#though perhaps i will call it gauze

[technicolorxsn]

okay maybe this isn't a joke

writes an aikawa/risu fic and tags it f/f with no explanation

[kazumist]

HANDLE WITH CARE .ᐟ

✩ — in which soshiro hoshina finds himself getting treated by his favorite nurse, you.

✩ — includes: soshiro hoshina x gn!reader. fluff. cw: mentions of blood and injuries, inaccurate use of medical terms ?? sorry i just used google uhm. wc: 990. established (secret !!!) relationship. reblogs and feedback are much appreciated !!

✩ — note: i became obsessed with these two that i might just write a part two of reader treating him after the tachikawa base raid arc actually.

soshiro hoshina does not play favorites.

when it comes to his subordinates, at least.

when it comes to the medical team assigned to the tachikawa base, however, that is when he plays favorites (though you would never see the vice captain of the third division actually admit that; he prefers calling it his “preferences”). whenever he finds himself in the base’s infirmary, he will always look for you. and when he’s lucky, which on most occasions he is, then he’ll have you treat his wounds. it’s just something that hoshina has grown accustomed to whenever he finds himself there. nothing more, nothing less (a lie).

you were a special case for the vice captain. there was just something about the way you handled his wounds compared to others. call it picky, but he just prefers the gentle treatment that you give his wounds. (how come hoshina constantly prefers to be treated by you when others would treat him the same? isn't that part of your job in the first place?)

(the answer is simple—it’s simply an act of soshiro hoshina asking for some quality time, even if he’s all bruised and bloody.)

“i’m almost convinced that you do this on purpose sometimes.”

soshiro simply grins at you. you weren’t entirely wrong—but it’s not like hoshina asks himself to get hurt when he goes out on missions in the first place. he could handle himself pretty well; he has the high position of being the vice captain of the third division, for christ’s sake. but perhaps it is inevitable that even the vice captain would come out of a mission unscathed.

“i like the concern from you.”

you give him a lighthearted eyeroll, to which he only grins even wider. "i'm sure you do," yet that grin slowly dissipated as he winced slightly at the feeling of the alcohol touching the wound near his eyebrow. “sorry, did that hurt too much?” you asked him, worried that it might’ve stung too much for his liking. this type of close proximity was normal for you and him. after all, it’s not like this is the first time your face was this close to his—though those are times when hoshina feels rather affectionate with you rather than in pain due to some wound he got.

“nothing i can’t handle, love.” he says, recovering quite fast from the alcohol sting. he was then met with a gentle tap on the lips—hoshina knows it was a warning from you. “watch your words, vice captain.” you say, applying a small gauze pad to his wound and securing it with paper tape.

“can’t really help it when you look so pretty up close, sweetheart.”

you ignored his remark but soshiro could see the smile that tugged on your lips at the petname. you then moved on to his next wound, which is on his left shoulder. his expression softens as he watches you inspect his wound, a small amount of guilt bubbling up inside of him. “this is gonna need a little stitch,” you sighed, grabbing another cotton ball, pouring the right amount of alcohol on it, and preparing to gently dab it on the wound. “and this might hurt a bit again.” you give him a heads up.

“like i said, it’s nothing that i can’t handle,” he reassured. whether it’s you he’s reassuring or himself to convince himself, neither of you really know. he hissed slightly when the cotton ball came into contact with his skin; it was barely even heard that he hissed in the first place. but you noticed it; you always do. you would notice everything about the man before you and he would do the same.

after cleaning his shoulder wound, you proceeded to prepare to stitch it up. there was no one else in the infirmary at the moment; it was now only you and hoshina there. he silently watched you as you quickly arranged the surgical suture. and even when you started the stitching, the deafening silence was still comfortable. 

soshiro gently raised his right arm since it was uninjured and used his hand to smoothly tuck your other strands of hair behind your ear. you looked at him, raising an eyebrow at his gesture. he smiles at you in return. “your hair might get in the way. we don’t want my stitches to have your hair stuck in them now, don't we?”

you quickly finish up the stitch and put gauze on top as well. “i’m sorry.” soshiro’s apology is as genuine as it always is whenever he gets treated in this same room. “i’m starting to feel quite better now, though. couldn’t do it without my favorite nurse.” he continues, as he grabs ahold of your unoccupied hand.

he hears you chuckle at his words as you interlock your fingers together. “avoid arduous training or activities for a good one week and you’ll be good as new.” you said, sighing as now you’re finally done with treating your boyfriend. “eh? no fair. i have to go help the rookies train the day after tomorrow.”

“i’m sure captain ashiro would let you off the hook in the meantime, soshiro.”

“oh, we’re on a first name basis now?” he asks, and this time it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. you bring your other hand up to his cheek, caressing it as your thumb grazes his cheek bone. he leans into your palm as if it were a reflex. “we’ve always been on a first name basis, dummy.” you say.

“maybe all of my pain could go away if you just gave me a little kiss, you know, as your vice captain.”

“now that’s just abuse of authority. do you ask other nurses for a kiss too?” you pouted.

“that’s why your my favorite nurse.” he replies, clearly emphasizing the word “favorite” as he steals a kiss from you.

yeah, vice captain soshiro hoshina definitely does not play favorites.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Warnings: mentions of blood and serious injury (^ I mean yeah, look at the gif), language (duh, it's me—there's always swearing lol), but also there's fluff? idk man this one is all over the place haha

"Fuck! Oh, fuck," you gasped, flattening yourself back against the workbench behind you for a brief moment, but it was short-lived. You peeked up over the top. No sign of Alpha or walkers, for now. You turned and looked at Daryl again. He was covered in blood, and though you'd seen him this way before (too many times) this one was perhaps the worst. "Fuck," you muttered again, quickly unbuckling your belt and slipping it under his leg, tightening it down above the wound as a makeshift tourniquet in an attempt to at least slow the torrent of bleeding. Daryl let out a pained grunt and exhale as you made sure the belt was tight enough. "Please tell me that you called for backup on your radio and were not just planning on dealing with this on your own," you murmured, again digging frantically in your bag and clumsily pulling out medical supplies. Gauze and bandages scattered out across the floor and you tore them open.

Daryl was gritting his teeth and breathing heavily, his chest heaving up and down. "I can't do that while stickin' to our honesty policy..." he drawled.

You froze for only a minute to shoot him a look that seemed to be equal parts terrified and exasperated with just a touch of amusement at his words, despite the situation. "Why must you insist on being so reckless?" you countered, tearing his pant leg wider and pressing a thick wad of gauze down onto the wound. "Haven't I told you that I'd like to keep you around?" You quickly wet a spare bit of cloth and mopped at the cascade of blood on his face before leaning in to examine the injury on his forehead.

"Yeah... but I got low self-esteem. Ya prob'ly are gonna have to keep tellin' me," Daryl said through another wince.

You paused your gentle dabbing with the cloth and pulled back slightly to meet his blue eyes. Your hand went to his chest and the next thing he knew your lips were against his, somehow both gentle and heated. The pain in his leg seemed to lessen. His heart raced. His head went entirely fuzzy and light—and he was at least 90% sure it wasn't from the blood loss.

"If you die, I'll kill you," you said, pulling back just a little.

Daryl gulped. "I can't die now. I gotta stick this one out so I can kiss ya again under better circumstances..."

"Goddamn right, you do."

[xiaq]

Part 1 Here

Prompts combined for Pt. 2 are : Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an idiot (affectionate), Wayne Finds Out, and Everyone is Queer Because I Said So.

Wayne Munson knows he’s not the best parental figure. He never liked kids. Never wanted kids. And he nearly said no when the social worker called asking if he wanted to take guardianship of his thirteen-year-old nephew. Because surely there was someone better suited. Except then the social worker told him why Eddie had been removed from his father’s care. About the magazines Eddie’s father had found in Eddie’s backpack that preceded him kicking Eddie out. About the fights Eddie had been getting into at school. About the song lyrics his temporary foster had found in his journal. And suddenly Wayne wasn’t so sure there was a better option. He knew there had to be people more equipped to raise a traumatized queer teenager, but there was no guarantee Eddie would end up with one of them. The opposite was far more likely. Wayne knew firsthand that much of the world was unkind to people like them.

In the years that follow, they don’t talk about it. He figured once he’d won the kid’s trust, Eddie would bring it up in his own time. Or maybe Eddie would ask why Wayne spends a weekend in Indy once a month or maybe ask who he’s spending the weekends with. But somehow those conversations never happen and Wayne doesn’t force them. 

It’s not until he finds Steve Fucking Harrington keeping vigil at Eddie’s hospital bedside that he thinks maybe he should have pushed the issue sooner. 

Because Harrington looks like he’s been through a war. He’s covered in blood and grime; only his arms, washed to his elbows where he’s holding Eddie’s hand, are clean. He’s looking at Eddie with naked emotion. And, perhaps most damning, he’s wearing Eddie’s battle jacket.

When Wayne enters the room, Harrington startles and says, “Hi. I’m Steve Harrington,” like Wayne and everyone else in Hawkins weren’t already aware of that.

“I know who you are. I know who your father is, too.”

“I’d uh, prefer you didn’t hold that against me.”

Wayne makes no promises. “How do you know Eddie?”

“We’re…friends,” Steve says. There’s a continent of things unsaid behind the word.

“And how are you in his room past visiting hours?”

“I bribed the nurse," he admits. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“Well. On that, we’re agreed. But I’m here now. And no offense, kid, but you look like you should be in one of these beds yourself.”

“Yeah. I told them once you got here I’d let them stitch me up. It’s not anything life-threatening.” He says this with the resigned intonation of someone who is familiar with the difference.

What the fuck has Eddie gotten himself involved in?

Harrington stands. It’s a slow, painful, movement, and he only lets go of Eddie’s hand at the last possible second. “Can I—I’d like to come back. After. If you don’t mind.”

Wayne considers him. He considers Eddie’s blood-smeared vest on the kid’s shoulders. He realizes, belatedly, that Eddie’s guitar pick necklace is hanging around Harrington’s bruised throat, the rings usually crammed onto Eddie’s fingers lined up on either side of the pick.

“Sure,” he says. “Be nice to have some company. And you can tell me what the hell happened.”

Harington sighs. “Not sure how much I’m allowed to tell. Or how much you’ll believe. But I can try.”

Wayne takes his place holding Eddie’s hand.

He tries to ignore the fact that Harrington stands in the doorway for more than a minute, just looking, before finally slipping into the hall.

He’s back a few hours later, clearly showered, wrapped in gauze, and wearing the preppiest goddamn outfit. Honestly, Wayne can’t fathom how Eddie and Harrington have anything in common. He’s also still wearing the necklace, though. And when he pulls up a chair to sit on the opposite side of Eddie’s bed, he removes the necklace and carefully, downright tenderly, returns the rings to Eddie’s fingers. Wayne notices, almost despite himself, that Harrington isn’t just guessing at the placement, either. He knows. So either he’s intimately familiar with Eddie’s fingers––something that, as impossible as it sounds, is starting to seem more and more likely––or he’s particularly observant. And that kind of observance speaks to its own sort of devotion. 

Wayne isn’t excited about either of these options.

He’s trying to figure out how to ask if Steve Fucking Harrington is Eddie’s boyfriend without scaring him away when Eddie shifts, which has Wayne and Steve both jumping to their feet.

“Wayne?” he murmurs. And Wayne isn’t one for emotional displays but he finds himself participating in one for the next few minutes nonetheless.

Once he gets ahold of himself, Eddie’s head turns, slow with painkillers, to see Harrington.

“Stevie,” he says, grinning. “Hey. I’m not dead.”

“Despite your best efforts,” Steve chokes out. His hands are fisted under his armpits and he looks about five seconds away from crying. Not that Wayne can judge since he’s more than five seconds into crying.

“What did I tell you, what did you promise?” Harrington snarls.

Eddie’s grin dims. “Not to be a hero. But Dustin––shit. Dustin. Is he...”

“Fine. Sprained ankle. Pissed as hell at you. Everyone else is fine too. Max is down the hall. She has some broken bones but she’ll be alright.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs. “How did I—“

“We went back for you.”

“We?”

“I,” Harrington grits out. “I went back for you. Thought you were dead. Carried you back anyway. Didn’t realize you were still breathing until we got you in the car. Drove like hell to the hospital.”

And that’s. Well, shit. Apparently, Wayne is going to need to temper his distrust of this particular Harrington. Because it sounds like he saved Eddie’s goddamn life.

“He also refused treatment and waited with you until I got here,” Wayne feels he has to add. “Despite the fact he was bleeding everywhere.”

Eddie glances between them, eyes huge. “Shit. I’m sorry. Hey, no, don’t––”

Steve is crying now, not even trying to hide it, and Eddie holds out a hand, wincing. “Come here, man, I’m fine. Or I’ll probably be fine, right?”

“So says the doctor,” Wayne agrees. 

Steve doesn’t need a second invitation.

He all but collapses, carefully, into Eddie’s outstretched arms, and Eddie’s hands bunch into the fabric of Steve’s sweatshirt and he crams his face into Steve’s neck and they’re so––their obvious, desperate, affection for each other is so unapologetic that Wayne has to look away.

 It’s not until later, when they’ve hashed out the basics of the insane upside-down phenomenon, that they finally convince Steve to go home and sleep.

He waits ten seconds after the door has closed to exhale, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Jesus, kid. I knew you had expensive taste with cigarettes and guitars but this? He’s the closest thing to royalty this town has.”

Eddie lets out a hysterical little warble of a laugh. “No. No, no. That’s not—we’re not.”

“What the hell are you then?”

“Friends. Bonded through extreme trauma.”

“But you’d like to be more than friends.”

Eddie looks at him askance “I’ll take what I can get and I won’t ask for more,” he says quietly.

Unfortunately, Wayne is well familiar with that kind of love. He just can’t get Steve’s expression out of his head. The gentle way he’d replaced Eddie’s rings. He doesn’t think Eddie’s interest is as one-sided as Eddie does. But he doesn’t want to meddle. He’s certain they’ll figure themselves out.

Two months later, Wayne is starting to think they’re both idiots. Because half the time when he gets home from his evening bar shift––a new job after the plant disappeared into the fiery abyss––Steve’s BMW is parked down the street and when he cracks Eddie’s bedroom door he finds them cuddled up, asleep. Sometimes he’ll go to rent a movie and Steve will be wearing a shirt that Wayne knows is Eddie’s and half the time when he wakes Eddie up in the mornings he’s wearing a pastel sweater monogrammed with initials that don’t belong to Eddie. He’d think they’re together and keeping it quiet if not for the fact that Eddie is driving him absolutely insane with pining. He’s written three songs about longing and heartbreak in the last two weeks and if Wayne has to listen to one more wailing ballad he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

He’s walking back from the bar after closing, only a mile from the new fancy trailer the government had installed for them when he passes Harrington’s conspicuous vehicle a few houses down. He sighs. The boy really has no sense of subtly. 

He’s expecting to find them, as usual, asleep in a tangle of limbs, except when he reaches the porch stairs, he can hear the boys talking.

He pauses with his hand on the railing.

“What are you doing,” Eddie murmurs, voice just carrying from the open living room window.

“Well. I’d like to kiss you, if you’d let me.”

About damn time, Wayne thinks.

“Steve, wait,” Eddie says. And it’s so quiet, so uncertain, that Wayne is tempted to open the door right then if only to prevent Ed from sounding so broken.

“I can’t be a practice run for you,” Eddie says, “Please. I can’t. I wouldn’t survive that.”

“A––what the fuck, Eddie.”

“It’s just, I know this is new to you and I’m, obviously, all about exploration and, um, finding yourself. Congratulations. Yay. But I can’t be an experiment. Not with you. I can’t.”

“You’re not an experiment,” Harrington says, voice a little louder than Wayne would prefer, given the circumstances. The trailer park isn’t exactly spacious. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. I want to kiss you because I’m in love with you, how could you think—besides. This isn’t that new. I’ve kissed other guys.”

“You’ve what? Who? When?”

“Just. You know. Friends messing around. I didn’t know that made me bisexual until I talked about it with Robin but apparently, I’ve been kinda gay this whole time.”

“I’m sorry. You thought making out with your basketball buddies was…a standard heterosexual pastime?”

“Well, when you say it like that.”

“What other way is there to say it?”

“Okay,” Steve says, “I already had this conversation with Robin this morning. I don’t need to rehash it again. So I’m a little bit of an idiot. Memo received.”

“Jesus, Harrington. You just found out bisexuality was a thing this morning and now you’re here, what, asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“I mean, yeah. Ideally.”

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you.” Eddie sounds disgustingly fond.

“Eddie. I just said I love you.”

“You did,” Eddie says, high and cracked. “You did say that.”

“So if we could refocus.”

“Right.”

“I don’t expect you to say it back, but––”

“God, you really are an idiot. Of course I fucking love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then that’s––well, that’s probably his nephew getting his first kiss from Steve Fucking Harrington.

Wayne decides to give them to a count of thirty before interrupting, but just as he’s about to stomp his way up the stairs, Eddie says, “Sorry, sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

“Hey, no. It’s ok. Neither have I, really. But you’re crazy if you think I’m going to fuck you right now,” Steve says.

“I meant kissing. Hold on, does that mean you would be willing to fuck me later?”

Wayne winces. There are things he does not need to hear come out of his nephew’s mouth.

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, “You’ve never been kissed before? How is that possible?”

“Who would have kissed me?” Eddie hisses, “ I’m the town pariah. And until I met Robin I didn’t know any other queer people existed in Hawkins. Though apparently, I should have just joined the basketball team since you’re having orgies or whatever.”

“The first two were on the swim team,” Steve says. 

“First two. How many were there?”

Steve ignores him. “And that wasn’t––you’re so hot, though. And your band has played in bigger cities. Haven’t you ever gone up to Indy to any of the bars there?”

“I need you to understand,” Eddie says, “that I am 90% bravado and 100% anxiety.”

“That’s not how percentages work.”

“Steve.”

“Sorry. Okay. Well, if this is your first kiss then I better make it good, huh?”

“Yes. That is absolutely the burden placed upon your capable shoulders should you choose to––oh.”

Eddie stops talking and doesn’t start again, though he does make a breathy little noise that Wayne takes as his cue.

He stomps up the stairs as loudly as possible, fumbling longer than necessary with the door handle, and pushes his way inside.

The boys are both shirtless, clearly in the process of shoving themselves away from each other. Eddie’s face is pink and his lips are kiss-swollen and Harrington’s back has a set of welted scratches on it that Wayne imagines are a perfect match for Eddie’s fingers.

“Well, shit,” Wayne says. He definitely should have opened the door sooner.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Eddie says.

“What the fuck else what it be?” Steve says, only sounding a little hysterical.

Except then the kid is pushing Eddie behind him and squaring up to Wayne with his jaw clenched and his head high, the discolored ring around his neck, still not yet healed, the scars down his belly, on display. Wayne is well-acquainted with the nuance of a man posturing versus a man who would gladly throw himself into a fight, even one he’s not certain he’d win. Steve Harrington is indisputably the latter.

Wayne can’t decide if he’s offended or endeared.

“Stand down, kid, I’m not going to hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t let you.” 

“That is…extremely apparent.”

“Steve,” Eddie says. “It’s ok. He knows. Or. We’ve never really talked about it but.” He meets Wayne’s eyes. “He knows. It’s ok.”

Eddie pushes around him, stepping into Wayne’s open arms.

Steve watches distrustfully as Wayne wraps Eddie in a hug.

“You’re both safe here,” he says. Mostly to Steve, since he’s the one who needs to hear it. “And I’ll call up my boyfriend in Indy and have him vouch for me if you don’t believe me.”

Harrington’s expression is just as magnificent as Wayne hoped it would be.

“Your what?” Eddie shrieks.

Part 3 Here.

On AO3 Here.

Tempted to do one more from one of the kid's POVs when the kids find out. Thoughts?

[sassenach77yle]

7x10 “Brotherly Love”

THE NEW MEDICAL CHEST sat on the table in my room, gleaming softly in the candlelight. Beside it were the gauze bags of dried herbs I had bought during the morning, the fresh bottles of the tinctures I had brewed in the afternoon, much to Mrs. Figg’s displeasure at having her kitchen’s purity so perverted. Her slitted eyes said that she knew me for a rebel and thought me likely a witch; she’d retreated to the doorway of the cookhouse while I worked but wouldn’t leave altogether, instead keeping silent suspicious watch over me and my cauldron.A large decanter of plum brandy was keeping me company. Over the course of the last week, I had found that a glass of it at night would let me find surcease in sleep, at least for a little. It wasn’t working tonight. I heard the clock on the mantelpiece downstairs chime softly, once.I stooped to pick up a box of dried chamomile that had spilled, sweeping the scattered leaves carefully back into their container. A bottle of syrup of poppies had fallen over, too, lying on its side, the aromatic liquid oozing round the cork. I set it upright, wiped the golden droplets from its neck with my kerchief, blotted up the tiny puddle from the floor. A root, a stone, a leaf. One by one, I picked them up, set them straight, put them away, the accoutrements of my calling, the pieces of my destiny.The cool glass seemed somehow remote, the gleaming wood an illusion. Heart beating slowly, erratically, I put a hand flat on the box, trying to steady myself, to fix myself in space and time. It was becoming more difficult by the day.I remembered, with sudden, painful vividness, a day on the retreat from Ticonderoga. We had reached a village, found momentary refuge in a barn. I’d worked all day then, doing what could be done with no supplies, no medicines, no instruments, no bandages save what I made from the sweat-sodden, filthy clothes of the wounded. Feeling the world recede further and further as I worked, hearing my voice as though it belonged to someone else. Seeing the bodies under my hands, only bodies. Limbs. Wounds. Losing touch.Darkness fell. Someone came, pulled me to my feet, and sent me out of the barn, into the little tavern. It was crowded, overwhelmed with people. Someone—Ian?—said that Jamie had food for me outside.He was alone there, in the empty woodshed, dimly lit by a distant lantern.I’d stood in the doorway, swaying. Or perhaps it was the room that swayed.I could see my fingers dug into the wood of the doorjamb, nails gone white.

A movement in the dimness. He rose fast, seeing me, came toward me. What was his

“Jamie.”

I’d felt a distant sense of relief at finding his name.

He’d seized me, drawn me into the shed, and I wondered for an instant whether I was walking or whether he was carrying me; I heard the scrape of the dirt floor under my feet but didn’t feel my weight or the shift of it.He was talking to me, the sound of it soothing. It seemed a dreadful effort to distinguish words. I knew what he must be saying, though, and managed to say, “All right. Just… tired,” wondering even as I spoke them whether these sounds were words at all, let alone the right ones.“Will ye sleep, then, lass?” he’d said, worried eyes fixed on me. “Or can ye eat a bit first?” He let go of me, to reach for the bread, and I put out a hand to the wall to support myself, surprised to find it solid.The sense of cold numbness had returned.“Bed,” I said. My lips felt blue and bloodless. “With you. Right now.”He’d cupped my cheek, calloused palm warm on my skin. Big hand. Solid. Above all, solid.“Are ye sure, a nighean?” he’d said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Ye look as though��”I’d laid a hand on his arm, half fearing that it would go through his flesh.“Hard,” I’d whispered. “Bruise me.”My glass was empty, the decanter halfway full. I poured another and took hold of the glass carefully, not wanting to spill it, determined to find oblivion, no matter how temporary.

Could I separate entirely? I wondered.

Could my soul actually leave my body without my dying first?

Or had it done so already?...

95 NUMBNESS~An Echo in the Bone

[kurishiri]

Alfons Sylvatica ┊ Chaotic Night

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— happy christmas, friends! i present to you...a halloween story lmao this is alfons' story from the chaotic night collection event (featuring will and nica)!

— cw: some suggestiveness, but no portrayed smut.

Due to having ingested the Queen of the Night flower, the Cursed ones’ appearances have changed——

And pulling my hand, Alfons brought me to his room.

Kate: Why did you bring me to your room?

Alfons: You’re asking me that in earnest? There are brutes, all with their Curses amplified, riddled about, you know?

A: With you around, why you’d be gobbled right up.

Kate: But, everyone’s appearance has changed and there may have been changes in their condition... I would think there’s quite a bit of inconvenience.

K: I’m not affected by this, though, so I figured there was something I could do to help or take care of those around me...

Alfons: I do understand the sentiment of wanting to take care of others, but you may end up worrying too much.

A: Just like the ‘Queen of the Night,’ our sins have also amplified...

A: So I would imagine everyone is trying their hardest to hold in the impulses smoldering in their chests.

A: It would be in our best interest to lay low then.

(He does have a point there...)

Kate: ...Alright then, I’ll stay here quietly.

Alfons: Oh, but if your soft and good heart stirs so much and you want to look after someone so much you can hardly bear it, then do take care of me.

A: See, dear me, Alfons’ appearance has changed as well, and what a dire situation he is in, yes?

...was what he said, as I once again looked over his body.

(For some reason, he’s wrapped around in gauze...)

(He’s not wearing a costume, and he’s looked like this since he ingested the queen of the night extract, right...?)

As gauze was not meant to be put on and removed by one’s own volition, even if he lightly pulled on it, it wouldn’t come off.

Kate: With that look... are you hurt anywhere, or did you go through any pain and whatnot?

Alfons: Hardly. My whole body from head to toe — oh, and this place too — is thriving.

(‘This place’...?)

Kate: Umm... if that’s the case, then it’s fine for now.

K: But, now that I’m looking at it again, it’s kind of strange... why do you look like that?

Alfons: In fact, that was exactly what I wanted to ask you, Kate.

A: You would be the one to know why I’m taking on such a form.

A: After all, whatever appearance I take on is a reflection of your desires.

Kate: Your appearance reflects my desires...? What do you mean?

Alfons: Up until now, I have been showing others illusions.

A: And so, if the extract amplified such an ability...

A: Then, even without touching the back of the other’s neck, I would be able to show them what they wish to see, perhaps?

A: ...Besides that, it was when you laid your eyes on me that I changed appearance.

Kate: B-but I don’t ever want you hurt in the slightest!

Alfons: That is the least I can tell, even without your passionate declaration.

A: You are hardly the type to wish harm on me.

Kate: Then why...

Alfons: Hmm, well...

A: ...Ahh, I have an inkling. This is Japonisme, isn’t it?

Kate: Japonisme... you mean how the culture and art from a country called Japan became a trend?

Alfons: Exactly that. In Japan, there is a type of clothing called a kimono, you see...

A: And within that is a part called the obi [1], in which all will be laid bare with one flourish... was a part of their culture.

A: Oh, and by the way, when it’s been removed, the wearer would shout, ‘Oh me, oh my!’ while falling upon the bed.

Kate: ...Was that really a thing?

Alfons: Who knows? I, too, have only ever heard it in passing... well, anyhow, what I wanted to say was...

A: You probably wanted to wrap me in bandages before pulling it all off in one go.

Kate: Wh— why would I be into that sort of naughty thing...!?

Alfons: But you could have been influenced by me, no?

Kate: ...It pains me to admit that I can’t completely argue with that.

Alfons: Ahha! I won’t judge no matter how many strange hobbies you hold, you know?

A: How about you try to take them off, just to test the theory?

(Just what desire of mine caused Alfons to take on such an appearance, I wonder...?)

(It’s not as though I particularly like bandages...)

Then, while thinking about my own tastes...

Alfons: Urgh...

Alfons let out a small groan.

Kate: Did something happen!?

Alfons: The bandages around me wrapped even tighter... and it’s become a tad painful.

Kate: Wha...

Alfons: ...Ahh, but worry not. I do feel being bound to your desires like this isn’t so bad...

As Alfons said that, his expression looked a little pale. He was clearly holding it in.

(I need to stop my desire quick, or Alfons will continue to be in pain like this...!)

(Bandages... bondage... just what’s the reason? What in the world am I wishing for...!?)

I continued to mull on it as hard as I could, in hopes of saving Alfons... when it was then I realized.

(Could it be...!)

Kate: Alfons, say, ‘There’s only the two of us in this room’ to me!

Alfons: ...? ‘There’s only the two of us in this room’...

Albeit hesitant, Alfons said those words, and...

Alfons: Ah... the bandages feel more loose.

Kate: Thank goodness... which would mean my guess was right.

Alfons: Care to explain?

Kate: Well... the other day when we went out to eat together, there were a lot of women in the shop...

K: And many of those women seemed pretty taken by you, so...

K: I ended up thinking, ‘If only nobody else could see Alfons...’

Alfons: Hehe... I see now. So that’s what it was.

A: You didn’t want anyone else seeing me, and so by wrapping me all around in bandages, you could hide me away... is that it?

A: In that case, ‘there’s only the two of us in this room’ would make sense.

A: If it’s just the two of us, there is nobody but you to see me, so there would be no need to wrap me up in bandages then.

Kate: So it really was my desire that left you looking like this... I’m really sorry.

Alfons: Why the apology?

A: To see your earnest love manifest in a way that’s easy to understand is rather a good thing, no?

A: Love is an invisible thing, and at times I do question its existence. But... to see it like this, it does put me at ease.

With an amused smile, Alfons kissed me.

The heat and sweetness of those lips melted away my guilt.

Alfons: ...Say, Kate. There is only the two of us in this room, with no one to interrupt.

A: So what would follow then?

Kate: T-that...

I was too embarrassed to form any more words, but it no longer had anything to do with whether I said it or not.

My desire unbound Alfons’ bandages, causing his clothes to become disheveled on its own.

Alfons: ...You’re quite naughty, aren’t you, Kate.

While laughing happily, Alfons pushed me down on the bed.

Each of us consuming a jumbled mess of Curses and love, this Chaotic Night was just getting started.

Fin.

masterlist🪞 ┊ ko-fi ☕️ ┊ comms🤍

NOTES:

[1] The obi refers to the part of the kimono, traditional Japanese clothing, that is a sash. It might look something like this.

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 11: You Are My Queen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI)—missionary, unprotected PiV (do not endorse, wrap it up), "fucked dumb" (more like "fucked tired") if you squint, food stuff (... idk it gets messy. Honey is involved.) ❧ Word Count: 10.2k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: After the defeat of Negan and his Saviors, you are confronted with the pain of what you've experienced, and you must confide in Daryl. Of course, the bittersweet moment becomes a reunion fit for lovers.

❧ A/N: Um so hi! You guys didn't think I was never gonna finish this did you? I mean I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I did it! I mean, I tried. I had a few different ideas for how to end the series, and then I realized that this isn't quite the end. I am going to write an "Epilogue" chapter that will just be wrapping up everything with Ezekiel and basically the princess telling her dad about Daryl. But for now, this is the end! Now I gotta focus on Begin Again now that I finally have this done(ish). Hope you guys like it, and thank you for waiting <3

Far from the carnage and warfare, miles away in a secluded wood, the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the small cottage in a warm glow that seemed so distinct from the deep, dark night that surrounded outside. 

The scarlet wound on his thigh bubbling with vinegar and wine, you held a wooden spoonful of warmed honey, letting it drip slowly over the clean injury. After the bath you’d given him, he wore nothing, save for the loose drawstring braies of linen that reached just above his knee. 

Your delicate fingers spread the translucent liquid gold over the surrounding skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you kept note of his visage. Though his face was relaxed, and softened by the warm glow of the fire, he was stoic. No matter how you treated his wound, he did not flinch, or so much as show any signs of discomfort or pain. 

As you wrapped his leg with a clean gauze, you spoke to him, cutting through the silence that had settled between you for the last several minutes. 

“Does it not hurt?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper. 

“No,” he replied simply, though that was not entirely true. The blade had been the worst hurt of it, but now, it was only a dull sting. Perhaps so much pain in his life had heightened his tolerance, or dulled his sense. 

In fact, the sensation was pleasant. All he could really feel was the soft pads of your fingers gently spreading the liquid over his skin, the honey acting as a soothing agent after the cleansing properties of the wine and vinegar had settled into the open wound. 

Wrapping the last bit of gauze around his thigh, you gently folded the linen of his braises back over, a soft puff of air escaping your lips all the while. 

“You are brave,” you said, your eyes lifting with a gentle flutter of your lashes. 

With a shift of your legs from underneath you, you carefully replaced the spoon of honey into its jar, setting it aside upon the floor next to you. It felt good to no longer be upon your feet, now bandaged and clean after Daryl had so adamantly insisted that you let him do so. Now, though, you’d tend to him, after everything he’d done for you that night. 

But with the fortitude of a true knight, he did not show pain nor pride. He did not bask in any glory or relish in his victory. He did not shed a tear, his limp as he walked not slowing him down or keeping him from getting you to the safety of the cottage. Not only was he brave, but he was humble. The man you’d once called a sorry excuse for a knight had turned out to be a paragon of gallantry, though he never had to prove that to you. You’d known the error of your words since he returned to you that night so many moons ago, promising to take you beyond the walls without payment or worldly reward.

That seemed worlds away now. The way you’d looked at him then was a far cry from now, when before you was the embodiment of the greatest warmth and sweetness you’d ever felt. The swell in your chest had cut your breath short for a moment, while the knight shifted on the floor cushion upon which he sat, leaning forward to pull you closer by your hands, until you were cradled in his arms, your body curled up upon his lap and your head resting against his bare chest. 

That was when your breath came back, the soothing motions of his hands caressing your sides reminding you of the safety he gave you now. Negan was no more, the Saviors were no more, and soon, your father and the surviving militia would meet you here, but now, there was nothing in this world except him, and you. 

When time just began to crumble away, your eyes heavy with the promise of sleep, you were brought back to the surface of consciousness by his voice, steady and low.

“You are brave.”

A puff of amused air escaped your lips, though you did not contradict him, only listened as he spoke, that voice of his more soothing than the honey on his wound. 

“You killed Negan.” 

Though you could not regret your actions, you shivered at the thought of that moment, the knife driving into his back, the feeling of the blade tunneling through tissue and finally puncturing his frozen heart. It made you cling tighter to his chest, as if to cower from the memory that haunted you in the back of your mind. 

“If you hadn’t, I would not be here now, holding you.”

Indeed, that was what he was made for―holding you, serving you. Just as you clung tighter to him, he held you with more strength, not out of fear that you’d be taken from him again, but out of sheer devotion. 

“And I owe you my life.”

“No,” you replied, almost startling him as you lifted your head. As if by instinct, he held your chin softly, the calloused pad of his thumb stroking its soft skin in short, but slow, back and forth motions. “There is nothing that you owe to me. Certainly not your life.”

Though you remained stern in your expression of earnestness, his lips curled into a gentle smile. 

“I owe you everything. My life’s devoted to serving you, you know that.”

But as you looked at him, his eyes so full of love and hope for the future he had with you, there was still a hesitation inside you. It was like a parasite, worming its way inside your heart to keep you from fully embracing the comfort he brought you. It had not held such an effect on you, until now. Now that you could comprehend it, the hideous guilt that troubled you so. 

He could see it in your eyes now, too, as evidenced by his smile fading and his eyes, still filled with that same love, growing dim with concern. 

“What is it?”

To keep it from him would only cause more abject pain, but to hurt him, to tell him of the betrayal that you believed you had committed against him. How could you go on, now that the thought of that man’s cold, slimy hands all over you would not let you rest in the arms of the man who truly loved you?

And if you told him, would he rebuff you, disavow his love for you and never even hold you again? 

“Nothing,” you said, but the quiver in your slowly faltering voice betrayed you, and the feeling of a cold, dead hand strangled around your heart made you shiver. He brought you closer to his chest, where warmth briefly tore you from the icy snare of guilt and shame. It was only a temporary respite, though. The only way to rid yourself of this regret was to tell him. 

Another man’s mouth had been on yours, the salty, bitter taste of which you swore still lingered and made a mockery of your once pure lips. You’d truly never felt that Daryl had ever taken any purity from you. In fact, he made you more pure, but the bitterness of Negan’s filthy tongue had sullied you, you believed, and now you were nothing more than a broken woman, despite how whole you felt when he held you in his arms.

“Tell me,” he said, with that eerie whisper of knowing on his breath. Even the soothing circular movements of his splayed out hand on the small of your back were made with careful concern. Indeed, he knew that whatever troubled you must have been to do with what had transpired within the last week. 

Afterall, the blot of watercolor black and blue around your eye gave him an inkling, one which made anger well up in him like molten lava bubbling to the surface, igniting him with a kind of rage that was strong enough to bring that scum of a man back to life just to slice his head clean off a second time. And, oh, would he do it again if he had the chance, just to know, again and again and again, that the man who tormented his princess could never bring more harm to her, or anyone else.

“Daryl, I…” 

Your words having fizzled out into thin air, you shook your head and loosened yourself from his arms, as though you were unworthy of their embrace. The more you thought of that night, the more you believed that to be true.

“What happened?” he asked, his body beginning to stiffen as he mirrored you—both of you frozen in fear of whatever you would say, if you would say anything at all.

For a moment, he felt both weightless and heavy, in some kind of strange limbo wherein worry overtook his physicality before any words could confirm the worst of his fears. It washed the color from his face, where once a warm pink had blossomed from the feeling of the nearby hearth and your body so close to his, once again, after everything that had happened. 

Now, he could only begin to think of the heinous things that could’ve been done to you… Knowing how Negan had looked at you, how he touched you that night of the joust. There was something sinister in his eyes then, and now, there was a similar dread in your expression as you looked away from him, eyelids heavy and head downturned.

With a gentle hand on your shoulder, his instinct to hold you too strong to completely ignore without at least a single touch, he began to speak again—voice quiet yet raspy. 

“Did he… did he touch you?”

Of course, he had, but what Daryl meant by his words seemed deeper than their surface level definition. The vitriol in his voice, the sting of the word touch, which once might have been so much more beautiful on his lips, was palpable, lacerating your heart further. If it wasn’t for the pain of the guilt, you would still feel the hurt of the sadness in his voice. 

You raised your eyes to meet his, though his face was blurred in the haze of your tears. A kind of shocked concern shaped his expression as he held your cheek with so much delicateness, as though you were but an assemblage of rose petals sewn together with gossamer twine.

He spoke your name now, low and almost a whisper. There was something so earnest about that, the way he called you only by your name and nothing else. No title, no epithet. Just you, just a woman, but not just a woman at all—a woman for whom he’d give the skin off his back to keep warm. 

With his fingers laced delicately through your hair, he begged you with his eyes, glassy and clear, almost translucent to the point you swore you could see his soul bared before you. Even just in his stare, he made himself vulnerable to you, and soon, whatever fear you had of him turning on you melted under that comforting, warm gaze. Just for a moment, you gave in, and used your tongue to forcibly tear out the words that were stuck in your throat. 

But still, you could not look at him as you spoke.

“Yes, he…” Your voice trailed off, followed by a deep breath of air you’d hoped would give you the strength to continue, but it only brought forth the tears that threatened to give way.

Two big arms encircled you hesitantly, slowly enough to allow you to break free had you not craved his touch, but his touch was all that could give you peace now. No further questions were needed, he surmised. He wasn’t sure he could even bear to know more of what was done to you, so he kept you in his grasp, which you did not fight. 

With a shaky voice, he spoke against your cheek as he held onto you. Your head found a cradle in his shoulder, where tears wetted his bare skin. On his breath was a gentle shhh sound, like a light breeze rustling the leaves of an ancient oak in cool night air. It comforted you, along with the steady motion of his hands on your back, moving in slow, languid circles. 

But no longer could you only contain your emotions to your sobs. Now, you raised your head and faced him, looking him sharply in the eye despite the pain that singed your heart with each syllable:

“I had a plan,” you began. “I… I only wanted to get close to him. He called me to his chambers… I had a knife. I let him touch me…” Once again, you could no longer hold his gaze. You continued on, now tripping over your own words as you scrambled to explain, through a tear-soaked voice that trembled in fear of whatever reaction you’d receive. “Only just with his lips… His filthy lips. Then as soon as I could, I tried to stab him. I swear, all I wanted was to get close to him, long enough to kill him.”

The knight only looked at you with a steady gaze, one that only softened with each passing moment. You felt his arms tighten around you, and you weren’t sure if it was an attempt to comfort you, or to suffocate you. Either way, you would’ve died a thousand times to feel that touch.

But you longed most of all, now, to know exactly what he was thinking. To hear those words you knew must’ve been brewing inside that head of his—those words that would crush you under the weight of their rebuke. Though those words never came, no shame or disappointment, only another kind of pain in his eyes. A pain that was born of your sadness as each tear you shed sent a new wave of agony through his aching body.

Shakily, you whispered to him, pleading in all but words for him to tell you how much he hated you for betraying him, for letting another man touch you. “My love… Won’t you end my suffering and speak to me?”

At times, Daryl’s movements carried more meaning that any service his vocal cords could provide. All he could do in that moment was hold you by your cheeks, his thumbs meandering in circles to gently rub the tears into your skin. 

And, finally, he did speak, but his words caught you off guard far more than you thought possible. 

“What are you afraid of, princess?”

Afraid of?

“I… I do not understand.”

“The look in your eyes, the fear. You look afraid of me. Why?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you shook your head, both in denial and in confusion. “I do not fear you.”

Quite the contrary, you wanted nothing more for him to hold you until your heart gave out. 

“I—I fear that you will detest me,” you continued, now trying desperately to let your tears drown out your words. “I fear I’ve betrayed you.”

In your mind, you had, and Daryl would have had every right to leave you now: alone and pitiful. Though he didn’t. He only kept his eyes on yours, and though you had a shameful urge to look away, you could not tear your gaze from his. There was no spite in his eyes, no bitterness or loathing. Not even anger. 

All you could see in his eyes was the same gentleness, the same kindness and utter servitude that he devoted to you with each passing moment his eyes took you in. That sentiment had always been there, nothing had changed, no matter what you could say. It would never change. There was no enmity there, only the strength of his love for you. 

His hands held your cheeks still, pulling you gently closer until his forehead softly touched yours. The feeling made you shudder, as though still you could never fully comprehend the sensation his touch gave to you. You were sure that you would never get quite used to that feeling, though you never wanted to. That sense of novelty was a pleasant sensation all on its own. 

“My princess,” he said, his grainy voice barely above a whisper as his nose touched yours. His lips began to upturn ever so slightly into the softest smile, natural and sweet. “There’s nothin’ you could do to make me think that.” 

As you shuddered a shaky breath, he held you closer still. You let out a heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been lingering deep inside you ever since you escaped the Sanctuary.

“You’re trembling,” he said, running his coarse fingertips along the exposed skin of your neck, until his hand met the loose neckline of his chemise that you borrowed, draped over you more like a dress than a shirt as the oversized garment reached just below your thighs. He leaned back to look at you, still sniffling back tears. With a strong hand, he swept back your hair to nestle it in the warm crevice behind your ear. 

“You cold?” he asked, already beginning to tug a blanket from under a nearby cushion. “Here—”

“No.” Your suddenness nearly startled him. It reminded you just how fragile he was, no matter how reluctant he was to show it. “I’m all right.”

Daryl knew, though, that you still could not shake the guilt, like a vulture’s ravenous gnawing at your heart. He knew you too well, so well that it almost frightened him. There was no one else with whom he could see through, whose transparency reflected a deep, intrinsic understanding beyond conscious comprehension. The depths of you were overwhelming, but he could never fight the profound urge to navigate them, despite the sadness that his love’s empathy could bring.

With a deep breath of his own, he brought you back to his lap. The ease with which he could manipulate your body with the most gentle yet sudden caress would never fail to momentarily paralyze you. You melted into his arms once again. It was only a matter of time before you became completely at his mercy, though there was absolutely no part of you that protested, except maybe that last shred of guilt. 

“You know I love you,” he said. “You know I serve you.” You must have broken out into a smile, because he, too, smiled. “And you know that you’re here now. You’re alive. Whatever you did to get here, whatever I did to get here… They’re sacrifices—risks.”

You found your hands returning to his body, their place on his broad, firm shoulders solidified like indentations in concrete. Swallowing hard, you felt a chill run through you, but it was not from the fear of losing him now—it was the effect of his touch, his hands having found their way beneath the shirt he lent you, sprawled out over your back, stroking in gentle rhythms. 

“Daryl.” Your voice seemed to crumble under the pressure of the air that you spoke shakily into, the utterance of his name so delicate upon your trembling lips. “What I did, it haunts me. Perhaps you can forgive me, but how will I forgive myself, when I let that man��”

He did not let you utter another word before he interrupted, his own voice soft with sympathy. How he could remain so patient with you in this state, you would never know.

“I know your heart, I know you.” Now he all but forced your weary head to rest upon his chest, where the gentle beating of his heart warmed your cheek. “The only anger I have is for the man who touched you, not you.”

But still, it was hard for you to forget. The only cure to that ailment seemed to be Daryl’s touch, his assurance that he loved you beyond what words could convey. You needed his touch, but not just skin to skin. There was more, a lingering desire that floated between you perpetually, yet was stronger now than ever before. 

It was a desire that penetrates, that longs to be penetrated. The kind that only lovers of the truest caliber could satisfy in the company of one another, the company which you had been deprived of for far too long. 

The pestilence Sir Negan left for you to wallow in would only be destroyed by the greatest expression of love—that which made all pain and sorrow and suffering pale in comparison to the feeling of knowing that your heart was in the safe hands of no one else but him, your lover. 

Your knight. 

When silence overcame you, he uttered your name softly against one cheek, while his hand delicately brushed over the other. If he touched you anywhere else, you might crumble into a million pieces, like an ancient Grecian statue carved from the most fragile marble. 

Only the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth could be heard against your soft breaths caressing the shell of his ear, while your hands crept carefully up his chest, brushing over the creases of his underarms to grasp at his shoulders. They felt so hard, so firm and unbreakable. You held them tighter now, and in response, he tightened his arms around your waist to bring you ever closer, until your lips found his.

The kiss was tender, light, each of your lips dancing softly over the other’s. With a tilt of his head and a brief respite, he caught your lips again, this time more firmly, yet still somehow cautious. 

Perhaps he’d never grow completely forthcoming in his lust for you, which seemed almost sacrilegious, yet somehow sacred. He knew that he’d be killed for this, but how on God’s green earth was he going to keep his hands off you? How could any star up above in those vast, empyreal heavens compare to the gleam in your eyes when he uttered your name, each syllable dripping with honeyed cadence? How could the rich, melodic refrain of any skilled bard’s lute come close to the dulcet sighs that tickled his ears so delectably, almost tauntingly? How could there be anything more soft, more supple, than your body—that which occupied his thoughts far more often than he could ever truly admit? 

Even your scent roused his most lustful thoughts, that sweet citrusy musk entangled with heady notes of the most intoxicating rose, the petals of which could not compare to the plump, velvety lips he traced his work-worn thumb over now, parting them gently until a sliver of darkness formed, with just a flash of white where your teeth could be seen. 

Finally, those lips opened just a bit more to speak again. “I want to forget that night,” you said. “I want to forget everything that’s happened… besides you.”

Truly, nothing was of consequence to you now, but him. You wanted to be enveloped in him. To be absorbed in him. To be one with him.

If he hadn’t been so lost in the vibrant hue of your glittering eyes, speckled with sparks alight from the nearby hearth, he might’ve noticed the feeling of your hands exploring his bare chest, your palms melting against the buttery surface of those defined muscles. When the sparkle in your eye lost his attention, he did feel it—that soft touch with just a hint of something more… indecent.

With a slow, meandering movement, never taking those silvery blue eyes from yours, he took both of your hands in his, where they rested so delicately in the strong cradle of his warm palms. He brought them to his lips, the touch of which was so featherlight that you could barely even hear the sound of them pressing an ever so sweetly suggestive kiss to your hands. 

It was then that the chemise you wore slid slowly off your shoulder, its size much too big for your frame. With even just your collarbone and the slope of your neck now exposed, much to the delight of his increasingly wandering eyes, he knew there was no escape from the desperation you awakened in him. Only it was not just desperation, but the insatiable urge to provide for you the comfort you so needed. It was written clear as day in your eyes.

Even so, you could not let the heavy air between you go without another plea, though it seemed to him almost like a command—from a princess to a knight.

“Make me forget.”

And so he obliged, not with another kiss, but with a tight grip on your waist, lifting you until you sat upon his lap, where the heat of his center warmed the bare underside of your thighs. After he took a moment to gather his thoughts in the midst of his sudden haste, he did not keep you in that position for long. The feeling of your weight upon his lap was too divine, nearly too much. If he took you now with too much urgency, that which was so strong he could hardly hide it, he might reach the peak of his pleasure much too soon. 

So you were caught in a slight whirlwind for just a moment, in one last burst of quickness punctuated by a low, raspy rumble in his voice. Now you were laid out rather ungracefully, resting on piles of weaved woolen blankets and furs strewn loosely upon the floor. 

There was not as much hesitation now, having already seen your body in its most bare form. He lifted the chemise over your head with ease, and when the fabric no longer obscured your vision, you met his face—a gentle, almost unnoticeable curl of his lip. 

Above you, his eyes took their time roaming your chest, but not just your breasts. There was a delicateness to you everywhere—the slope of your collarbones, the way your shoulders rolled as you started to grow aroused, the pulsing of the strained tendons in your neck. 

But before he could bring his lips to kiss your neck as he so deliberately planned on doing, he noticed the now tipped over jar of amber-colored honey slowly dripping from the lip of the vessel onto the floor, not far from where your hair had been strewn about amidst the sudden movements of passion. Those same movements must’ve caused the nearby jar to lose its balance. 

Now brought to his attention, the silken honey seemed to shimmer with a warm, enticing glow. His heavy, blown-out eyes returned to your body, now with a sparkle of mischief, perhaps. You weren’t entirely sure, as you’d rarely seen such a quality in his gaze before.

In a trance of combined anticipation and confusion as the man held his half-naked body over yours, you looked up at him with innocent questioning. 

“My knight?” you asked quietly, your voice only a faint, fragile whisper, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “You seem confounded.” A soft tickle of laughter trailed off from your voice. “Does something trouble you? You moved with such vigor only a moment ago.”

He was unsure of how to explain in words the idea that came to him then, though you seemed to have grown accustomed to his sometimes reticent nature. That would prove to work in his favor now, as he all but remained silent in response to your questioning, opting instead only to scoop a bit of honey onto his index and middle fingers, slowly removing them from the jar with a hefty glob of the sticky substance. 

You turned your head to watch in confusion, which quickly became concern.

“Does your wound need more honey? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he replied simply, with a more serious tone of lust to his deep, gravelly voice, the vibrations of which sent a fresh shiver down your spine. 

For several moments, you were held hostage by his gaze, which roamed down the expanse of your neck. Your heavy breathing told him what he needed to know—the way your chest heaved with each passing second. You craved him, more than ever before, perhaps. With each new breath, he swore he could hear a slight pleaing whimper just trailing behind. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, he brought his honey-drenched fingers to your lips, already slightly agape. 

But he did not want to force the liquid into your mouth, only to coat your lips in its sweetness. 

So he traced the shape of your lips, leaving behind a trail of gold sheen to glaze the soft, plump skin. Despite your slight disorientation, you allowed him to do as he pleased. After all, there was no other way to forget the pain of all that you’d experienced. No other way to be completely enveloped in the pleasure of love. 

Soon you could taste the honey seeping into your mouth, dripping slowly onto your tongue. It tasted sweet, of course, but as his lips gently pressed to yours, the taste seemed even sweeter. 

Between your lips was a sticky mess of warm sighs and saccharine wetness, with his tongue invading your mouth impatiently, swirling feverishly as your hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders. 

Your touch ignited a fire in him, deep in the pit of his stomach, from which a guttural moan melted into your mouth. 

And he knew there was more of your body that he needed, more skin he could drench in the warm nectar of the honey, more skin he could lick clean. 

A fragile sigh escaped your trembling lips as he separated himself from you abruptly, though the disappointment in your voice compelled him to return to your honeyed lips for just a moment to kiss them in an offer of apology for his momentary departure. 

He separated once more, leaning to the side to find the jar of honey, and immediately collecting another hefty, dripping glob of golden syrup. 

There was a shaky whimper in your voice when he trailed his honey-drenched fingers over your breast, circling slowly around the nipple. 

The more he applied to the soft tissue of your nipple, the more the substance globbed and began to drip slowly, like molasses, down the slope of your breast, making your back arch at the tickling sensation. 

The knight could only watch your breast become drenched in translucent golden liquid, the subtle scent tempting him to come closer, until you could feel his warm breath against your heaving chest. 

An absent-minded sigh escaped your quivering lips, with his name: “Daryl…”

Just as he heard it, his own name spoken on the wings of a swan’s breath, his flattened tongue caught a plump drip of gold slowly making its way down your breast.

He licked upwards then, reaching the hardened bud of your nipple, where his tongue circled eagerly now, yet with a slowness just enough to delay your pleasure, to properly torment you with his toying attention.

But his own temptation prompted him to take the whole sweetened nipple into his mouth, which craved above all else to taste every inch of you—the delicate, virtuous princess writhing naked underneath him as he made use of your body to the fullest extent of his desire.

With his mouth upon your aroused nipple, he suctioned his lips, now himself becoming too impatient to merely kiss the engorged flesh. 

The feeling sent your head reeling backwards against the pillow, with a low, breathy moan. Each kiss made you cry out louder, more impatiently as your body craved more of his kisses. 

But what he wanted was more honey.

So he took the jar again, this time tilting it so that the golden liquid began to drizzle in zigzag patterns over your chest, then your stomach.

Now you felt drenched in honey, sticky with it. Not to the point of discomfort, but amusement at his fascination with it, his tongue now licking up the trail.

You let out a quiet laugh, your voice low and sultry as you began to speak. “You’re making a mess of me.”

He did not stop lapping up at the drizzled honey, except to look up at you with a subtle mischief gleaming in his eyes of quicksilver blue for a few moments, long enough to say, “A very sweet mess.”

Soon his lips returned to yours, while his chest pressed against yours in a sticky embrace. You couldn’t help but laugh softly against my mouth, while your hands reached up to loosely tangle in the soft umber colored tresses upon his head. 

And it felt like heaven to him then—your softness underneath him, your own sweet taste overpowering the saccharine honey, the tickle of your laugh fluttering against his lips, the slight scratch of your fingernails upon his scalp, the intoxicating warmth between your legs opening up to take him in as your legs wrapped around his waist. 

That eagerness of yours made him snicker. Unable to resist the urge to chide you a bit, he pulled his lips away for a moment.

“Your highness seems restless,” he said, nodding his nose against yours with a small but wicked smile curling to one side of his face. “I thought princesses were supposed to be patient and proper.”

With a tilt of your head, you glared up at him, only with a very slight sense of playful annoyance.

“You know nothing of patience or propriety, depraved knight. It is you who so wantonly tempts my resolve… Who compels me to crave your devilish touch, which causes my weary mind such carnal turmoil.”

The knight’s quiet laugh seeped out from the charmingly crooked crack in his lips. With a low hum, somewhere between amusement and lust, he leaned down to kiss his increasingly restless princess once more.

When the kiss broke, he brushed the back of his hand against your heated cheek in soothing motions as he spoke softly against your slightly pouty agape lips. 

“Those are big words,” he said, with a low rumble of laughter underscoring his scratchy voice. “They sure sound pretty on your lips.”

As your hands absentmindedly roamed the broad expanse of his heaving chest, the muscles underneath the hair-speckled flesh flexing under your soft touch, you met his gaze from above you with a mischievous glimmer in your eye.

“My love,” you hummed softly, your eyelashes fluttering slowly against his cheek as his mouth roamed aimlessly over yours. “You torment me with your caresses… Your sweet touch.”

“You said it was devilish,” he replied between kisses, using your dramatized words against you. 

“It is,” you laughed softly. “Devilish and sweet. But it’s your touch. I wish to feel it every moment of every day and every night for all eternity, and the eternity after that, and before that, and every eternity in between.”

Daryl’s hand lifted to the side of your face, gently placing a strand of unruly hair behind your ear, to continue his increasingly feverish onslaught of kisses on your other cheek. 

“Yes, your highness,” he replied, much to your amusement. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Mm, you’re mine.”

After a momentary pause, he seemed to turn more serious—almost frightening—as he grabbed you with more impatient vigor, your arms having no choice but to cling around his neck. With your face surrounded by soft tresses of brown hair, you let out an instinctive cry, as though he was a predator and you were prey, about to be devoured. Though there was nothing in your biology that compelled you to fight him off. You’d accepted your fate, and you welcomed it.

Your weight was suddenly cradled by the softness of the bed beneath you, though your legs were still wrapped tightly around Daryl’s waist. That did not keep him restrained for long, for he soon unraveled himself from your entanglement and began to strip himself of his worn linen braies.

There was hardly any time to marvel at his anatomy—he soon climbed back over you, catching your breath with his mouth once again. You could at least feel his now unhindered length, though. You could feel it harden between your legs, where the warmth of your soft thighs made his cock begin to twitch from the pressure. 

As though your body wasn’t close enough for his liking, he looped his arm under the arch of your back, lifting you up just enough to feel your belly pressed against his. If he concentrated enough, he swore he could feel the delicate fluttering of your excitement inside you.

The tingling became stronger now, his body moving above you with enough rhythm to force his cock against the fleshy folds between your legs. The feeling was still so foreign, having only felt it in its fullest form once before, but you knew that tingle just from the sight of him, the smell of him, the taste of him. He did not even need to touch you there to make your body react in such a way, you were certain. 

Taking notice of your soft moans against his lips, and the slight gyration of your body, he used his free hand to find the warmth that so enticed him. His fingers settled in that crevice, staying still for a moment, until by some impulse they began to move. Up and down, up and down… A rhythmic motion not unlike the way the rest of his body moved, too. For your part, you broke the kiss to let out a moan that could not be contained by the velvet cage of his adoring mouth any longer. 

“Oh!”

Your head had tilted back so far that your neck was now exposed, completely subject to his will. As his hand moved not faster, but with more pressure, more insistence, he trailed his lips down your jawline, leaving messy, imprecise kisses along your perfumed skin. 

Applying increasing pressure, he sank his fingertips into you, that warm, sodden opening between your legs. The sensation was still so new, though the slight burning pain was less than before. You only clenched your teeth slightly, feeling his fingers extend deeper within you, curling upwards toward your belly. 

For a moment, he could not pay attention to anything but the way you felt—the way your body reacted to his invasion. Your passageway seemed to pulse around his fingers ever so slightly, as if it was some innate reaction, coercing his fingers further.

He only noticed your slight discomfort when he looked at you, your eyes shut tight. He pressed his lips to your cheek, his hair falling in your face. It was soft, yet ticklish, like a curtain of brown feathers draped over you.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice a soft, soothing whisper. If his touch wasn’t pleasing you enough, his voice so gentle and yet gruff was sure to push you over the edge of pleasure and into the realm of extraordinary bliss. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s only slight… You’re quite gentle.”

Against your cheek, you could feel his lips curl into a smile. All the while, his fingers moved slowly, back and forth, migrating between the shallow part of you, and the deepest part.

“Do you like it this way, your highness? Slow… gentle? I could go faster, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a laugh, you shook your head, amused. “You could hurt me and it would still feel like heaven.”

He smiled down at you, then pressed another kiss to those plump, agape lips, sparkling with wetness and trembling with desire. Daryl was never a particularly confident man, but something about the way you wanted him, craved him beyond anything he’d ever known, he felt like he had the whole world in his hands. 

And now, he felt the world quake and shiver round his curled fingers, an accumulation of warm wetness pooling where his knuckles breached the entrance of your body in repetitive motions. Coupled with the aching softness of your uncontrollable moans were the sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the rhythmic, involuntary squeezing of the canal creating drenched and airy sighs of its own. 

As his fingers pulsed inside of you, you clung tightly to his shoulders, the tan, sun-freckled skin stretched thinly over defined muscles. A strained sigh escaped your lips as your fingers dug into his skin. Daryl’s pace slowed steadily to keep you from coming too soon, but he knew you were so very close. 

It amused him a little, the way your body was so sensitive to his touch. He found arousal in the way he could so easily bring you the ultimate pleasure, and the way he could withhold it at will. Despite how subservient he was to you, he could not help but revel in the dominance that came over him when so much control of your perfect body was given willingly over to him.

But you sighed and pouted as his fingers paused inside of you. Opening your eyes, you tilted your head and looked up at him—he traced your jawbone with his finger, while the fingers he had inside you playfully wiggled upwards to make you shiver.

“Daryl,” you sighed, not quite sure what else to say but his name.

In response, he smiled as hazy silvery blue eyes roamed your face, taking in each and every flawless feature. “You’re so beautiful… My sweet angel. I’d like to have you like this forever.”

Though your heart fluttered at his sweet words, you could only muster a few words, as your body anticipated its release: “Do not stop.”

But he did the opposite, removing his fingers altogether and leaving you throbbing, writhing desperately as you groaned softly. 

Panting, he sat up, lifting himself up from the bed to look at you, taking you in for a moment as he decided on what to do next. After all, he was leading the way. 

Before you could say another word, or even lift up your head to see what he was up to, you felt his hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you towards him as he stood at the end of the bed. 

You managed a surprised exclamation at the sudden jolt, your legs now spread just wide enough to fit his body as he climbed over you, his weight holding you against the bed. Now he kissed you again, with lips and tongue moving wildly over yours. Lost in this passion, you found your hands exploring the wide, muscular surface of his back, moving in erratic circles. With each flex of his muscles underneath your soft palms, you let out a breathy sigh, swallowed by his mouth on yours. 

As much as you craved his kiss, you knew you craved the hardness between his legs that was pulsing against your sodden entrance more. It was so close to being inside you, so close to that feeling you had only known once before, that you coveted ever since he first made love to you. There was an overwhelming emptiness there always now, where you hadn’t quite felt one before. You had known the carnal pleasures of sex, and now it was like a curse of desire had overtaken you. Not a desire just for the feeling, but for him, and the feeling only he could give to you. 

He felt your desire, too. It only heightened his own as his lower body moved against yours, assuaging his hunger for the embrace of your body just enough to keep him from spoiling this moment of closeness with his impatience. You deserved more than a quick burst of passion that ended in an underwhelming sensation of relief. That was what he’d only known before, after all―mindless, loveless moments with nameless, faceless women who could satisfy his purely biological need in the most practical exchange of goods. These occasions were few and far between, but never satiating beyond that primal desire. This was unlike anything he’d felt before, and to make love to someone, real love, was a change of pace he had to orient himself with. A most welcome change, of course. 

But he could not hold out much longer, he knew this of his body well enough. So at last he pulled his lips away from yours, his focus turning to the space where your bodies were so close to connecting. He reached down, with a series of gruff pants escaping between his lips, to bring the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

There was just a tickle of his flesh brushing against yours, but it was enough to elicit a shiver and a sigh against his sweat-dripping cheek. There, you pressed your lips to his face, with the salt of his clammy skin on your tongue. As he slowly entered you, you felt your body loosen, no longer tense with need, but now just beginning to feel full and warm. 

And with a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself further. Despite how slow he tried to move, he could not waste another moment―he did not want for anything in this moment but to be completely inside of you. 

The feeling lingered for a while as both of your bodies rested in place. He did not move, neither did you. There was only the erratic beating of your hearts and the heavy breaths escaping your lips. Daryl’s head found its place in the space between your head and your shoulder, where he found refuge in the warmth of your hair, scented with galgant and cloves. 

Though you could bask forever in the feeling of him inside you, still and deep, your desire was to feel him move again. 

As if on their own accord, your hands moved swiftly down his back to squeeze the flesh of his buttocks, as you’d call it. Ass, as he would call it, you were sure. The feeling elicited a laugh which tickled your cheek. 

“Where did you learn to do that, princess?”

“Nowhere,” you replied, just as he lifted himself up to look down upon you. There was a look of playfulness in his eyes, with a considerable amount of increasingly impatient lust. It excited you more, so you moved yourself as much as you could in an attempt to feel the friction of his cock inside you. 

Amused at your clumsy wiggling, he relented with a subtle swirl of his hips and a movement of his body which pulled him further out of you, until he slowly buried himself deeper again. 

His arms propped up the bulk of his weight as he moved in and out of you at increasing pace, his breath becoming more and more ragged all the while. Nothing could hold him back as he began to lose control of himself. Every cell in his body screamed for release, and he couldn’t slow down now. His lower body moved faster with each thrust that shook you to your core, where the tingly feeling of pleasure was building up inside once again.

Wide-eyed and breathless, your hands moved to his shoulders in an attempt to keep yourself steady, but it was no use. His sheer physical strength and size was enough to make your body practically seize from the force of his thrusts. In these desperate, hungry movements, there was a deep reverence—a kind of devotion you’d never known before, not even as a princess. He made love to you like it was an act of worship, in every conceivable way.

From the way he focused on you, as though the sun and stars revolved around you, to the feeling of his body making every frantic, passionate movement not only to sate his need, but to please you, he wanted nothing more than to serve you, as was his sworn oath.

And as you came closer to losing control of your loins, your body squeezed and writhed around him. In a fit of pleasure, so close to the precipice of bliss, your back arched and your head was thrown backwards with an involuntary spasm, as your legs clenched tight around his waist to draw him further into you. 

He was so deep, and you felt so full. The pain was there, lingering, as you were stretched open again and again. In all your ignorance, a part of you feared he’d tear you open, but you trusted him—your gallant, noble knight.

Now your hands held for dear life to his upper arms, where well-worn and well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat and ached with each part of him that needed release, which was soon to come. Your heavy, quickened breaths formed a pattern that seemed to match his, with occasional moans, groans, and even a slight curse or two escaping his tightened lips. 

And soon, a sudden wave of vibrations overtook you—that sensation you’d been dreaming of since the first night he bedded you. It was like a hurricane sweeping through your body, each new pulse of tingling pleasure surging through you like a strong gust of wind that left you squirming and crying out underneath him. 

It was a feast for his eyes to see you like this, and to know just how much power his love held over you. With each gasp, each breathy moan, each soft convulsion that contorted your body, he lost himself in your bliss. 

He couldn’t help but kiss your trembling lips as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling his body further against you and into your pulsing center. This feeling, along with the soft dance of his tongue across and around yours, drew him closer to his own release.

It had been buried deep in the back of his mind from the moment he realized you were taken—that terrible longing, tainted by the fear that never again would he feel this again. Of course he knew the most important thing was rescuing you and returning you home safe, but there was that selfish part of him that desired you carnally, because once was not enough. 

Now that you were safe, he feared he’d never be able to go another second without you again.

So, with a final deep thrust and a hearty groan, he let his body go. He was quick enough to free himself from you, releasing the buildup of his arousal onto the soft inside of your thigh. 

The warmth tickled you slightly as it trickled down. You watched through hazy, lidded eyes as Daryl’s hand stroked his pulsing cock until it was rendered limp as if with exhaustion. His body drooped over yours, his head cradled against your shoulder. Fast, heavy breaths warmed your neck. In a matter of seconds, he caught his breath enough to catch your lips with his once more.

Heady air thick with the scent of honey and sex swirled between your bodies, moving languidly beneath the fur blanket Daryl had draped over the two of you somewhere between lazy, sweaty kisses and tangled arms. 

Tonight was different than the first night you made love. That night, the passionate fire he stoked inside of you kept your mind alert enough to stay awake with him into the wee hours of the morning, murmurs of dreams and worries slipping between your lips. Tonight, you could hardly keep your eyes open once you’d felt your body sink into the straw-filled cot beneath you. 

Daryl, in his lust, hadn’t noticed you’d begun to drift off as he showered you in kisses. When your hands began to slowly lose their tight, needful grip on his shoulders, he let his lips separate from yours with a smile. Your head sank like an anchor onto the pillow beneath you. With your last sensation the feeling of your knight’s lips pressed gently to your temple, you entered a deep, much-needed sleep.

The night was still when you awoke in a slight daze, colored a deep brownish orange from the flicker of the dying hearth. Your newborn senses clung to the feeling of the soft fur beneath your outstretched hand, where once Daryl lay. 

You stirred awake at the realization of his absence. Sitting up, the fur blanket fell from your body to expose your naked breasts. A sudden shock dispelled any last remnants of sleep. You weren’t at all accustomed to sleeping in the nude, after all.

Moreover, you feared something, though you weren’t quite sure what, had happened to your knight.

As you raised yourself from the modest cot to dress yourself in the once discarded chemise, you could not help the fearful thought of whatever remained of the Saviors taking Daryl from you, leaving you alive in some cruel, twisted act of revenge for the death of their leader.

But as you stepped outside, into the darkness of the early morning, Daryl’s voice, grainy and soft, came to you through the crisp air. In your slight daze from waking just moments ago, it took you a moment or two to recognize his voice speaking your name. 

Your eyes caught up faster than your ears when you turned to see him, illuminated only by the light of a small lantern placed on the pebbled ground near his feet. He was dressed already, a simple tunic of linen white, with a wool cloak of deep indigo on his back. The closer you stepped towards him, the more the almost crimson glow of the majestic Friesian’s coat shimmered to distinguish the creature from the black of night. 

“Phantom?” you spoke softly, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes as if to wake yourself from a dream. You’d almost forgotten about the loyal steed, and it was hard to imagine him surviving the chaos of the battle just hours ago, but then again, you survived. 

Phantom seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. He lifted his head to meet your eyes, and left the side of his master to slowly come towards you. The gentle creature’s muzzle seemed to slide perfectly between your delicate hands as he huffed a breath of air. After a few moments of accepting your pets, he raised his head to nuzzle your shoulder, nearly putting you off balance with the sheer force of the large animal’s affections.

Daryl flinched for a moment, about ready to lunge forward to catch you if you fell, but you caught yourself with your back foot, laughing despite the slight pain of the raw blisters that began to form there from last night’s escapades. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you.” The horse lowered his head as if in reverence, some kind of formal acknowledgement of your voice. You ran your fingers through Phantom’s silky forelock, which you knew to be quite pleasing to the destrier. “I thought I might never do so again.”

“He found his way home.” Daryl’s voice came closer, until you felt the warmth of his chest against your back. His chin rested upon your shoulder, a comforting weight. “Like he always does.”

Daryl’s arms squeezed tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. While still lavishing attention upon the rather needy horse before you, you closed your eyes and took in his scent of pine and honey. But you did not stay still long, turning to see his face you’d dreamed of, just to remember that he was real. Phantom, though, huffed in slight disappointment.

“When will my father come?” you asked quietly. Something about the stillness and the darkness of the early morning, just a matter of time before the sun would begin to rise, made you whisper. 

Daryl’s chin lifted towards the distant horizon, where the first sliver of dawn slowly parted the darkness of night to give in to the pale light of morning. 

“He said we’d meet here at first light. Should be any moment now.” 

Daryl’s mind drifted elsewhere. Last night’s events had left him with a whirlwind of emotions and revelations. Negan’s death brought with it the triumph of war, the splendor of victory that he knew well from practically a lifetime of battle. And with war came the inevitable grief of countless lives lost. Daryl’s thoughts lingered on the duke, the prince, and the rogue Savior who’d helped them. He wondered if they’d made it out of the dungeon alive. 

And when those thoughts gave way to the realization that, within only a matter of time, you would return to the arms of your father, and no longer would you be his. The king would never understand your love for each other. Why should he, anyway? Daryl was of lowly birth, even if he was a knight. As much as he wanted to believe King Ezekiel would allow him to marry you, he knew he was more likely to end up headless at the mere suggestion. 

As he held you now, and as he knew you in the most sacred passions of love that you had shared, you were not just a princess, but his princess. When you were away from him, the world around you blissfully unaware of the truth, you were just a princess. Not his, at least as far as the world was concerned. Despite all logic, he knew there would need to be a time when the love between you was not hidden in the shadows of the forest. 

Daryl’s pensiveness was not lost on you now. You felt him cling tighter to you as he looked off into the distance, a heaviness in his face. Your hand caressed his cheek with enough pressure to bring his attention back to you. His expression became lighter by just a tad, but whatever plagued his thoughts was still lingering. 

“What is it, my love?” 

“Nothing, I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if to rid himself of these worries. “I wish  we had more time.”

Where there was once a look of concern blossomed a sweet smile that was almost potent enough to make him forget your father altogether. 

“We always have time. We will make time, like we always have.”

But in your heart, you knew what he meant, and you felt the same. How long could you go on like this, hiding your love from your father? Escaping into the woods to consummate your love in secret? For as much as you loved him, and as sure as you were that your heart belonged to no one else, you were not sure how you could keep your love a secret much longer.

Still, the time would come when you could tell your father. You were sure of that. 

“You told me that you’d marry me,” you whispered, lips fluttering against the soft hairs of his cheek. “You said someday, you’d marry me. And a knight always keeps his promise, especially to his lady.”

The knight let out a huff, then soon found himself nuzzled into the warmth of your hair, where memories of every moment spent in your company curled around his face in a deep, honey-scented embrace. 

“Someday,” he murmured. “I promise you, my princess.”

When his lips touched yours, he felt your tremble against the cold. He pulled the cloak from his back to swing it around you and wrap you in a woolen cocoon. Pulling you ever closer, your chest was heated by the fire that seemed to perpetually burn in his. Another longer, deeper kiss, then a smile shared between the two of you.

“Perhaps one day, I will be your queen.”

His warm hands rubbed your back in steady motions as his eyes traced dreamily over your face, each curve and crevice and color another feature he would keep to memory for in those moments when he could not hold you. He wanted for nothing in this moment—everything he could’ve dreamt of wanting was here, in the shape of you.

“You are my queen.”

A new heat rouged your cheeks and ignited your heart. To be his queen seemed to be the greatest height you could ever reach, if only it meant you were the queen of his heart. 

Dawn stained the sky with rich hues of rosy orange and dusty violet as you fell into another kiss, though your lips would be torn away by the distant sound of clopping hooves coming closer beyond the horizon. Not just a handful, but nearly hundreds. 

But the fearful flutter in your heart soon subsided as the blue flag of Alexandria raised above the militia, their silhouettes coming into view. They were led in triumph by the king, flanked on either side by Duke Richard, and one man you did not recognize—Prince Jesus of Hilltop. In your father’s hand was the chain that leashed his mighty companion, Shiva. They were victorious, and no more would you fear Negan, nor walkers, nor death itself. Not when your knight was near. 

Not even death could tear you from him, and as you held his gaze, you felt a calmness overcome you—a relief, as though you knew that everything, somehow, would be all right. 

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist

[wood-row]

ive actually thinking about...the dsmp recently... starts crying

Techno being like... not quite a god, but more like a summon.. when Tommy calls him into this land he arrives blind and dumb, a baby cow with shaking legs and bare feet in inches of melting snow. Just the beginning of spring, but the wind is still biting as it whips through his hair, freezes his lungs. He must thrive here, in this foreign country thats already foresaken him. Birthed into exile he clothes himself with blankets and spare gauze.

How scary it mustve been to be thrown into this world like he was. They speak a new language here, and he can only make out bits and pieces of it. The common tongue he understands, but their voices infer second meanings that were never taught to him. He assumes he wasn't meant to know and trusts his comrades with all that he has; he was not called here to know things, only to fight for the boy. They gave him fine linens of red and blue, a uniform that does not quite fit, because they'd never measured. He would take whatever they gave to him, knelt at their mercy.

I always loved the living weapon hcs/aus for him. He does as he's told, protects those who summoned him. Tommy brought him soley to kill, but was discouraged to check in on him three days later, breaking earth and fortifying their chambers. Thought maybe Techno was damaged, or perhaps sleeping.

There's a huge shift during the Festival, i'd imagine. Blood springs light into his eyes, and there it is, that violent beast they read in texts. A Relentless weapon, who turns its violence even against its master. Tommy doesn't quite understand how to control his summon, doesn't understand the full extent of what he'd done. He doesnt know how to stop it, and when he tries, he finds himself at the mercy of his own blade.

This same image of violence cleans the blood away with the shirt off his own back, as though someone had turned him off. Techno learns their second language, has learned to think as they do, and it is now that they learn that they've brought something to this earth that they cannot take back. Not quite a plague, but a heaviness, as though a storm had descended on the skies and made its home there.

[plzfeedmebread]

What Do I Tell My Friends Family? Pt. 2

word count: 4662

Pairing: Recom! Miles! Quaritch x Female! Sully! Na'vi! Reader Tags/Warnings: Non-con, slight torture mentioned, smut, blow job, mouth fucking, threats of violence, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, NSFW, degradation, dark themes, hurt no comfort Author's Notes: Aye yo wtf, this was suppose to be a one-shot! XD Some have asked for a continuation, so I have provided! Wanted to get this out on Valentines Day, though that has since passed here. Would have been out sooner but, Cyclone Gabrielle had other plans! Anyway please enjoy. Might make a part 3 for something softer. Apologies for any grammatical errors!

<previous chapter> | 2 | <next chapter>

*by clicking keep reading you understood the contents there within*

Pain.

That is the first thing that you register; a dull throb to the back of your head. You grown at the feeling. Slowly do your eyes flutter open, the sting of light assaults you.

When finally do you adjust to the brightness, you take stock of your surroundings.

White.

The walls. The ceiling. The floor. Where the fuck are you?

You realise you are on the floor. You move to sit up, but you find your hands are bound tight behind you. So it with great effort you that manage to push yourself up into a sitting position, back pressed against the wall behind you.

You gaze around the room. In the centre there is a thick metal table. No chairs. To your left, a bed that would be far too small for your frame. Clearly you are in a human facility. But you do not recognise this interior to be that of Hell’s Gate.

Shit.

Despite the painful throb, you attempt to recount your steps up until this point.

---

Your siblings; Eywa bless them all, but by the Great Mother did they infuriate you. For some unfathomable reason, the little entourage, sans Neteyam, thought to disobey the rules and explore the old battle site. There they happened upon a group of Avatars, decked out in full gear, carrying ARs.

Lo’ak calls it in. Father instructed him to retreat.

You arrived at eclipse, alongside your parents and Neteyam, leaving him with the ikran. You find your siblings captured and in the clutches of these Avatars. There would be no way to rescue them without bloodshed.

Your mother lets loose the first arrow, a clean headshot, and all hell breaks loose in a hail of gunfire. In the scuffle you manage to find Kiri and Spider, leading them away as fast as you can.

But an explosion goes off behind all of you, and though you and Kiri keep balance, you see Spider fall. The two of you yell out to him. Without so much as a second thought, you dove. You clutched his body to yours, wrapping yourself around him as the two of you fell, lessening the impact it would have on him, hoping you have protected his mask.

You hit your head on several tree branches on the way down. With a painful thud you land on the ground. There is a loud ringing in your ear. You think you can hear Spider’s muffled voice yelling your name, screaming perhaps. You can’t concentrate. There is only pain. There is only the ringing.

You faintly register the feeling of being lifted. There is a light, blinding in your eyes, coming from the skies. Then darkness. Nothingness.

Then, you woke up here.

---

It stands to reason then, that you were captured by those Avatars. Fuck.

But where was Spider?!

Panicked, you hoist yourself onto wobbly legs, looking around the room you search, but he is not here. You pull on the bindings in frustration, but it is of little use; they are wound tight.

You turn around and are met with your own reflection. You notice your head’s been wrapped in some gauze; you must’ve hit your head pretty hard. You look at the bindings on your wrist, orange, ones you haven’t seen before. A nice new gift from the Sky People.

Suddenly your ears pick up a soft swoosh of a sound, and the door behind you opens.

Too afraid to turn around you stare at the doorway through the reflection.

One of the Avatar men stalks in, bending as he does to get through the doorway.

By Eywa’s grace, he is tall. Taller than your father, your surmise. Bigger too. Probably not a fight you would win easily, if it all. Especially with your injured head and bound wrists.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” He says as he approaches you. You turn then, slowly, to face the man. You decide to play nice, for now at least. No need to get hurt even more. Lure the enemy in, strike when they least expect.

You look up to meet his gaze head on, and freeze.

---

That face.

That damned face.

You’re sure you know that damnable face.

But it is not possible. The man you know of, are thinking of, is most assuredly dead. For real dead. You’ve seen his remains, trapped in that machine in the old battle site. You dared not to touch it; afraid it would have disturbed his spirit somehow.

Oh Eywa, his spirit…

How long has it been since you last saw him? Three years? Something close to that you think. You would never forget that evening, that desperate evening, when you approached him. Threw yourself at him. And he caved. Oh sweet Eywa, he had caved.

You knew what you did was wrong. Guilt had eaten away at you in the days that followed. You knew exactly who he was. You knew of his crimes. Yet you did it anyway. Shameful. Disgusting. Monster-fucker, you bitterly thought.

The two of you never really broached the topic of his past. He had given you his name, and it was enough. You told him who you were, and it was enough.

You hadn’t known how to explain the marks that marred your body. You claimed to have fallen off attempting a trick mid-flight. A weak excuse. You can see it in the eyes of your parents that they do not believe you. Your siblings too. But they instead teased you, convinced are they that you must have been with someone.

You decided then, that if you should see him again, you must apologise, it was a mistake, shall never happen again, and to never speak to one another going forward.

It takes two weeks then, for a re-emergence of a shared dream.

You had been psyching yourself up for the encounter.

Except the moment your eyes meet, there is such an unbelievable swell in your chest, an almost immediate heat in your loins. You are beyond smitten.

You let yourself be lost in the feeling.

Days turn to weeks. Weeks to months. And every few days, you found yourself back in his company. Back in his arms. Sometimes, he in yours. And you love it. Guilt be damned you love the attention. The two of you figure that your body must reflect whatever happens to your soul in this Space.

He, tries, to be more mindful of the marks he leaves; but your people already wear next to nothing as it is, so it is a bit of a challenge. You don’t mind though, not anymore. Not after this long. It fills you with confidence, to know you are wanted so deeply, so readily, always.

You find you are able to walk pass those boys who had rejected you with a huff, a flick of the hair. Show them that they are unneeded, and that you have found someone else.

But such a time is not to last. Your family began to pester you; your parents especially. Father is Clan Leader; this you cannot forget. So for his eldest, his daughter, to have some sort of secret lover, he is not exactly keen on. They beg and plead, asking for you to tell them who it is. If this boy, ‘Ha! Boy…’, has accepted you, then they can arrange for him to be your future mate, recognise your future relationship in the clan. Make it official as it were.

You were relucted, obviously. How can you explain to them that you were having, relations, with what is undoubtedly their worst enemy, but also that it wasn’t happening in the real world?

Just when you were slowly coming around to the idea of confessing…it stopped.

Just like that.

No warning. Just complete, nothingness.

When a week had gone by with no Quaritch, you thought nothing of it.

But weeks turn to months. One month becomes two. Two becomes four.

And on the eve of the sixth month, you break. You break down, alone under the Spirit Tree. You connected to Eywa, sobbing, begging, pleading, questioning. ‘Why? Why now?’ If it was so wholly wrong, why put you two together?

You are met with silence.

Months then, turned to years. You never do tell your parents, or your siblings. Your apparent mood change at the seventh months leads them to believe things didn’t work out. It had been months since they saw you with marks in suspicious places. You are grateful they never bring it up though; but you can tell in they walk on egg shells around you that they know.

This goes on for about another few months before all returns to normal.

You miss him, of course. He had been your first love you think. Accepting your body as those boys did not. A freak to them you were. Big breasted and wide hipped. But to him—

“Ahh, you’re all freaks to me darlin’. ‘Sides, if you were human, with a body like that? Pssh, men wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off ye. Lord knows I can’t,” he had winked at you when he said that. That’s when you knew there was no way you could possibly stay away from this man.

But Eywa had other plans it seemed.

“You still with me darlin’?” Your reminiscing is brought to a hastened end by the man before you. He stands just before you, waving a hand in front of your face.

Shit. How long were you staring off into nothing remembering things?

You blink rapidly, then cast your eyes downward. You are far too overwhelmed to look this man in the eye.

“What do you want, Demon?” The last part you spit with venom. You don’t know who this is, but you hate him. Hate that he looks so damn close to your human.

“Ah, so you do speak English…” He takes a step back, crosses his arms and regards you with keen interested. “That was some nasty fall back there. Had the science pukes patch ya up real nice.” You don’t say anything in response.

“Spider tells me you were protecting him. Awfully nice of ya, considering he’s human. Stands to reason then, that I shall return that kindness. Be nice and all that. All you gotta do, is tell me what I wanna know.” He roughly grabs your face in one hand, forcing you to look up at him.

“Where is Jake Sully?”

“As if I would betray my family so easily, Demon! You will get nothing from me!” You all but yell angrily at him. Baring your teeth as threateningly as you can muster.

“Now-now sweetheart, there’s no need to play hard to get. We can do this the easy way. Or the hard way. Your choice. As I said, I’ll be nice. Once. Then I won’t.”

Fear.

Fear bursts through you. You look up at this man, this Demon, this monster and plead with your eyes.

“Please…don’t hurt me…Do not ask this of me…”

Loyalty, even in the face of danger. He admires that. But the soft approach, he’ll save for Spider. His not-son. For you though, savage daughter of that fucking traitor Jake Sully, he’s decided on a not so nice approach.

---

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Hours? Days? Weeks? Time has all but blurred together. You have not seen the outside in so long. Have not felt the sun upon your skin. It is torture. But nothing, truly nothing, compares to that awful machine.

It pulls at your mind, the digging, cutting, searching. The feeling of a thousand metal spiders clawing into your flesh. Yet you do not yield. You think only of the forest. Of tall trees and swinging vines. Of running through the under brush at night when the world is aglow. You force your mind to think of Hells Gate. Of the scientists. Of the many humans you see mulling around.

Each time your screams fall on deaf ears, begging for the pain to stop. Each time you are brought to tears. Only when you start bleeding from your nose are you let free, returned to that awful white room. They don’t bother cuffing you anymore. You simply lay on the floor weeping to yourself till you fall unconscious.

You’re not sure how long you can keep it up. Sooner or later, you will inevitably think of the Hallelujah Mountains, of High Camp.

And where was Spider? Oh Eywa you hope he’s okay. If they put him in that same machine, you vow you would kill them all. Every. Last. Human. Avatar. Whatever. Anything breathing in this forsaken place was dead fucking meat.

Again you weep for him. You hope was safe and not scared and alone. You prayed to Eywa that they treated him with a modicum of decency, at least for being human. You move yourself and the oxygen mask they gave you into the soft bed, small as it was, a better comfort than the floor. You cry yourself to sleep.

---

It’s frustrating, Quaritch thinks. It’s been about a week, and still they have come up short. Even with Spider riding along, no progress has been made. It was difficult to even get him to agree to come a long. He had insisted on seeing you, outright refusing to cooperate otherwise. It was only when Quaritch had not to subtly threatened to return him to the science pukes that he relented. Still he demanded to at least know you were safe.

It took little effort to lie to the boy. You were technically safe, so long as they didn’t keep you in that machine longer than you could handle. You had a place to rest. Water and food were given to you. A mask too. By all accounts you were still living and breathing. Close enough to safe.

But you. Stubborn, obstinate, infuriating you. They had yet to break you. Their fancy expensive machine failing them at every turn. Quaritch stares at you on the monitors before him. He can hear you weep. Another failed round. He’s clutching his mug tightly. The General will be on his ass if he doesn’t produce results soon. He’s not exactly her biggest fan either. She’s got an arrogance about her that rubs him the wrong way.

It’s your fault, he thinks, as he stares you. Your fault, that progress has come to a standstill. It pisses him off. If you at least gave them something, anything, this would be a whole lot easier. He slams his mug down, anger bristling his nerves, ire ever growing.

“Turn off the monitors. Me and that hostile are gonna have ourselves, a little chat.”

“Sir…?”

“JUST. DO IT.” The human beside him jumps at his tone, hastily turning off the feed as commanded.

“Now don’t go turning that back on till I return. Trust me, I’ll know.” He fixes the man with a stern look before storming off to your holding cell.

---

You awake with a start at the sound of the door opening. You see the Demon step in, then touch the something beside the door. It makes a noise, and you are more than certain he’s locked it. Your stomach drops.

Quaritch looks up at the cameras, making sure there is no red light to indicate it being on. Satisfied, he turns to you once more.

“You know sweetheart. I gotta give it to ya, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.” He says, taking slow leisurely steps towards you. You bring your knees to your chest, pushing yourself as far back as you can until your met with the cold wall.

“But this can all go away. No more machine. I can get you outta here. All you gotta do is give me what I want.”

“I will give you nothing! Demon!” You hiss at him, but it is for show. You are scared, trapped with this man in a place you can’t escape. Too weak to fight properly. Without thinking, you spit at him, landing your saliva on his chest. Oh, he doesn’t like that.

“One of these days sweetheart, that mouth of yours is gonna get you in a world of trouble.” A frown adorns his face as he says this, looking at the offending wet patch before drawing his eyes back to meet yours.

“Starting today.” In a flash he’s on you, roughly grabbing your queue at the base. You yelp in both surprise and pain, hands automatically clawing at his wrists. He pulls you off the wall to the edge of the bed. He stands before you. He yanks your head back, pulling your face upward.

“You don’t wanna talk? Fine. Let’s put that mouth of yours to good use then, shall we?” The grips your queue tighter, the searing pain lights your nerves once more and you hiss at the feeling. Tears threatening at the edge of your eyes.

You catch movement on the edge of your gaze. With horror you realise what he is doing. He’s unbuckling his pants.

‘Oh no no no, please, Great Mother NO! Not this! Anything but this!’ Your prayer is futile as you watch him pull out his half-hardened cock.

Quaritch didn’t think he’d find your fear so arousing. But that pleading look you give him every time he sees you, he can’t help the bolt of electricity that shoots through him. Even now he can see the fear in your eyes, he can see you know what’s about to happen, and he reveals in the power he has over you. Doesn’t help that you’ve been walking around in that get-up of yours.

He noticed you, that first time he walked into this cell. You definitely were a half-breed, with those five fingers and toes. Even more so did he notice the swell of your breasts, the expansion of your hips. From the images he’s seen on the data pads, you are clearly not like the rest of your kin. Your portions are almost too human.  He’s not sure if it’s this new body, or the memories of the man he’s emulating, but God damn he can’t help himself.

The frustration of it all, topped off with your stubbornness to cooperate, stagnating their operation too boot, has all been building up. He’s just about had enough. This is all your fault. Seems to reason that you should be the one to fix it, he figures.

Before you can even begin to beg, he pulls out a knife, bringing the sharp blade to where he has your queue in his hand.

“Don’t get any funny ideas darling. One wrong move, and it’s bye-bye Eywa. Understood?” Tears silently fall from your eyes; you nod when you feel him loosen his grip ever so lightly. Seeing those tears sends a pleasurable throb to the tip of his dick.

“Good girl.” He lets your head fall forward properly facing him, he shuffles closer, his legs hitting the side of the bed.

“Now, do you need to be told what to do, or do you already know?”

Of course you know. You spent an almost immeasurable amount of time with your beloved human. He showed you things you never dreamed of, touched you in ways your imagination could never suffice. But now those memories were to be tainted, forever marred by the actions of this Demon. Your hesitation is noted, and met with displeasure.

“I ain’t got all day sweetheart.”

With renewed tears you sit on your knees, and take him in one hand.

---

Slowly you pump, up and down, from base to tip. It doesn’t take long for him to harden. The sight of your tears dripping onto your exposed chest spurring him on.

He’s massive, you realise. You’re sure Na’vi men aren’t meant to be this well-endowed. You’re almost certain actually, from the stories you shared with you by your friends.

He is thick too; your fingers barely touch when encircled around him. He hums with pleasure, tightening his grip on your queue ever so slightly.

You squeeze tighter, pumping his cock with more force. You hear him suck in a breath.

He brings the knife away from your queue to your mouth.

“Open.” He commands, and you obey. “Wider.” He sticks the knife inside carefully, pressing the flat side of the blade onto your tongue. The cold metal tastes awful, making your mouth water. He uses his thumb to pull one side of your mouth away, examining.

The sight alone causes a shudder through his core. You peering up at him, tears in your eyes, tongue flat, mouth pulled open, drool falling freely. Oh yes, he could get used to this.

He removes the knife from your mouth, back to your queue.

“Use that pretty little mouth of yours darling.”

Your lips tremble at the thought of that massive thing in your mouth. But what choice do you have really? Your lifeline is in his hand; quite literally in fact.

He moves your head closer, loosening his grip to give you some leeway. “Watch those teeth darlin’” he warns as you lean closer still.

Slowly you open your mouth, and give his tip an experimental lick. You hear the Demon suck in a breath through his teeth when he does this. You lick his tip again, then take the hold head into your mouth.

The Demon exhales audibly.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, opening your mouth slightly to ease the motion, all the while pumping his cock with your hand to spread your saliva.

“Hnnn—fuck. Keep going darlin’…” The Demon praises you. Once you deem him sufficiently lubricated, you stick out your tongue and proceed to take more of his cock into your mouth. You stop half way before pulling back. You bring your head back down halfway, meeting your hand that pumps him from base to midway.

You set a slow place, squeezing him as hard as you can with your hand. You can hear his laboured breath as you suck his cock with practiced movements.

“You’ve done this before have you? Fucking whore…Bet you got men just lined up back home—!!!” His words come to abrupt halt, followed by a gasp, when you remove your hand from his cock and plunge the whole length into your mouth. He wasn’t expecting that.

You feel the tip of his dick stroke pass the base of your tongue and tease the inside of your neck. Though you’ve ever sucked any other cock other than your beloved, back when you were still relative to his size, he was sure to show you how to take his cock without chocking. Seems those lessons shall serve you well.

You pull back, tracing the vein on the side of his dick with your tongue. You bring his tip to your lips and swirl your tongue around it hastily, before sucking the whole length back down your throat.

“Ffffuuuuuck—” the Demon all but moans loudly, hips sway slightly.

He throws the knife to the floor suddenly, wraps your queue around one wrist, the grabs both sides of your head in his hands.

He starts fucking you like that, holding your head still and he pumps into your throat with reckless abandon. He unashamedly moans, feeling the soft smooth slick of your tongue graze his dick, while his tip meets the inner walls of your throat.

You don’t expect him to go so fast, the intrusion at such a speed shocks you, and you gag unintentionally. This doesn’t deter him at all though, seems to spur him on further. Faster he fucks you, powerful muscles clenched tight as he drives his hard cock down your bruising throat. Each time he can see the imprint of his dick push on your throat and it sends a jolt of pleasure through him.

You look up then, glistening eyes brimming with tears, nose running slightly. Your hands hold onto his wrists for balance. His face is contorted into one of inexplicable pleasure. Eyes half lidded, glazed over, mouth agape, he moans loudly without shame. He’s so close. He can feel it. He’s teetering on that precipice of release. He just needs a little bit more.

One hand leaves your head. He reaches to your shoulder to grab the lines of fabric there. With one powerful pull the threads break, beads and other small trinkets go flying about the room.

You make some kind of shocked noise around his cock; the vibrations send pleasurable waves all throughout.

“Aaaaahhh—fuck yes baby that’s it! Let me see you play with those pretty tits of yours! Come on now!” He yells as he brings his hand back to your head, holding you still once more, resuming his brutal pace.

Timidly you bring your hands to your now openly exposed breasts. You cup yourself in each hand, squeezing gently, you start to massage yourself in lazy circles. You moan around his cock without thinking, the feeling of playing yourself sending a small jolt of pleasure to your pussy.

“Come on baby, come on yes that’s it, you’re such a good girl for me, my fucking little savage whore! Just a little more!”

You move to pinch your nipples as you press your tits together, and you moan a muffled scream at the pleasure lighting your nerves.

That does it for him. With one final powerful thrust into your throat, he cums. Hard. You feel the thick streams of his seed coat the inner walls of your throat. He pulls back and thrusts back in a few more times, filling your mouth with his hot sticky cum.

He holds your head to the base of his cock, your nose pressed against his groin.

“Swallow it baby…Don’t waste a single drop now.” You swallow, drinking deep. You give his cock a couple hard sucks, making sure you drink every last drop. Slowly you pull your head back, his dick comes out with a pop. You open your mouth and stick out your tongue out of habit. Quaritch would always inspect your mouth like this, make sure you were a good girl and didn’t waste his gift to you.

The Demon smirks down at you, his breathing laboured. He sees your tail flick behind you, only then does he notice his also swaying behind him with reckless abandon. He releases your queue then. You almost weep at the relief that floods you. Without a word he puts his semi-soften cock back in his pants, collects his knife and secures it back in place. He gives himself a once over before turning to face you once more.

You’re still sitting on your knees. There’s a thick blush from your tits, up your neck, and splayed beautifully across your cheeks. You’re looking up at him with glistening eyes, apprehension on your face, clearly unsure of what is so happen now.

He clears his throat.

“I suggest, you think ‘bout cooperating. Next time, I might not be so nice.” He leaves without another word. You’re almost shocked by the hastened retreat. When the door shuts behind him, you release the breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

You immediately bring your braid to you front and hold it tight to your chest. You’re crying is renewed tenfold. To lose one’s queue is a fate worse than death. You’ve heard the horror stories. The pain, the fire, the seizures. It is an unsightly thing. And survival is not guaranteed. Even then, what sort of life could you really have, without your connection? Without being about to make tsaheylu? You continue to cry as you rock back on forth, tail wrapping around you in distress.

You swallow your excess saliva, still tasting that Demon’s cum on your tongue.

Without him here, looming over you with the threat of danger, you come to realise an awful thing.

He tastes just like Quaritch.

You all but scream in frustration as you cry even harder.

---

Tag List: @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @lvangel98, @rsclopez, @onlyreadz @manymaria111, @kristeen31xxx

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<previous chapter> | 2 | <next chapter>

[karlachismylife]

Is it visual stimming or is he a romantic?

A little evening romance with Karlach and Soap.

Camp was as quiet as it can get out in the vast wild of Faerûn. A whimsical song of a nighttime forest clearing, crickets and birds praising the moon hidden under a thin gauze veil of ripped clouds. Tonight was scarce with stars, but occasional openings in the greyish blue waves of heavenly seas showed glimpses of magical twinkles here and there. Most of the party has already gone to sleep or at least to have their alone time in their tents, sounds of flipping book pages or an occasional clink of a bottle inside drowned out by the disorganised rhythm of campfire's crackling in the middle.

Karlach sat there, mesmerized. Watching glimmering reds and oranges of the pile of smouldering coal in the heart of a slowly dying fire - it felt like they were breathing, a rhythmic rising and falling of a mystical creature's chest, a dragon or a salamander perhaps, nestled cozily in their natural habitat of flames. It was nothing like the eternal burning of desolated Hell planes filled with smog and ashes up to what you could barely call skies. This was the closest she's had to a home hearth in ten years, and the occasionally cracking and moving on their own due to the heat coal pieces seemed friendly. Their hypnotic dance made the rest of the world around Karlach go darker, become muffled and almost disappear, to the point where she didn't even notice quite the heavy steps of a familiar figure approaching and sitting as close to her as possible.

Even right next to the campfire Soap felt Karlach's heat, radiating off of her and making the dying flames in front of them seem barely warm. Her engine wasn't even acting up, the fiery glow behind her chest calm and even, but she was still hot to be around - in all ways possible.

"Didnae think ye could get cold. It's nae even tha' chilly tonight, is it?" Johnny broke the silence with a small chuckle, turning his whole body towards the charmed - and charming - tiefling. Karlach didn't look startled even though she definitely didn't notice Soap joining her at the campfire; she just was too entranced by the shimmering coals to react accordingly, her head and body moving to mirror Soap's inviting friendly pose, but her eyes staying glued to the enchanted dragon treasure in the heap of still warm ash.

"Nah, mate. Just... watchin'." Her answer was a bit slow, delayed by the unwillingness of her mind to open up to anything besides the beauty of gleaming firebrands. Soap's eyes flickered to the same picture, but quickly returned back to watch Karlach's face adorned with twitching spots of lighting and shadows, dancing to the music of their campfire and gentle wind. It suited her red skin and demonic features, but she still looked kind. To him, she looked kind even splattered with blood, someone's torn out rib clutched in hand, chest heaving with rage and flames of her engine spreading black charcoal spots on the ground.

With a blink, his gaze shifted down, following the simple train of thought and lingering on her chest - it's not like Johnny's been shy about checking her out at any previous time. Or like anyone here was shy about anything (except for vital information that every fucking one of these weirdos kept to themselves. that goddamn wizard and his magic bomb...). But at the same moment as Soap's eyes landed on the generously showing skin, Karlach sighed, breathed in deeply and then let out a calm breath full of peace and contentment. Her engine's glow brightened up just a little and then went back to previous state, highlighting dark silouette of her ribcage with a soft sparkle on each breath.

"Everything here is pretty as a picture. Even the fire looks different. I missed it, you know?" He didn't expect her to continue and looked up at her face for a moment, just to see that she's still looking into the fire reflected in her cat-like eyes and allow his gaze to fall back onto the mysterious gleam of her engine. It looked captivating, calling to reach out and touch, not in a way that a bonnie lass's rack can be, but similar to a mythical Spunkie lurking somewhere in the mist over deadly swamps in fae lands. Karlach's light was just as appealing and just as dangerous as a will-o'-the-wisp or a fresh out of fire coal. Yet she probably missed them too. Missed the sun and the grass just as much as some of the deadly creatures hunting in the forests and enemies that didn't reek of sulfur. Must've missed the heat of a friendly campfire and its coals too. After all, he missed his home too, no matter how magical this world was, he would've never turn down an opportunity to go back home, even though home was war, bloodshed and cities choking on the face of a planet still drowning in animosity. Would he?.. "They're shiny, like stars. Beautiful, isn't it? The world is so... beautiful."

"Aye," Soap agreed, not even looking another time at the coals that Karlach pointed out. She didn't notice, of course, neither the enchanted look on Johnny's face as he watched her engine dance in her heartbeat's place, nor the way her tail desperately wanted to wrap itself at least around Soap's ankle and couldn't. He might've not seen it himself, only feeling warmer and warmer, the heat coming not from an almost dead campfire but from the bulky red figure next to him. The one he kept his eyes on this whole time. "Beautiful, it is."

As a raging ADHD haver I cannot stress how hypnotic smouldering coals are to me. It might seem like it's all the same picture, but it just grabs your eyes and does not let them wander even if you want to. It clears all the chaos in my head out, absolutely empty bliss. Too bad it clears even things I gotta keep in mind... (i might've gone to cook something on open fire with my mum recently and almost burnt our food cuz i couldn't stop staring at the pretty coal go twinkle twinkle...)

Also, if you enjoyed my writing and/or the pairing, reblogs are very appreciated. As well as likes! I have shipped quite a lot of rarepairs and posted them on different platforms, and Tumblr has been the kindest to me and my weird brain. I appreciate y'all very much and feel here better than anywhere on the internet. English is not my first language and I don't have patience to proofread things properly, so corrections and critisism are appreciated too!

[davidchiemcore]

transcript for DRDT Prologue Episode One! going to make this a series where i (hopefully) write down all the dialogue for drdt, if i dont get burnt out. at the end, ill post a google doc with them all together

???: ……

???: Fuck!!

???: Fuck, fuck, fuck, this really hurts…

???: Ouch, I really wasn’t expecting her to attack me like that.

???: I made a massive mistake to trust them. I can’t rely on anyone.

???: All by myself, I have to end the killing game.

???: And even if I can’t do that…

???: I have to kill Teruko Tawaki.

???: No matter what.

Prologue: Distrust and Despair

Teruko: …I had a weird dream.

Teruko: Huh? Where am I?

Teruko: When I opened my eyes, I found myself resting on a bed in an unfamiliar place.

Teruko: This looks like some sort of hotel room.

Teruko: Wait, how did I even get here? I have no recollection of coming here.

Teruko: The last thing I remember was–

Teruko: Ah! I was going to the entrance ceremony of Hope’s Peak Academy!

Teruko: But this doesn’t look like Hope’s Peak at all, much less any sort of school. Just what is going on?

Teruko: …

Teruko: No use staying here, I suppose. I think it would be best if I left this room and tried to find out more about this place.

Teruko: I stepped out of the room and found myself in a hall with 15 other doors exactly like the one I left.

Teruko: Do all these doors lead to rooms like the one I just left?

Teruko: They all have nameplates on them. The one I came out of has my name.

Teruko: Teruko Tawaki… That’s me.

Teruko: I don’t recognize any of these other names, though.

Teruko: I tried each door. They were all locked. Seems I’m also locked out of the room I just left.

Teruko: No good, I guess.

Teruko: I should keep exploring.

Teruko: AH!!

Teruko: I walked to the end of the hallway and rounded the corner, when suddenly–

Xander: AUGH!!

Teruko: *CRASH*

Teruko: I crashed into another person pretty roughly, knocking us both to the ground.

Teruko: O–ouch! That really hurt…

Xander: …

Teruko: Are you alright? Sorry for knocking you over like that.

Xander: …

Teruko: Ah-! You’re bleeding! Are you okay?

Xander: Oh. Yup. I’m fine…

Xander: Heh heh……

Teruko: E–eh??

Teruko: All of a sudden, he collapsed.

Teruko: Um–Hello??

Teruko: No use… He’s unconscious.

Teruko: …

Teruko: I can’t believe I accidentally knocked someone unconscious within minutes of being awake. I feel bad…

Teruko: I should find something to treat him with. Maybe there’s a medical room around here.

Teruko: After a little bit of searching, I stumbled upon what looked to be an infirmary.

Teruko: Let’s see. There’s bandages, gauze, various medicines–perhaps some ibuprofen?

Xander: Yeah, that would sound pretty nice.

Teruko: Alright, I see–

Teruko: Wha–AH!

Xander: Oh, sorry, did I scare you? I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that, really!

Teruko: Y-you! Were you just pretending to be unconscious??

Xander: Err, no. You did actually knock me unconscious. Well, I’m fine now.

Teruko: Oh. And, your eye…

Xander: Like I said, I’m fine now. Don’t worry about it.

Teruko: Are you sure? You were bleeding; that doesn’t seem like an injury to brush off.

Xander: Like I said!! Totally fine! I’m a tough guy, I can handle it.

Teruko: I’m still really sorry, uhm… uh, what’s your name?

Xander: Oh! Ack, how rude of me! I forgot to introduce myself. I’m making a terrible first impression.

Xander: Alriiight! The name’s Alexander Matthews. But you can just call me Xander, it’s much cooler sounding. I’m the Ultimate Rebel, nice to meet you!

Ultimate Rebel - Xander Matthews

Teruko: Ultimate?

Xander: You must have heard of Hope’s Peak Academy, right? An exclusive school that only accepts students, known as Ultimates, who possess extraordinary talents.

Xander: It just so happens that I’ve been accepted there! Pretty incredible, huh?

Teruko: Ah,you’re a freshman of Hope’s Peak? I am too. We might be classmates.

Teruko: I should introduce myself as well. I am Teruko Tawaki, the Ultimate Lucky Student.

Ultimate Lucky Student - Teruko Tawaki

Xander: So you’re the Lucky Student, huh, Ms. Teruko? You’re the one who’s got accepted by the lottery.

Teruko: Oh, right. That’s correct.

Teruko: Unlike the rest of the students of Hope’s Peak, my talent of luck is a little unconventional, so I hope you won’t find it too strange.

Xander: Strange? Why would I find it strange?

Xander: Everyone who’s got accepted into Hope’s Peak is given an incredible opportunity to build their own skills and talents so that they can later shape the world!

Xander: Even if you were selected by lottery, not scouted like normal students, you still have got just as much potential as every other Ultimate to develop into an even more amazing person!

Xander: As you know, everyone who graduates from Hope’s Peak goes on to become incredibly influential and important. That’s why being an Ultimate, no matter what kind, is a huge deal!

Teruko: I’m well aware of that. It’s just that… for me, it’s more than just lacking a talent.

Teruko: I’m cursed, you see.

Xander: …Cursed?

Teruko: Cursed with horrible luck.

Teruko: No matter what I do, I always become victim to misfortunes and accidents. I often fall or break things, or worse, injure myself. So do those around me.

Teruko: No doubt, your recent injury is probably as a result of the influence of this curse.

Xander: I see, that makes a bit of sense. It must be difficult living like that, I’m sorry to hear that.

Xander: And yet, despite that, you’ve still been selected to be the Ultimate Lucky Student. Maybe it was some twist of fate.

Xander: Even misfortune can be overcome or adapted, so I would take the fact that you’re here at this academy as a good sign! So, don’t give up hope!

Teruko: Ahaha… Aren’t you full of energy.

Teruko: By the way, just what kind of talent is “Rebel?”

Xander: Oh, are we discussing my talent now?

Xander: To be frank, I’m actually sort of pissed at the Academy for having given me this title. Calling me a “rebel” just makes me seem like some sort of unruly, lawless kid, which I am *definitely* not!

Xander: It's almost an insult to all the hard work I’ve put in throughout my life!

Teruko: Hard work put into what?

Xander: Revolution.

Xander: Simply put, I’m the sort of person who feels very strongly about everything. So whenever I see something that feels wrong to me, something unjust, I’ll do whatever I can to fix it.

Xander: For example, exposing corruption. I’ve got quite a number of corrupt government officials jailed. Society is messed up, and it’s up to me to change it.

Xander: Of course, in order to make any sort of impactful change in this world, you need to break the existing rules. That’s what got me the title of Ultimate Rebel, I suppose.

Teruko: Wow, I’m not quite sure what to think of all that.

Teruko: Or even if I can believe the things you just said.

Xander: Hey! You better not be accusing me of lying!

Teruko: But at the very least you seem to be very passionate and energetic.

Teruko: Moving on… Do you know anything about this place? I seem to have woken up here without knowing how I came here. And I was supposed to be going to the entrance ceremony of Hope’s Peak.

Xander: I was just about to ask you the same thing!

Xander: Have we both got kidnapped, or something?! If that’s the case, I’ll be pretty pissed at whoever’s responsible.

Xander: Err, sorry for getting worked up again.

Xander: But yeah, it looks like we’re in the same situation. Woke up in a mysterious room without knowing how we got here.

Teruko: What a perplexing situation…

Xander: No use just standing here. I’ve got an idea. We should look around, see if there’s an explanation somewhere. At the very least we can examine our surroundings for clues.

Teruko: Right. We may find something new.

Teruko: These large doors are conspicuous. We should check inside.

Xander: Fine by me!

Teruko: Xander kicks the door open forcefully.

Teruko: You could have just…

Teruko: Used… the… han..dle…

Teruko: Eh?

Teruko: We found ourselves in a large room full of chairs and a large, ominous screen at the back. But more importantly…

Xander: There’s other people here?!

Teruko: 14 other people stood in front of Xander and me.

David: Ah, have more people arrived?

Ace: Maybe they’re our fucking kidnappers! We should ask ‘em a few questions!

Arei: Are you two freshmen of Hope’s Peak Academy as well?

Xander: We are. Is this our class?

Whit: Whoa, new people. You guys got any idea what’s going on?

Charles: Don’t be ridiculous. I sincerely doubt that these two can bring any new information to the table on our situation.

Teruko: So, it seems our whole class is here.

Xander: Just what is going on? Have the rest of you blacked out when you were entering the Academy?

Levi: Yes, that happened to the rest of us as well. Our situation is awfully strange.

Veronika: Maybe the Academy is trying to surprise us! Wouldn’t that be fun?

Hu: If you two are in fact our classmates, why don’t you introduce yourselves?

Hu: I know this situation isn’t ideal, but at the very least we should be acquainted with each other before we try and figure out what’s going on.

Teruko: Ehm, introduce myself? In front of all of you?

Teruko: Wouldn’t it be better if I just talked to you individually?

Eden: That’s okay, then introduce yourselves to us one by one.

Charles: Excellent, another 10 minutes of time wasting. Why don’t you two take your time blabbering about insignificant things, it’s not like we’re in a potentially life-threatening situation.

Teruko: …Yeesh.

Xander: Hey!

Xander: Let’s talk to everyone together. That way we’ll both be way less nervous if we’ve got a friend by our side.

Teruko: …

Teruko: Thank you, Xander.

[heiznx]

STAINED HANDS — I

∗༝*◦✦ see how far he would go for you, who he cherishes.

BEFORE READING, this contains long, modern swearing, illness mentions, fantasized images of nobility, and implied murder.

|| NEXT▶ ||︎ REWRITTEN || DEAR KUNI ||

Kunikuzushi wasn't born luxurious; the moment he learned of his situation was when he was young and when he had been abandoned in a small town by a golden carriage.

Everyone that were nearby knew that Kunikuzushi wasn't the nicest and that there were rumors of him being a mercenary with a hidden identity, or worse, an assassin.

He only met you by chance. You weren't the brightest, nor were you dim; you were just right, and he was terrified of that.

His reputation precedes him, and he made sure you knew what you were getting into before he got serious with you, made sure you discovered him bloody, and made sure that whatever happens to you won't be his problem.

Convincing himself that he won't care if you don't want to get serious after seeing him in that situation, he convinces himself that relationships were naturally made to be destroyed and that he can handle it without you.

By the time you opened the door for him, he had everything staged, and he was ready for both acceptance and rejection — only for you to laugh at him and ask how his small frame was capable of such a thing; you didn't sound in denial.

"He deserved what he got," you even muttered as you skillfully wrapped his hand with a gauze that you said you coincidentally had. "Very foolish."

"Hah, and you think that way because?" he asked, looking up at you as if everything in him wasn't quaking in fear of rejection. "Are you going to give me your wise words?"

"Shouldn't you know that already?" you asked, scoffing at him. "You wouldn't harm anyone who wasn't rightfully wrong in the first place. You're taunting, you have a shit personality, but you won't rely on physical first."

He knew trust was dangerous—to trust and to rely—yet he still slipped a ring on your finger as a promise that he was yours, though you weren't the type to control.

A commoner's life wasn't filled with riches, comfort, or equality, but he drowned in all those three things when there was this smile on your lips that he stared at, making you say that it was making you feel self-conscious.

As his spouse, you were dragged into those rumors regardless of your frail and obviously weak physique, but you weren't bothered unless things turned physical; Kunikuzushi was the same despite his taunting attitude.

You weren't the best in either attacking or defense; your stats were literally near zero, and you had to avoid physical situations—at least until Kunikuzushi and he'll deal with it if needed to.

You'd cheer him on, and he'd get flustered or scoff at you, might even give you the tiniest and weakest bonk he can and tell you to shut the fuck up, though he was glad you weren't bothered.

"And you never bothered to tell me?" you asked, your arm is propped on the bed to support yourself as you look down on his laying form. "Y'know I could've helped somehow, should I buy us chamomile tea?"

"What makes you think we can afford that?" he asked, looking at you with a small frown.

"Who says we can't?" you asked before grinning a bit. "It's just chamomile tea, we can afford something like that. It's for everyone, not just nobles."

You looked somewhere idly as you started going off, saying, "Perhaps chamomile tea might not help, should I buy medicine too? What kind of scent do you like? We can get scented candles too, what do you think? If it's not enough, we can buy more things… we can use the money we have to get a more comfortable bed for you too, not like we have a specific goal when it comes to spending. It's a win-win for us."

"Why do you call it a win-win?"

It was now Kunikuzushi's turn to prop up his hand to match your current height, looking at you with a frown, to which you only laughed and said, "I mean... we'd both be relaxing and comfortable?"

"Is this bed not enough?" he asked, his frown never ceasing, causing you to smile a bit at his concern. "You're not comfortable with it?"

"I didn't say that," you muttered before just shrugging. "It's not that bad, maybe just a bit sore from work...? I just can't sleep lately, it happens often."

"Probably," your spouse says, laying back down and looking up at the ceiling.

You knew that even if he said that, he wouldn't truly let go of the topic; he was just that concerned for you, though it's hard to get him to admit it.

The thought made you laugh. You lay beside him beneath the blankets, slipping your hand in his shirt and around his waist, making him shudder a bit, but he didn't say anything.

It was just a week later when they realized it wasn't just the usual one; after all, you just suddenly stumbled on multiple occasions despite eating healthily under his watch.

The money that was supposed to go to the comfortable bed you said would be better for the two of you almost went to the check-up he wanted you to go to.

You two almost had an argument about it first thing in the morning: one said it's just something that happens often and that it was most likely the lack of iron, while the other said that it could be something.

Kunikuzushi had to expose you, saying that you'd only feel guilty at the loss of money, but he didn't berate you for it; he said that you didn't need to worry about such things.

He knew it was hard to erase uncertainty, especially when it came to spending, because you two experienced hardship simply for being commoners.

You laughed for saying what he did and for showing evident concern, but it was done affectionately; he made you feel cared for and loved.

"Okay, okay," you laughed, making his expression relax a little for being able to convince you. "Tell me when."

"The day after tomorrow," he said, making you clam up your mouth immediately.

As far as you know, it was already hard enough for commoner doctors since they deal with a long line of patients each day, and there were also the doctors on the noble line; they were all busy.

"You can't just suddenly barge in the clinic and pull the doctor aside to put me on their schedule!" you said, your voice tinted with surprise. "It even takes some a week to be called on!"

"You can if you have connections," he said with a small smirk, to which you scoffed. "It's not that hard to pick and find someone capable."

"Are you boasting right now?" you laughed. "Does my husband want to be told that he's very capable?"

"Just go to sleep already," Kunikuzushi said, making you laugh more.

"Yes, yes," you smiled, loosely wrapping your arms on waist to hips. "Get back home safely, Kuni."

You gave him a short peck, and instead of easing his worries about your health since you agreed to a checkup, he suddenly took notice of your warmth and your chapped lips that looked like they were getting less saturated.

Kunikuzushi couldn't chastise you more than he already did, so he gave you another kiss. He didn't nibble on your lip, but he took his time giving your lips tiny licks that made you want to pull away or squirm

"Drink more water," he said, making you let out a disbelieving breath as you scrunched your face. "Wet your lips more."

You'd follow him if it weren't for the taste of iron when you do; it means he tasted it too, making you feel a bit disgusted.

He notices the face you're making. He chuckles, presses a finger on your forehead, and then reminds you to go to sleep while he's gone and that if you couldn't, there were tea leaves on the cabinet.

You thought it was sweet, and you felt all fluffy inside until he yelled for you to not forget to lock the door, making your jaw drop and yelling profanities after him.

The knowledge you have of Kunikuzushi's work is limited, but you did go to the bar he takes nightshifts at sometimes; you'd sit there and he brings you drinks or entertains you—and strictly just you.

He returns in the morning, where he often just crashes into bed and sleeps, and that would have been what he would have done if it weren't for the old lady nervously fidgeting near his door right after he's on his way home.

His eyebrows furrowed because he knows her, and you know her too, so why were you making the old lady wait outside?

You would talk to her outside or inside the house for hours, and he'd come home to see her off when he returned from work because she didn't want to disturb you two.

"Oh, good sevens!" the old lady exclaimed, her voice tinted with glee yet nervousness. "I was passing by to read the newspaper with [name], and I heard something fall! I tried knocking, but no one was answering…!"

"When did that happen?" Kunikuzushi asked, already walking towards the door to knock on it so you'd know about his arrival. "Did they answer?"

Once you had left the house and you left him locked out of the house without any spare keys, since then you leave a note on the window when you're out.

He looked at the window; the curtains were closed and there was no paper sticking on the window saying you're out of the house, but you weren't answering.

"No, no one answered," the old lady says as Kunikuzushi furrows his eyebrows.

"Goddammit..." he mutters.

He was tired; he just wanted to lay down and rest to wake up at dinner time so you two could eat together, but this situation wasn't allowing him to.

There was this twinge of irritation in him each time you opened the door late to say you slept in, but in this case, after hearing about how unwell you were the day before and an item dropping inside to the point that it could be heard from outside, he'd rather hear that you only slept in.

He removes the safety pin from his clothing solely for this purpose: to pick the lock, not caring if the old lady was watching or if she'd spread rumors about this kind of skill that he has.

Kunikuzushi left the pin on the door as he opened it slowly, both wary and worried on what could be on the other side, but seeing as it was empty, he fully pushed the door open.

Your name left his lips as he looked at the side, no one, but on the other side, lays you near the sink; the water was off, your feet were dry, and there was a wooden bowl beside you.

You've always attracted trouble for being his.

His heart clenched as he immediately went beside you to observe everything better, a hand on your forehead going down to feel your cheek, and his other hand already preparing to carry you up.

He took mental notes of your feverish, unconscious look and what the situation looked like; no matter how much you trusted anyone, he felt his suspicion and hatred for everything and everyone flare up.

Instead of asking help, he told the old lady to go home whilst observing every reaction she has.

Kunikuzushi observes your reaction after placing you in bed; he removes any unnecessary items from you that are causing you more discomfort, tending to you first before trying to investigate.

He made sure you had a cloth on your forehead and looked down to check for any form of reddish rashing of some sort before his gaze lowered at your ankle, which was sprained.

The bowl had nothing—no poison, just nothing—so you were most likely trying to wash it when you sprained your ankle. It's a possibility you hit your head too hard and passed out, but your feverish state could also be the problem.

You've always been frail, but it was never this serious. He had witnessed you stumble, fall, and then laugh it off, but why did he not notice you were sick before he left the house? You just suddenly developed a fever.

He cleaned the dishes on your behalf while also tending to you, performing that well-known method you once did for him, which was to rest your ankle, ice it, compress it, and then elevate.

Just when your consciousness was about to slowly return, your pain receptors screamed, making your eyes widen, and then you looked down at where the pain was.

Kunikuzushi was wrapping your ankle to compress it; he knows you're awake but stayed quiet, not wanting to make thoughts rush in your head as soon as you wake up.

You let out a breath then laid back down, looking up at the ceiling, and you were now just noticing the heat of your face, even your tongue was warm.

He took the pillows on his side, stacking them before placing your leg there, making you laugh a bit despite your hazy gaze, and he glared at you for that but remained silent.

"You should put on a mask, Kuni," you uttered, your voice dry and quiet, but he heard you, and he scoffed before leaving to get you a glass of water. "Okay, how fussy."

Inside, it warmed your heart to know that his mood wasn't good solely because of your well-being, or it could be because he looked like he didn't even rest.

Your mind was able to function better than your body; even your current willpower isn't able to help you at this point, and you feel like cursing your frail body.

How will you come to the doctor's appointment tomorrow at this rate? You feel this need to get better immediately, and as these thoughts race in your head, Kunikuzushi places the glass of water on the nightstand.

"If you have the time to think about all that, what about explaining to me what exactly happened?" he asked, sitting on the bed you're on, making you frown, which looked like a pout to him. "Since when?"

"Won't the better question be how I am?" you asked as you attempted to sit up, but you just grunted instead of actually being able to move your body.

"Better question is: how bad is it?" he asked.

"Ten being the worst, I rate it five," you responded before glancing at the glass of water and then at your spouse. "Hold me up?"

"Talk like that with the others, and they won't understand you," he commented as he rolled you to your side, pushed your legs off the bed, and then pulled you up to sit. "Headache?"

"Don't make me think of symptoms because I might actually end up having them," you said, your head suddenly aching more, making him clam his mouth. "I feel like throwing up…"

"There's a bucket beside the bed," he said, his hand wrapping below your arms as he grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand, waiting for you to part your lips. "I told you to drink more water."

You were about to retort that you did, but he placed the rim of the glass on your lips and tilted it up a bit, and you had no choice other than to drink.

In all seriousness, you can barely feel your body anymore, even writing seems tiring to you, perhaps tomorrow will be better.

You woke up to hear mutterings nearby, one from your spouse and the other from someone you don't know, but you didn't open your eyes, even after hearing the door close.

Your thoughts traveled to wondering if it was his day off because Kunikuzushi was at home, and you concluded that it probably was.

The trail of thoughts you had suddenly broke as soon as you heard something heavy crack together with your husband swearing, making your eyes instantly fly open to check what happened.

"Kuni…!?" you called, and you instantly noticed your voice had gotten better, but you coughed after.

"What are you… go back to sleep," he says, his eyebrows furrowed as he walks towards you, holding onto your shoulders to force you down. "It was just a pot, and I just knocked it off. Don't worry about it, and go back to sleep."

His voice was breathy, and you paused for a few seconds to give yourself enough time to repeat in your mind how he said his words. The seconds were enough for you to notice that there was a certain tremble in it, and that made you feel more worried about him than your current state.

You placed your hands on his, which were on your shoulders, and you were about to ask him if he was okay, but your lips zipped themselves after noticing even his hands were trembling.

"Okay, Kuni..." you said, trying to take his hands from your shoulders so you could hold them with your own. "First of all... breathe."

"What are you saying?" he asked, looking irritated and in a hurry. "I said go to sleep, it's still early."

"Of course I'll follow you," you said as your fingers tried to pick his fingers from your shoulders. "But you follow me too because, Kuni, you're panicking right now, and it's making me feel the same."

You breathe out to calm yourself before you whisper, "So breathe... I'll be here until you're ready, but don't stay too close."

Kunikuzushi wanted to act normal, to act as though he didn't just hear something that he dreaded for a long time; he wanted to scoff at your words and say he was never the one to get sick.

But how could he?

In his eyes, you had always been so smart to predict what he could potentially feel just based on what happened, so you discreetly made a comment back then about you didn't like being the only one in someone's world that was directed to him.

He scoffed at you that day, but he ended up doing exactly that; he made connections far beyond just you, yet he relied all his emotional well-being on only you—he basically couldn't bear to lose you.

Your lips thinned after seeing that his breathing didn't even calm down at all and that he didn't even seem to be in the same world as you.

You successfully laced your fingers with his, but it looked like he was pinning you because of how much strength he has in his arms. You said nothing and remained unmoving as his fingers pressed on the back of your hand.

His breath remained shaky as he buried his face on your chest and then up to your neck, and then he uttered how the doctor he brought for you said how your case was new and only a few had the same, so there were no full-healing remedies.

Each word was forced, and it was as though he was biting back a sob with each syllable; his reaction was making you feel saddened more about him than your state.

His hold left bruises on the back of your hand, and he fell asleep laying over you despite you telling him not to get too close since you were still feverish.

You can't help but wonder if you've always been frail or if some sickness was already developing in your body and you just failed to notice, because you don't remember not being weak.

Something changed in Kunikuzushi that day; if you were being honest, you changed too, but you pretended as if your situation didn't just result in you getting fired from your job despite being talented.

You attempted to do housework, which you can still manage, but you also spend your free time drinking water, writing letters, and then sealing them with wax and dried flowers.

Your worries were different from Kunikuzushi, who worries for your life while you worry about being incapable.

As much as he harbors such love for you, he fears going home; he fears seeing something other than your breathing state, and he fears seeing another bruise on you or blood splatters on your clothes.

He began developing self-hatred towards himself for having better immunity than you do and for being able to do things you can't do; things he used to be proud of turned into nothing but reasons to hate the world.

How he loathed it when you say that you don't know why but you just had no appetite yet you sit on the same table as him, smiling at him as though your time wasn't limited.

You weren't carefree; you knew Kunikuzushi was suffocating, but you didn't know how to approach him without talking too deeply about the topic or accidentally triggering his unwanted memories.

You also noticed how he clenched his fists when he saw you outside the house to try and enjoy nature, and how he held back in reprimanding you for going outside.

"I'm going," he said, and you looked up to him from what you were writing.

He sees how your baggy eyes gloss when he coldly says those words and how your worry is so evident in your eyes despite your smiles, but he just doesn't want to approach the topic yet.

You smiled and nodded, saying, "Get home safe, Kuni, I'll be waiting."

The rumors about him gave him new ideas that he was not hesitant to take in again: the first was for the people he treated as family, the second for a child, and the third would be for you.

He has to keep you alive, even if his hands, which he uses to care for you, are stained red. There may be no cure, but there are temporary remedies that he just needs to be able to afford.

It was starting to suffocate you too; it hasn't even been a week since the doctor told him about it and Kunikuzushi relayed the information to you.

When you opened the door for Kunikuzushi, he didn't even greet you, just rushing in, grabbing a glass of water, and placing it on the table before sitting down.

You were dumbfounded, but you smiled and decided to brush it off, closing the door and sitting on the other side of where he was, but your smile dropped after seeing what was in the pouch.

Medicine was hard to afford, and you two only had extra, but it wasn't enough to afford a single pain reliever, yet Kunikuzushi was taking out at least six to eight.

"W-Wait…!" you stuttered, surprised to the point you got up and placed both your hands on the pouch he was holding on to, making it slam on the table with your hands covering it. "What is this…? This is not part of our budget, we didn't even talk about this…!"

His tired eyes watched you nervously place the remedies back in the pouch as you said, "W-We don't need this! Seriously, we don't need to spend your money on this—"

"'Your'?" he repeats, as if it were the only thing he heard; you didn't even emphasize the word. "What happened to 'we'?"

Since you lost your job, you have been trying to find different ways to earn without your case disturbing you, but you were still unable to find one, and you didn't even have a share in the money anymore.

It was all his money, and you can't tell him you were feeling insecure or undeserving if you say that it belonged to you two.

"Your—because it's yours!" you said, like you were defensive as your mind went hazy on what to tell him before you looked down on the pouch and released it. "Like this—my goodness, it must be yours! I'm so sorry for touching it."

"What?" Kunikuzushi asked.

"You know what… I'll just get fresh air…!" you nervously said, looking away as you grabbed the shawl that's hanging on your chair and then stepped away from your chair. "Sorry again—"

"What... are you talking about?" he asked.

His hands on the table clenched as he tried to take in your actions and your wording; you called it all his, like you were thinking that he didn't do all of it for you.

Every wall he built for the past week started to break just because your actions and words made him think that it seemed like you weren't involved in his life anymore.

Are you just resigning to your fate?

He opened his mouth to mock you, to tell you that you're as weak as your physique, but he placed his palm on his mouth when a sob came out instead.

Your eyes widened when he let out just that one sob. You turned to him and started fussing over him immediately, your hands going everywhere on him: on his shoulders, neck, arms, hands, and then cheeks.

His lips part to tell you something, anything, but everything about your relationship with made him feel overwhelmed like he was a week ago, except he sheds tears this time.

He's so frustrated and so filled with hatred about all the burdens he had to keep; he thought he was protecting you this way, he thought if he voiced his frustration, it would bother you, but it was exactly because he didn't that you misunderstood him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." you muttered repeatedly as you desperately tried to wipe his tears that just kept coming. "I'll try better, I won't place a burden on you, it's okay... Kuni..."

You were misunderstanding the reasons of his tears and he knows you're panicking too, because your hands trembled to wipe his tears and you even resorted to using your shawl.

You looked at him so worriedly, like he didn't neglect you, and you were trying to comfort and pamper him when he should be doing it to you instead, but he needed this.

It took him a while to calm down, his face in your hands, and his eyes felt heavy; he felt like he can sleep while sitting as long as he's reassured your presence was near but he had to say something.

"I want to keep you alive," he uttered.

"Yes?" you asked, sounding a bit surprised and confused because, for you, it came out of nowhere. "Okay... I'll accept that."

"You're stupid."

"I know."

"I don't know why you think that way," he said, his hands going up to clench on the clothes that were at your hips. "You're too humble."

You laughed, "You think so?"

"I know so," he says, taking a breath in before bringing you close, his face on your stomach, and then his shoulders sagged. "…[name]."

"I wasn't trying to invalidate your care for me," you said, your hands moving past his ears and behind his head before rubbing his back. "I can't work anymore, I don't have anything to contribute to what you're doing for us."

"So?"

"So...?" you repeated, confused. "That means I'm basically not performing my social role well, I'll be a dead—"

"No, not at all," he cuts off and you realized your wording. "We didn't get married for that, did we? You're just... really stupid to think that way..."

"Then... That's reassuring to hear from you."

"[name]…" Kunikuzushi whispered, his hold loosening on your clothes as he wrapped his arms around you instead. "I'm desperate."

"For?"

"I want to keep you alive, I want to extend your time... everything..." he breathes out. "So I... did something."

"Yes?" you asked once more, and he couldn't help but gulp despite your calm voice.

"If you knew, you would be so so disgusted," he said, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he clung to you tightly. "You have values and such morals that you're stubborn about. I don't want to ruin it for you."

You placed a hand on top of his head as you stared blankly, trying to connect the dots on your own so he won't have any problems in trying to tell you about it.

Last time you checked, Kunikuzushi worked on the bar for nightshift, and since after hearing the news about what you had, he was never the same.

He described it as something bad to the point your morals and values were also included; your lips thinned, thinking of one only possible answer.

"Kuni, I only have one question for you," you said, looking down and assuming what it could be he was talking about. "You don't have to explain, you just have to nod or shake your head."

"That sounds unfair," he looks up to you. "But I prefer what you said."

"Alright, Kuni…" you said, your hand leaving his back to place it on his cheek. "Did you take another job, or did your job change?"

Your question was not what he expected, but it was involved in what he wanted to say; he was surprised because he knows that you were unaware that he had picked up a weapon when he was still a child.

It was obvious by his face that he felt the tiniest twinge of suspicion, but his awe towards you was greater; it went away quickly when he thought about what you two were talking about.

He nods, his eyes boring into yours as your eyes looked to the side once before sighing and nodding. You said, "Okay, I suspected it already. You… are very brave for telling me."

"Is that all you're going to say?" Kunikuzushi asked.

He thinks that those words can't be all because he was going against everything you believed in, and you even said that you suspected it already even though you showed no signs of knowing.

You blinked at his question before nodding to say that yes, that was all you were going to say about his confession.

"How do you see me now?"

"Same old," you said, even laughing a bit. "I mean... After all, I did suspect you of it already, it feels like you're only confirming my suspicions."

"Not the answer I want."

"You're not asking me a specific question, so why would I answer you the way you want?"

Kunikuzushi glared at you, and you only laughed; it only irked him. and was tempted to shove the medicine in your mouth and drown it in water, but he held back.

After he had been hiding it from you for so long and may continue doing it, you had no reaction but to just accept it and laugh, but at least you weren't misunderstanding his worries anymore.

"Do... ove...?"

"Say it properly, Kuni," you said, making him feel a bit more irritated, but he's grateful as you press a finger in between his furrowed eyebrows. "No need to be fussy, I just didn't hear you properly."

"You're this on purpose," he said, his grip on your clothes loosening, and your eyes widened at his words as you shook your head.

"I'm not! I really just didn't hear you," you replied, defensively as you pulled your finger back, because this was one of the rare moments when Kunikuzushi needed reassurance and wanted an answer straight out of your mouth. "C'mon, are you embarrassed?"

"You're cruel," he uttered, his eyes closing as he thought all of it over.

The weight of the fact that you had no cure, that there was no telling when you'd last, and that everything he's doing is only to extinguish the pain but not let you live longer.

"Do you love me, even after what you learned?"

"You're dumb if you think otherwise."

He'd bear it all; the thought of you leaving the world earlier than him fills him with pure loathing, but you're still here; he doesn't have to tear the world apart yet.

THIS IS HEIZNX, this title is so stupid but i don't know how to make titles so i'm going to roll with it. i didn't want to copy the entire idea of the song, since it actually had an actual story based on the song. it's just so heart-wrenching and i want to create a scenario of the same feeling that is also akin to the actual song. songfic? sickfic? i'm not sure... IM SO BAD WITH TAGS. trying to hide details in the fic. i ended up listening to orange instead of seasonal feathers. i hate it when things get too long so i wont look at the word count so i wont feel like doing this as a mini series, i put too much scenes. I CRIED TWICE TYPING THIS ITS SO FUNNY. OMG EVERYTHING SIDETRACKED, HAD TO CHANGE THE TITLE, I WANNA DELETE IT BUT ITS A WASTE TO DO SO. i type my author's notes in diff time -- this was rushed cuz i wanted to watch kubz scouts.

[mikhailwrites]

Wash the blood off my hands / Ghost x Soap

Kinktober #20 - Showering (from the SFW prompt list)

Gaz looks at Soap’s worryingly pale face, then turns to Ghost, who lifts his gaze as well. “I cannot lose him, Kyle,” Ghost repeats, and there’s something in his eyes that chills Gaz to his bones.

“Keep the pressure on!” Ghost barks out as he frantically rips through the plane, searching for a medkit.

Gaz doesn’t say anything, but he does put his weight down on Soap’s chest more, pressing the bundled cloth to the wound. His hands are drenched in blood, glistening and slick with it. Soap’s life is literally in his hands. On them. Around them. Trickling down on the metal floor of the plane.

Gaz is thankful that Soap is unconscious. If he weren’t, he’d be screaming in pain now, perhaps trying to shake Gaz off. There are not many things worse than holding your brother in arms down, causing him an ungodly agony because it’s the only way to help him. To save him.

Gaz is doing everything in his power to keep the blood in, but it just keeps oozing out all around his hands. “Ghost!” he calls out, desperate. He doesn’t have to shout; the only way to hear each other over the hum and rumble of the engines is their comms. He knows Ghost is doing all he can, but that’s just not enough. Their help is not enough. For a terrifying moment, Soap’s laboured breathing stops, and Gaz freezes. Then Soap takes another breath. “GHOST!” Gaz shouts.

He feels hurried, heavy footsteps reverberating through the floor, and then Ghost kneels next to him. He’s found the kit and is now tearing it open, spilling its contents on the floor, rummaging through it for scissors. He finds them quickly and gets to cutting Soap’s tee. Once it’s done, he cleans the worst of the blood around Gaz’s hands, preparing to relieve him from his duty with a gauze and pressure dressing at the ready.

They quickly switch, Ghost applying the dressing just as they were taught. Stacking a few sterile pads on the wound, applying the pressure gauze, making sure the adhesive holds. Ghost moves quickly and purposefully, and soon enough, both Ghost and Gaz sit back, taking deep breaths to calm themselves.

Soap is very much not out of the woods yet, but they manage to stop the bleeding. His chances just went up significantly. They stare at their comrade with dull gazes. Adrenaline abating, the novelty of Soap possibly dying wearing out, becoming just another part of reality now.

“I can’t lose him,” Ghost admits quietly after a long, heavy silence. It’s weird to hear him in the comms, even when he sits so close to Gaz.

Gaz weights his responses. The first impulse is to say that they won’t lose Soap. He can’t know that, though, and in this line of work, nobody wants empty platitudes. “He’s one tough motherfucker, you know that.”

Gaz looks at Soap’s worryingly pale face, then turns to Ghost, who lifts his gaze as well. “I cannot lose him, Kyle,” Ghost repeats, and there’s something in his eyes that chills Gaz to his bones. He knows Ghost is attached to Soap. Price knows, as well. Hell, everyone knows. Soap and Ghost are a package deal. If you want one, you get the other for free. If you mess with one, the other will come and mess you up. Gaz is worried about Soap, obviously, but he also cannot help but be just as worried about Ghost. The fact that the bullet Johnny caught was meant for Ghost, and it would’ve, beyond any doubt, killed him on the spot, is only icing on this fucked up cake of theirs.

Soap makes it. It’s way too close a call as he flatlines two times, and even after that, it’s touch and go for two more days before the doctors manage to stabilise him. The only reason Ghost is still at least marginally functioning is because the moment they landed, Price barred him from seeing Soap, telling him that he would keep him updated.

Unfortunately, marginally functioning Ghost turns out to be a proper cunt. He’s downright insufferable. Gaz takes over his recruit training rotations because, on the first one after their return, three poor sods had quit on the spot. Anyone not required to talk to him gives him a very wide berth.

Well, everyone except for Price and Gaz, who do their best to keep their Lieutenant occupied. Giving him work to do, trying to convince him to go to a pub with them. They even go as far as to bribe the cook to make Ghost’s favourite food.

Nothing really works. At least about a week in, Ghost gets a little bit better. Soap is still in a medically induced coma, but he is healing and out of immediate danger.

Soap returns after a month. He’s lost some weight, enough to be immediately noticeable, is paler, and his smile is not quite as bright as usual. But he’s back.

“Johnny,” Ghost says in a way of greeting, but no matter how hard he tries to play it cool and casual, his voice wavers and his hands tremble.

“Simon,” Soap smiles, his gaze lingering.

Price groans, putting out his cigar. “Glad to have you back with us, son, but for Christ’s sake, I can’t stand your pining a minute longer. Do as all a service and work it out like adults,” he waves his hand as he turns around and leaves.

Gaz stifles a surprised laugh, but he grins as he gently squeezes Soap’s shoulder. “He’s got a point, you know,” he tells Soap quietly before he goes on about his business.

They do work it out. The exchange is so simple it’s almost comical. A pair of “Do you...?” followed by “I thought...” leading to Johnny laughing and Simon groaning. Neither of them is sure if the kissing is something Price wanted to include in the “work it out” phrase, yet they don’t care enough to stop.

Of course, they do stop eventually, and as they part, Ghost scrunches his nose. “You reek of a hospital,” he explains, seeing Johnny’s questioning look.

Soap chuckles. “Aye, guess I do. What’re you suggesting?”

“A shower,” Ghost says, looking at Johnny as if he half-expects him to refuse.

Soap, however, readily agrees. Simon helps him out of his clothes, wincing as he notices just how much weight Johnny really lost. He’s still captivating and devastatingly handsome in the boyish, rebellious kind of way. Furthermore, Simon is reasonably sure he’d find Johnny beautiful under any circumstances.

He only pauses once he sees the scarred, puckered skin where the bullet entered Soap’s body. Soap catches Ghost’s hand. “Come on, I’m cold,” he urges him on, even though it’s a lie.

It works, Ghost nods and leads them to the bathroom, closing the stall and starting the water. The injury doesn’t bar Soap from washing himself, but Ghost is not giving up any chance to touch him. In many regards, it’s like seeing Soap for the first time. Unlike communal showers or hurried washing during the deployments, he’s allowed to watch and to touch and to admire.

With a slight startle as Soap touches him in return, he realises that it works both ways. Johnny’s eyes are roaming across Simon’s body, catching on the scars, tracing the muscles with his hands. He knows his body is a lot to take in. Knows it’s off-putting to some. Not to Johnny, though. He never, even for a second, thought that Johnny would mind or be repulsed.

They’re both wet enough by now, so Ghost shuts the water and gets the soap. “Are you going to make that pun, Simon?” Johnny asks, a challenge clear in his voice. He’s tempted, of course, and Johnny is not helping. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“I’m better than that,” Ghost resists, pouring the gel into his palm and rubbing his hands together before he puts them on Johnny’s shoulders, gently massaging as he spreads the white foam.

Johnny closes his eyes and hums contentedly, relaxing under Simon’s touch. “I don’t think you are, Simon.”

“Fuck… alright. Time to put some soap on Soap,” Ghost grunts out, not even proud of himself.

Soap snorts. “Certifiably rubbish, sir,” he rates the joke, seemingly unimpressed. Ghost simply shakes his head and focuses on Johnny. Once he’s nearing some more interesting bits, he hesitates. It simply feels too soon and out of place. Soap is probably bloody clairvoyant since the next thing he says is: “Don’t worry, I don’t think I can get it up anyway. Kinda out of form, and some of the meds they gave me just fuck me up.”

Simon looks at Johnny, feeling his eyes tearing up. He doesn’t deserve this man, not by a long shot. He doesn’t trust himself with words, so he opts for a nod before resuming his care. It’s gentle and slow. It would be undeniably erotic, too, if not for the context. Maybe next time. Or the time after that. They do have the time now, Ghost realises. He carefully embraces Soap, their bodies sliding and slotting easily against each other. Simon closes his eyes, focusing solely on the feeling of Johnny pressed against him.

They don’t say a word. Not when Simon lets him go, not when he turns the water on again, washing the Soap off of them. Not when they step out of the stall, and Simon hands Johnny a towel.

Ghost looks at the scar again. It’s an eternal reminder of Ghost’s debt and of Soap’s devotion to him. Only then does Johnny speak again. “Ye ken, it’s nae gonna disappear if you keep staring at it,” Soap says lightheartedly, smiling and colouring his words with something warm.

Ghost tears his gaze away from Johnny’s chest, looking into his eyes. “I hope it did. I wish that…”

Soap shushes him, putting an index finger on Simon’s lips. “I dinnae wanna hear it, Ghost. It was my choice.”

[theonlyonesora]

Tethered by Time

Chapter 1: A Confession in the Golden Hour

CH02

The rooftop of the hotel was tranquil, bathed in the soft hues of the evening sun. A gentle breeze rustled through the air, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms from the school grounds below. Aizawa Shouta leaned casually against the railing, his scarf lazily draped around his shoulders. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, but his mind was focused on the student standing a few feet away—Kali.

Kali, a third-year with a sharp mind and an often quiet demeanor, fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Her dark hair shimmered faintly in the golden light, but her usual composure seemed to have been left behind. She looked younger than her years in that moment, vulnerable and hesitant.

Aizawa noticed this and tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but probing. "You called me up here, Kali. What's on your mind?"

Kali hesitated, the weight of her thoughts nearly tangible in the silence. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but firm. "I like someone."

Aizawa’s brow furrowed, though he masked his surprise well. He had expected questions about career paths, strategies for hero work, maybe even complaints about training. But this? It was personal.

"Okay," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "And this someone... are they another student?"

She shook her head, her gauze fixed on the setting sun. "No. He’s older. By... 10 years."

Aizawa's frown deepened. While he was accustomed to mentoring his students through their emotional and personal growth, this revelation was unexpected. "That's quite the age gap," he replied evenly, though there was a protective edge to his tone. "Kali, you’re at a point in your life where a lot is changing—feelings, goals, even the way you see the world. It's natural to admire someone older. But you need to be cautious."

Kali turned to face him, her dark eyes earnest. "I know it sounds bad. I just... he’s different. He listens. He treats me like I matter."

Aizawa sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Kali, admiration is one thing. Acting on those feelings is another. The reality is, relationships with significant age gaps—especially at your age—are complicated. They can create imbalances that aren’t healthy."

Her face fell, and she looked down, her fingers gripping the railing. "I haven’t told him. I’m scared he’ll think I’m just a kid."

Aizawa’s voice softened, but his stance remained firm. "If he’s the kind of person you think he is, he’ll appreciate your honesty and respond respectfully. And if he doesn’t, then he’s not worth your admiration. Remember, the right people will always prioritize your well-being over their own interests."

The conversation lingered in the air like the warm glow of the sunset. Kali’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and she nodded. "You’re right. I’ll think about it more before I do anything."

Aizawa nodded approvingly. "Good. You’re smart, Kali. Just focus on growing into your best self. The rest will come in time."

Kali smiled faintly. "Thank you, sensei. For listening me."

A rare softness crept into his gaze as he reached out, ruffling her hair in a gesture that was both comforting and affectionate. "Anytime. Now, get some rest. You’ve got training tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear any excuses."

As Kali turned to leave, her steps lighter than before, Aizawa remained on the rooftop, his thoughts churning. Her confession had caught him off guard, but it was her sincerity that lingered in his mind. He had always been able to separate his role as a teacher from his personal emotions, but Kali’s openness had stirred something—perhaps a reminder of his own youth, of the complexities of navigating emotions at her age.

"Teenagers," he muttered, shaking his head. "Always full of surprises."

The evening breeze whispered through the air as Aizawa stood alone, watching the last traces of sunlight dip below the horizon. Unbeknownst to him, the simple conversation had sown the seeds of a bond that would grow and test both of them in the days to come.

 Aizawa's phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking his thoughts. He fished it out to see a message from Principal Nezu.

"Good morning, Aizawa. Remember the staff meeting at 8 a.m. sharp. Don’t oversleep!"

Aizawa groaned, pocketing his phone. "Oversleeping would be nice for once," he muttered under his breath. Deciding he needed some rest himself, he gave the terrace one last glance before heading back inside.

.

The next morning, Aizawa was seated in the hotel lobby, nursing a cup of black coffee. His signature disheveled look made a few other teachers chuckle, but he paid them no mind. He scanned the room out of habit, ensuring all students were accounted for.

Kali walked into the lobby, her usual confident stride dampened by the early hour. She spotted Aizawa and hesitated briefly before approaching him.

"Good morning, sensei," she said softly, a hint of guilt still evident in her tone.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his coffee. "Morning, Kali. Did you sleep well after your late-night rooftop adventure?"

Kali looked away, scratching the back of her head. "Yeah... I guess. Thanks for, you know, talking to me last night."

Aizawa nodded, his tone softening slightly. "Just doing my job. You’re not a bad kid, Kali. You just need to think about your choices a bit more."

"I know," she muttered, looking down at her hands. "I’ll try."

He gave her a rare, small smile. "That’s all I ask."

.

As the school trip progressed, Kali found herself seeking out Aizawa for advice more often. It wasn’t just about feelings or her crush anymore—it was about life, her goals, and how to navigate the pressures she faced. Aizawa, while initially reluctant to engage in deep conversations outside of his teaching duties, found himself drawn to her earnestness.

During a free afternoon, the students had scattered to explore the nearby town. Aizawa, keeping an eye on the group from a distance, noticed Kali sitting alone on a park bench. He walked over and took a seat beside her.

"Skipping out on sightseeing?" he asked.

Kali shrugged. "Just needed some quiet. The others are loud."

Aizawa nodded, understanding the sentiment. "Fair enough. But don’t isolate yourself too much. Being around people, even the loud ones, is part of growing up."

"I know," Kali said, glancing at him. "But it’s easier to talk to you. You don’t judge me."

Aizawa’s expression softened. "I’m here to guide you, not judge. But I will call you out when you’re doing something harmful—."

Kali chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."

"Good," Aizawa said, leaning back on the bench. "You’re smart, Kali. You just need to trust yourself more. You’ve got potential—you just don’t see it yet."

Kali looked at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. "Thanks, sensei. That means a lot."

...

First of all, I hope you enjoy this fanfic! It was originally meant to be a one-shot, but it ended up getting a bit longer than expected, so I’ll be splitting it into four chapters.

[carb0n-m0n0xid3]

The Forest's Safekeeping

Hey yall, I wrote a story :3

dunno if ive posted it here before cuz of my stupid autistic goldfish memory, but here it is

I ALSO DONT LIKE THE NAME PLEASE GIVE IDEAS PLEASE PLEAES

anywho, here ya go! ejniy :3

It was an ordinary day for the centaur, locked up in his cell with thick, cold chains rubbing his skin raw. He had grown used to such troubles though, as he had others far worse to deal with in this harsh facility. He had long forgotten his old life, practically raised by these cruel conditions since being abducted nearly two decades ago.

“Subject 70424!” called Dr. Shridener, a scientist, hitting his cell door with her clipboard to wake him. She had done so successfully, watching his fright with an annoyed expression.

He awoke startled, stretching up from the old dirty mat he had called a bed, dusting off his medical robe. He had wished so dearly to wake with the rising sun rather than by someone inhumane screaming orders at him. But as of now that was just a silly dream, perhaps once a distant, fading memory.

“Yes, ma’am” he anxiously muttered, hesitantly approaching the cell’s door. He held his lanky arms out to her through the bars, guessing she'd want to see the progress of his healing skin grafts.

“Ahh” Dr. Shridener said with some hope, snatching the centaur’s arm in a tightening grip, causing a few light winces to escape him. She hummed whilst observing the old scarring, though her smile faded with disappointment. It was unfortunate for her to see the start of an infection along the site of the grafted skin that his own had rejected.

“Another failure, I see..” she hissed, releasing his arm from her grasp. The centaur retreated back with a flinch, watching her scribble some notes on her clipboard. He sighed, knowing this meant more tests and procedures. Why were they even doing this, seeing what skins are compatible with his own? He had no clue, but surely he would find out in the future.. right?

He was then transported by Dr. Shridener towards the medical bay, though already knew the way by heart from the amount of times he had gone. Down the hall and take a right, down that long hall… then past the dreaded “extermination chambers”. He never dared to think of what was done there, fearing for his life each time he was near that section of the facility. It was occasional to hear the wails of innocent creatures from within, though he tried to ignore such terrorizing sounds of annihilation.

Once in the bay, the centaur was guided to a room, knowing what would happen within. Eventually another scientist came in to conduct the procedures on him, one whose name tag read “Dr. Favela”. 

He entered without a greeting, a rather stern, plain look on his face. He adjusted his gloves and brought out a kit, one all too familiar to the centaur. From within the kit, he drew out some appliances, preparing anesthesia to momentarily sedate him. The poor creature had grimaced, still uneasy at the sight of needles despite how often he had seen them.

He inhaled sharply as the needle penetrated him, slowly numbing his frail skin with its liquids within. His eyes began to grow heavy, faltering and shutting once succumbing to the substance.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

A few weeks had passed since the operation, the centaur’s arm currently bandaged with gauze, cleaned daily with painful antibiotics. He could barely sleep with the agony, though whenever he managed to, it never completely satisfied his fatigued state. He dreamt daily of the wilderness, clips and blurs of his past memories blended together. He was tired of these same cold gray walls, the thick bars containing him, and heavy chains that prohibited freedom, or even slight movement.

“Subject 70424!” yelled Dr. Shridener, once again slamming her clipboard on the cell door. The centaur awoke with a shudder, already forgetting the sweet serenity of his fantastical dreams. He approached, the chains clanking along the floor as he trotted a short distance to her, rolling up the grimy sleeves of his robe to reveal his bandaged arm. She unwrapped the gauze with one gloved hand, the other holding his arm tightly. 

He watched her with a growing sense of anxiety, as Dr. Shridener was never one to smile, even less one as wide as this. He glanced down to his arm, seeing the patch of grafted skin beginning to heal with his own. It.. worked? After all this time, it finally worked?

“Dr. Favela will be thrilled when he sees this..” she said, releasing his arm and grabbing her clipboard to write down the information, unable to wipe the grin from her face. 

The centaur sighed shakily, not really knowing how to feel about this. The graft worked, but now what? What were they going to do with this? With him? As of now he was just led back towards the medical bay, taking the mundane route towards the room. He followed Dr. Shridener down the hall and to the right, watching her strides. He was led forward and past the extermination chambers, feeling that same uneasy feeling in his gut.

She was the first to enter the room, glancing around with the same smile.

“Dr. Favela~ Oh doc-”

“I am busy.” he snapped, turning in his chair from his computer. His expression was the  same as always, dull and tiresome. After glancing between the two he sighed and rolled his eyes, turning back to his computer.

“The grafts worked” Dr. Shridener said, pulling the centaur in and revealing his arm to the scientist.

At this Dr. Favela finally perked up, leaving his chair to observe the arm. The centaur couldn't understand what the whole deal was with his skin grafts. Sure, it was different and interesting, but why did they need this information? What would they do to him? Being lost in thought he missed their conversation, but knew he was going to go somewhere different. 

This time he was led through the facility by Dr. Favela, following the man closely. The path taken had trailed throughout the building, finally ending at two towering doors. The centaur shuddered at the sight, entering the cold room. There were several machines, ones he did not recognize, and have never seen before. 

“Come” said Dr. Favela, motioning for him to approach one of the benumbed machines.

“They are just larger, modified CAT scans and X-rays” he said in a monotone voice, seemingly annoyed at the centaur’s fear.

“But I suppose you know nothing about machines, due to your lack of knowledge.”

The centaur approached with dreadful submission, shaking with fear at what might go wrong. The scientist was right, he didn't know what these machines were, or what they even did. But he listened to the instructions, finding out that getting these “scans” as Dr. Favela says, was a pretty easy, harmless task.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

After nearly two months of scans and blood work, the centaur was finally deemed “ready” for a plan.. one he still wasn't informed of. All he knew was that it was a surgical procedure, but that only terrified him further.

“Oh Subject 70242” Dr. Shridener called, this time waking him without the whacking of her clipboard on the cell door. It was abnormal for the centaur to see her in such a positive state, but he stood and approached still, heart racing in a fretful manner. 

She had gathered him and led him to another new area, going straight down the hall from his cell. The walls seemed to fade from a bland gray to a soft blue, bringing a sense of serenity to the centaur, though he was still troubled at this uncertainty.

They had finally approached a pre-op room, about four other staff within the area. Dr. Shridener gave orders to the nurses before leaving, the four now glancing over to the centaur. They began to approach, some holding needles and others disinfectants. He failed to back away, bumping into the wall while nervously clutching his medical robe’s sleeves.

“What's going on?” the centaur finally sputtered, feeling an uneasiness deep within himself.

“SPOS? Surgical Process of Separation? Did they not tell you?” One nurse said, rolling her eyes as she paused. Another had begun to approach the centaur, raising the needle in his hand closer to the shaking creature.

They were going to separate his.. what? He could barely think straight when informed of this operation. How would he be after? They are posing a major risk to his life, just to see what might happen? Just to make him “normal”? He froze in his spot, clutching his chest as the four came closer. This was it. His life could all end here if he did nothing. Was there anything he could even do? 

The centaur glanced about the room, searching his surroundings for anything useful. He had seen a medkit on the counter beside him, throwing it at the nurses as a quick distraction before bolting out of the room. His hoofbeats echoed throughout the halls, nearly matching with the speed of his racing heart. He could only try to focus on escaping, fleeing from this inhumane facility as horrid questions flooded his head. Why would anyone propose such an idea? Is that why they needed the scans? The successful grafts? What if he gets captured? Would they return him for the surgery, or worse, extermination?

Alarms began to blare throughout the building, red lights flashing as a voice came upon the speakers:

“SUBJECT 70242 ATTEMPTING AN ESCAPE, HEADING TOWARDS SOUTH-EAST LOBBY.”

The centaur could already hear the sounds of security approaching, their footsteps growing louder as he rounded the corner, seeing the emergency exit just ahead. Closer and closer he got, heart pumping at speeds he never knew were safe, spreading fear and terror throughout his frail body.

“STOP RIGHT THERE” He heard guards yell, running towards with guns aimed at him. But he continued on, disregarding their threats. His breath grew quick as he raced down the hall, finally bursting through the emergency door with gunshots echoing behind him, some just skimming the hems of his robe.

The night's cool air refreshed the centaur for a brief moment, something he hadn't felt in forever. He threw off the robe while darting throughout the lot, seeing a dense forest just ahead. His throat burned and his lungs ached, but he persisted, hearing the shouts of others fade behind him. The thoughts of being captured continued to fill his mind, fueling his terrorizing dread and perseverance to keep on racing through the forest.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

After hours and hours of treading, the centaur finally slowed, his body giving out from fleeing such a great distance. He grew exhausted and lied to the forest floor, joyfully weeping at his deliverance. Grasping the wet grass with tight fists he laughed, feeling as if in one of those dreams he had whilst in captivity. It all felt so unreal, the newness of the woods overwhelming him with glee and tranquility.

He took a shaking breath, watching the sun slowly rise with its glory. A widening smile began to grow on the centaur’s face, the first genuine smile he had experienced in a very long time.

[remyfire]

If you’re still doing kiss roulette can I get hawkeye and Mulcahy ?

(Hello! Sorry these are getting done so late, but I am still working through them and loving every moment! You get! A kiss to the neck!

I really hope you enjoy!)

There is never necessarily a convenient time to search for something in the supply tent—if an item is requested, then it is always needed with incredible haste—but there's a certain frustration in having only the moonlight by which to comb through the shelves. Despite his quiet questions after if there was a spare lamp, which went ignored, and his decent memory of where they might be, which has failed him, Francis finds himself huffing a sigh as he slips past the door and lets it shut quietly behind him.

It's no one's fault, he reminds himself, that the power has been cut off from a faulty generator, and frankly he should be incredibly grateful that there are no wounded who need surgery right now. Radar has already sent for the part that's needed to fix the generator, and they have confirmation that it's on the way and should be here within the hour.

There too is another way to deliver light—through an act of service—and truly if the only way Francis can currently be of assistance is to find a fresh box of gauze in here and deliver it to post-op, then he'll do so with a grateful heart.

Though they might've sent someone without a preexisting vision condition, he thinks wryly.

"Well." He heaves a sigh, grips his crucifix. "If it be Your will, then perhaps You might illuminate my path."

Unsurprisingly, there is a faint pang of amusement in Francis's gut, one he doesn't associate with himself, necessarily, and he rolls his eyes. "Or maybe not," he murmurs back, but with a degree of fondness.

When Francis is alone like this, he finds it monumentally less difficult to find the divine threads interwoven with  his veins. When he is leading a poorly-attended service, offering confession, or doing most any ceremonial task, it's difficult for him to own up to, but there's an element of the performative there, something which always plagues him. He'll know the right words to say, the right movements, and yet he'll be powerfully aware of the eyes on him and the calling he doesn't wish to fumble.

Tucked in a dark room with no one around but himself, Francis has fewer senses to distract him. He can interpret the emotions he feels with less uncertainty. He knows where he feels his own joy...and where he considers the mirth that he'll feel from, well, Him.

Things he can't really talk about with anyone else in this camp—and without many of his fellow practitioners either. Not without feeling their confusion, their concern, their judgment.

The longer you think about this, the longer those patients go without fresh bandages, he remembers, and with a deep breath and a hand held far in front of him, Francis begins feeling his way through the tent.

Due to the watchful eye of Major Houlihan, it's rare that the supply tent is rearranged in between shipments. If there's a large-scale shift needed, she supervises carefully, and after Francis gets through the initial hiccup, he inevitably finds his way around once again. But thankfully it's been quite some time since one of those, and he knows to trace along the cool metal of the shelf, all the way to the end, then let his fingertips hop to the next, and the next.

It's these shelves tucked near the back that hold his quest item, and Francis finally slows his progress to squint, do his best to discern one object from the next. He'd rather not experience the humiliation of bringing the wrong type of gauze nor the humility of needing to smile through his mistake as he returns to locate the correct one. But as he's halfway down the row, he catches sight of the nook at the rear. Pauses.

Behind him, a streak of moonlight cuts through the window, illuminates the mattress and rumpled blankets upon it. He can see the bare edge of a shiny plastic thing on the ground, and Francis blinks as he takes a step closer, pauses, then a few more. There's nothing to fear here. What this area symbolizes has no more power than a purple mark he'll see on a neck, a bra pinned to the bulletin board.

But when he kneels down and picks up the open item, he realizes it's an empty condom wrapper, and in a flare of shocked heat, he flicks it away.

A man of his age—and especially of his calling—should be less...less reactive to things like this. Not so flustered when he realizes what he's touched. But all he can suddenly think of is a man's nude body, painfully erect, his strong hand slowly rolling a condom down his hard penis, and suddenly he might as well be sunburned from head to toe.

Francis rises to his feet. Tugs his hat off and clutches it in his hands, right against his belly. He doesn't...it's not that he thinks that he'll need to...conceal anything, not when he's become such an expert over the years of redirecting his mind. In fact, now that he's staring holes through the tent wall, he can summon all of his focus to reject this part of himself. Tamp it down. Envision sitting within a frozen field of snow and ice, meditating, not a single soul for miles. There is only Francis, his Lord, and the lovely frigid walls rising up within him, and the clack of plastic—

The clack of plastic.

"There you are."

As arms wrap around his waist and yank him backward, a million things swim at once into dizzying focus—the hanger finally settling against the Supply Tent door, the syrupy masculine voice that could only belong to Hawkeye Pierce, the hungry and biting heat right on his throat. Francis lets out a sharp cry as he stiffens in place, hands flying down to push away the grip that holds him there, but...but then he bites and sucks and moans, and all at once, his knees give out completely.

"Been thinking about you all day."

If he was sunburned before, he's thrown straight into a bonfire now, where his ancestors used to toss women who were too independent, not to mention other sinners—

Hawkeye's groan is sugary sweet yet rich as licorice, the conflicting sensations sending Francis on a roller coaster as he throws his head back and finally drops his hat. This. This is what they warn about, the way that you'll be overtaken all at once, how a million devilish servants will pick you up and fly away with you and never let you find the ground beneath your feet again. You'll chase and chase and chase and chase, but there'll be no peace, only—

"C'mon, lemme hear you, huh? Gimme those pretty moans you've got." Hawkeye purrs right before he shifts to hot, wet kisses over Francis's sensitive skin, the kind that leave him sinking back into his grip, overwhelmed, somehow finding himself at the point of tears at the exquisiteness—no, no, at the...the...

It's only when a hand rushes up his body, under his green jacket, and over his chest that everything stops.

Francis whimpers, tips his head further.

Suddenly he's falling backwards, and Francis just barely manages to catch himself on a shelf, on the hand he throws behind him too. Like an awkward crab just recovering from escaping a boiling pot, he blinks, skitters slightly to flop onto his knees, then chances a nervous look up.

Hawkeye gapes at him, brows high, mouth hanging open, and when he starts shaking his head, there is no true way to articulate Francis's level of shame. He feels it so rarely. Only on the nights where he...lapses a bit. Where his hand might wander while he's alone in his cot, thinking of clever surgeon hands and mischievous smiles.

Right. Francis bows his head and clears his throat. I...yes, right.

"Jesus, Father, I—sorry. Sorry about that. About the Jesus. About the—" Hawkeye splutters for a moment longer, then holds out a hand. "You okay? You hurt?"

"Well, I..." Francis can't help but breathe a single chuckle, one that's tinged with a taste of his own bitterness. "Only on the neck, I believe."

"Shit. Sorry. I, uh..." As Hawkeye helps him to his feet, he's careful about it, his other hand coming to cup Francis's elbow to steady him as though Hawkeye was perhaps the one to push him. "I know it's not exactly the dead of winter or anything, but can I suggest a turtleneck?"

"I'll consider it. Though perhaps we can pass it off as a creative form of stigmata."

Hawkeye barks a shocked laugh, but it falls away just as fast, and Francis is left with his hand held, his throat sore, his neck cooling from...from Hawkeye's...saliva, where he'd bitten, where he'd marked him. Another flood of fire washes over him, but he doesn't feel as cleansed as the three who were thrown within Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.

There are words that need to be exchanged here, of course. The reminder that even if Hawkeye Pierce might think about Francis in this sort of way, it isn't permissible. That there's nothing Francis could ever give him that could make him happy. That—

The hanger clatters louder this time, and suddenly Nurse Madeline comes around the corner, tall and lovely and...blonde. That darling little pixie cut of hers.

The realization hits and makes Francis's blood run cold. Of course.

"Goodness, I seem to have...interrupted a medical discussion," Francis manages to say with a small smile.

"Don't worry, Father," Nurse Madeline murmurs with a smile. "I'll see you this weekend."

At confession, he realizes. Ah. His brows shoot up as he looks between them both, but all he can find is amusement on her face, something indecipherable on Hawkeye's. It isn't the first time that Francis has interrupted an interlude, just...just not...quite so preemptively. But while he'd expect Hawkeye to tease him about that, all he can see through the darkness is how the dark-haired man is refusing to look away.

Finally, Hawkeye seems to come back to himself. "Gauze, right?" He takes a quick step, leans, and snags a fresh box of it. "Here. Should be what Margaret's looking for."

"Oh, why...thank you." Francis reaches for it, but Hawk cups his knuckles and makes him gasp. Very carefully, Hawkeye makes sure that the box is tucked safely into his palm, then uses his own touch to wrap Francis's fingers around it.

He looks at Hawkeye one more time. And from this closer distance, he can more easily interpret the flecks of blue heat in his irises.

Francis clears his throat as he slips between them, making sure he brushes neither. "I'll be going then."

"Good night, Father," Hawkeye says softly behind him. Almost fondly, he might be tricked to say.

Francis hesitates at the end of the row, swallows the stone in his throat, then quickly makes his way out of the tent. To safety. To linger in disappointment, confusion, and incredibly fervent prayers.