels more or less frightened at the assurance. Because isn’t that why he was kidnapped to begin with?

Murmur begins to pace, hands dancing across the air as he speaks.

“I’ve pondered over you in the past days. You’d make me a lot of money. In fact, several interested parties have already placed astonishing offers. But, well, I may be a bit greedy,” he says and pauses his steps to shoot Shoto a wry, hollow grin.

Shoto’s known logically that there are vile people in this world, the kind who buy and sell others like property. There’s unfortunate proof of that in his lineage. And he’s known that the situation he’s in means he’s going to be dealing with said people. Even still, the difference between knowing this academically and having to experience it firsthand, that people are trying to buy him – a teenager – is bone-chilling.

Horror tightens around his throat like an invisible noose and robs him of his voice as he processes it all.

“Seeing the strength you have, and so young too, made me realize what an opportunity I nearly passed over,” Murmur continues with that unnerving vacant smile, “I could loan you out. For an appropriate fee and a signed waiver you’ll return unharmed, of course. With time, I’d make several times the amount I’d get from a sale.”

There are veritable yen signs flashing in Murmur’s eyes as he imagines his future wealth wrought by exploiting Shoto.

And it finally clicks into place.

His cursed fate isn’t to be chased down and forced into heroics. No, that’s the palatable option. His fate, one determined since before conception and written into the tapestry of the universe is that of a tool, an object, a means to an end. To be used to fulfill other’s selfish desires regardless of his wants.

Maybe this is recompense for the hell he caused his mother or the fissure he drove into his family – this mockery of her fate. (Does he deserve this? Like the scar on his face? No, no, he doesn’t believe that. Can’t believe it.)

That realization finally, finally, brings a spark to life in Shoto’s chest. A trickle of righteous indignation bubbles up into a wellspring to flood over his fears and drown them out.

How dare he?

He ran from home to escape the fate of a weapon and he damn well refuses to let this jackass pick up where Endeavor left off.

Shoto slaps away the hand that reaches out for him again like he’s an animal at a petting zoo. The flash in Murmur’s eyes is a warning of impending danger but rage licks at his heart, too hot to care. That small part of him crying out to be rational is drowned out by his rampant emotions. Always the hothead, this mercurial boy. He'd been told quite often that his temper and his mouth would get him into trouble one day. Wouldn't those people love to see him now?

“I won’t—” he starts out, voice biting and frigid, only to get cut off by his visibly irritated captor.

“There is no end to that sentence that matters. What you will and won’t do is not up to you,” Murmur states just as coldly. Whatever delusion he’d been frolicking in has faded away with Shoto’s sharp rebuttal. There is no pretense of pleasantry as he stares at Shoto.

That only fires up Shoto further. He’s prepared to spit out another retort, something no doubt scathing and potentially idiotic – (be calm, be polite, be rational.) – when Murmur barrels on.

“I’m being polite because I’d prefer not to break your mind. It would be an unfortunate waste, but I will if I have to,” he says with a glare, staring down his nose at Shoto like he’s an unruly child on the verge of punishment.

Shoto scoffs, but a thread of unease tangles its way into the blaze of his anger. Breaking his mind sounds especially unpleasant and very real.

What if that woman hadn’t been drugged? What if it was Murmur's doing?

He supposes that can account for Murmur’s desire to play at friends. Shoto would be a lot less useful if he’s borderline catatonic. Though, it certainly sounds like the man would still find uses for him. A shiver races down his spine at the notion.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. I will never be your tool,” he says venomously, nearly on reflex despite the threat lingering between them.

Murmur raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Please, your rebelliousness has its charm but don’t think so highly of yourself,” he says with a huff.

The hand Shoto slapped waves in his direction, almost dismissive. Then, the beginning of an antagonizing smile curls Murmur’s lips. It brings back that well-known desire to punch the man. Just one punch, please. That’s all I’m asking for. (Fortunately, Shoto’s sliver of self-control holds strong and he resists the siren call.)

“All I have to do is put a gun to someone’s head and you’ll be crawling your way back to your kennel like a good boy,” Murmur finishes, smile widened to its fullest extent.

That fragile hold he has on his self-control wavers dangerously.

It incenses Shoto, this smugness, and the utter insult Murmur throws at him, mostly because it’s true. Shoto’s so mad at his captor and this situation, but he’s mostly mad at himself for being so goddamn predictable.

Murmur revels in his unspoken victory over Shoto by deftly slipping back into his sycophantic role. When remorse takes shape on his face, Shoto feels violence in his veins.

“I don’t wish to be mean, but you must understand your place. We can avoid this unpleasantness if you simply accept your role here,” Murmur says softly, saccharine and synthetic in its inflection.

The quirk worms its way into his mind, twisting his thoughts into agreement. If Shoto wasn't already aware that the man would use his quirk on him, it'd become blatantly apparant in the way Shoto nearly nods along. It takes more effort than it should to keep himself still and to drown out that invasive thought.

Shoto’s fingers twitch as he forcibly resists hitting the man again – even if it would be so, so satisfying.

Not yet. I don’t want anyone else hurt.

No one else but him, of course.

That rough, snickering voice in the back of his mind finds company as Shoto imagines what it’d be like to break the man’s jaw. How euphoric it must be.

“Never,” he finally says after forcing down the compulsive need to agree and trying to (still unsuccessfully) glare a hole through the man.

Despite the unshakeable certainty in his voice and the aggressive defiance dripping from his body, Murmur just smiles softly, right back to genial in another whiplash of emotions. Keeping up with the shifts is nearly as exhausting as resisting his influence.

“Of course, Shoto. Of course,” he says kindly, amusedly. He reaches forward to pat Shoto’s shoulder only to yank his hand back quickly as a flame sprouts to life before he can make contact. The man looks at his red fingers, glances back at Shoto with that look in his eyes, before he chuckles and walks toward the door.

“Get comfortable. Our first session will begin soon,” he says over his shoulder before he exits. Just around the door frame, two monochromatic masks watch him in silence.

The door clicks shut and Shoto is once again left with nothing but the buzz of the lights and the sting of his thoughts.

Shoto doesn’t relax for several minutes. He watches the door like a hawk, prepared in case Murmur comes back in or some other bastard is sent to ‘convince’ him. When it becomes clear no one is coming, Shoto sighs and slides back down to the floor with a knotted gut and trembling hands.

He needs to get out and fast.

If Murmur is being honest about rending his mind, then that makes time more precious.

But if I act rashly, someone innocent will pay for it.

He grimaces as he stares at his hands again.

What if that’s what’s necessary?

On one hand, he knows the longer he’s here, the more dangerous the situation becomes, the more compromised he may be, and the more people will be sold. Sitting around is just as bad as putting these people up for auction himself.

He clenches his left fist, feeling the heat of his aggravation and helplessness cycle through him, bringing up the temperature on his fire side in increments.

But, on the other hand, if that tracker is still here or those guards are outside his door, the moment he gets out, someone will suffer. They might actually die. Who is he to decide someone’s fate like that?

He clenches his aching right hand, fingers coiled in an arctic fist.

If it came down to it, could he make a sacrifice? Could he cross that line, surrender one to save the many? When push comes to shove, will he do what it takes? He’s growing less and less certain he’s strong enough for this.

He thinks back on Dabi’s harsh words, on death being the preferable fate.

Guilt hits him like an avalanche. No matter how he looks at the situation, he feels like he’s at a loss. Someone is going to get hurt and it’s his fault. His next breath stutters in his chest.

If I’d been better, I could have prevented this. If I’d been smarter, I’d already have a plan.

(He’s a child, he shouldn’t be turning lives into statistics and shouldering the responsibility.)

(But he’s not really a child, is he? He never was. Fate didn't write that into his path.)

He rubs a cold fist against his eyes and it comes back dry. Shoto feels like crying but he isn’t sure he remembers how. This isn’t a situation he can brute force his way out of, an enemy he can overwhelm with raw power. It’s too intricate, something he wasn’t trained for. He was told what to do if he was held hostage, being the son of a high-profile hero would make him a target, after all. But active hostage situations were theoretical and saved for heroics class.

He doesn’t know what to do.

All this coveted power, and for what? To be caged like a toothless animal? So, so useless.

He feels despair dig its claws into him, self-hatred biting at his throat. And then irritation at himself for letting these weak emotions find root so easily. What’s he to do, wallow in self-pity? Give up because it’s too hard? What’s the point of all his pain if he calls it quits so easily?

He was made for this. If all he can be good at in life is heroics, then he might as well lean into that.

I can’t just give up. I have to help the victims here or they’ll be gone forever.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll get to punch Murmur in his smug mouth on the way out.

---

True to his word, Murmur comes by again.

He’s like a leech, Shoto thinks with no small degree of disdain.

But that meeting is just as unsuccessful as the first.

The third meeting is nearly hostile. It results in Shoto experiencing the true extent of Murmur’s quirk as the man jams thoughts into his brain like spikes. It’s nauseating and makes his skull feel like it’s splitting in two. The foreign ideas are so vibrant, lit up like neon lights in his mind, and so hard to ignore.

Shoto’s left curled in on himself, cradling his head in his arms and blood leaking from his nose.

It’s the first time he experiences the raw force of that quirk, but it won’t be the last.

By the fourth, both Shoto and Murmur are sick of this game.

“I’m growing tired of this. Aren’t you?” Murmur asks blandly, no longer caring to keep up his kind act.

Shoto scoffs from his position on the ground. He’s stopped rising to meet the man, barely even glances in his direction.

“If you’re tired, maybe you should go to sleep,” he says back just as tonelessly. He’s pointedly staring at the wall, keeping Murmur in his peripheral but not gracing him with his full attention.

“Cute.”

By the irritated way he says it, Murmur definitely does not think his snark is cute. Good.

With the pretense of equality gone, Murmur forgoes his usual conversation and dives right into his mind.

“You are a tool. Do you understand that?” he says like it’s a universal fact.

I am a tool.

Shoto groans and drops his head into his hands, fingers tangling in his hair as the idea is forcibly pounded into his head. It pervades every crevice, reaching even the furthest, darkest corners of his mind.

“No, I’m not,” he grits out even when everything in him says he should agree. Just saying that small refusal makes him feel like choking.

He barely registers Murmur’s presence as he fights to separate this invasive thought and what is really his mind.

“Yes, Shoto, yes you are,” Murmur says, closer now. “You are a tool, perfectly designed to be used by others. Why else would you have been formed so? Your quirk, your appearance, your skills, it’s all curated by fate to be used. Do you see?”

And wasn’t he thinking exactly that not too long ago? How his entire role in the world is to be used by others? It makes it so much harder to drive a wedge between Murmur’s manipulations and him.

“Shut up,” he says, nearly hissing as he presses his hands to his head like he can hold his splintering mind together.

“No. Not until you understand,” Murmur continues. The thought reinforces itself in his mind like a jackhammer. He feels his entire body twitch as he fights the intrusion. It feels an awful lot like his nose is bleeding again.

“I am not a tool. I’m not my quirk,” he says firmly, more as a reminder to himself than a statement to Murmur. He just has to remind himself of who he is. I’m a person, not a tool.

“You are.”

...He’s right. When have I ever been anything other than my quirk? Mom, Toya, Fuyumi, Natsu, they all suffered for my quirk. Endeavor made me for my quirk. I was taken for my quirk. That’s all anyone cares about. It’s all I’m used for.

He shakes his aching head like a dog.

No, shut up. Stop it. It’s not true. I’m a person, not a quirk.

And the war continues as he fights within himself. His quirk fluctuates as he struggles to find stability. His head feels like it’s cracking apart, like his brain will melt and drip right out of his ears.

“Stop it. Stop!” he yells as he tries to keep himself together. Voices, vicious, snarling things that whisper his worst thoughts and remind him of his place, echo one after another. It’s a cacophony so overwhelming, he nearly misses his captor’s chuckle.

“Oh, dear one, I wasn’t using my quirk that time.”

And Shoto doesn’t know when he leaves because he’s too busy fighting his own brain, doesn’t know how long he’s cradling his head and dripping blood onto the mat.

“I’m a person,” he reassures himself, voice hoarse like he’s been screaming this whole time.

An object, it hisses back.

“Not my quirk.”

It’s all I’m worth.

Even the fluorescents can’t drown this out.

The cycle repeats.

---

Before he’d been caught, Shoto had been under the assumption that being discovered and thrown back into Endeavor’s clutches was his worst possible outcome.

He was wrong. So very, very wrong.

The idea is compounded in the fleeting moments of cognizance before it’s inevitably chased away again when Murmur rips into his brain like he’s trying to lobotomize Shoto. It grows harder to distinguish reality from his captor’s woven fantasy. All he can do is cling to his repetition to ground himself.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

He doesn’t care if Murmur hears his persistent muttering as he keeps his eyes closed, focusing on his mantra to keep back any creeping doubts. Even if the ideas had been his own – this uncertainty of self – he chases it away viciously with his mantra because he can’t let Murmur have even the tiniest foothold in his mind.

(Even in the deepest throes of this conditioning, Shoto still manages to dredge up delightfully petty satisfaction knowing his stubbornness is annoying Murmur. Had the man thought he’d be easy to break because he’s young? Idiot.)

With each visit, the voices get harder and harder to drown out. Like sirens at sea, it grows ever more tempting to listen to them.

Give in, they say in a beguiling sing-song, we know it’s true.

And like always, he wills himself away, knowing it’s a trap but his will weakens under the unrelenting barrage.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

False. People are born. Tools are created. He created me to fulfill a purpose, just like people make weapons for war.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

Mom didn’t want a thing like me; like him. Wouldn't it be better to be with someone who wants me?

His refusal remains steadfast against the quirk and his body rebels. Murmur takes unkindly to his continued resistance.

It's unfortunate that it takes him vomiting blood and speaking to an unseen presence for the visits to slow. Murmur pulls back those mental talons and leaves Shoto crumbled in on himself, fighting to get a hold on reality.

My name is Shoto...

---

Meanwhile in Shinjuku:

Someone slips a note with a two-way radio into the middle of a particular hero's patrol route. The paper is nearly blank, but the coordinates it holds may as well be a gift from above.

When the hero reads this letter, it trembles ever so faintly in his grasp. Like a vengeful spirit, he turns on his heel and takes to the night. He'll test the validity of this note, see if it is what he suspects. (Oh, does he hope.)

If it proves true, a reckoning will follow.

(Besides, there's a certain aggravatingly unlucky non-vigilante he needs to speak to.)

#shoto todoroki #shouto todoroki #aizawa shouta #shota aizawa #my writing #fanfic #hounds of fate #vigilante!shoto

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softkuna · 4 years ago

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Toji Fushiguro || Toy || Fic

The Sukuna one had me like ✨✨✨ Now I must ask, can you- a toji x fem reader and him seeing Gojo eyeing up what's his and her responding to it and then toji being like oh hell no and basically railing her as punishment (degrading kink please it makes me jello) you don't have to write it if your not comfortable btw take your time and stay safe.

Content ║ Toji Fushiguro x Fem Insert. Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind. Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

Count ║ 1,311 words.

Consider ║ NSFW. Degradation Kink. Objectification. Female Insert (she/her). Alcohol. Grammar issues. Basic degeneracy.

Creator ║ So this is the first NSFW thing I have done like this ;v;. I’m not sure if this hit the mark for ya Anon, but hopefully it’ll do until I can get some more practice. It took a little while since I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing. Honestly this just feels subpar gomen. Enjoy jealous Toji, though -finger guns-.

The club was barely lit with black light and neon strewn about the solid concrete walls in seemingly random intervals. A particularly bright hot pink one cast across her collarbone, dowsing the tops of her breasts deliciously in contrast to the black latex dress. As much as Toji would like to shove her against that very wall, she had a job to do. For him. And he regretted it.

She was pushing her luck when she approached the table with a certain sway to her hips. Gojou peered around the tinted sunglasses, brow piqued in interest. She flashed a smile, smoothly setting a large bottle of some random high percentage alcohol onto the table. Sliding into the booth next to Satoru, the woman leaned a hand on his leg, the other moving to playfully snap the strap of a birthday hat under his chin, “I hear it’s someone’s birthday?”

His head tilted up along with the corners of his lips, “Guilty as charged. Are you my present, doll? Always heard the hostesses here were the best,” His voice purred against the thrum of the bass. She tucked hair behind her ear, eyes flickering back to the ravenette with a dangerous composition. The corner of her mouth twitched up at the obvious frustration resonating in the man. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t even dream of it if he wanted any semblance of information on this guy. It was the perfect opportunity to test a theory. Toji was the jealous type.

Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind. Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

He slammed down a shot, the burn at the back of his throat accompanying the burn of his own gaze. She wasn’t anything to him aside from an in. Yet somehow, the not-so-shaman made it a point to speak with her at least once a week, which usually lead into fucking her like a play thing. The lay was just as good as the information she could pry out of loose mouths. Immaculate. This go around, he needed information on someone in particular. Someone who just so happened to be here with a group. Someone who decided it would be a good idea to get a little handsy with his toy.

“Y’know,” Satoru murmured, “’s pretty sad to be alone in bed for my birthday.” Chilled pads of his fingers rested at the back of her neck. His gaze was hungry and she was a full course meal. Just his type. Perfect shape, perfect charm, perfect headrush. Her hand cupped his ear, whispering something his buzzing mind couldn’t fully piece together against the dense music.

She kept up the sweet act despite not getting a lick of information. The only dirt she dug up was that he could finish half a handle before getting buzzed. By the end of the night, Gojou’s hands squeezed at her thigh like he did her last string of patience.

The last thing Toji saw was the exchange of cards.

As the black-clad hostess passed by Toji, her hand trailed along the muscles of his chest, stiletto nails pressing just slightly into him. He followed close behind until they got to their regular spot. A private room tucked into the corner of the club. Commonly used for rich men thirsting to empty their wallets on a good lap dance. It was sound proofed, dimly lit, and somehow hot pink velvet was a prime design choice to set a steamy mood.

She crossed her arms, gaze hard as the door shut, “So, I’ve got bad new. He didn’t let a word slip-“ The sentence stopped as soon as it began.

“So doll’s got a sense of humor, huh?” His voice held an edge to match the snide smirk flashing over pointed canines. She knew exactly what was up and oh was it a dangerously delectable sight. One that made her cunt throb on nothing but adrenaline. The crease of his brow, the way his lips set into that hairpin curl, the tensing of each thick muscle along his arm – all of it leaving a sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Theory confirmed. He took a step closer; she didn’t shrink away. A lost challenge if he’d say so himself.

A large calloused hand shoved her onto cushions of the booth, catching her open mouth in his own with a bruising force. The man wasted no time with his prodding tongue, tasting the sweetness of peppermint and lapping it up while fending off her own slick muscle. A hand snaked into the roots of her perfectly done hair, white-knuckling just at the base of the skull. With a sharp yank, her head was yanked back, allowing break for air. Smug and breathless, she chimed, “Jealous?”

Toji blew air out in a single blackened laugh, “I’m not one to share my toys.” Teeth connected to her lips, rolling the flesh then moving to her throat. Purple marked his territory trailing down. The heat of his breath tickled the space directly next to her ear, “Now, you’re going to beg for me to forgive you. Make myself clear, slut?” Toji’s grip on her tightened, “Or is doll better for something getting used?” A rough tug to the back of her hair triggered a low moan from her heaving chest. After so many sessions, she knew he didn’t really want an answer. He wanted a reason go harder.

The hand once in her hair now gripped her jaw, keeping her gaze on him, “Answer me, toy. Or do I need to pull a string to make that cock-obsessed mouth move?” On que, free digits wrapped around the gusset of her thong, second knuckle just grazing the entrance of her heat before he pulled the sodden fabric taught, letting it snap back to place. The impact triggered another empty clench and gasp. Her hips writhed, a sappy pout puffing the bitten lips. More.

Toji maintained her heavy-lidded stare as he brought the knuckle to his lips. He watched as her own parted when his tongue swept up the sweetness collected at the joint. The way her hips rose to match the zipper’s height, the lock of her teeth on her finger, the desperation in her eyes – all of it made his stiffened cock twitch against her adorably hopeless grinding, “Looks like my toy is broken. Guess I’ll just fuck the apology out of it then.”

A wicked grin whipped onto his handsome face. Her mouth opened in rebuttal, only to get interrupted, “This is to teach a lesson, toy. What did you do to deserve the prep?” The gravel in his tone grew slightly dark, “Couldn’t even get the dirt I paid for.” His long digits did work past the gusset, slipping over her entrance, gathering the arousal, “Look how wet you already are for me.” A heated coil pressed in her at the words. She knew what was coming now and every inch of her craved it.

In what seemed to be a single motion, jeans and boxers were torn down. Her dress was hiked up with a satisfying peel, thong quite literally ripped off and thrown to the ground before she was flipped so that her back was pressed against his chest. Sturdy, veined arms wrapped at the backs of her thighs and under her knees. Truly, she was a doll for him to pleasure himself on and he made it a point to do so.

Toji lowered her so that the thick tip of his length pressed against her heart-beating heart. Her walls fluttered around him as he slid in. “For a broken toy, you’re pretty damn tight for me - ready to be played with. Get used- fuck.” Amusement broke through as she bit back a breathless sigh. His cock filled her easily, slick sliding down his shaft and pooling at the base. As he fully sheathed himself, he craned his neck forward, lips pressing at the shell of her ear, “Now, I want to hear you beg, bitch.” With that, the man snaked back and up, setting a relentless pace from the beginning. The sound of skin slamming into wettened skin filling the room along with the aroma of arousal.

She was stubborn. He was tireless. They’d both cum before the apology even had a chance to.

#🥩 .ask #🥩#🥩 .fic #🍺#🍺.ask #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #satoru gojou #gojou satoru #gojo satoru

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navegandoaciegas · 4 years ago

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A long way

Kinktober 7/31: creampie

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: trucker!bucky, hitchhiking, smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, creampie, biting, hair pulling, one slap on the face, oral sex, alcohol consumption, degradading praise kink.

Summary: A broody and rough truck driver stops for you when no one else does. What happens when you spend a few days together?

A/N: day 7 of @itgetsdarksometimes35 spooky challenge + Kinktober. Thank you @buckycuddlebuddy for inspiring this and helping me out, ily baby!

You suppose he’s a nice guy under all the brooding, frowning, glaring; there must be some gentleness buried underneath all the roughness, some kindness hiding behind his steely eyes.

He’s got a hard exterior for sure, with his burly body and intricate tattoos, but he’s the only one who’s pulled over for you, all soaked, crying and alone on the side of the road, while other drivers sped past you, hitting potholes and splashing even more water and mud over you.

You have to admit, you would have done the same, because who the hell stops for hitchhikers in the middle of a thunderstorm? Bucky the trucker, apparently. At the same time, who in their right mind hitchhikes in the 21st century? Someone desperate enough. You.

The 70s and the Santa Rosa murders haven’t taught either of you much, it seems.

So either he’s a serial killer, or a sullen good samaritan.

“I’m gonna pull over in a couple miles, I need to rest a little.” he announces, voice flat, tightly gripping the steering wheel of his truck.

You have a feeling he doesn’t particularly like you. Nothing specific about you, just that you’re in his space, in his clothes, breathing his same air, and he can’t sulk on his own like he’s probably used to.

“It’s okay for me.” you mumble, fidgeting with the sleeves of his thick, grey sweatshirt. It wasn’t a question, but what else were you supposed to say?

He doesn’t acknowledge you.

Despite his murderous looks and apparent annoyance, you trust your gut feeling.

The guy could split your skull in half like a pistachio, but he doesn’t seem like he’ll actually go through with it, unless you change the frequency of that radio channel he’s listening to, or move around the pictures on his dashboard. Both of which you don’t intend on doing.

You observe his side profile, the delicate slope on his nose, chiselled jawline, high cheekbones, buzz cut chestnut hair, the tattoos snaking from his arm to the side of his neck, ending just below his ear.

He’s hot and menacing, and the idea that he could bang you like a screen door in a hurricane and kill you with his bare hands makes a shiver go down your spine and straight to your core.

You squirm in your seat, clenching your thighs, cursing you and your horny brain for the dirty images you’ve conveyed.

“You alright there, sugar?” he asks, and you think you see a little smirk dancing on his plush lips, “You seem a little bothered.”

The endearing name and the teasing are a new development, one that you don’t mind.

“Never been better.” you grumble, shooting him a glare of your own.

10 hours in his truck, and his mannerism is rubbing off on you already.

It’s a long way from Oregon to Florida when you have no money on you and you depend on a trucker’s route, a trucker you’ve been bickering and flirting with for hours.

45 hours later, you find yourself at a truck stop a long way from home, your feet propped against the dashboard, the seat reclined slightly.

It’s not the best setting, you’ll be honest with yourself.

Take out containers are littered around you, and Bucky keeps digging in the fries propped on your lap. You smile lazily at him, tipsy but still conscious on your second beer.

45 hours together is a long time when you spend it with the same person, in a small space. He’s still brooding, just looser. And drunker.

“So I said, fuck you and that two faced bitch, and spilled a wine bottle on his suit.” you hiccup, a hysterical laugh bubbling in your throat, “Red fuckin’ wine.”

Well, maybe you’re not as sober as you thought.

“No way.” he deadpans, taking a sip out of his beer. “Is that why you looked like a drowned rat hitchhiking in the middle of the night?”

“Mean, but yes. That cheating asshole. I hope his dick falls off. Not like he knew how to use it anyways.”

That seems to catch his attention.

“He didn’t?” he hums thoughtfully, with all the seriousness a drunk man can muster.

“He never got me off. Had to lock myself in the bathroom and do it myself.” you slur, “Never ate my pussy either.”

“God, suga’, that sounds tragic.”

Your lips twist in a disgusted expression, but you giggle when a thought stikes you.

“What about you? When was the last time you got any?”

He winces when he thinks about it, the frown on his forehead permanently etched there.

“A while ago.”

It’s silent for a moment, and maybe it’s the sexual tension that’s been building for a while, or the heat in his steely eyes, but you feel yourself grow warmer.

Your itch to touch him, taste him, feel him inside you. On your tongue, in your cunt, everywhere.

“Tragic.” you mumble, eyes boring into his.

It’s a rebound, or maybe it’s just that he’s hot and you’re both adults who can do whatever the hell you want.

It doesn’t make sense, the way you jump on him, slanting your mouth against his like you’ve never done before. The way his lips mold against yours, his tongue moves in sync with you, his hands on your body leave you feeling scorched. Your clothes and his sweater are discarded somewhere.

He tastes like beer, and tobacco, and his beard grazes against your skin, making you feel ticklish and giddy.

You’re drunk, and not on alcohol.

His touch is bruising, possessive, controlling. His teeth bite on your skin, he pulls on your hair, kneads the flesh of your ass, rolls and pinches your nipples.

Rough, just like him, and if the slick leaking out of you is any indication, you like that a lot.

“I’ll fuck you all the way to Florida babygirl, fuck you so good you never want to leave this fuckin’ truck.”

It’s embarrassing the way you’re panting, debauched already. Heat is pooling in your lower belly, and you want nothing more than for him to go feral on you.

“God, Bucky, I need you so much, need you inside me.” you whine, palming his cock through his denim jeans, feeling how hard and throbbing he is for you.

“Fuck.” he groans, quickly undoing your belt, freeing his cock.

It springs out of his briefs, standing against his stomach. He’s thick, and leaking with pre cum.

You bite your lips, shooting him a mischievous smile as you lower your face to his groin, ready to suck him off.

“No, I want to be inside you now.”

He grabs underneath your arms and lifts you up, maneuvering so that you’re straddling his lap.

You’re tipsy, about to let a man you barely know raw you in his truck, surrounded by containers of junk food.

It’s trashy, maybe, but who cares. Fuck trashy, and fuck your ex too.

You feel like all your breath has been knocked out of you when he pushes inside you, his cock stretching you out almost painfully.

“Fuck, you’re so big.” you whimper, steadying yourself on his broad chest, nails mapping out the outline of his tattoos.

“God baby, you’re so tight, I can feel that pretty pussy of yours squeezing me.” he moans, hands tightly gripping your hips, “Why don’t you show me how good you can ride my cock, yes?”

You grind yourself on his groin, rolling your hips in circular motion, feeling his cock hit all the sweet spots inside you. He suckles on your nipples, sending shivers down your spine.

Your pussy flutters around him, clamping down hard each time a wave of pleasure hits you.

“Look how good you’re doing, taking my cock so well like the little dumb slut you are baby.” he grunts, and his words shoot straight to your cunt, “Pretty cockdrunk whore, aren’t ya?”

You feel lightheaded.

Bouncing your ass up and down his cock, you feel yourself get closer.

“Fuck Buck- I’m-”

He cuts you off, swallowing your moans as you cum.

Your body shakes, your head spins and every nerve ending on your body is on fire, but he doesn’t give you time to come down from your high.

You slump against his bare chest, and he starts pounding inside you, holding your waist.

He pummels into your abused cunt, pulling one orgasm after the other out of you, until you’re sobbing. His sweaty skin slaps against yours, his balls against your ass. It’s so lewd it’s driving you crazy.

Tears and drool stream down your face.

“Look at you, messy girl, so eager for my cock. I can’t wait to fill you out with my cum baby, watch it drip out of your cunt.” he groans, balls getting tighter, thrusts messier. You feel him swell inside you. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Being filled with my cum to the brim.”

You’re lost in your own pleasure, and don’t answer until he slaps your face. Hard.

“Yes, please Bucky, I want you to fill my pussy, fuck-”

He bites down on your shoulder as he cums, painting your walls with his hot load as your pussy milks him dry.

“You did so good.” he hums, holding you close to his body as he comes down from his high, “Think you can give me one more?”

You nod, and lie on your back on the seats.

He watches entranced as his cum drips out of your cunt, and pushes it back inside with his fingers, smiling at the small noises you make.

He surprises you, latching his mouth around your swollen, overstimulated clit, sucking hard. He delves in your folds, circling his tongue on your bud, slurping up your juices and his, enjoying your taste mixing in with his as he keeps pumping his thick fingers inside you.

You’ve never felt this amount of pleasure before, and when you cum, your vision blacks out for several seconds, and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol or just the best orgasm of your life.

You clamp down on his fingers, your release gushing on his mouth as the pressure in your cunt finally snaps.

He looks up at you, face covered in your slick.

“Don’t think I’m done with you baby.” he smirks, “I’ll never get enough of this sweet pussy.”

You grin, and pull him down on you, ready to start all over again.

It’s a long way to Florida, and you’re not sure you ever want to reach your destination, after all.

—-

Not proofread bc i like living on edge like that. Please leave some feedback!

You can add yourself to my taglist on my pinned post 💓

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #kinktober #bucky barnes x y/n

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years ago

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Kinktober - Day Nineteen

Prompt: Somnophilia

Pairing: Beelzebub/Reader & Belphegor/Reader (Obey Me)

TW: Non-Con, AFAB!Reader, Non-Consensual Touching, Slight Cockwarming, Orgasm Denial, Thigh-Riding, Dehumanization, and Unfortunate Implications.

You honestly weren’t sure why the twins bothered having separate beds.

They didn’t always get along, you’d been chained to them long enough to know that. Beelzebub could be inconsiderate, with his passive approach and his questionable priorities, and Belphegor was either abrasive, stand-offish, or aggressive. No, they didn’t always get along, and yet, they always ended up in the same bed by the time the sun rose, whether it was Belphegor falling onto Beelzebub’s after hauling himself back to their room in the middle of the night or Beelzebub waking up from an all-too-realistic nightmare and seeking out his closest brother for comfort. One way or another, they slept together, they always slept together.

Which means you always slept with them, too.

It was bad enough to just have Belphegor latched onto you, his head burrowed in your chest and his legs tangled with yours, but it was torture to have Beelzebub block out your only means of escape, slotting himself against your back and burying his face in your hair, one arm folded under his head and the other draped over your midriff. It was too warm, even without a sheet. They were too close, even if neither demon was trying particularly hard to pin you down. It was suffocating. You’d already tried squirming, writhing against Belphegor in hopes of dislodging yourself from his loose grip, but all you’d done was make things worse for yourself.

Because now, he was holding you even tighter, his nails digging into your sides, threatening to draw blood whenever you shifted. You could feel hot breath ghosting over your collarbone, the pointed edges of his teeth nearly making contact with your skin every time his lips parted.

Because now, he was grinding on you.

You cursed under your breath, making a half-hearted attempt to push him away. It must’ve been a dream, a repressed thought, something that spurred him to hump your thigh like a bitch in heat as soon as he wasn’t conscious enough to feel ashamed about it. The rough fabric of his boxers was already irritating you, but it was preferable to having no barrier at all. As long as he could get himself off quickly, quietly, you’d survive. As long as Beelzebub didn’t--

“Are you still awake, (Y/n)?”

Fuck.

There was a rustle from somewhere behind you, a slight dip in the mattress, and then Beelzebub chuckled, looking over the situation with a tired grin and half-lidded eyes. With a hollow thud, he fell back into place, pressing his chest against your back and kissing the top of your head, the gesture much too affectionate for what you already knew he'd say next. “He used to do this all the time, when we were kids,” Beelzebub explained, his voice heavy, trailing into a yawn as he settled against you. “It’s cute, right? Belphie’s always had really vivid dreams… He used to sleep-talk, too. Keep me and Lilith up for hours, when he got into it.”

It might’ve been cute. It might’ve been ironic, if nothing else, if his hand wasn’t already trailing downward, rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your thigh before finding your panties, thick fingers trailing over your covered slit. It was a lazy sort of affection, meant for efficiency more than pleasure, but that didn’t stop the heat pooling in your core or the blood rushing past your ears, your body already trained to know exactly where this was going. “Beel,” You tried, grabbing his forearm. He didn’t seem bothered, though, only leaning over to kiss your cheek as he cupped your cunt. “I just- It’s already pretty late, and I don’t know if I can do this--”

“You don’t have to do anything.” You felt him frown, contemplatively, pausing for a moment before your panties were pushed to the side completely. “I’m just helping out Belphie. He’ll be really happy in the morning, trust me.”

Usually, Beelzebub was the gentler of the two. He liked to take his time, he liked to have your slick staining his chin as kneeled between your legs, he liked for you to be prepared to take him, if only so you’d cry a little less when he finally decided to fuck you. That might’ve been why it hurt so much, despite the wet, audible clicks that filled the room as he forced two fingers through your tight entrance. Beelzebub was supposed to be the nice one. Beelzebub was supposed to be the kind one. He wasn’t supposed to hurt you, not for his own entertainment, not for himself.

But this wasn’t for himself, was it?

It was for Belphegor.

His digits curled, spreading apart, stretching you in a way that made you push your shoulders forward and forget about Belphegor’s frantic thrusts, your mind suddenly on that soft, sensitive spot inside of you, the one Beelzebub was petting and prodding and abusing, like a wild animal that couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to behave. He didn’t have to cover your mouth, you took care of that on your own, biting down on the edge of your hand as a dozen different kinds of mewls and whimpers threatened to escape. There wasn’t a technique, a strategy - there never was, with Beelzebub. The heel of his palm ground against your clit, his fingers pumped in and out of your pussy, but all of it was messy, reflexive, careless. It shouldn’t have felt good, it shouldn’t have felt like anything, but it did. It did, and you hated him for it.

There was a gentle peck to the back of your neck, one that lingered far past its welcome, and without warning, his free hand snaked under your over-sized shirt, groping and pinching at your chest, doing just enough to make the pulsing in your cunt unbearable. You clenched your eyes shut, forcing yourself to go rigid, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from bucking into his hand, from trying to get him to go deeper, to move faster, to do something that’d push you over the edge. For a moment, it even worked, an airy sigh barely reaching your ears as he drew your hips flush against his, as the pressure mounted and he added another finger and, and, and…

And he pulled away, leaving your whining and clenching around nothing as he wiped your own slick on your stomach, keeping a strong arm around your torso as he reached past you. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You couldn’t bring yourself to look, not as something hotter, something bigger than Beelzebub’s fingers pushed into your cunt, not as Belphegor went still and melted into you, and not as Beelzebub laid back down, thoroughly satisfied with his work.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You weren’t sure what you might’ve said, but you knew it wouldn’t have made a difference. Not one that would’ve mattered, anyway.

They were brothers, after all. They were twins.

Clearly, nothing good would ever come out of trying from get between them.

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mylordshesacactus · 5 years ago

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A Writer’s Guide To Hurricanes, I Guess

I realized with a bit of chagrin that, while I’ve spent years bitching about how it drives me up the wall that nobody (in fandom or, in fact, mainstream media) has a goddamn clue how hurricanes work and yet insists on portraying them anyway...I’ve never actually tried to help by explaining what they’re actually like.

So, here’s a genuine, non-sarcastic, good-faith attempt by a Floridian to help you guys who might want to write this stuff at some point understand it, just a little.

So here we go, chronologically in terms of the storm’s progress.

The storm itself is the least of it.

This is the thing non-hurricane places don’t....get.

You can see a hurricane coming. You can watch it. You have, in fact, no choice. I need to reiterate this.

You have no choice but to sit there and watch a hurricane coming.

I’ve actually talked a lot in another post about what that feels like, and why hurricane parties are a thing. But try to imagine what that feels. Just...try. You have to sit there, for about a week, watching the wrath of God bear down on you.

You watch it come and you hope the path changes. You hope it veers off back into the Atlantic, of course, but you also--you hope it hits somewhere else. You know wherever it goes people will die and you hope it goes somewhere else. And you feel kinda bad about it; but you also don't because these are just facts, this is a fact of hurricanes, they will go somewhere and people will die in that place and all of us hope it goes Somewhere Else and if it does, we know that the people Somewhere Else are praying frantically that it gets back on course and hits us instead and we understand.

(And when it does change course, when it doesn’t hit you, you almost feel....cheated? Because you spent so much time and energy preparing and fearing and coming to terms and accepting and bracing and then it--doesn’t happen.

And the guilt of praying it would go Somewhere Else is nothing compared to being disgusted with yourself for actually feeling disappointed that you were spared the apocalypse this time.)

The wind is different.

If you listen to weather reports on hurricanes you’ve absolutely heard the phrasing “sustained winds of X miles per hour with gusts up to Y” without really thinking about what that means.

Now, of course everyone’s been in windy conditions. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly how the hurricane is....different, so I’m just going to describe what it’s like.

The wind always comes from one direction. There’s no being “knocked this way and that” or whatever; the wind comes from the direction the wind is coming from. Always.

(If you’re near where the center of the storm passes, this direction will slowly change as your position relative to the eye changes. But it changes over a matter of hours--like the angle of the sun.)

The wind is a constant, unrelenting force. There’s no....there’s no dips in the wind. It never lessens, it only spikes and then returns to baseline. In a normal windstorm, no, it’s not that the wind ever stops blowing, but...there’s an ebb and a flow. A hurricane is a wind tunnel in which every so often someone revs the engine and there’s a few seconds of higher wind, but it never drops below where it’s set.

(The wind will snake under plywood and storm shutters; it will rip them clean off, if you haven’t screwed them in properly. Screws, not nails. The wind makes deadly projectiles of anything not fastened down. Plywood and storm shutters can be broken, by anything travelling fast enough. It is standard procedure, if you have lawn furniture or anything else not secured that doesn’t float, to carefully lower that furniture into a pool--if you have one. It will stay untouched, and won’t be flung through your neighbors’ plywood.)

This is why hurricanes take down so many trees, why they do so much structural damage. Buildings in hurricane zones are built to withstand high wind, and most trees in these areas can survive high wind too or they wouldn’t have survived so long. But there’s only so much that nature and engineering can do about sustained high winds, without a moment’s rest, for hours, unending, no respite...

In landfall footage--ie, the stuff you see on the news--you likely see this effect in the palm trees-watch how instead of tossing, they’re just bent. It never lets up. In the instances where a bent tree violent bounces back before bending again, trust me--that’s not a letup in the wind speed. That’s the tree having been bent too far, and springing back from the sheer pressure on its internal structure. That’s the tree being stronger than the wind--for now

It’s mostly not like the TV reports.

There’s a reason I referred to “landfall footage” above. News broadcasts, for a lot of reasons, focus on the storm at its worst. The highest storm surge, the highest winds, the most brutal damage, occurs where the eye wall first crosses from being over water to being over land.

(Remember--by the time a storm “makes landfall,” everything for miles around has been experiencing the storm for hours already. “Landfall” is when the EYE of the storm first hits land, not when the storm “arrives”.)

But hurricanes are...vast. Look up satellite footage of hurricanes. Really look at it. Look at how much sheer area they cover.

Most places do not experience landfall-level disaster. That’s why, when people evacuate--well, when residents evacuate, the tourists and recent transplants tend to panic harder--you’re basically always evacuating to someplace that will still have vanished under that mass of swirling clouds. Evacuation sites are still inside the hurricane, but wind speed, storm surge, etc--everything drops dramatically even a few miles from the eye.

On a related note, the eye itself rapidly starts shedding power the moment it’s no longer over open water. Generally, the simple act of making landfall instantly drops a hurricane at least one category in severity. Hurricanes are eldritch gods; they rise from the sea and from the sea they take their power. Cut off from it, they starve.

Do not think for a moment that just because you’re “only” experiencing Cat 1 winds that this storm can’t kill your ass dead. Do not underestimate what the death throes of a dying god can do.

Storm surge isn’t high waves, and it isn’t rain.

Storm surge is the actual sea level rising. The entire ocean being dragged onto land by the power of the storm.

Particularly wet and slow hurricanes might--rarely--drop enough rain to cause flooding. However, that’s unusual; most places here can handle heavy rain. The rain isn’t the problem.

(Slow hurricanes are killers on another level. It’s everything I’ve already said about the unrelenting brutality of the wind, coupled with the fact that--as, again, the vast majority of the storm has been raging for hours by the time it “makes landfall”, and hurricanes draw power from the Eye being over the water--it now has hours upon hours of fully-fuelled destruction before it begins to weaken by being cut off from warm water. It doesn’t weaken, it just....keeps going. And the storm surge is present that entire time.)

I’m just gonna direct you to this NOAA diagram on how storm surge works.

The northeast quadrant is the strongest.

This isn’t a proper subheading it’s just something I rarely see people not from Florida acknowledge.

No matter where the storm is coming from or what angle it hits at--the northeast quadrant is the killer. You do everything in your power to avoid being caught northeast of the storm.

In hurricane-prone areas, the threat is felt year-round.

All the major intersections? Our stoplights aren’t hung on wires from wooden poles--those blow down too easily. They’re bolted to thick metal pipes, “hurricane-proof”. Major roadways that are above floodlines are labelled as evacuation routes.

Things like that.

Hurricanes make their presence known long before the disaster begins.

You start to get “hurricane weather” days--days--before it hits. The sun is out, the weather is fine except for a...

Well, a constant, low-level breeze, with much less variation in angle and direction than usual, fewer gusts, but still primarily a natural breeze. And then you go outside and you look up at that cheerful blue sky and it’s already there.

They’re called cloud bands. You look up and the entire sky is just fluffy white clouds, racing at speed in one direction...

(The breeze, in those early few days, is light. Present, but light. The clouds are always, always racing as if before a gale. There’s a pervasive, eerie wrongness about this, looking up--the clouds moving much, much faster than the wind that should be driving them.)

A hurricane is not a thunderstorm.

This is the cardinal sin and the clearest, most common misconception. Hurricanes are not thunderstorms. In fact it’s actually very rare to have lightning or hear any thunder at all during a hurricane, compared to an average summer storm in hurricane-prone areas.

People often portray hurricanes as basically....the worst storm they can remember, but bigger, and badder, and worse. Hurricanes aren’t just big and intense, they’re....different. They’re something different.

Hurricanes are...quiet.

Except that they’re not.

You know when people talk about the wind howling? Think of the most intense storm you’ve ever sat through. Think about the sound of the wind.The way it whistles through leaves. Hold that experience in your head.

Now forget it. This is different.

Hurricanes don’t sound like that. Hurricanes are....

The sound a hurricane makes is a howl, yes. It makes palm fronds and grass steps and leaves whistle like a rapier scraped against a sheathe, yes. But you barely notice those shallow details, because the sound a hurricane makes is below that, stronger, more powerful.

Hurricanes moan.

Hurricanes are the entire world around you slowly and steadily fraying at the seams, and it moans, low and deep, agonized and hungry, and it never stops. Never. Not until it’s over.

Hurricanes are a world ending.

The storm passes, and the hurricane has only begun.

Do you think people stock up as heavily as they do, with generators and nonperishables and such, for--what, for a few hours of wind and rain, however alive?

No.

Because once the tempest is past, now you have to...exist.

You will not have power. If you were in a very, very lightly-affected area, you might have cell service. Most of your neighbors have evacuated. Many roads can’t be used because they’re washed out, or there are trees or power lines down across them.

It’s very common to lose water pressure. Common practice in hurricane-prone areas is to fill your bathtub with water before the storm--so that, when you lose water pressure, you can use a bucket to flush your toilet. Because those conditions, assuming you’re in an area that can be repaired and not rebuilt, can take weeks.

Weeks without running water, a flushable toilet. That gets grim fast. You brace for the storm. You prepare for what follows.

A hurricane is an eldritch abomination.

Hurricanes are alive.

Hurricanes are Old Gods.

Sitting through a hurricane is not like sitting through a bad storm or like sitting through a tornado, which is fast and unstoppable but then it’s over like it never existed save for the destruction left behind.

In order to get a clearer understanding of just how much the universe is vast, how much it does not, cannot, even notice you enough to want you dead because you are so small it would not comprehend you as possessing an existence if it tried--you would have to go to space.

And while the world moans around you and something out there, alive, growls at a frequency you can’t hear but you feel--you don’t cuddle for warmth during a hurricane. You just don’t.

You keep the generator running outside in the lee of the house where it won’t kill you all with gas fumes, connected via wires that snake around through a cracked door somewhere it won’t get blown open. You make sure it doesn’t run out of fuel, that it doesn’t get water blown into anything important. You use it to power a TV first--to keep the weather report on. You power lights second, if it’s a decent one. You can’t afford one powerful enough to run your refrigerator; you ate the ice cream before this started.

You play games. We’re human; it’s what we do. We play games in the face of our own helplessness. But while you play, you listen. You can’t not.

It’s always there. The world creaks on its hinges. You feel the edges threatening to dissolve. If you sit for a moment and are quiet, that ever-present moan is there, something ancient and powerful on a scale outside your comprehension. There is no cozy comfort of being bunkered down safe against the storm, not here.

There is no “safe” against this. You sit still and quiet and bear witness.

And when the sun rises in the aftermath, you’re surprised to find the world--even a wrecked and altered world--still exists. It shouldn’t. You were there when it ended.

And--and I cannot emphasize this enough--there’s no fucking thunder.

#hurricanes #uh #writing reference #I GUESS

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exquisitley-obsessed · 4 years ago

Text

Fiances, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 8

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault/abuse/rape + abusive families

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Eight: Sisterly Love

Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch. He had everything Lucien had ever wanted and then decided to fuck it all over. And for what? Because he was too much of a privileged idiot to care about anyone other than himself? Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Lucien’s knuckles were bleeding, but it was safe to say that the poor tree seemed to be faring worse. The Autumn male had walked into the woods until a healthy distance was between him and the manor (and all beautiful, flower-growing females within it) and then he had begun his search for the largest tree he could find. The trees in the human lands were nothing special, especially not compared to the endless auburn forests of Lucien’s home Court, but it wasn’t too long before found a red sequoia that had a thick enough trunk for his needs. It was a solitary tree which Lucien guessed was at an equidistance between the Manor and the home which he and Tamlin had bought for Nesta and Elain before going under the mountain. The home in which Elain had been stolen from. Another thing to be furious about.

After shedding his jacket and tying his hair back with a strip of leather, Lucien had begun to brutalise the tree. His hits were neat, and he moved with the trained precision of a courtly solider. He hadn’t learned to fight like the Illyrians, in cold camps, throwing punches as though they were a lifeline. Lucien had been trained to fight within duels which had rules and manners. It had been Eris who had taught him, the only one of his brothers who’d even bothered to speak to him, and that was mostly because their mother demanded it of her eldest.

When Lucien was little more than a kit, Eris had taken him into the endless forests of Autumn where they were hidden from the prying eyes of their father’s guards. It had been Eris who had given him his first sword, Eris who had taught him how fighting can happen via the mouth or palm. That to cut into someone with your words could be just as effective as the edge of a blade.

Eris had never lowered his guard, had never been kind, had never praised Lucien, but he had helped him when no one else would. Even if it were because he, like Lucien, couldn’t resist the pleas of their mother. The two of them were sensitive to her, particularly as Lucien had gotten older and this somehow catalysed their mother’s mind to unfurl like a ball of yarn. Eventually she’d been declared mute to the court. She wasn’t, of course, but their father didn’t want the courtier’s hearing of her nonsensical ramblings of wyverns and sunlight.

But even as Lucien hit the bark with enough force for it to splinter and fall to reveal the lighter spongey wood beneath, it was evident that he was not entirely an Autumn soldier. Going to Spring had meant there was also something beastly in the way he fought. The flames that licked up his forearms didn’t heed to ideas of conformity; those were wild and untamed. It made sense his fighting style was not truly Autumnal considering he had never honestly fitted in there. Well, he didn’t truly fit in anywhere. It was like he was not made of one Court, or one blood, but rather something messy and diverse.

Right. Left. He hit the tree with enough power to send shudders rippling through his bones. Right. Left. Above the beating of his fists he could hear his breathing, even and undisturbed, even after two hours of relenetless beating he had not yet broken into a sweat.

Unlike the Illyrians, for Lucien, fighting was about control. It was about taking something that was not disciplined and sharpening it into something dangerous. The Illyrians were brutal and raw, they fought with emotions, Lucien fought to bury his.

Right. Left. It had been some time now and Lucien could begin to feel the tree moan. He’d beaten through a large chunk of its mid-section so that it was now in danger of toppling. He needed to stop but, he couldn’t.

Right. Left. Just a little longer, he just needed to get his bottomless anger towards the boy under control, so, a little longer and then he’d turn back. His flames still begged for release despite their unleashing that morning. It had always been that way; his fire had been the one true thing to protect him from his older brothers. Even when he was a child, barely tall enough to meet his mother’s knee, he’d responded to his brother’s teasing with undisciplined spurts of light.

It had been a problem. He didn’t remember much of it, just that his unnaturally strong display of power had sent his mother into a nervous spiral. Eris had appeared, again, to deal with him.

Lucien had been trained by a strange man who he could only meet after the sun had gone down, and he had to meet him at the astronomy tower of the southern houses. The man was quiet and painfully old, especially for a fae. Old enough that there had been grey hairs in his mane of chocolatey hair. He’d wheezed his words as he taught Lucien to suppress elements of his powers, and Lucien had hated him mainly because he would dress in these strange white cloths that were bundled around his torso and legs, making him look like a babe.

That’s how Lucien had learnt to lock and compartmentalise his powers, which appeared to him now as circular panels. The outer most layer being the most trivial of tricks: heating up cold tea, warming the sheets on a chilly night, lighting lanterns with a wave of his hand. Below that were the displays of strength, such as the flames on his arms. Then there were the layers of the affronts: streams of fire, explosive sparks, even the fire runes he’d learned which he could mark on the floor so that when an enemy crossed them they would turn to ash. Down and down it went like the skin of a snake, the animal of his mother’s blood house. The inner most layer wasn’t a layer at all, but what he’d been taught was the heart of his power. When Lucien closed his eyes and focused, he could see it, glowing in his chest. A ball of pure, golden light that thrummed with raw power.

The lessons had ended abruptly, before Lucien was even tall enough to meet his mother’s shoulder. Just like that, the old male was gone, and Eris had appeared instead.

Lucien was weary. There was no reason for Eris to speak to him unless he’d done something wrong. That’s how it went for everyone, and Lucien could never understand what he did exactly to provoke them all. Sometimes it seemed reasonable, when he wandered too far from the grounds or was found reading forbidden books. Other times he didn’t understand why the beatings came, such as when his brother’s had pulverised him when he was on the forest trails looking for flowers, apparently males didn’t care for flowers, apparently his misdoing was worthy of a broken femur.

Lucien was on time, wasn’t he? He was always good with time, he could read the sun, moon and stars as though they were a second language. He’d come back to his room after dinner, dressed in his night clothes and laid in bed pretending to sleep whilst counting to 1000, then he rolled on his back and looked out his window and waited till the moon was hovering over the oak firs, then he would sneak out.

But he must have done something wrong, right? Because when Lucien had climbed the steps to the astronomy tower and entered the room in which Dracon was usually pre-seated and waiting with a soft smile, there had been Eris instead. He was standing behind Dracon’s empty chair and holding onto it’s back, looking bored as he glared at the telescopes.

“Dracon isn’t going to come here anymore. Your lessons are done.” Eris was a full grown male now, all of Lucien’s other brothers were close behind but there was something still unfinished about their scruffy hair and cruel eyes. Eris had the grace of a full grown fae male, and Lucien silently wished that he could be more like him, all elegance and cunning grace. Not the meaty bulk of Travis or Ruadiridh.

“Have I done something wrong?” Lucien couldn’t help but ask in a small, quiet voice. If he were to be beaten, he had developed a small routine to distract himself, to pull himself far away from his body so that he couldn’t really feel the hurt as it happened, only after did he feel the pain. Eris looked irritated by his question, and Lucien pushed himself against the tower door.

“Have you? Is there something you wish to tell me?” Eris’ eyes blazed as he looked at him. Lucien shook his head furiously. “Good.”

“W-where is Dracon?” Lucien stammered and hated himself for it. Stammering in front of his family was like offering a pork chop to a starved hound. He waited for Eris to pounce.

“Gone. He’s not coming back,” Eris said instead in a cold, emotionless voice. Lucien’s hands shook with disbelief at his luck.

“Gone? I-Is he okay?” Lucien was pushing his fortune. Never before had he tried to ask one of his brother’s so many consecutive questions, but something about the moonlight was making him reckless. That, and the tiredness of his brother’s stature. Eris was barely a grown male, and yet he seemed as old as father in his worry.

“No,” Eris said, and his face turned enigmatic as he looked down on his littlest of brothers. Eris seemed to assess him for a moment, taking in Lucien’s cropped auburn hair and browning skin. His face turned cruel, cold. His eyes turning into dark stones that gave away no emotion. Lucien steeled himself for his brother’s insult, but it still rattled him all the same.

“No, Lucien, he’s not coming back. He’s dead…and it’s all your fault.”

***

Right. Left. Right. Left.

Eris. Another thing to be angry about.

It had taken years of living with Tamlin for Lucien to begin to understand that the way his family had treated him was abnormal. That true brother’s taught each other strength and friendship, not how to practice mental mind games so that Lucien could escape his body whilst they cut him up and put him back together.

Right. Left. He’d been out for so long that he’d over run his time. He was supposed to meet her at 10.

Right. Left. The drumming of the blood in his ears was so loud that Lucien didn’t hear the slight ‘pop’ of a figure winnowing behind him. Nor did he turn quick enough after hearing the raw yet feminine battle cry.

“You bastard!” A small yet strong form collided into him, sending him back against the mutilated tree trunk. Lucien didn’t even fight back, not when the braided crown of pale brown hair told him all he needed to know.

“NESTA!” Lucien looked above the wildcats crown to see Feyre, dressed in simple black shirt and pants, reaching out for her wolf of a sister.

“You stole her! You ripped her away from us you-” The following language Lucien had not heard in a long time, and yet it was certainly not the first time an angry female had called him such names. Lucien just leaned back against the tree as Nesta’s small, yet sharp arm dug into his guts, and she pressed a blade to his throat.

Just for the hell of it he cocked his head and smirked, trying to look unbothered and arrogant – because doing so made him feel like he had some form of power, even though he was clearly at the Archeron sister’s mercy. God, this really shouldn’t happen as often as is it does.

“Nesta I have told you time and time again that Elain left of her own volition-” Lucien felt a pang of pity for his friend as she sighed and rubbed at her temples. Feyre was a new mother, and it seems that it’s not just Nyx that has needed babying the past few days.

“And I’ve told you that I don’t believe a word of it!” Nesta snarled. Lucien just glared down at the female before taking in her fitted Illyrian leathers, the new ropes of muscle that curved across her thin and sharp body, even the siphons on the back of her hands, glowing violet. Lucien snarled.

“Who the hell taught her how to wield a knife?” Nesta’s returning grin was nothing short of feral.

Nesta had always reminded Lucien of a blade, or something worse, something infinitely sharper and more dangerous. She held herself like a queen, one whose cruelness may have been on par with Eris’. She was taller than Feyre and Elain and was all sharp edges and bones. Feyre had been lither in her figure, after building muscle she appeared more cat-like in her grace. Elain…

Lucien couldn’t dwell on Elain’s figure for too long, or at least of what he imagined of it through her long skirts. All he knew is that she was shorter than her sisters, with a softer jawline and a bigger chest that was often bound and hidden from sight. Right now, Lucien really couldn’t be thinking about how he imagined her to have a hefty swell at her hips, or how her thighs might look spilling out from the top of stockings, or the…Lucien mentally slapped himself.

An erection right now would get him stabbed in the throat.

“Get off me,” Lucien growled, wrenching his hands up and pushing on Nesta’s shoulders. Despite Nesta clearly having been honed into a warrior, he still did not push hard, he could not find it within him to act aggressively towards a female, not even one with a knife to his throat.

Not after his mother.

“You will take us to her,” Nesta just growled, standing agonisingly straight and glaring at him with ice in her eyes. Lucien wasn’t convinced her powers had completely vanished, and a small shiver ran the length of his spine at being so directly under her focus.

“No, he will not,” Feyre just sighed, running a hand over her head.

“What are you doing here hellcat? I don’t remember inviting you,” as Lucien spoke he shot a glare at Feyre who just sighed for a third time.

“She figured out Elain was gone and has been tearing the Night Court down ever since. I thought if perhaps Nesta could come and see that there’s no danger then maybe my people might be saved of her wrath.”

“Poor Night Court,” Lucien cooed, brushing down his pale drawstring tunic and fitted brown pants.

“Have you two lost your minds?” Nesta just scowled, her fury now turning (thankfully) to her sister. “Elain is not safe in the mortal lands, are you forgetting how the humans treat the fae? What about the one human who may have a particular reason to not want to have her around.”

This is why he couldn’t despise Nesta. Despite all she had said and done. Because at the end of the day, Nesta had a fierce loyalty that Lucien not only admired, but could see within himself. Perhaps there would never be a day where they could consider one another as friends, but they both were bitter, both believed the worst of people and weren’t easy in trusting. But beyond the apparent mess of a relationship between them, they’d both go down fighting to protect Elain.

Not to mention they were the two first in line to shiv the Nolan boy.

Maybe that would be the thing to tie them together, planning a secret mission to infiltrate the Nolan manor and slit the boy’s throat whilst he slept. Nest might actually respect him for a night.

“I don’t know what the hells’ going on, but Elain is vulnerable and the only place she can be thoroughly protected is in the Night Court.” Nesta seethed, her glare feeling like steel.

“Elain’s vulnerable?” Lucien asked in a low voice. Feyre’s note, the one which Elain had arrived with had been incomprehensible with the rainwater. What if there had been a message informing him of Elain’s safety? What if Elain was in fact seeking asylum in the mortal lands. Lucien swore at himself internally. When it came to his mate there wasn’t much else he could do but protect her, and even that he seemed to fail at.

“She’s no more vulnerable than the rest of us,” Feyre shrugged with a roll of her eyes. “There’s some concern with the Cauldron reaching for Elain but she hasn’t had a vision in two years, and she knows to notify us if that changes.”

“But yeah besides the threat of Koschei there isn’t too much to worry about,” Nesta sneered, folding her arms protectively over herself. It was a tell of hers Lucien had picked up on. For a female who was full of steel and wit, her body language said that she was guarded and well…lonely.

Elain leaving must have hit Nesta hard, Lucien realised. He’d noticed how Nesta treated Elain, almost protecting her too much after the Cauldron, as though by taking enough care of Elain she could make up for what she failed to do for Feyre. Elain leaving randomly, in the night, without notifying Nesta, must have re-awoken that feeling. Nesta’s drive to protect, as though she wanted to protected her sister from the pain she’d been through.

That’s where Nesta was wrong, Lucien couldn’t help but think bitterly. Nesta had ultimately infantilised her sister, had refused to let her walk without holding her hand, how she had in some twisted way trapped Elain on a leash.

I care for you, I protect you, I provide for you. You must love me. Please love me.

When Elain had strayed too far on that leash, Nesta had recoiled, she’d gone of the edge. If Nesta couldn’t overprotect her sister, then she wouldn’t protect her at all.

Lucien ultimately felt sorry for the viper. Again, because he saw so much of himself in her. Lucien didn’t know how to love in small quantities, he had to devote himself fully, to everything.

Love or death. Lucien physically shuddered as the phrase stumbled through his mind. It was a stupid, stupid promise he had made when he was young and full of hope. A stupid, violent, costly promise.

“I promise you Elain is safe within my protection. I would give the whole speech about how we could make a bonding pact over my protection of her, but I know you know I’m being serious.” Lucien picked at his nails, still leaning against the tree and tucking his leg up. The image of boredom.

“And do you really think you’ll be enough to protect her?” Nesta seethed, whilst Feyre looked him up and down curiously.

“If you want to have a little wrestle in the mud Nesta, just say so. I’m sure you’ll find me more than capable of handling myself.”

“Oh I don’t doubt you’re capable of handling yourself, given it’s all you’ve got.” Nesta sneered, evidentially agitated by his taunts. That’s where Nesta needed training, Lucien couldn’t help but think, and for a moment he realised he sounded like Eris. Eris would take one look at Nesta and roll his eyes – “You wear your emotions like a fool. You’ll never be good enough to be a courtier. One look at you and everyone could tell what you want. It’ll be your greatest, most haunting weakness.”

“Rather scandalous, Nesta, I must say. You thinking about me handling myself? I thought you had a mate-” Nesta roared and charged for him. Feyre threw a casual shield between the two of them which the hellcat promptly bounced off. Lucien just focused on staying relaxed. When he was relaxed, he was in control.

“Children please!” Feyre barked, holding a palm up to both of them. Lucien just chuckled as Nesta seethed and Feyre sighed. “Surprisingly, we’re not just here to engage in pitiful threats and stupid insults, we did actually have a matter at hand to discuss.”

Fear coiled in Lucien’s gut. He’d almost forgotten. With the rhythmic almost meditative training and the distraction that was Nesta’s fury, he’d been blissfully unaware for a moment of why he’d called the remaining Archeron sisters to the mortal realm. Lucien stood straight, pulling on his jacket and tying his cuffs.

“You said it was urgent?” Feyre said softly after a moment, still maintaining the shield between himself and the hellcat.

“And private, if I recall,” Lucien flickered his eyes to the viper.

“I can send her home if you’d like.” Nesta went to complain but Lucien silenced her.

“It’s fine. In fact it…it might be better for you both to hear it…” He was getting nervous, he knew it. Turning into the male that he became whenever he went to the Night Court. But they were on his territory now. God, how ironic was that.

“Is it…is…are you okay?” Feyre looked alarmingly concerned, even Nesta’s anger seemed to have settled into a soft simmer.

“I’m fine,” Lucien said quickly. Too quickly.

“Elain…” Feyre trailed off. And Lucien sighed deeply.

Then he began. He told them both of how everything had been fine between himself and Elain (promptly skipping over their minor capture in an Ashwood trap) and there had been no problem till last night where, after talking about Graysen and his new engagement – Feyre gagged, Nesta swore – Elain had dreamt of a memory and had unwittingly sent that memory to Lucien.

“So…what’s the problem?” Nesta probed, her anger now having well and truly given way to a steely determination. Feyre’s shield had even dropped.

“It’s the dream isn’t it – what was it?” Feyre asked. Lucien hesitated.

“I…I don’t know if I can say.”

“Oh no, nuh uh,” Nesta clipped, “You did not drag us across Prythian, tease us with something threatening our sister only to back out now.” Lucien sighed as he glared at Nesta because, well, she was right. He’d called them for a reason and that reason was he didn’t know what to do. The bond forced delicate information of Elain’s to be forced into his lap, but he didn’t yet see himself as someone with the clearance to deal with such things. But that didn’t mean they should just be ignored. Elain needed someone. She needed her sisters.

Right?

“The dream was a memory, and it was of her and Graysen, they were running through some woods. They were engaged and…and…” Lucien grimaced.

“What?” Feyre asked, her concerned High Lady voice coming out. Lucien just looked at her, at them both. What he was about to tell them, well, it was going to change things.

“The two of them were enjoying each other’s company and I did all that I could to not intrude-”

“What? You just stood there and watched as they, as they…” Nesta glared at him, disgust in her eyes. Fury coiled in Lucien’s gut.

“I assure you Nesta if there was a way for me to stop witnessing as my mate was lain, spread and taken by another man, I would’ve found a way out.” The words were cold, harsh, and both Feyre and Nesta recoiled slightly. They had mates. They understood.

Lucien took a deep breath and tried again.

“That wasn’t the problem. I would not have have called you if that was all,” he began, now finding he was unable to look them in the eye, “They weren’t…they didn’t actually do anything besides some mild fondling. At some point Graysen began to force himself on her, after she refused several times he got angry with her-”

A sharp intake of breath from one of the sisters made Lucien wince.

“It was then that he began to…manipulate and coerce Elain into giving ‘consent’” Lucien used his fingers to form brackets around the word. “Graysen wouldn’t stop until Elain agreed to meet him in a barn near a Eucalyptus-”

Another gasp had Lucien looking up. He regretted calling them immediately.

“Look, I don’t know how human judicial systems work and legislation differs between the Courts, but in the majority of the Courts’ eyes Graysen could justifiably be trialled for rape.”

Both sisters froze. Nesta turning to ice, her features somehow becoming more pointed and severe. Feyre looked…emotional. Her hands were shaking as she brought them to her mouth.

“Rape?” Feyre eventually gasped.

“It…it does differ between courts. In Autumn, no, it wouldn’t count. Spring legislation hasn’t been updated in centuries given how underdeveloped the Court has been with its weak bloodline, so it’s a no there too.” Lucien knew laws of Spring. He’d researched them endlessly after Calanmai. “I used to assume the Night Court was the same but, given Rhysand’s stance on sexual assault survivors I’d believe that yes, Graysen could be charged. All other Courts, Summer, Winter, Dawn and Day could all put him on trial. The exact charge is generally defined as forced or non-consensual sexual contact. It was coercion, and therefore not consent.”

Lucien had felt lifeless as he spoke. He had to. He had to take all his emotions and bury them in the deepest recesses of his mind. If stopped to think even for a moment about the fact Graysen could be charged for raping Elain, the air started to leave his body and he felt as though he’d start to have a panic attack. He hadn’t had one of those since before he met Jes.

“I don’t know if she…if she…”

“She did,” Nesta said in a cold, unfeeling voice. Her eyes were glazed and far away.

“She came back in the morning, and I found her in the gardens, she wasn’t wearing shoes and her dress was buttoned wrong and she was just wandering. I…” Nesta’s voice broke and she cleared her throat, still not looking at anyone. “I took her in for a bath and she was fine, after that. It was like it took her a moment to be convinced that she had enjoyed it. After that, she was glowing and happy. Graysen always seemed to make her so happy…”

Lucien cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I…I brought this information to you because I didn’t know what the human standards are for any of this. I don’t know how the humans would prosecute-”

“They wouldn’t,” Feyre said solemnly, a hand still covering her mouth, “Human judiciaries don’t really do…rape…the only time people are trialled and convicted is when it’s wealthy women of a certain bloodline who were clearly raped in a brutal way with a direct witness.”

Fury once more coiled through Lucien’s gut. Elain had been taught to expect this. She’d been taught that Graysen touching her like that, talking to her like that – she’d been taught that that was love.

“I see,” Lucien grappled with the beast within, “I…the bond between Elain and I has shown me this, but I feel it is not yet my place to-to-”

“We understand Lucien,” Feyre stepped forward taking his hand, and Lucien found himself leaning into the touch. As pitiful as it was, he needed Feyre to take over, to take this information off his hands for the time being. He just couldn’t – he didn’t know how – it wasn’t his place and yet –

“She’s our sister and we’ll find a way to deal with this, to broach the subject with her and find how she feels.” It was as though Lucien could see Feyre switch from concerned sister to High Lady of the Night Court, Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lucien could only nod at her solemnly.

“Lucien,” Nesta started and as he looked at her, he could practically see the internal war raging on inside those icy eyes. He just waited until she found the words. “Thank you…” She spoke at last. Lucien nodded, and that was that.

Nesta went to speak to her sister when she paused and looked down at the siphons on the back of each hand, glowing a violent shade of purple.

“I-shit…I was supposed to be back in time for training.”

“Go,” Feyre said, still holding Lucien’s hand, “We’ll talk later.”

Feyre and Nesta seemed to share a certain sisterly stare with one another, almost as though they were conversing without speaking. Eventually Nesta nodded, and with one more steely yet grateful look at Lucien, she winnowed away.

Feyre turned to Lucien.

“Thank you, Lucien, for telling us about this. I know you’re trying your hardest given the circumstance.”

Lucien nodded. Yes, the circumstance being that despite him and his mate having not truly accepted the bond, nor having truly struck up any kind of relationship, the bond has deemed it appropriate to reveal to him incredibly intimate and difficult scenarios of Elain’s life without her knowledge nor consent.

“Thanks,” was all he could mutter, though he truly felt he did not deserve her praise. A small silence settled over the two of them and when Lucien looked up again, Feyre was giving him a peculiar stare. She seemed almost…amused.

“What you were doing with Nesta, teasing her like that-”

“Sorry,” Lucien interrupted, “I understand I may have overstepped my bounds I-”

“No,” it was Feyre’s turn to interrupt, “No, that’s not it. I just meant to say that well, for a second there you seemed like the old you.”

Lucien cocked his head.

“The old me?”

“You know, the git who was horrible and snide to me for weeks on end even though he was High Fae, and I was an enslaved mortal,” Feyre was grinning as she spoke, her hands resting on her hips in a very motherly manner.

“Oh,” Lucien nodded, “That old me.”

“Is it her or being here?” Feyre asked outright and something in Lucien’s chest stumbled before he sighed, deep and long. Now that Nesta was gone, he could relax with Feyre. She was like Vassa or Jurian – as close as a friend as he had.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “She’s…I mean she’s…”

“Mhm,” Feyre grinned knowingly.

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes. Feyre burst out laughing, and when her laughter had rung out into the forest a slightly awkward silence stilted the conversation.

“It’s not…” Lucien grimaced, “It’s not perfect though. I felt her through the bond when she found out Graysen had gotten engaged. It wasn’t…she…”

Feyre shrugged as though this meant nothing.

“I suppose she’s entitled to respond a little poorly. But I understand what you mean. You have it difficult Lucien, don’t doubt that for a second. Most mates get a chance to fall in love before the bond even makes itself known.” Lucien frowned.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s common for mates to feel the bond upon first seeing one another-”

“Yeah, yeah, when I said most mates I was talking about myself and Nesta, you know, the only two examples of a mating bond that Elain knows?”

“Oh,” Lucien nodded.

“You know how it is for us, we used to be human. When you’re human falling in love isn’t something that has anything to do with fate and attitudes towards casual sex are, you know, only positive when you’re a man which – not important – what I’m trying to say is that for Elain, Graysen was a big deal. Falling in love was a big deal. Having someone choose to love her with their own Mother-gifted violation, was a big deal.”

“I know,” Lucien said softly, “I’m not trying to take that away from her. I just…as much as Elain had certain customs growing up, so did I. It’s not exactly usual for two mates to ignore a bond for two years. Rejecting? Yes. Ignoring…not so much.”

Feyre, to Lucien’s surprise, nodded.

“Like I said,” she began, “You two have it tough. I don’t think either of you are necessarily at fault. Elain hasn’t just been ignoring you these past two years, she’s been healing, finding herself. You’ve been incredibly patient but at the same time, you’re allowed to be upset at the way things have gone.”

“Right but-”

“Lucien, I love you, but everything you’re saying right now is exactly what you need to be saying to Elain,” Feyre half-laughed as she squeezed his hand.

“Right, right…” Lucien nodded, and Feyre finally let go of his hand. Though, the loss of her touch didn’t take away any of the weight of his discovery, that still hung over him like a black cloud. Feyre moved back a few paces before giving a quick shake of her body as two giant leathery wings protruded from her back.

“Rhysand says I need to keep using them,” she smiled at him, “Though I think once I get past Spring I might just cheat. Don’t tell him though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lucien laughed, holding up his hands.

Lucien watched as Feyre prepped herself for take-off, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“Feyre wait!” He called, just before she took off.

“Yeah?” Lucien paused ever so slightly.

“I did the right thing, telling you, about what I saw?” Feyre cocked her head and seemed to genuinely consider his question.

“I don’t know,” Feyre answered honestly, and something inside Lucien shuddered. “These kinds of things are sensitive, and each individual reacts differently. I would bet that Elain doesn’t understand that what Graysen did was wrong, she certainly wouldn’t consider it as rape as in her eyes she technically said ‘yes’”

“But-” Lucien growled.

“Yeah, I know, don’t worry. It is rape. I know. But in her eyes she gave herself willingly and…” Feyre’s eyes became dazed, “Just think about what this will be like for her, to find out the one person she loved most in the whole world didn’t just turn into a bad guy when she turned fae but was a bad guy all along. Imagine finding out your first love had raped you and you’d never even realised.”

Lucien shuddered and for a terrifying moment, he wondered if he might cry. With Ianthe he’d known. Every step of the way he’d known, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was better or worse to be ignorant. If he could be oblivious to what had happened in that cave, would he choose to be?

Elain’s choice had somehow fallen into his lap and in some way, this meant she had no choice at all. To tell her nothing would be making a choice, as would be telling her what Graysen had done. It wasn’t fair, for either of them.

“You better get going,” Lucien said after a moment with a quick glance to the sun placement, “Rhysand might think I’ve kidnapped you again.”

Feyre tipped her head back and let out a joyous laugh that filled the forest with magic.

“Oh Lucien,” she clutched her ribs, “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, and…” she suddenly looked nervous.

“What?”

“Promise me you and I will still be friends, no matter what happens with Elain, promise me you’ll stay.”

Feyre was looking at him with so much shy hope that Lucien couldn’t help but nod without even considering her question. Without another word Feyre took off into the skies, steering away from Lockhart Manor as to not accidentally cross Elain’s line of vision.

Lucien watched her go with a heavy heart.

Tag List:

@ladyelain @chloepereyra @exiledelain @bow-dawn

#elucien #fffaf #elucien fic #elucien fluff #elucien fanfiction #elain #elain archeron #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien #pro elucien #pro elain #pro lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #elain/lucien #lucien/elain

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kaiparker-avengerssmut · 4 years ago

Text

MAKE YOU SCREAM

Pairing | Lucien Castle x Reader

Warnings | smut, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f reviving), swearing

Word count | 1085

Summary | Lucien made a bet with you that he could make you scream

"Fuck, Lucien." You moaned, hands grabbing your tits desperately, legs thrown over his shoulders as his tongue drove you through another orgasm. He pulled away smirking, his thick fingers still buried to the knuckle in your cunt, never relenting as you moaned and squirmed.

"Told you I could make you scream." He threw out with a wink, his smug expression never faltering as you threw your head back with a particularly loud moan with another release.

It all started with a stupid bet. You were cocky enough to believe he would go through with it, but here you were - laying sprawled over his king-sized bed, eyes rolling and back arching in pleasure as he brought you orgasm after orgasm.

You lent against the bar, chin propped on your hand as you bent forward slightly, cleavage on display and legs crossed elegantly as Lucien chided away.

"There is no way a girl would pick you over me." Klaus teased, taking a big pull of his drink before setting the now-empty glass on the hard wood counter. Lucien cocked a brow.

"Oh yeah? When was the last time you made a girl scream?" Lucien jeered and Klaus' smirk grew, a puff of laughed escaping him as she shook his head.

"Why don't you ask this little one." Klaus said with a smug expression, gesturing towards you pitched beside him at the bar. Lucien took the time to look you up and down, his brows raising as his tongue poked out to smooth over his bottom lip. When both men proceeded to look at you but neither spoke, you took it as a hint it was your turn.

You were Klaus' bitch, if you like. He paid you to fuck him, and you would be more than happy to let him, for free. Your ultimate goal was to be turned, but Klaus insisted you would need 'strengthening up a bit' first. He wasn't particularly protective of you, as he saw you more as a stress relief and mid-night booty call than anything else.

"No-one can make me scream like Niklaus." You purred, leaning forward even more, tongue darting out to wet your lips seductively, a lustful fire burning in your eyes with mischief. Lucien lent forward too, his chin now propped up by his hand, too, mimicking you.

"Oh really?" He inquired, intrigued.

"Really." You confirmed, sitting back and up straight again. Lucien seemed to ponder for a moment.

"So, old friend, do you reckon it'd be okay if I took your lovely...lady for a spin? Maybe, we can test her theory." Lucien proposed, attention now on Klaus. Klaus sat back with a smile, eyes trained on his hands knowingly as he spun his glass.

"Well, shed not mine, per say. Do what you like, mate, just make sure you don't break her completely." Klaus approved, standing from his chair and starting to walk off. He turned around before he could get too far, adding, "oh, and do tell me who the winner is, sweetheart." Klaus said to you, throwing you a wink before adorning his coat and graceful walking off.

Lucien slowly pulled his fingers from you, maintaining eye contact as he slowly licked them clean, moaning around them as he tasted you.

"Fuck, you taste good, darling." He praised, his thick accent making arousal pool at your core almost instantly. Lucien stood, stripping out of his dress shirt and trousers, making quick work of shedding from his boxers and climbing over you. "Now, to make you really scream." He murmured, eyes bright with lust and he teased your entrance with his cock, running the tip through your folds before slipping the head into your begging hole.

You whined, making to grab onto Lucien but he hand other plans, collecting your wrists in his hand and holding them over your head. You were completely at his mercy, and the throat made you groan hornily.

"So...fucking...tight." He half moaned, half groaned, pushing into you inch by inch, stretching his walls deliciously around his cock. He withdrew slowly, until only his tip remained before slamming into you, hitting your cervix and making you cry out. His pace soon picked up, his pelvis smacking into yours ever time his hips snapped forward. He fucked you deep, the original burn of the stretch fading into pure pleasure as he pounded you.

You moans were loud, desperate, pleading. His grip on your wrists soon disappeared, his arms resting either side of your head, caging you in. Yours reached for his shoulders, your nails taking down his biceps and drawing blood which soon healed over. His lips dipped you your neck, sucking and licking until it was scattered with purple and red marks.

The bus teeth sank into you. At first you screamed in pain, shock. But after a moment it turned to pleasure, need. It felt so good, so exhilarating, having his fangs sunk into your neck as his dick thrusted ruthlessly into your pussy. He pulled away, having taken only enough blood to get a taste, the red liquid running from his lips and over his chin, purple-grey veins trickling down his cheeks. He smashed his lips to yours, hungrily, passionately, violently. It was all teeth and tongue, clashing and banging as you swallowed each others moans.

He pulled away, his hand snaking around your throat and squeezing lightly, resting the waters. When you moaned in response he smirked, tightening his grip so you struggled to breathe. His other hand made its way down to your clit, flicking the swollen nub a few times - sending your hips jolting up into his - before running his thumb over it in tight circles.

Your orgasm crashed over your, your back arching up and a scream so loud ripping from your throat it could have been mistaken for someone being murdered. Lucien kept going, chasing after his own release and soon getting there with how tight your walls were squeezing him.

He slowly pulled out, marvelling at how his cum leaked out of you as you payed there, utterly knackered and panting. He flopped down on the bed desire you, pressing sloppy kisses to the side of your neck before nibbling on your earlobe.

"I think I won." He smirked in your ear.

#smut #elena gilbert #chris wood #images #image #stefan salvatore #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #tvd #kol mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #klaus mikealson x reader #lucien castle #the originals smut

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missroserose · 4 years ago

Text

if you want it, got to bleed for it, baby

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

or read on AO3

groove to the playlist

ngl, tax season is eating my face. but I couldn't go much longer without writing a little more smutty angst for these two. hope y'all enjoy.

Have I mentioned how amazing @anarchist-billy is? Thanks for betaing, love. <3

“Stay with me.” Billy’s voice is low, urgent, a lifeline. “Keep the pressure on.”

Steve is there, in the passenger seat of the car, holding a wad of paper towels to the gash in his belly—and Steve is the car, too—he feels the warm gold-red glow of the bonfire, demodog corpses and dead vines disappearing into invisible smoke, fading all too quickly from the rear view mirror. The bass note of the BMW’s V8 thrums deep in his chest, hurtling towards Hawkins at near-lethal speed. The cool night air roars in his ears as Billy redlines it—he can feel Billy, too, the atavistic satisfaction of driving this amazing machine, of pressing it to its limits—

The fire disappears, and the outside world is nothing but a dark blur. No streetlights, no trees, nothing to indicate it even exists. Even their movement fades into a queer sense of unmotion, a bubble of existence floating in the endless void. The glow of the dashboard lights on Billy’s expression, drawn and set. The rumble of the car, rearing to meet the challenge. The just-warm air blasting from the heater. Van Halen on the radio, staticky signal fading in and out over the road and wind noise. I been to the edge, and there I stood and looked down—

“We’re nearly there. Harrington. Hold on a little longer.”

Billy’s lying through his teeth. Steve knows he’s lying; he’s driven this road any number of times since he got his license. Floored the gas, the same way Billy’s doing now, felt his car eat up the thirty-eight miles of two-lane blacktop, straightaway snaking between forest and farmland. Rolled down the windows and whooped, Tommy in the passenger seat, Carol and whatever girl Steve was seeing that week in the back, all of them chasing the horizon at breakneck speeds. Not for jubilation, or anger, or any reason in particular; just...because they were bored. Because they could—because they were young and free and would live forever, would be friends forever—

“What’s the rush?” Steve has to almost issue a conscious order to make himself smile, like he’s giving his face instructions over a long-distance phone call. “I’m the King. They’ll wait for me.”

Billy doesn’t look at him—can’t, at the speeds he’s driving—but his shoulders seem to loosen a fraction. “Guess that depends,” he says, threadbare bravado thin at the edges. “You don’t make it, there’s only one king left. Makes my life awful easy.”

Beer spilled down a bare chest. Red punch on a white blouse. Bullshit. Tea roses and spunk and sweat and blue eyes on his in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe it does,” Steve says, trying not to let his words run together the way his thoughts are doing. “But that’s not what you want.”

There’s a gap opening up, a space between the two of them; it takes Steve a moment to notice the knuckles, tense on the steering wheel. Billy opens his mouth, says something; a moment later, the words unfurl in Steve’s consciousness, time-delayed. “Like anyone gives a shit about what I want.”

Steve laughs a little, at that. “That’s the first lesson of being king, Hargrove.” He swallows, with some difficulty; his throat feels thick. “You’re not there for you. Every fool who wants a favor, every damsel in distress, every asshole determined to get a piece of King Billy…” He trails off, seeing a crown amidst those golden curls in a bathroom mirror, set over heated blue eyes, lips parting in a look of mingled awe and desire—

“Hey. Hey! Harrington!” Billy’s slapping at his face, one hand flapping ineffectually against his skin, just hard enough to force his consciousness to surface. Steve doesn’t particularly want to surface; there’s something looming there, not terror, but a shadow of it, a formless dread. Like the first time his parents had gone out of town, and he hadn’t been smart enough to put the breakables away before he threw the obligatory kegger. He’d spent three days waiting for his mother to return and discover one of her Hummel figurines missing, only to have her so preoccupied with his father’s latest fling that she’d left before noticing—

“Don’t you dare.” Billy’s voice is a growl, but there’s something beneath it that catches Steve’s unmoored attention. “Steve. Don’t you fucking dare die on me now. You ruined my night, you pulled me out here to chase down God knows what those rabid alien dog-things were, you’re going to pull through this and you’re going to give me a fucking explanation—”

Steve gives a small laugh, even though it hurts like a bitch. “I’m really fucked, aren’t I?”

Billy bites off his rant like a piece of taffy. “What?”

Steve issues the order to smile again, feels his face sort-of obey. “You called me Steve. It must be bad.”

“Not that bad,” Billy says, almost believable, as if he can change the state of the world through sheer stubborn insistence. “You’re gonna pull through this. You’ve got to. When the school hears about how I saved your ass? It’s gonna be a riot, Harrington.”

Steve could almost laugh again, but it hurts too much. With an effort, he diverts his reaction, reaches for bitterness instead, bile like he’s swallowing down in the back of his throat. The school. Graduation. The future. A dark unknown, filled with people whose eyes slide away from his, in respect or in contempt—“You’ve already had my ass. What do you care about the rest?” The gap between them is opening up again. Steve has a mental image for a moment of trying to leap that gap, of hanging in the air over it for a beautiful moment—wonders if people would see him then, shining golden before the inevitable plummet to the nothingness below—

But Billy’s voice is stubborn, penetrating. “Did you hit your head when that alien tackled you? Of course I want the rest. The way you swung that bat? Waded into that fight without a damn hitch?” Billy’s voice cracks a little, in disbelief, or in awe. “That’s King Steve. Not that namby-pamby asshole who haunts the hallways at school.”

And something in that voice pulls Steve towards the looming terror, away from the peaceful dark. He presses the paper towels harder to his gut, ignores the sharp pain this elicits. “Didn’t think you were looking for a king, Hargrove.”

A pause, brief and endless. Steve slips a little, tossed about in stormy waves, uncertain which way to the shore, uncertain which way is up—

Then Billy’s voice comes in, low and smoky, a beam from a lighthouse parting the dark. “I jerk off at night thinking about your lips on me.” Steve’s suddenly aware of his lips as they part slightly, but Billy’s continuing, words gushing from him like water from a burst pipe. “I haven’t bent you over your kitchen counter yet. Haven’t felt your cock twitch between my lips as you come down my throat—”

The words are gathering somewhere deep in Steve’s hips, insistent warmth, flickering but stubborn in the face of the terror. The words fall into his mind, and he drops them without thought, uncaring, because who even cares at this point? “I want to fuck you in my bed.”

A breath sucked between teeth. A glance, briefly risked, at Steve’s face, as if gauging his seriousness. “You want it in a bed, pretty boy?”

“I want you. In my bed.” The paper towels are growing wet between his fingers. “Empty house. Nobody to hear us slam the headboard against the wall.” He presses a little harder; the lance of pain stabs through him, but the image in his mind is bright as he gives a half-wrecked gasp.

Billy seems to shudder at that gasp. “Hell yes,” he says, seeming to almost relax for a moment. “Gonna hear you good and proper as you come—”

“Gonna feel you under me when I do,” Steve says, words tumbling forward heedless, headlong. “Billy. You’re gonna feel me inside you as you shake apart. Gonna walk around the next day still feeling it, and I’m gonna watch you—”

“Fuck—” Billy’s grip is white against the steering wheel now, fingers torqued tight. “Steve,” he says, his voice rough. “Promise me something.”

“Sure.” The words are fading, growing further away, but Steve struggles, holds his head up. Tries to read Billy’s expression, the hesitation in his voice. “If I can.”

“Next time we see each other, it’s just you.” Billy licks his lips. “Just you and me. No kids, no party, no—nothing. We’ll tear the phone out of the wall if we have to. Just...just us.”

Steve reaches for a careless smile. Ignores the sudden empty fluttering in his chest. Isn’t certain if he manages either. “Gotta settle up who’s king for good and all, huh?”

“Yeah.” Billy settles back into the seat, though tension still thrums through his body with the engine. Overhead, the first of the streetlights flashes by, briefly illuminating his face, determined, desperate. “Yeah, something like that.”

#harringrove #my writing #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #too young to fall in love #lemon

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maandags · 4 years ago

Note

can i have something with draco malfoy and plants

the Forbidden Forest is quiet this time of night.

granted, the Forbidden Forest is quiet pretty much always, which is mainly due to the fact that it’s — surprisingly — forbidden for students to roam and wander. for good reason, too; the man-eating spiders and the morally questionable centaurs that, among others, make up its population aren’t known to be particularly friendly towards Hogwart’s students.

this, like all the warnings your friends have bombarded you with to try and keep you from entering the Forest, did not deter you in the slightest. in fact, it just made you want to explore its woods more. and so that’s why, at twelve whole years of age, you first set foot in the Forbidden Forest. now, you only went maybe 50 feet into the Forest that first time, giggling to yourself, adrenaline coursing through your veins, hand gripping your wand — looking over your shoulder every couple of minutes to make sure the school grounds weren’t out of sight — but it was enough to give you a taste, show you the smallest of flickers of the life brewing deep inside the forest, and it left you addicted straight away.

now, four years later, your little excursions to the Forest are never more than a few days apart. you know its paths, know its flora and fauna, know every square inch of it like the back of your hand. you’re not scared anymore of going.

nevertheless, the first few steps are always a thrill. it’s the tangible change in atmosphere, the soft bed of grass beneath your feet making way for a layer of dead leaves and branches and rocks where the tiniest of creatures wriggle about. it’s not fully dark yet, so you walk slower than you usually would, allowing yourself to look around and try and recognise as many plants and beasts as possible. (another reason why you didn’t really want to stop your visits to the forest: your Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures marks have never been higher.)

after an hour or so, as you trudge deeper into the forest, the surroundings start to grow more visibly magical in nature. trees look blurred when you try to look at them directly. big leaves shift unnaturally in completely still air. sparkly birds let out trills that sound a little too human. a swarm of small, yellow-and-blue songbirds fly over. one of them swoops down and lands briefly on your outstretched arm, and you pet it, resisting the urge to bury your fingers in the fluffy plumage, knowing full well that instead of flesh and bones these birds are made of some sort of bluish-black goop that a) smells absolutely rank, b) along with sticky and very quick-hardening seems to be vaguely acidic in nature and c) is a major bitch to wash out of clothing.

the bird flies at your side for a while, trilling in response to your soft whistles, the tip of its wing tickling your cheek every other minute. you spot a few pixies, who respond to your cheery wave with a string of hoots and screeches, a cluster of three-feet-tall mushrooms pulsing with a harsh pink light, and a slow-moving cloud of gold mist, which you give a wide berth, holding your breath for good measure.

then an arrow whizzes past your ear, and your hand flies up with a gasp. your fingers come away red with blood.

you spin on your heel, hand pressed up to the side of your head, and narrow your eyes at the centaur standing ten feet away from you. ”haha, Brin. very funny.”

he levels an unimpressed stare at you. ”you know you’re not supposed to be here, Y/N.”

”you’ve been telling me that for four years now.”

”and you’ve been ignoring it for four years.”

”indeed I have.” you spin around, yanking the arrow from the tree it landed in. ”can I keep this?”

Brin glares at you. you roll your eyes but hand the arrow back to him. ”you’re no fun. that arrow has my blood on it, I should be legally allowed to keep it.”

Brin shakes his head, turning around and starting to walk back the way he’d (supposedly) come. ”I can’t even begin to explain how flawed that logic is.”

you snicker, hurrying after him. Brin might be a little stuck up, but he’s also one of the few friends you have in the Forest, and even then you don’t see him that much. ”so. how’ve things been here?”

Brin briefly glances up at the sky, and you immediately regret asking, already steeling yourself for an incomprehensible monologue about stars and the positions of planets and whatnot. if you were better in at astronomy, you probably would have been able to understand some of it, but you’re shit at astronomy, so it’s mostly gibberish to you.

but all Brin says is, ”things are stirring.”

you raise a brow. ”things?”

”are stirring, yes.”

”stirring.”

”yes.”

”the things.”

he looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed. ”I really don’t know what more you want from me, Y/N.”

you look back up at him, unflinching. ”literally anything else. ‘things are stirring’ is all I got out of you, and that’s not much to go on.”

Brin sighs, short and sharp. ”I shouldn’t have mentioned anything. forget about it. it’s not something you should concern yourself with.”

you pretend to gag. ”you sound like Bane.”

Brin opens his mouth, about to object, but stops dead, narrowing his eyes and throwing out an arm to stop you. his tail swishes from side to side and he stands still, head cocked, listening intently.

for all your joking around, you immediately shut your mouth, the tension gripping Brin all of a sudden leaking into your body as well. it’s all fun and games until a centaur gets genuinely nervous, and in those situations it’s best to watch the aforementioned centaur and do what they do. your hand slowly creeps towards your robe’s breast pocket, where your wand is stored, but you don’t pull it out yet.

Brin’s eyes flick to you, irritation flashing in them. ”someone’s here.”

you pause, not sure if this is an inconvenience or a Bad Thing. ”um. elaborate, please?”

Brin takes a deep breath. ”one of yours.”

as if on cue, the silence is split by a blood-curdling scream.

your head snaps towards where the sound came from, but it’s too dark and too far away to see. ”shit,” you mutter under your breath, before summoning a globule of light to hover in front of you and taking off in the direction of the scream.

one of you. did that mean another human? a wizard? a Hogwarts student? but no, it couldn’t be — no Hogwarts student would be insane enough to venture this far into the Forbidden Forest this late into the night.

as you follow the strangled cries of panic and yelps of pain, you start to get a dim visual of what happened, and you curse again.

Devil’s Snare. the little shits are everywhere, their roots creeping along the forest floor and waiting for any living thing to stumble across them. you’ve since learned to look out for them, jump over them and walk just fast enough to avoid getting entangled, having had a few close calls yourself.

this Snare is a particularly nasty one. old, gauging by its height and the thickness of the vines sprouting from its core. strong. fucking hell. you stop just out of reach, sending a few more globules of light to surround it as to get a better view of what the exact fuck is going on.

the person is almost completely covered in vines at this point. struggling, crying out in fear and pain, gasping for breath. the vines, of course, only tangle further around his body. after a bit of heated internal debate, you begrudgingly admit that if you’re going to help this guy, you’ll need to get closer. so you do, careful not to get too close just yet. the light you’d sent up is not enough to make the Snare let go of its prey, but it is enough to (mostly) prevent any stray vines from grabbing hold of your ankles.

”stay still!” you shout, kicking a vine away and shooting three more lights to hover around the trapped guy.

he does not stay still. in fact, he doesn’t look like he heard you at all.

in the meantime, the smaller vines have taken more of an interest in you as you approach, and you growl, muttering a spell under your breath. a straight blade of white-hot flame sprouts from your wand, and as you calmly swing it in a wide arc, the light and the heat makes the plant recoil. as you pick your way through the branches and vines, getting ever closer to the guy, whose struggling is starting to get weaker, you cup your hands around your mouth, almost singing your eyebrows with your sword of fire in the process, and repeat, ”STAY FUCKING STILL!”

”what?”

”STAY STILL. I can’t help you unless you stay still!”

a faint groan sounds, and the figure stops struggling for a split second, but the vines tighten around him and out of reflex his arms shoot out, trying to fight the pressure off his chest.

”oh my god, I cannot believe I’m doing this,” you pant, closing the rest of the distance between you with a couple big leaps, landing smack in the middle of the biggest and nastiest vines, and that’s when you discover that the biggest and nastiest vines also have spikes, because the vine that immediately wraps around your calf digs its spikes into your flesh and you cry out.

a hand flails in front of your face. you grab the wrist to which it is attached. a plan forms in your mind — a crazy plan, an insane plan that just might be the death of both you and the unknown guy. but it’s the plan you have, and thus the plan you’re going with.

with your fiery blade you cut through a few of the vines that cross the guy’s chest — and then you put your wand away, extinguishing the fire and quickly stuffing your wand in your breast pocket.

”what are you doing?” he asks, and that’s when it clicks. the indignant tone he still manages to have even though he’s being crushed to death; the curl of his lip you can’t make out in the fray but can picture perfectly in your head.

you reel back, though it’s not as dramatic as you’d have liked it to be, because a thick vine has already snaked across your back (but that’s okay, that’s part of the plan, it’s okay, it’s fine) and you only manage to be pushed back into his chest with an oof.

you wrangle free, pulling back just enough to be able to make out his face. ”Malfoy?”

recognition flashes in his eyes — nothing more than two specks in the darkness — and he says quietly, ”Y/N.”

”fucking — ow —” spikes dig into the back of your thigh — ”the fuck are you doing here?”

”I think we have other things to worry about right now,” he says faintly, grunting as he’s pushed closer to you.

you scrunch up your nose but concede, promising yourself that you’ll question him later — if you even get out of this alive. ”if I die right now, Malfoy — for you — I will come back to life so I can murder you myself.”

he purses his lips, but nods, as if to say, ”that’s fair.” it is. it is fair. little shit.

you take a breath, steeling yourself, then dive down into the tangle of writhing vines at your feet, ignoring Malfoy’s shout of your name above you.

this is where it gets gross, and where you might lose a hand. one hand comes up to your chest and yanks out your wand, and the other searches beneath you — vines, vines, spikes (ow), more vines, a single leaf, and then, finally, the disgustingly soggy pulsing heart of the plant. you give a triumphant ”AHA!” then stick your wand into the core with a squelch that makes you gag, pull out your hand and shout the sword of fire spell. the flaming blade cuts through the heart. the vines shudder — convulse — and then go limp, and you shrug them off, staggering away, gagging, tripping twice before falling against a tree and retching, a hand pressed against your stomach, taking deep breaths, trying to blink the black spots away.

as soon as you feel like you can shout without throwing up, you march up to Malfoy, who looks about as good as you feel, tear out your wand and stick it under his chin and yell, ”WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

you expect him to yell back. that’s how the two of you have always functioned: you shout something, he yells something back. he yells something, you shout back.

but he doesn’t. he just stands there, looking deflated and shaky and frankly on the verge of tears. ”thank you, Y/N.”

it catches you off-guard. you pretend it doesn’t. Malfoy never thanks anyone. ”no, fuck you. answer my goddamn question. what are you doing here?”

”I was following you, all right? I know you’ve been going into the Forest for ages, and I wanted to know what you got up to. that’s it.”

you scoff. ”right. you were just following me. that’s not creepy at all.”

”listen, Y/N. I don’t know what else you want from me.” he sounds tired and defeated and it makes you angry, because it’s so Not Malfoy that it’s unsettling, and the last thing you need right now is ‘unsettling’.

you throw your hands up into the air and start stomping away. ”I don’t know! I don’t fucking know. just — ugh!” you kick a dead tree stump, out of which comes charging a single fat gnome, waving a small stick and shouting an incomprehensible string of what are without a doubt profanities you’ve never even heard of.

”Y/N.”

”what?!”

”you’re bleeding.”

you stop walking, dropping your face in your hands and bursting into tears.

ten seconds. that’s all you allow yourself. ten seconds until you’ve got to get yourself together; ten seconds to scream and cry and sob your heart out. ten seconds, and then you take a deep, deep breath, wipe your cheeks and say, ”right,” and start walking again.

for a moment you don’t hear anything, and you think Malfoy is going to stay behind — but then he sighs and jogs a few steps to catch up to you. you walk in silence for a long time. the only words you say is when you quietly warn him not to step too close to a certain rock, or not to touch a certain flower.

when you absent-mindedly pull a leaf off a green plant and press it to your nose, inhaling deeply, he looks to you in alarm. you roll your eyes. ”it’s mint.” you inhale again, letting your eyes flit closed. ”it’s comforting.”

a little bit later, and there’s a faint rustling to your right. Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth; you rub a tired hand to your eyes. ”I was almost thinking you’d just left.”

Brin purses his lips, picking you up and wordlessly depositing you onto his back. you let your head drop against his back. ”thank you, Brin.”

”I would have helped you.”

”I had it under control.”

”I know.” he extends a hand towards Malfoy, who looks at it for a split second, then his gaze flits to you; you give a small nod, and a half second later he’s sat behind you, hands carefully resting on your hips.

”you…” your voice falters. ”you don’t have to do this, you know. Bane… and Magorian… surely they don’t approve of this.”

”they won’t know,” Brin says quietly. the forest around you slowly shifts back into a more peaceful atmosphere. the songbirds return. moonlight starts to filter through the foliage, and you take a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been needing.

a few hundred feet before the edge of the Forest, Brin stops. ”this is as far as I go.”

Malfoy slides off his back, then holds a hand for you to take, and you do, because you’re tired and wobbly and unsure whether your legs will hold your weight.

”thank you,” Malfoy says. you cast him a sideways glance. that’s the second time he’s thanked someone tonight, which is two times more than you thought he was capable of.

you nod curtly. Brin bows his head, then levels his gaze at you. ”I hope I don’t see you again, Y/N.”

you give him a lopsided grin. ”no promises.” and for the first time, something like a smile peeks through the centaur’s serious facade.

the last trek back onto school grounds is uneventful, bar the fact that the adrenaline has now completely worn off, and you start to feel sore all over, and you realise that your left leg — calf and thigh — is indeed bleeding. a lot. you have scratches on your arms and a nasty one on your cheek as well, and you’re covered in muck and grey slime. you probably look like something straight out of a Muggle zombie apocalypse film.

”you know the forest well,” Malfoy says as you step out of it.

you’re too tired to argue. ”yeah,” you reply simply. ”I love it.”

”you’ll be going back?” there’s a slightly incredulous hint to his voice, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself — you almost died. how could you possibly want to go back to such a place?

but the truth is that you do. you do want to go back. because the forest has been more of a home to you than Hogwarts has ever been. because you love its trees and its bushes and its weird magic plants and its pixies and centaurs and birds of enchantment. you love everything about it. even the near-death experiences. that’s what makes it fun.

”I will,” you say. ”I will be going back, Malfoy.” it sounds a little too much like a challenge. it sounds like you’re saying; try and stop me. I dare you.

he merely nods. he’s taken out his wand and cast a simple light spell, and the glowing tip of the wand sways as he walks. in the light, his eyes reflect gold. ”good.”

your eyebrows shoot up with the speed of a thousand Firebolts. ”excuse me?”

he grins; a boyish, sharp grin, that makes your stomach do a very irrelevant flip. ”I would have been disappointed if you didn’t.”

#you: can i have something with draco malfoy and -#me foaming at the mouth: FUCK RIGHT OFF #so uhhhhhhh aticus . fuck right off #requests #hp #draco malfoy x reader #THIS GOT SO MUCH LONGER THAN I MEANT IT TO BE OOPS

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queenofthefullmoon · 5 years ago

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An exhaustive list of Dark Souls: Remastered bosses I would or would not date

Asylum Demon

The Asylum Demon is one thick bitch but I am not interested in that fat ass.

Stray Demon

The Stray Demon is one thick bitch but I am not interested in that fat ass that reminds me strongly of another incredibly similar fat ass.

Taurus Demon

I am not a furry so I’m not interested in the Taurus Demon. Also he has a very big family and I’m not ready to go to such large family dinners yet.

Bell Gargoyles

I’m not interested in dating the gargoyles. In addition to the fact that they’re gargoyles, our love would be impossible because they’re obviously a lesbian power couple. However, the girls are SO welcome for a platonic sleepover and tea party.

Capra Demon

See Taurus Demon.

Chaos Witch Quelaag

Gaping Dragon

NO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Moonlight Butterfly

I can’t say I would like to date a butterfly, but it’s welcome to stay in my backyard and shoot spells at me when I go out the door. I think it would spice up my routine a little bit.

Sif the Great Grey Wolf

Again I’m not a furry, so I can’t consider dating a wolf, but Sif is the goodest boy and he’s super welcome to stay in my house. He’s even allowed on the couch.

Iron Golem

ngl he’s kinda jacked…

Crossbreed Priscilla

Yes? I’m stupid and bisexual? We are meant for each other?

Ornstein and Smough

I would say yes to Ornstein if he didn’t have a furry lion mask (rip), because he kinda rules and he would smash the shit out of all my enemies. Not to mention he’s a very reputable knight so we would get VIP entries to ALL the fucking clubs in Anor Lando. Smough, however, I don’t trust, given how he smashes Ornstein like a pancake when he’s down and is a known cannibale. I think he would try to munch on one of my toes while I’m asleep and flatten me with his hammer if I protest.

Dark Sun Gwyndolin

Honestly I would date Gwyndolin because they’re a graceful person. They’re kinda bratty but I feel like that would be nice for a little gossip session with your significant other (which we all know is one of the most fun part of a relationship). Also if you date them you get pet snakes for free.

Ceaseless Discharge

Just this name makes me want to throw the fuck up so no. Also he’s a flaming demon made of lava and I’m made of flesh that melts very easily. Also I killed his sister. And his mom.

Demon Firesage

The Demon Firesage is one thick bitch but I am not interested in that fat ass that reminds me strongly of another incredibly similar, less flaming fat ass.

Centipede Demon

I’m running out of way to say that I won’t date an animalistic demon.

Bed of Chaos

Conceptually if you told me I could date a bed I would be like « hell yeah » because a bed truly is the best thing in the world. Our dates could just consist of me sleeping on top of it. The Bed of Chaos, however, is nothing like the peaceful beds you and I imagine. I don’t want to be flattened by a giant tree woman and I REALLY don’t want to be flattened by a flaming (literally) witch, so it’s a no from me, chief.

Pinwheel

Pinwheel is such a fucking tragedy that I almost want to say yes just so he can have a win, but I’m not ready to commit to dating a family of three people packaged into one person.

Gravelord Nito

At first I want to say no because what the fuck is Nito? A bunch of skeletons? A mass of skeletons with skeleton babies? God, I can’t be a skeleton mom, that’s a lot of responsibilities. But then I think about how he’s kind of the Underworld God and I can’t pass on an opportunity to be Persephone. I just have to find my Demeter so I can get the fuck out of there for half of the year.

Seath the Scaleless

Dragons are already pretty unpredictable creatures but Seath is particularly unhinged. Usually I would make some room for a dragon in my backyard (don’t ask how big it is) but Seath is both a traitor and a mad scientist. I don’t want to have him anywhere near me. Imagine if he stole me away and made me into one of his fucked up experiment even though I am kind enough to house him? It would break my heart.

The Four Kings

I’m gonna say yes to this and before you’re like « oh Blue what the fuck » let me explain that this decision is purely strategic. First of all you’re dating not only one King but four, making you a quadruple King/Queen/Monarch, and you will never run out of things to talk about because there’s five of you! It kinda sucks that you have to hang out in the Abyss, the gloomiest place possible, but at least you have FOUR boyfriends.

Sanctuary Guardian

The Sanctuary Guardian is a tough boy who is welcome to stay at my house as a pet and scare any intruders. I would let him inside but I would not let him on the couch, for fear that he might rip it apart with his scorpion tail.

Knight Artorias

Yes? Of course I would date Artorias, corrupted by the Abyss or not. I know it would be harder to manage our relationship while he is corrupted and he would probably break shit all the time, but I’m willing to do it for him, just like he gave up everything for us… For all of us.

Manus, Father of the Abyss

I would not date Manus, but I would like to be his friend. I can tell he has some deep, troubling anger issues and I wish to help him with it. Perhaps a good listener, a friend, and a cup of tea could calm him down.

Black Dragon Kalameet

Okay so Kalameet is a dragon so obviously I don’t have romantic feelings towards him, but I do feel a bond. He is a beautiful large boy, and I want to keep him safe. Dragon slayer? More like dragon lover. No matter how many times he’ll try to burn me down I will always try to be his friend 4 life.

Gwyn, Lord of Cinder

Honestly I’m gonna say it, Gwyn is a DILF, and even his hollowed, ashen self manages to hold onto that fantastic beard of his, which is frankly a quality I can appreciate. I mean, the man is a god, mega powerful and rich, still has all his hair, and, as far as we know, is available. I’m gonna be a sugar baby and I’m not even ashamed of it.

If you disagree with me fuck you.

#dark souls #dark souls 1 #dark souls remastered

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scriveyner · 4 years ago

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kinktober (2020): #10

Prompt #10: Face Fucking

Explicit, SSKK/AkuAtsu, ~1600 words

It wasn't particularly difficult to find Atsushi. Rashomon sliced through the hinges on the heavy cell door, and Akutagawa remained in place on the opposite side of the hall as the door thudded dramatically to the floor. When the weretiger didn't immediately emerge from his captivity, Akutagawa stepped into the dark cell himself, a sneer already upon his face.

Read on AO3 or

"Look at you," he said, and Atsushi lifted his head, gold eyes glittering dangerously in the dim light. He was still clad in his regular clothes, shredded to the shoulder and above the knee respectively; indicative of the level of fight he'd put up before he'd been taken down. However, his wrists were secured together with thick, electronic-looking bracelets—and they matched a silver collar around his neck. To complete the ensemble was a wire mesh muzzle strapped securely over the lower half of his face. Akutagawa gave him a flat look, and Atsushi gave him a matching glare from behind the restraint.

"Took you long enough," Atsushi muttered, and ducked his head. He was crouched, backed into the corner… and, Akutagawa realized, chained to the wall by his collar. The cold pit that had formed in his stomach when he realized Atsushi had been captured solidified into a white-hot ball of rage, and instant regret that he hadn't bothered to decapitate more of the white-coat-wearing lab assistants that had scattered like the rats they were when he'd burst through the door.

Atsushi looked started when Akutagawa crossed the cell toward him, he seemed to shrink in on himself for a moment; which wouldn't do at all. Instead of using Rashomon, Akutagawa very gently unfastened the muzzle, and Atsushi worked his jaw around and then shook his head and bared his teeth. "I bit three of them before they muzzled me," he informed Akutagawa, who was just now noticing the dried blood streaked on his chin.

"I am certain you made them regret going into animal husbandry," Akutagawa said dryly, and Atsushi had the actual gall to stick his tongue out at him. "Why haven't you ripped these restraints from the wall yourself, instead of sitting around waiting to be rescued like a child?"

"Ability-nullifying collar," Atsushi craned his neck, showing off his ugly adornment. "These assholes really thought of everything."

"Except how quickly you would be missed on your days off."

"Well, they never accounted for the possessive boyfriend." Atsushi looked downright pleased at the way Akutagawa looked away angrily, the flush painted bright on his pale features. If his ability wasn't currently being nullified, Akutagawa figured Atsushi would have sprouted a tail by now just to thump it about in amusement. "Thank you, by the way. I hadn't quite figured out how I was going to manage if they sedated me again."

Akutagawa glanced at him thoughtfully, bit his lower lip, and looked away again. Atsushi was watching him alertly, and he tilted his head to the side, watching Akutagawa consider him. "Are you just going to let me stay chained up like this?" he asked, only slightly on the edge of irritated.

"I am unused to your gratitude while still…" Akutagawa's eyes flickered over him again, and Atsushi snorted air like a horse, "at a disadvantage."

"What," Atsushi asked, sitting forward on his knees, bowing his head as far as the chain would allow. "You wanna fuck me like this, is that it? You get off on me all trussed up and helpless?" When he glanced back up, it was in time to see the flash of Akutagawa's pink tongue disappearing back inside his mouth from wetting his lips again. "Wow, you do. You're a grade-A pervert, Akutagawa."

Akutagawa gave him a solidly imperious look. "I wasn't the one who suggested it, sounding like a bitch in heat."

Atsushi sighed, sat back on his heels and pointed to his face with one finger. "Look, if you really want to play, you can use my mouth if you're fast. I assume you took out everyone who would dare to interrupt us."

"Of course, I'm not incompetent, unlike you." Akutagawa eyed his mouth, and then glanced around the cell, sending Rashomon through the camera he caught out of the corner of his eye. Atsushi didn't even blink at the small spray of sparks that erupted from the destroyed electronic. "If you insist, weretiger."

Atsushi tilted his head into Akutagawa's palm as he brushed his thumb over Atsushi's lower lip. They both stared at each other, a little caught; and then Atsushi's tongue slipped out, laved over his thumb and obediently Akutagawa slipped it into Atsushi's mouth.

It was novel to have Atsushi so trussed up, stripped of all weapons save his mouth. He sucked on Akutagawa's thumb, tongue working impressively, eyes trained on Akutagawa's face and measuring his reactions, before Akutagawa pulled his thumb free and unfastened his trousers. He was aware of Atsushi's heated gaze on him, and moved in close as he freed himself one-handed, capturing Atsushi's jaw in his hand and squeezing it.

Wordlessly, Atsushi opened his mouth, tongue out and laid flat, waiting expectantly for Akutagawa's hand to guide him in. Akutagawa exhaled nosily through his nose, and pressed the head of his cock into Atsushi's mouth.

He made use of the weretiger's mouth quite frequently, really, but every time it still managed to take his breath away. Hot and wet, Atsushi's breath cascaded over his flesh, the ever-present threat of teeth just barely scraping the sensitive skin. Akutagawa moved his hand from Atsushi's jaw to the back of his head, holding him steady as he kept swallowing around Akutagawa's length, again and again until his nose was pressed into the wiry hair that framed his cock, the open sides of his trousers brushing his hollowed-out cheeks.

Holy shit, Atsushi just swallowed his entire cock.

He'd never done this before. Both his hands cradled the back of Atsushi's skull, he held him there for a long, long moment, feeling Atsushi's jaw work around him, his throat squeezing the head, tongue pressed along the bottom vein—his breath forced through his nose now, hot and rapid against the skin at the root of his cock. Then slowly, slowly, Akutagawa pushed him back, pulled his cock out of Atsushi's throat but didn't pull it entirely from his mouth before he reversed course and carefully hit the back of Atsushi's throat again.

A noise reverberated along him, Atsushi vocalizing something, it didn't sound like he was in pain but Akutagawa froze nonetheless. After a moment Atsushi swallowed again, tight, and strained against Akutagawa's hands. Akutagawa let him back off somewhat, though he didn't remove his hands. He rolled his hips slightly which pushed him back in, and Atsushi was backed off enough that his eyes were visible, slits of solid gold glimmering through his lashes and no hints of violet whatsoever. He was watching Akutagawa attentively, a challenge visible in those sun-gold slits.

Well.

He couldn't let that challenge go unanswered now, could he?

Akutagawa slid his feet slightly apart, holding Atsushi's head in both hands he began to carefully roll his hips, thrusting his cock directly into Atsushi's mouth. Atsushi vocalized around his length, didn't seem the slightest bit distressed and in fact closed his eyes, jaw relaxed. Akutagawa wet his lips and continued to thrust shallowly; at least until Atsushi closed his lips around Akutagawa's shaft and began to suck at the same time.

Rashomon shot out from his coat, slamming hooks into the concrete walls to keep him upright, fingers digging into Atsushi's scalp and pulling at his hair. He wasn't going to be able to maintain this, if he opened his mouth he would choke, so he thrust a few more times, shallowly, as Atsushi sucked the climax right out of him.

His legs buckled, but Rashomon kept him mostly upright. Atsushi coughed wetly as Akutagawa's dick slipped from his mouth, rivulets of drool and frothy cum running from either side of his mouth as he tried to clear his windpipe and swallow.

The voice that came out of Atsushi once he'd mostly cleared his throat was unlike any he'd heard before, low and gravelly from the abuse. It was hot as hell. "Feel better?"

Akutagawa found his footing and finally released Atsushi's head before tucking himself away, shaking noticeably. "That was…" excellent insane do it again "…satisfactory."

Atsushi's laugh was a smoker's cough, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and then offered his wrists to Akutagawa. After a moment, Rashomon snaked through the hair of space between his skin and the metal, and then sliced outward, immediately destroying the cuffs. "Neck too?" Atsushi tilted his chin back, exposed his throat in one of the most breathtaking displays of trust—it always, always startled him that he was so easily trusted—and Rashomon made similar work of the collar.

Immediately, Atsushi let out a snarl, dropped entirely into a lower crouch than before, head hanging low—and a shiver ran over his entire body, wicked in blue. For a split second Akutagawa saw the Tiger; or was it just the stripes running down Atsushi's arms and legs?—but then it was gone and Atsushi pushed himself to his feet, palm pressed to his throat. He coughed again, and when he raised his eyes to Akutagawa they were normal again, violet ringed faintly with gold.

"You didn't have to come down my throat," Atsushi sniffed, wiped his hand over his mouth again, though he'd already gotten most of the drool. Akutagawa gave him a look, and then stepped in close, catching Atsushi's chin with just his thumb and forefinger, examining his face up close and personal before fitting their mouths together.

Atsushi's mouth creased into a smile against his, and he licked his lips when they parted. "Shall we depart then, weretiger?" Akutagawa asked, stepping back; Atsushi cracked his neck and rotated his shoulders.

"We shall."

#bungou stray dogs #akuatsu #shin soukoku #sskk #kinktober #lemony fresh

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mercyxkilling · 3 years ago

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memory meme

@emptyvictory asked: ☽ - a memory of their father

it was getting dark, the sky painted with the brilliant oranges and pinks, slowly fading into purples as the waning sunlight began to disappear and make way for the night. it was fairly clear with little cloud cover, and the air was warm without being stifling. it should have been a perfect evening.

but mercy couldn’t enjoy any of it. she was restless, anxious, and wanted to be anywhere but home. her mother would still be awake, probably drunk by now, and if she walked through the front door mercy knew that miserable bitch would start in on her. it would escalate and she’d end the night in her room, throat raw from screaming with tears streaming down her face. it was pathetic really. no matter how much she tried to steel herself from that woman and her verbal and physical onslaughts mercy never could seem to find the right kind of armor to wear into battle. it was a shame it was so late; she’d have gone to benny’s house to hang out if she could. there were times that she’d stay over, the two of them awkwardly sharing a bed because they both refused to sleep on the floor, pretending as if the circumstances that drove her there weren’t so dire and awful. and no matter how sad and vulnerable she might have felt, benny never once tried to use that as a foothold to get into her pants. instead he was supportive and respectful, though mercy knew she was toeing a line each time she’d crawl under the covers and ask to be held. there was nothing romantic about it to her, it was only a reassurance that she was capable of being cared for by another human being, but... well. she wasn’t stupid, either. maybe it was better she couldn’t head over there now. there were boundaries she wanted to keep in place and she refused to let their friendship to be breached because she was sending all the wrong signals.

so instead she found herself out in the garage and under the hood of the nova, trying to figure out what needed to be replaced or repaired so she could finally get it up and running. it had sat out on some lot in the midst of weeds and decay and the moment she laid her eyes on it she knew that this was going to be her dream car. most might have thought her odd to have such a fascination with vehicles, but her dad encouraged her and told her she could damn well like whatever she wanted to, and that was good enough for her. his word was law. he was a cop after all.

the sound of a car pulling up into the driveway made her turn to look over her shoulder. speak of the devil. when he got out and thumped the car door shut with his hip, she noticed that he had two cups in each hand, and mercy lifted a brow and cocked her head in confusion. why did he need two coffees? and at this time of night?

“hey, kid i kinda figured you’d still be up, so i got you somethin’. coffee?” he lifted his left hand, then said, “or tea?” and lifted the other.

“uhh. tea?”

after all, she couldn’t imagine her dad ever drinking tea even once in his life. it just didn’t suit him and his gruff demeanor.

“wrong. it’s coffee. they’re both coffee. take it.”

“ugh. daaaad,” she groaned, but still couldn’t help but grin, especially when her father looked so damn pleased with himself and his terrible jokes.

“all right, all right. i’m sorry. now. since you’re out here,” he grunted as he sank down in a nearby lawn chair that they’d had set up ages ago for nights like this. “i assume your mom’s lost in the sauce tonight and you’re tryin’ to ride it out?”

“mmhmm,” she nodded as she sat in the chair next to him, both of them staring ahead at the rusty old nova rather than each other. but mercy was thankful that her dad talked to her this way. something about it made it easier.

“i’m sorry, kid. how’re you holdin’ up?”

“all right, i guess. just tired.”

“hi, tired. i’m dad.”

“oh my god, if you keep doing this i’ll never talk to you again, dad, i swear.”

he laughed and reached out to affectionately pat her on the shoulder. he wasn’t very big on hugs, but at least he made an attempt to let his daughter know that he loved her, regardless of how bad he was at doing it.

“okay, okay. i’m done now. for real this time.” the man cradled the coffee cup in his hands for a moment, then brought it to his lips to take a swig. he grimaced, then spoke again. “terrible stuff. you should try it.”

“i’ve never understood that. why would i drink it now after you just told me it was gross?”

“because i want ya to see how bad it is for yourself.”

“no. that’s stupid.”

“yeah, i guess that’s fair.”

and then they were quiet. it was easy to talk about things on the surface, the superficial and unimportant garbage that surrounded them each day, but... it wasn’t quite so easy to tackle the deeper issues. neither of them knew how to handle emotions, either experiencing them or helping another through them, though it didn’t mean that either of them didn’t want to. it was just starting the conversation that was particularly hard, at least for mercy.

she set the cup down on the concrete floor of the garage and started tugging on a stray dark curl. then her knee started to bounce and she moved on to biting at her fingernails.

“hey, hey, hey. stop that. talk to me. what’s on your mind?”

she didn’t know what to say or how to say it, so mercy just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“dad. do you think i’m weird?”

“definitely.”

“no, dad--that’s not--i meant--”

“mercy. of course you’re weird. but i don’t mean that in a bad way. in fact, i think it’s what makes ya goddamn amazin’. when you’re a kid the world tells ya that ya hafta fit in with everyone else. that bein’ different is bad and makes ya a monster or somethin’. but when ya get old the world says, ‘fuck ya, individualism is the way to go,’ and then ya realize... no matter how much ya don’t want it, you’re just as average as everyone else. but you, kid. you,” he reached out and grabbed her hand to pull it away from her mouth, partly to stop her from gnawing what was left of her fingernails off and partly because he just wanted to be supportive. “you got somethin’ special about ya. and i’m so damn proud of ya for knowin’ who ya are this early in life. not a lot of people get that luxury.”

“but mom said--”

“fuck. her. mercy... ya know you can’t believe a goddamn word that comes out of that woman’s mouth. she’s a fuckin’ snake and wants to cut ya down because she’s threatened by ya. that fire that drives ya forward no matter what happens, to keep pushin’ through... she’s jealous of that. scared of it even.”

mercy turned to look at her father askance, hiding behind her thick tresses so he wouldn’t try to conceal anything from her if he knew she was watching. despite all that caustic bite to his tone she could see in his eyes that there was a profound sadness there, and perhaps even a bit of loneliness, too. he had to have loved her once. and she might have been a different person then, someone who wasn’t a cold-hearted bitch capable of destroying others without a second thought. he must have been in so much pain, but he never talked to her about any of it. who was going to be there for him to lean on when he needed it?

mercy opened her mouth to speak, but her father started talking again before she could say anything at all.

“listen to me, kid. ya owe her nothin’. ya hear me? absolutely nothin’. and i know how much ya wanna hang on to the idea that she could change, and i know ya’ve tried to make her proud, but... there’s no pleasin’ that woman. and it doesn’t matter anyway. the one person that ya hafta live with for the rest of yer life is you. not me, not yer brother, not yer mom, not benny... it’s you, kid. so ya need to focus on makin’ yaself happy before anything else. i don’t want ya chasin’ after yer mother’s approval when ya could be spendin’ time makin’ yer mark on the world. and my god, mercy, i know yer gonna change things and leave the world in better shape than ya found it.”

she couldn’t stop the tears that were streaming down her face, but they were happy tears. how long had it been since she could say she’d cried because she felt such warmth, affection, and genuine fucking happiness? her dad had never opened up like this to her before, but she was glad that he did tonight. mercy needed to hear all of that, to know that he believed in her. as long as she had her dad in her corner she knew she could do anything.

“thanks, dad.”

“any time, weirdo.”

“you’re such a dick.”

but she still laughed as she playfully punched him in the arm.

“that is very true. now. while i’m here and we’re both still up...let’s take a look at that engine. i think the camshafts might need replaced. whaddya think?”

that was very much like her dad, to deflect once things got too heavy or emotional to deal with. but mercy was actually pretty thankful for it since she didn’t want to sit in silence bawling her eyes out next to him. she’d rather do something with more purpose. so with that she got to her feet and made her way over to the nova to look under her hood again.

“you’re probably right. crankshafts look all right, though...”

and for a good long while they worked together, dissecting the engine and deciding what needed fixed or replaced, so they could make a list of parts to get in the morning. because that’s what you did when things were broken. you swapped out what didn’t work for the things that did, and you just kept moving forward.

and now she had the extra incentive to do just that.

#emptyvictory #meme #so uh #this #ended up being way longer than i ever intended it to be #but #i've never really been able to write anything about her dad #so #i kinda went ham

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