tomuratta

[tomuratta]

The Future Doesn't Scare Me At All

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts Ship: Kairi/Riku/Sora For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 7: Free Day Word count: 300 Warnings: N/A AO3

The sun is warm on Kairi's skin. Idly, she pushes one leg back and forth, digging a faint groove in the sand.

The ocean laps at Riku and Sora's waists. Sora dips one arm beneath the water and splashes Riku, who sputters and tackles him. They both fall under the surface, and for a second the water is tranquil.

Kairi holds her breath.

Both boys emerge, wet and grinning. Riku's hair is in his face, and Sora is hanging off his shoulder.

Their laughter floats over the water to Kairi. The tension in her heart fades. She lets herself breathe.

The sun sets, and Riku and Sora come ashore. Their feet leave shallow prints in the sand.

Sora flops next to Kairi on the beach, a smile on his lips. He spreads his arms out, wide and open, and kicks out his feet.

Riku lays at her other side. The light turns his hair more orange than silver, and Kairi reaches out, tucking a few strands behind his ear. He leans into her touch.

An arm wraps around Kairi's shoulders. Sora's head follows it, his hair brushing her skin. Kairi turns to him, and he presses his lips to hers.

The stars flicker in the sky as the three of them rise. Sand sticks to Kairi's skin where they touched.

The sea laps at the beach. Its water stretches out in front of them, dark blue to inky black. Even now, sometimes Kairi thinks it might be the only thing out there.

Sora takes her hand first. He grins at her as easily as he always has.

Riku takes her other hand, pressing their palms together. When Kairi looks at him, his eyes are soft.

It is quiet, except for the waves and the steps they take on the sand.

[tomuratta]

Someday, I'm Gonna Live

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Ship: Yui Kimura/Claudette Morel/Rin Yamaoka | The Spirit For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 6: Queer Disabled Polyam Word count: 329 Warnings: N/A AO3

The doctors tell Rin that phantom pain is normal. They ask questions, about the sensation in her limbs, the way her prosthesis fits, and how the thick white scars on her waist and thigh are healing.

Yui asks them questions back, her hand on Rin's thigh. Claudette writes down what they say, quiet and attentive.

Rin falls asleep in the car on the way home, Yui at the wheel and Claudette next to her in the back. She dreams of shadows and blood and herself, throat raw but still screaming.

She wakes when the car stops. Claudette and Yui both help her out. Rin wishes they wouldn't.

Home is warm. Plants sit on the dining table and in the kitchen, and Claudette has spent long hours working in the tiny garden outside.

It's not quite late enough for dinner. There's an event on TV, something with Jane Romero, that Claudette and Yui want to catch. Rin has met her once or twice, and she seemed nice enough; she has held back from introducing herself, feeling more like an intruder than a friend.

Rin sits on the couch. Her leg is sore where it meets the prosthesis, and it feels good to lessen the pressure.

She looks around the home she shares, at the photos that line the walls (Claudette hugging her parents, Yui grinning with the rest of Sakura 7, Rin and Grandfather not quite touching) and the tiny touches each of them have left.

Claudette has vanished into the kitchen, and Yui sits next to Rin. Their shoulders bump against each other as Yui settles into the couch. She flicks on the TV, playing with the volume until the ads are a low drone.

Rin leans into her, resting her head on Yui's shoulder. The ads are just movement and color. Her eyes slip closed.

Warmth presses against her, and a familiar hand runs through her hair. Claudette and Yui exchange soft words as the opening theme plays.

[tomuratta]

With All Leaves Shivering

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Ship: Taurie Cain/Portia Maye | The Houndmaster/Claudette Morel For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 5: Arranged Marriage Word count: 2321 Warnings: Suicidal ideation AO3

The ship they send Claudette on is small. It is laden with treasure, gold and jewels and flowers.

They permitted her three packets of seeds. She chose them carefully, despite the rush and fear in her chest.

Her garden had been her safe place, all her life. The slender willow at the center, its canopy hiding her from the world, was her shelter. For the last time, she sat under it, and pretended her world was not shattered.

The ocean is a clear, bright blue during the day. Claudette sits by the ship's edge and stares at it until one of the sailors steers her away, unwilling to meet her eyes.

She has a separate resting place from the sailors and servants who travel with her on this ship. She lays in her cramped cot and imagines them, in resting quarters they can barely fit in, dreaming of things she will never see.

The servants dress her every morning. They are silent, unwilling to speak to her, and Claudette misses the stories and gossip the familiar ones from home would tell.

The days pass quickly. Claudette is carefully steered from the sides whenever she stands on the deck, and she begins to stay inside instead, reading the books she'd brought with her. She traces the outlines of familiar plants on the pages and wonders if she will ever see them again.

The ocean's rocking becomes as familiar as it is strange. Claudette takes her meals, and writes one letter a day. She touches the tiara on her head, thin and gold, and wonders what her parents are doing without her. Are they as afraid as she is?

Her mother had been stern when they told her, sure that this was the best thing to do. Her father's face had crumpled as he took her hands in his and told her how much they both loved her.

There is a pressed flower in one of Claudette's books. She holds it to her nose and breathes in, imagining her home, her garden, her parents with her again. She imagines planting another garden in her new home, and her heart is a gaping hole.

The weather changes. It is warmer now, the sky rarely clouded. They are in a part of the world Claudette has only see on maps. She tries to imagine the plants here, but all she can think about are the flowers at home.

More ships appear, sailing past. Some are large, transporting massive amounts of goods. Others are tiny, manned by skeleton crews.

Claudette tosses and turns at night. She sleeps on top of the covers, seeds clutched to her chest. She imagines them taking root in her chest and growing through the ceiling, bursting into the ocean air. The sea's salt would poison their roots.

The sailors are excited now, cheerful and eager to arrive. The servants seem anxious, but they ignore Claudette's tentative attempts to talk.

Finally, a great shape appears over the horizon: an island, surrounded by ships, covered in a massive, sprawling city. Claudette stares at it, and can hardly breathe.

She sits to write, and no words come to her mind. She draws instead: a willow tree, its canopy almost touching the ground.

She touches her bare ring finger, and imagines a ring, made of daisies chained together.

For a long time, she lays in her cot, and forces her heart to calm. When she closes her eyes, she sees the island, growing closer by the minute.

Claudette is woken by yelling. She sits up as the ship jerks to a halt. A servant pulls open the door to her cabin, almost-fear on her face in the second before she looks away.

"Princess!" she says. "We've arrived."

Claudette is draped in jewels and finery. She keeps her eyes to the ground as she is led off the ship. She can feel the gazes on her.

The air is hot and humid. She tastes the salt in her mouth. When she inhales the scent of old wood, steeped in seawater, is overwhelming.

Knights stand to each side of her, ushering her along the dock. Their armor shines in the sun.

Claudette's tiara is heavy on her head for the first time in years. She feels weighed down by her fine dress, and imagines falling past the knights, off the dock, and sinking like a stone.

The green, she reminds herself: her willow tree, her plants, her hands in the dirt.

A carriage awaits them. One knight holds the door open, ushering Claudette inside. He sits across from her, closing the door after him with a final-sounding click.

The carriage begins to move, and Claudette keeps her hands in her lap. Her packets of seeds are with her things, carried by servants off of the ship. She can feel them, still, her last tenuous connection to home.

She doesn't speak to the knight. His face is hidden behind his helmet, limp black hair protruding through the gaps in the visor. Claudette looks away instead, and watches the people on the streets.

Some carry baskets of fish, others groceries. Some are dressed finely, and Claudette imagines them as wealthy merchants, traveling from port to port. Some look at the carriage. One child points at it, and her mother grabs her hand.

They leave the business of the docks behind, entering the city proper. It is nicer, cleaner. Claudette can no longer taste salt on the air.

There are shops lining the road, selling bread and trinkets and, she glimpses for a second, fresh flowers. The homes next to them have windows blocked by curtains and children playing outside.

The homes become more opulent, the shops fewer. These are mansions, hidden behind low walls and carefully cultivated plants. Claudette thinks she recognizes some of the shrubbery, but if she's right, these species would never thrive in the island's climate.

Finally, the homes thin out entirely. Claudette forces herself to look away from the window, back to the knight and his inscrutable helmet. She closes her eyes, and laces her bare fingers together.

The carriage comes to a stop. The knight opens the door, his armor creaking. He ushers Claudette out.

Despite herself, she looks up, at the clear blue sky. She closes her eyes, and feels the humidity against her skin.

The carriage door is closed behind her. Claudette opens her eyes, and follows the knight through massive open gates, guarded by more knights in identical armor.

He leads her through broad pillars into a massive entrance, the marble floor so polished she can see her reflection. The walls are decorated with massive tapestries, depicting scenes Claudette cannot focus on. Her heart has found its way into her throat, and she can barely breathe.

The knight takes her through a long hallway and up a low flight of steps to a massive pair of doors. He pauses and looks at her.

Claudette takes a deep breath.

"Thank you," she says softly.

A short exhale, halfway to a laugh, leaves the knight's helmet. He opens the door, and Claudette enters. He follows behind her, and extends one arm as the door swings closed.

"Your Majesty," he announces in a deep, raspy voice, "I present to you Her Royal Highness, Princess Claudette Morel."

The ceiling of the throne room is high and vaulted, and the knight's voice echoes. The room is decorated lavishly, more tapestries hanging from the walls.

The throne — a single one, not two next to each other like Claudette has always known — sits on a dais. It is lavishly decorated, its arms encrusted with jewels.

A woman sits upon it, a cane crossed lazily over her legs. She is clothed finely, not in a dress but in trousers and a long coat. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a grandiose circlet holding it in place. From her left temple to her lip, her face is scarred.

At her right, a dog sits, its body massive and muscular. On her left is another woman, pale and with her hair cut short, who is dressed similarly. A thin golden crown sits on her head.

Claudette's fiancee grins, and her lip tugs at the scar tissue. Her left eye almost seems to glow.

Claudette ducks her eyes, and curtsies deeply. She feels dizzy, like she's barely present in this grandiose room.

"I am honored to meet you," she says, praying her voice does not tremble. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

The queen throws her head back and laughs.

"Nothing but the best for my future wife!"

Slowly, Claudette rises from the curtsy. She can feel the knight's presence behind her.

The queen rises from her throne. She is tall, at least a head above Claudette. Her boots click against the polished marble as she approaches. The dog and other woman remain at the throne; the dog pants contentedly while the woman scowls.

Claudette forces herself to meet the queen's eyes. The queen reaches out one hand, and Claudette keeps herself still as her chin is taken between two strong fingers. The queen stares into Claudette's eyes, and Claudette finally looks away. It is too painful to force herself to make eye contact.

"Princess Claudette. I, Queen Portia Maye, am pleased to become your betrothed." Her face is serious for a moment, and then the grin returns. "Now let us eat, drink, and make merry, for soon we will be wed!"

The queen releases Claudette's chin and spins on her heel. She whistles and beckons, and the dog runs to her side. The woman follows at a slower pace.

The queen puts out one hand, and the woman takes it, accepting the kiss the queen presses to her cheek. For a moment, the hard edges of her face soften.

"Taurie, my dear, show Claudette around."

As the queen swirls out of the throne room, the woman's scowl returns. Claudette feels as though she's shriveling under her intense gaze.

The woman crosses her arms. There are twin marks on her chin, leading down her neck to the center of her throat, but most of them are concealed by the high collar of the long coat she wears.

"Nice to meet you," Claudette begins, but the woman scoffs.

"Taurie," she says by way of introduction. "First wife of Portia Maye."

Claudette's heart skips a beat.

Taurie leads Claudette down more long hallways. The knight remains in the throne room, and Claudette almost misses his presence. She can't pay attention to the brief remarks Taurie makes about the rooms they pass. Her head aches.

Finally, they come to a stop at another door, this one wide and flanked by columns.

"The garden," Taurie says. She turns to leave, and despite herself, Claudette reaches out a hand, barely grazing her shoulder. Taurie flinches, and Claudette jerks her hand back.

"I'm sorry!" she says. "I just— The garden, please?"

Taurie glares at her, but gestures to the door, as if to say Do it yourself, then.

Claudette pushes it open. The sky outside is a vivid orange and already scattered with stars.

The garden is sprawling. A fountain sits past a field of grass and colorful flowers, water falling softly into its pool. Trees line the edges, thin and unfamiliar, vines winding around their trunks. Seats and benches scatter the grounds, as if placed at random.

It is nothing like home, with the plants Claudette had painstakingly cared for and its familiar willow tree. It is the closest anything here has come.

Claudette's eyes burn. She covers them with her hands, willing back the tears.

Taurie's coat swishes. Claudette tries to look up at her, but her vision is blurry, and she just looks like a vague mess of colors.

"Claudette," she half-says, half-asks. Then she is quiet. Claudette doesn't know how to respond.

"I'm sorry," she tries.

Taurie scoffs. She walks deeper into the garden, and Claudette follows her to a bench, secluded next to shrubs with dangling crimson flowers. Taurie sits, and Claudette does too. She buries her head back into her hands, trying to muffle the terrible noises which try to come out of her mouth.

Claudette's hands quickly become wet. She sobs, as quietly as she can, next to this woman who is little more than a stranger.

The last rays of sun illuminate Taurie when Claudette looks at her, the dark markings on her neck and chin like tentacles or claws. Her hair is cropped close enough to see faint white scars on her scalp. The gems attached to her clothing sparkle.

Taurie looks back. Her eyes are a bright, piercing blue.

"Why did you come here?"

"My parents," Claudette sniffles, "needed power, and Queen Maye offered it."

Taurie laughs. There is little humor in it.

"It was power for me, too, at first. Then it became safety." She looks up at the stars. "Now, Fortune is my home."

Claudette wipes her eyes. The tears are mostly gone. She feels wrung-out.

"What is she like?" she asks.

"Hm." Taurie touches her throat absently. "Kinder than she thinks. Cruel, when she wants to be. Generous."

She takes one crimson flower in her hands, and pulls it from its home.

As the sun slips below the horizon, Taurie tucks the flower into Claudette's hair. Her hand lingers at the side of her face, trailing down her cheekbone to her jaw. She takes Claudette's chin between a finger and thumb, and tilts it up, looking her in the eyes.

Taurie's lips are dry against Claudette's. Reflexively, Claudette closes her eyes. She makes a soft noise as Taurie breaks the kiss and releases her jaw.

Taurie stands, and Claudette looks up at her, her body silhouetted by stars. She offers a hand, and Claudette takes it.

Just before they enter the palace, Taurie pauses.

"Sometimes Portia forgets when and where she is. When she does... run, and find someone safe."

[tomuratta]

Calm

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: Aveline de Grandpré/Rebecca Crane, Rebecca Crane/Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 4: Aro/Ace & Polyam Word count: 549 Warnings: N/A AO3

"Mail for you," Rebecca says, dropping the envelopes on Aveline's desk. The heavy dorm door slams shut behind her.

Aveline doesn't bother commenting on it. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, statistics textbook open in front of her. She should be taking notes, but she's been at it for hours now, and the equations are beginning to swim in her brain.

"Back to work, right after vacation?" Rebecca asks. She pulls out her desk chair and sits in it sideways, leaning on the back and smiling at Aveline.

"Hi, Rebecca," Aveline says. Looking away from the textbook is a relief. "How was your vacation?"

Rebecca laughs.

"Good! Desmond and I took Shaun skiing. He was terrible."

Aveline has only met Desmond and Shaun, Rebecca's partners, a few times.

She shares one of her gen ed classes with Desmond. He's popular with the older students; she's seen one of them, that troublemaker Altair, wait outside for him before.

Shaun she's only met in passing. He is absurdly British.

"So. That was my holiday," Rebecca says. "How was yours?"

Aveline sighs. She doesn't know what to say that will satisfy her roommate.

Should she tell the truth, that she'd spent it alone except for Gérard, imagining her childhood home growing dusty and lifeless as the woman who murdered her father attempts to defend her claim to it from a prison cell?

Aveline clenches one fist, the one out of Rebecca's view, until her neat fingernails dig into her skin. Slowly, she loosens her grip.

No. Obviously not.

Rebecca rests her chin on the back of the chair.

"It's cool if you don't want to talk about it," she says. "No biggie."

Aveline looks back down at the textbook.

"I think I might be getting tired of statistics."

Rebecca laughs.

"No way! The business major, tired of math? Say it isn't true."

Aveline half sighs, half chuckles. She closes the textbook with a satisfying thud and uncrosses her legs, swinging them over the edge of her bed.

Directly across from her are the corkboards Rebecca put up the day she moved in, decorated with pushpins and a bizarre assortment of printed-out photos, receipts, and concert stubs.

Noisily, Rebecca stands up from her chair, kicking it back against her cluttered desk.

"Well, if you're feeling down, how about a little pick-me-up?" she asks, waggling her eyebrows.

Despite herself, Aveline laughs.

"Come over here," she says.

Afterwards, they lay together on Aveline's bed, sweaty and satisfied. Rebecca curls against Aveline's side, her fringe tickling Aveline's skin.

Low orange light filters through their window. It's already sunset.

"I want to introduce you to Shaun and Desmond," Rebecca says sleepily.

Aveline does not stiffen.

"Not as..." Rebecca continues, before Aveline can even ask.

Aveline closes her eyes. She thinks about the white ring on her bedside table, the one Rebecca had complimented her on. Rebecca knows, has known since before this arrangement they have, but sometimes, despite herself, Aveline worries.

As what, then? she almost asks.

Instead, she opens her eyes, looking down at her roommate. She runs her hand through Rebecca's hair.

"I'm not sure."

It hurts to admit. Aveline has spent most of her life decisive and sure of herself. She's always been proud of that.

"That's okay," Rebecca says. "Just think about it."

[tomuratta]

[tomuratta]

Deathmates

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Ship: Taurie Cain/Haddie Kaur/Élodie Rakoto For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 3: Reverse Tropes Word count: 1021 Warnings: Dead by Daylight-typical violence, cults AO3

Taurie is raised to know one thing about the marks on her hands: that they belong to the two people who she will either kill, or be killed by.

On her left, a compass. On her right, an eye.

"A good sign," the masters say. "They are powerful, and you will be too."

Selfishly, Taurie wishes they were weak instead. Then she could surpass them faster.

Her parents take her and her brother all over the world. They are researchers, they say. Scientists, instilling their children with good values.

In public she learns to be friendly (but not too friendly). Polite (but not afraid).

In private, she is deferent. She learns the prayers and repeats them with glee. She is her parents' daughter.

A flight attendant, in a perfect TV-show accent, points to the marks on her hands.

"How lucky!" she says. "Most people only have one."

Taurie smiles and says her thanks. Her heart boils with rage. What a foolish woman.

She enters the Bleed as a child. Later, the masters will talk about her innocence, how ripe she was to be changed, to be chosen.

She will never admit to it, but she is afraid.

At her worst, her moment of most cowardice, she runs her fingers along the marks on her hands.

Taurie stares at the suit in front of her, meat and hair and things she didn't realize could have once been a person. She wonders what the strangers she is fated to share death with would think. Can they feel her? If this happens to her, too, in the screaming darkness, will they know?

Her father's body is heavy. In her future nightmares, the ones the masters say will go away as soon as she prays hard enough, she carries him. She can feel his suit in her arms. No matter how old she gets in the real world, she is tiny, and he is large.

She sees Ewan, the vague shape of a human in that awful old suit. She doesn't even know the last thing she said to him. She can't hear the last words he says to her.

Home is empty. Home stays empty, years down the line.

The masters tell Taurie she is special. More special than being just one of many with two marks on their hands.

Every dream, every nightmare, Taurie records. She sees through other eyes — violence, loyalty, offerings. When she isn't carrying her father's limp body, she is running her blade (and claws, and chainsaw, and more) through sacrifices' bodies.

She knows her fate now. She's going to be one of them, serving the Talon. And the people who match the marks on her hands will be her first sacrifices.

The fog swallows Taurie, and she does not scream.

The sacrifices — survivors, they call themselves, taking comfort in the idea of life — treat Taurie like she's one of them. They extend their hands easily, so trusting and unable to even think of the possibility of a traitor within their midst.

The backs of Taurie's hands itch now, all the time. They're here. She's sure they are, somehow, among the shifting crowd that sits at this campfire.

They try to teach her how to live in this place.

Jonah plunges his hands into a generator, and Taurie copies him. She embraces the way the wires burn her skin.

Steve, blood in his hair, pulls her from a hook. He tells her to run, and leads the monster (one she recognizes, one whose eyes she once looked through) away.

Yoichi offers to heal her with the tinctures Claudette has made. Taurie can see him in the distance as she bleeds.

Kate points out vault points — gaping open windows and crumbling brick walls — and pauses, as though something just came to her mind.

"Have you met Élodie yet? She can help you with chests."

At the name — Élodie — Taurie's left hand burns. She almost gasps.

"Élodie?" she asks, tasting the name in her mouth. "I should — I should meet her."

Kate smiles at her. Taurie looks at her arm instead of her eyes, the geometric flowers leading up to the silhouette of a motorcycle rider on her shoulder.

It's the Knight, this time. Taurie knows his name, but does not speak it. She has dreamed of him too many times to count.

He runs her through with a viciousness she used to revel in. She used to think she could be like him.

Kate is already at the campfire. A woman leans against her, pink-tinted goggles pushing back bleach-blonde hair.

Kate says something to her, and smiles at Taurie.

"Did ya'll get out alright?"

Taurie isn't even sure who else was in the trial with her. She holds back the words that threaten to spill from her tongue.

"No," she says. "He..."

She doesn't know how to phrase it.

"Aw, babe, I'm sorry," Kate says. "I'm sure you'll get luckier, we all struggle at first."

Taurie can't stop herself from frowning.

The woman next to Kate meets her eyes.

"Kate was saying you wanted to talk to Élodie?" she half asks, half states.

Taurie nods, and she grins, easy and confident.

"She's right on the other side of the campfire. I'm sure she'd love to help you out."

"Thanks," Taurie says. Absently, she puts one hand on her throat, feeling the marks embedded in her flesh.

The fire flickers hypnotically as Taurie walks past other sacrifices. Steve grins and waves. She doesn't meet his eyes.

Taurie recognizes Élodie instantly. She's sitting on a log, engrossed in conversation. Freckles dust her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, barely visible in the fluctuating light.

Taurie's left hand burns. She grabs it, covering it with her right palm in a desperate attempt to mitigate the pain. She can feel the compass outlined starkly against her skin.

She stumbles, and Élodie looks up. Her smile turns to a grimace, awful and pained.

The woman next to her looks up too. All Taurie sees is the white streak in her hair before the eye on her right hand erupts in pain.

This time, she screams.

[tomuratta]

Want You Here

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Ship: Dwight Fairfield/David King/Jake Park For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 2: "Blorbo has two hands" Word count: 2655 Warnings: N/A AO3

At first, it's just the four of them, Dwight and Claudette and Meg and Jake.

The knowledge that other people are here, that they're real and not just ghosts running from Dwight every time he approaches them, is an intense relief. He had thought he'd been in hell, to be honest, that he'd died that night in the forest and finally got what was coming to him.

When he voiced that to the other three, Meg had laughed, and Claudette had gotten kind of quiet and sad. Jake had looked away.

They all have their own unique skills. Meg can lead the monsters chasing them around in circles, Claudette can patch them up as well as a real doctor could, and Jake is stealthy, able to sneak up and sabotage hooks with just his hands. Dwight is good at generators, and, he hopes, good at helping everyone else.

It feels good to be useful. He's never been wanted like this before, never had somebody call him over and ask for his help.

Increasingly, Dwight finds his eyes straying to Jake. He isn't trying to, and every time he notices he jerks his eyes away, but it just keeps happening.

Jake at the campfire, quiet and vague about his past. Sometimes, he lets out an unexpected laugh at something Meg says, and looks surprised at the smile on his face.

Jake in the forest, grabbing wood for the fire — "Just in case" — and tossing it into Dwight's waiting hands. He doesn't explain how he knows to pick the best kindling, and Dwight feels like a child as he follows Jake around.

Jake creeping through long grass in the wrecking yard, his dark clothing almost invisible in the dim light. He found the hatch once and led all three of them to its outline in the dirt.

Jake jumping out and grabbing the base of the hook Dwight is about to be impaled on, letting the killer rake their weapon across his back to buy enough time for the hook to fall. No one's ever protected Dwight like that before.

Sometimes Dwight's heart aches when he looks at Jake. He doesn't know why he can't feel normal about him anymore.

What if Jake notices? He'd probably think Dwight is some sort of creep. He already barely looks Dwight in the eyes.

Dwight can't help the way his heart jolts when his hand brushes against Jake's, but he can try to make himself act normal. They're going to be stuck here for a long time, after all.

David is...weird, Jake decides. He's loud and brash and, honestly, annoying.

He is also, to Jake's great chagrin, attractive.

Jake has found his eyes straying to David more than once. David is built, buff like a linebacker. Jake didn't even think that was his type, until now.

David has fought before. Jake is pretty sure of it. Real fighting, not bar fights or staged tournaments. The kind where one person isn't coming out unscathed.

Not that Jake has ever fought, himself. The closest he's been is tussling with his brother.

David calls himself King. Every time he does, it gets on Jake's nerves. Some of the others have picked up on the habit, too.

"Hey, King," Nea says, like it's a nickname more natural than David's real name.

"King, you sly dog!" Ace laughs at some story David tells about an ex-girlfriend.

"King, get over here," Bill orders him, gruff as always.

Jake sits across from David at the campfire. He can hear his mother's voice speak to him, and he brushes her away.

He was an idiot to think the voices were from the loneliness, and not just a worsening of the wrongness about him that has always been obvious to everyone except him.

He'd thought they were gone for good, a total figment of his imagination, when he'd met Dwight and Claudette and Meg. But now there are enough survivors to crowd the campfire, and Dwight has grown distant while Meg and Claudette spend more time with each other than anybody else.

Jake runs his thumb along the inside of his glove, and wonders if anyone will notice if he slips away.

David's voice draws him from his thoughts. He and Ace and Min are deep in some boisterous discussion, laughing and shouting, eager to one-up each other. Nea joins in, slinging her arm casually around Min's shoulders.

Jake looks away. Claudette and Meg are talking softly to each other. Meg is holding Claudette's hand. A pang hits Jake's heart.

Dwight is next to them. He's staring at David too, a strange expression on his face. Jake wishes he could go up and talk to him. Something in his head laughs at his childish trepidation.

There are eyes watching him. Against his better instincts, Jake turns. Surprisingly, it's another person: Laurie, sitting apart from everyone else. She catches his eye and smiles at him, a tiny thing he doesn't think he's ever seen on her face before.

He almost opens his mouth and asks her why.

Watching Dwight isn't something David means to do. It just happens.

Dwight has a bad habit of getting into trouble. He's a wimp, with a backbone that only shows itself once in a blue moon. He acts like he wants to help people, but he's terrible at it. And David has, for some reason, been protecting him.

Taking hits is easy. It's what David's done his whole life, starting back before he learned how to throw a punch. The hard part is not fighting back.

Most of the others can handle themselves fine. Meg and Min are fast, and Nea and Jake are stealthy. Bill and Ace wouldn't accept help even if he tried to offer it to them.

Dwight stumbles in a chase, and David is there, giving him enough time to escape.

Dwight gets knocked to the ground, and David runs to the hook. Half the time, he's there before Jake can sabotage it.

Once, the Doctor had chased Claudette and Kate out the exit gate, and Dwight and David were left alone, Dwight with a hook spearing his shoulder and David already at the other gate. Pulling Dwight off that hook and guarding his back as they sprinted to safety, something had bloomed in David's chest, awful and warm.

He's been sticking closer to Dwight, without even really thinking about it. Following him to generators and shielding him without a second thought. And that feeling, worming its way deeper, where it doesn't belong.

David wishes he could talk to Rik, or Donnie. Someone who knows. Rik's stories, phrased just to grab his heart, still linger painfully in his mind.

Daivd offers Dwight his hand, pulling him up from the ground, and Dwight grins, blood dripping down his face. David feels more like King than David, more like the man who'd pummeled weaklings like Dwight into the ground for a free drink and twenty quid than the one who'd run to catch Tristan at the airport.

Tristan's note blazes a hole in his pocket as David stands face to face with Dwight. He can feel his body try to lean in.

Footsteps draw near, and David turns and runs. He can taste sick in his mouth.

Jake sits next to him when they return, the campfire's heat cooler than Dwight's palm.

"King, huh," he says, no inflection in the words. Part of King wants to deck him.

"Yeah," David grunts instead. "'s my name."

Jake is quiet. He looks at Dwight, who's smiling awkwardly at a story Nea and Ace are telling him. David looks too.

Dwight can still feel David's hand in his, David's strong arm pulling him to his feet. They didn't see each other for the rest of the trial, which, considering how many times Dwight messed up generators, was probably for the best.

Nea and Ace had immediately grabbed him once he got back to the campfire, and even now that their story is over, he hasn't managed to look at David once. It feels like as soon as he does, the way he feels will be real.

Dwight presses his hands together. His fingers are smaller than David's. He closes his eyes, imagining first David's face, then Jake's. They merge together into a vague idea, less a person and more a series of impressions: calloused skin and rough gloves, confidence both quiet and loud, blood wiped away and spat to the ground.

Someone sits next to him, and Dwight starts, eyes flying open. It's Laurie, brushing her hair behind her ear. A tiny, gem-shaped earring studs her earlobe, drawing Dwight's eyes. She turns to meet his gaze, and his face flushes red. He feels like he was just caught doing something wrong.

"Have you spoken to Jake?" she asks.

"W-what?" Dwight asks. The question is completely out of left field.

Laurie sighs.

"You should talk to him. And David too, probably."

"What? Why?"

Laurie is quiet. She looks at Dwight intently, and he fights the instinct to squirm under her gaze. He hasn't talked to her all that often; she was quiet and distant when they first met, and only began to come out of her shell as her friendship with Quentin progressed.

"I want you to be happy," she finally says.

That still doesn't explain anything! Dwight thinks, but doesn't say, because Laurie is already standing.

He squeezes one of his hands tightly around the other instead. If he pretends hard enough, it could be David or Jake's.

He'll talk to them, maybe. The thought makes the dual aches in his heart worse. Why can't he just be normal? Why does he have to be so obvious?

What if he fucks everything up? Typical Dwight, typical failure. Typical loser. Typical Dwitch.

Dwight's trembling. He notices vaguely, distant from his own body. Why is he freaking out about this? What an overreaction.

He pulls his hands apart, and digs them into the dirt. He can feel it get under his bitten nails.

Dwight, happy? What a joke.

Dwight's been off lately. More off than usual — he's always skittish and fretful, even when he's determined to help — and Jake isn't sure why.

He'd like to think he knows Dwight pretty well. There's no passage of time in this place, at least not in any way that matters, but it feels like he's known Dwight, Claudette, and Meg longer than any of the kids who used to hang around him in school, willing to put up with him for the possibility of schmoozing with his parents.

Dwight's been looking at Jake a lot and rushing into trials, making careless mistakes. Jake wants to talk, but Dwight's been dodging him, and Jake's about ready to grab Dwight and force him to explain what's been going on.

David's noticed it too. He mentioned it to Jake as they sat together earlier, in somewhat companionable silence.

Jake wouldn't call himself and David friends, exactly. He's still nursing a feeling halfway between a crush and something worse that jumps every time he looks at him. They don't even really know each other; David doesn't talk about missing his family or friends back home, and Jake has no idea what he used to do for work or fun. Fight, probably.

David cares about Dwight. He's different about it from Jake, as loud and brash and obvious as he is about everything. He swoops in like some muscular hero, taking hits and grinning around the blood.

Jake's not like that, and he doesn't want to be. A voice prods him, half his brother and half a childhood friend whose name he's long since forgotten, telling him he could be a hero. A legend. Jake ignores it.

He's been doing better lately. He mentioned the voices to Adam once, without really thinking about what he was doing, and Adam hadn't laughed or asked him when he was going to start working with the killers.

He's not going to tell Dwight. It's probably hypocritical, to want to know what's wrong with Dwight and not fess up to what's wrong with himself. That doesn't bother Jake as much as it should.

Jake walks into the woods, and breathes. The neighbor who moved away when he was ten laughs and says something, distant and unclear.

A branch snaps behind him, and Jake turns. David is out of place between the trees.

"We need to talk to Dwight," he says, the words spat out of his mouth like he doesn't want to be the one to say them. Maybe that was Jake's job, and he missed the cue.

Jake nods, and his grandfather says that he's proud.

David isn't sure how Jake feels about him. Jake is hard to read, introverted and often unwilling to speak. Not that David is good at reading people.

Jake's been sitting next to him, though. He'll get back from a trial and sit wordlessly, without even looking at him.

"I'm glad you and Jake get along," Meg says during a quiet moment as they work on a generator.

David grunts in response.

"Claudette won't say it, but she was worried about him."

"'n why's that?" David asks. The generator's wheels and cogs are hot against his fingers.

"He's been lonely. He really needed a friend. Or..." Meg pops her head over the generator, a suggestive grin on her face. "Something else?"

David scoffs.

They finish the generator, and the quiet is gone, broken by adrenaline. David doesn't think more on what Meg said until later, when he stumbles next to the campfire.

Jake looks at him, and David feels sick. He sits heavily in his usual spot, and leans his elbows on his knees.

"Good?" Jake asks.

"Safe."

They still haven't spoken to Dwight. David wants to corner him, get him against a wall and —

He wants to talk to him. He doesn't know what words to say; he couldn't say them to Tristan, neither pretty quotes nor something blunt and clear. But he still wants to talk, to both Dwight and Jake. It feels long overdue.

David stares at his fists. He knows them better than the words that try to stumble out of his mouth.

Fabric brushes against his jacket, Jake's shoulder against his own. It's the most physical contact David's seen him make outside of a trial.

David closes his eyes and lets his body absorb the campfire's warmth. Sometimes he wants to burn the note in his pocket, like it will exorcise the feelings that once, a long time ago, he embraced. Other times, he wants to burn himself, and let this whole pointless struggle go up in flames.

Voices approach the campfire. David opens his eyes to the sight of Min throwing herself into Nea's arms, Jeff and Yui taking their own seats nearby. Dwight lags behind. He glances furtively at David and Jake, and looks away as soon as his eyes meet David's. His ears are red.

"Ready?" Jake asks.

David stands. His heart pounds in his chest.

They walk together to Dwight.

"Y'got a moment?" David asks, and Dwight looks up at him, his eyes huge.

"Um, yeah, sure," he says. His eyes flicker from David to Jake and back again. He's on edge. David wishes he wasn't.

They walk to the forest. It feels like a funeral march. It feels like everyone else's eyes are on them. It feels like hell.

The trees cage them in, tall and thick. David leans against one, faux relaxed. He could never be as at home here as Jake.

Dwight wraps an arm around himself.

They all speak together, words blending into one.

"No more —"

"I need —"

"I'm in —"

They all stare at each other. Surprisingly, Jake laughs first.

"So are we all..."

Dwight looks up at them both, them down, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," David echoes. "No more bullshit."

This time for real.

[tomuratta]

Home

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: Malik Al-Sayf/Bayek/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Desmond Miles For @polyshipweek 2024 Day 1: "Is that my hoodie?" Word count: 608 Warnings: N/A AO3

"Is that my hoodie?" Desmond asks, shutting the apartment door behind him.

Altaïr looks up at him from his position on the couch, curled comfortably against Malik. The hoodie he wears is faded and comfortable-looking, and it has a suspiciously familiar red inner lining.

Altaïr shrugs.

"Is it?"

Desmond sighs and runs his hand up his face. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them in the pile next to the door.

"C'mon, Malik, help me out here."

Malik makes an amused huff.

"Oh, now you need my help, Desmond? I seem to remember just this morning…"

Desmond groans. He fishes his wallet and keys out of his pocket, dumping them on what he and Altaïr affectionately call the "junk table" (in reality a side table that didn't fit next to the couch and thus was relegated to its spot above the shoe pile).

"Does no one respect me here, in my own apartment?" Desmond complains.

Altaïr has the gall to laugh.

"I sincerely doubt this is just your apartment, considering how much time those two spend here," Bayek says, leaning his head out of the kitchen.

"Hey!" Altaïr shouts, whipping his head around to look at Bayek.

Desmond flops onto the couch at Malik's other side. He's too tired to defend his honor.

"'Those two?'" Malik asks, with his tone — one he normally uses on Altaïr or Desmond — just inviting an explanation. Bayek chuckles in response, ducking back into the kitchen.

Leaning his head against Malik's free shoulder, Desmond fumbles his phone out of his pocket.

"Oh, shit, is it actually five thirty?" he asks, squinting at the lockscreen. Four message notifications from Annoying Italian Guy (Desmond is never going to regret not changing Ezio's name in his phone) cover the candid photo of Malik, Bayek, and Jacob bent over a car, Malik's hand deep in its guts.

"Yes, it is," Malik says.

"Bayek started cooking once we realized you were going to be home late," Altaïr adds.

Desmond presses his head harder into Malik's shoulder. He lets his phone drop from his hand onto the couch.

"There was this woman at one of the tables who wouldn't leave…"

Malik leans his head against Desmond's, and Desmond can feel Altaïr crawl on top of both of them, as ravenous for attention as ever. Altaïr places his head in Desmond's lap, and Desmond absently places one hand on his hood.

"I could kill her for you," Altaïr offers.

Malik swats him, and Desmond laughs.

"You should probably stick to hoodie theft."

Altaïr doesn't bother replying, and Desmond fully closes his eyes. He's exhausted after a long shift making over-the-top cappuccinos and americanos. Malik and Altaïr are warm, and the couch is soft and comfortable.

Desmond had been so distracted earlier that he hadn't even smelled the warm, earthy aroma of whatever Bayek is cooking, but now he breathes it in deeply. He lets himself drift, just for a moment.

His apartment feels so full now. Altaïr and Malik have practically moved in, although neither will admit it. Bayek is in and out as he pleases, and Desmond has a standing invitation to come to his home anytime. Ezio spends his time as he pleases, seemingly in some sort of entanglement with at least half the people Desmond meets. Jacob has invited himself over so often his belongings have managed to scatter themselves across the entire apartment. And the others — so many others that it is, quite frankly, ridiculous — have made themselves at home in his life.

Desmond starts at the feeling of a hand against his shoulder. Bayek smiles down at him as he blinks away the exhaustion.

"Dinnertime."

[tomuratta]

no one man should have all that power

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Focus: Arno Dorian For Codextober Day 6: Power Word count: 307 Warnings: N/A AO3

Ah, so that's what it's like, you think when you hold the head, the Eagle at your hip.

The power is immense. You can feel it, flooding through your body and teasing at your mind.

It offers you knowledge — Saint Denis, pulling the Apple from its hiding place; Germain, Sword in hand; Napoleon, Apple clutched in his grip.

You force the images from your mind.

Did Germain see these, the whole time he held the Sword? Or is knowledge the gift of the Apple alone?

The head glows brightly, brighter than any lantern. You hold it by a lock of its hair, clambering quickly down the columns of the massive temple.

Instinctively, you know how to use it.

Men rush towards you, the cowardly raiders hired by Rose, desperately attempting to retrieve the head for themselves. The reward Rose had been offered would do even more for them than it would for Rose himself.

With a gesture, dark figures swarm their bodies. The men bat at them helplessly and fall, fear etched on their faces.

More raiders surround you. It is an endless stream, what feels like every man who has been in these caves.

One after another, they fall. You simply have to raise the head.

Imagine what Napoleon might use this for, in his endless search for conquest! With this power, the Siege of Toulon would have lasted a single day.

A raider lands a blow, but you hardly feel it. The might of the Apple flows through your veins, hot like liquid gold. If you were injured, even severely, you would not know.

I could die here, you realize. I could fall, head in my hand, and not even know I had died.

You reach the long flight of steps, sloping upwards. No more men approach you.

You place the head at your hip.

[tomuratta]

life is short, and life is hard, and life is sweet

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Relationship: Nea Karlsson/Claudette Morel For Kinktober Day 6: Exhibitionism Word count: 818 Warnings: N/A AO3

Nea's hand snakes around the generator, gripping Claudette with such sudden force that she almost trips a wire.

Nea's head peeks around the generator's side, an impish grin on her face.

Reluctantly, Claudette releases the generator.

"What is it?" she whispers.

Nea draws closer, until they are face to face, both crouched on the same side of the generator.

"I have an idea," Nea says.

"Is it the idea where you steal one of Leon's flashbangs?"

Claudette's been trying to talk Nea out of that one for a while now.

"No," Nea laughs. "It's a little more… exciting."

"There's something more exciting?"

Nea just grins. She releases Claudette's hand and grabs her shoulders instead, pushing her back against the generator.

"Oh!" Claudette says, air forced suddenly from her lungs. She can feel the pistons pumping slowly against her jacket.

She opens her mouth to Nea's kiss.

Nea is so spontaneous, more so than anyone Claudette's been with before (not that she's been with many people at all). They'd started dating suddenly, and sometimes Claudette is certain that she must be dreaming this bit of joy in hell.

The kiss is hot and wet. When it breaks, it leaves Claudette gasping.

"Are you sure — ah! — there aren't any —"

With a hand, Nea cups Claudette's ass and leans in again, planting another kiss — this one chaste — on Claudette's lips.

"Don't worry, babe," Nea says.

Somehow, her words calm Claudette's mind. Before Nea, she had no idea another person could soothe her anxieties.

Still, she asks, "Are you sure?"

Nea pulls back. Her expression is sincere.

"Yeah, I am," she says. "Leon and David are, well… you know how they are."

She grins.

Claudette sighs, half relief, half exasperation.

"We should really finish this generator, then," she says.

Nea presses a soft kiss onto Claudette's neck.

"Or…"

Claudette can feel Nea's voice against her skin.

"Okay, fine," she says.

Nea squeezes her butt, and she gasps. Nea smiles against her neck.

"But be quick!" Claudette says, mock-sternly. She wants this, has wanted this for a while now, ever since Nea brought her into the woods and fingered her until she was crying from pleasure.

Certainly, she wouldn't have expected it now, of all times, but… she trusts Nea. Even when her brain is flooded with arousal, she trusts Nea to know they're safe.

Nea trails kisses down Claudette's neck, sucking and biting at the skin. One of her hands makes its way under Claudette's shirt, creeping up her torso and into her bra.

Claudette moans quietly, leaning against the generator. Her body feels hot, blood singing with excitement.

Nea massages Claudette's breast, working the flesh with her long fingers. She grazes the nipple with a thumb, and Claudette gasps. She can feel Nea's grin.

Nea bites her collarbone, sharp and sudden, and Claudette yelps. Her cock twitches with interest at the pain, and she reaches for it.

With her free hand, Nea takes Claudette's.

"Let me," she says, and Claudette stills.

Nea tweaks Claudette's nipple — making her squeak — and takes her hand out of her shirt. She undoes Claudette's belt and pulls down her jeans, revealing her panties.

Claudette gasps as her skin is revealed to the air.

Nea palms her cock through her soft panties, and her hips make a quickly-aborted jerk. Nea laughs.

"So cute," she says, and Claudette feels heat in her cheeks.

Nea pulls down her panties slowly, teasingly revealing her cock. It's half-hard, and Nea takes it in hand, giving it gentle strokes until it rises.

Claudette shivers and moans from Nea's touch. She wishes Nea would move faster, harder.

As if she could hear Claudette's wish, Nea begins to speed up, sweet friction against Claudette's shaft. She swirls a thumb on the sensitive head, and Claudette keens, a high, sharp noise.

Nea cups her testicles in one hand, playing with them as she fucks Claudette. The pleasure is a rushing stream, filling Claudette's chest and mind and veins.

Nea bends down, planting a kiss on the head of her cock, and Claudette comes, shuddering and groaning in Nea's grip.

Nea rises, releasing Claudette's cock and wrapping both arms around her, holding her tightly.

"You're so beautiful," she says, quiet like the words are only for her. "So fuckin' beautiful."

Claudette buries her face in Nea's shoulder. Her body is loose and light with the post-orgasm high.

"Thank you," she says, voice cracking on the words.

Nea holds her for a long time, long enough that the pistons against her back slow almost to a stop.

When Claudette begins to move, Nea releases her. She helps her pull up her panties and jeans, and does her belt with deft fingers.

With a quick chaste kiss, Nea backs away. Claudette is fully dressed, barely disheveled, the two of them the only ones aware of what has happened.

"Ready to get back to work?" Nea asks.

Claudette nods.

[tomuratta]

a lot of fic rec lists focus heavily on long fics but here’s a shoutout to short fics they give so much snack-size joy i hate how writing short form is sometimes looked down upon it has its own challenges and deserves so much more respect and love because a well executed short fic can ruin your life in 20 minutes

[tomuratta]

i don't need your past

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Focus: Desmond Miles For Codextober Day 5: Mirage Part 2 of leave my body Word count: 100 Warnings: N/A AO3

It's so faint at first that he can believe it isn't there. The sensations, flickering at the edge of his vision, the way his body begins to move like he's had another decade of training.

He has cravings for food he's never tasted, nostalgia for places he's never been.

But it's not a big deal, right?

Even when he sees Acre, feels trapped in Altaïr's body as he lives out his life, it's not a big deal. It's just a dream.

If he tells himself it isn't real, it won't be. Right now, there are more important things to do.

[tomuratta]

stay here for a while

Fandom: RWBY Relationship: Bumbleby For Kinktober Day 5: Sparring Word count: 100 Warnings: N/A AO3

Yang punches. Blake dodges and whirls, kicking sharply at Yang's side.

Yang jumps to the side, throwing another fist. She makes contact; then the Blake she'd hit dissolves.

Force hits her legs from behind, and Yang falls, wildly flailing her arms. Her fingers graze fabric, and she grips it tightly.

She hits the ground, air rushing from her lungs, and Blake tumbles on top of her, Yang's hand clutching her sleeve.

"Oof," Yang says.

Blake laughs.

"Is this a sign we should take a break?"

Yang wraps an arm around Blake's waist.

"How about we stay here for a while?"

[tomuratta]

history keeps pulling me down

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Focus: Desmond Miles For Codextober Day 4: Outfit Part 1 of leave my body Word count: 100 Warnings: N/A AO3

The hoodie is old even when they take him. It's just an article of clothing, something he shrugged on because it was chilly that day.

Altaïr's robes are light. Lighter than someone would think from looking at them. They were designed for movement, and it shows.

Desmond can remember the first time Altaïr wore them. He can remember the scent of the cloth, its texture, the way Altaïr's heart swelled with pride.

Muscle memory guides his hands, the hood easily covering his head. It feels comfortable, easy.

When he moves, he feels the phantom sensation of robes against his legs.

[tomuratta]

Invocation

Fandom: Dead by Daylight Relationships: Sable Ward/Zombie For Kinktober Day 4: Zombie/Undead Word count: 1,051 Warnings: N/A AO3

Sable sneaks around the side of the barn, watching carefully for any sign of Nemesis. She'd heard it earlier, trudging loudly through the cornfields, but she hasn't seen any sign of it since.

It must be busy with the other survivors. She hasn't seen them, either — they're on the other side of the field from her, probably working on their own generators.

Another person might have been afraid, alone in an eerie place, but Sable's used to being alone. She's had Mikaela, of course, but her childhood was still a lonely one.

The ears of corn rustle, and Sable stills. It can't be Nemesis, who is so tall its head and shoulders loom above the corn.

An arm clumsily pushes the corn aside, revealing one of the zombies that follows Nemesis around. A low groan emits from its rotting mouth at the sight of her, and it raises an arm, as though to point.

Sable backs away. She's felt the sting of the zombies' grasping arms before. She cringes at the memory of the hoarse, painful cough they'd inflicted her with.

This zombie doesn't pursue her, though. Instead, it stands still, watching her.

Sable takes a few more steps backwards, and the zombie tilts its head. It looks a little like a curious owl, if that owl had an open mouth filled with putrefied teeth.

Honestly, it's… kind of cute?

Curiously, Sable approaches the zombie. It groans at her again, but doesn't move.

She pokes its cheekbone with a finger, right above its decomposing cheek. Its skin is cold, and the texture is strange, more like a plastic Halloween mask than human skin.

"Weird…" she says out loud.

The zombie groans in agreement.

Sable draws even closer to the zombie. Its glassy eyes stare at her. It's hard to tell how aware it really is.

Its arm moves unsteadily towards her.

For a second, Sable thinks about running, but doesn't. She's too curious.

Its hand plants itself firmly on her left breast, cupping the tender flesh. She can feel the pressure against her oversensitive nipple, and she winces.

She takes the zombie's hand in hers, carefully pulling it away. When she looks at its face, she can read nothing in the way of intent or desire; when she looks at its crotch, there's a bulge, and her mouth goes dry.

Sable recalls the embarrassing fantasies from her teens, watching old movies and idly imagining what the zombies might do to her. Something about their nature, unthinking and unending, had spoken to the part of her that wanted to be chased, grabbed, and taken by the horde.

She had moved on from those fantasies eventually, in favor of exciting new ones, but now they come rushing back. Her clit twitches, heat rising faintly in her chest.

Sable looks around, carefully checking for enemies or friends. They must still be on the other side. For all she knows, most of the generators could be done already.

She takes the zombie's arm in hers, pulling it through the corn to the barn. Its body is pliant, drool dripping from its open mouth.

Sable pushes it against the barn's side and drops to her knees. She hastily undoes the zombie's pants, pulling them and its underwear down in one movement.

Its cock easily springs free. When she takes it in her hand, the texture is as strange as its face, almost rubbery and cool to the touch. Pre dribbles slowly down its head.

She gives it an experimental jerk, sliding her hand up and down, and the zombie groans excitedly.

With a deep breath, Sable takes it in her mouth.

The taste is different from a human's, too, salt and rot. She should be disgusted by it, but instead she's excited, her heart racing with arousal.

She licks at it, lapping carefully. Her hand fists loosely around its base.

The zombie moans and shudders, and thrusts its hips forward, forcing its cock deeper into her mouth. Sable inhales shallowly around it, its flavor filling her mouth.

Her licks become more bold, swirling her tongue around its head and shaft.

When she pulls off to take another breath, the zombie groans in disappointment, and she laughs. In a bizarre way, it really is cute.

Its cock is slick from her saliva now. She jerks it easily, making the zombie moan and shudder.

It feels nice to kneel in front of it, peppering little kisses on its cockhead and smearing its pre on her lips.

A hand grips the top of her head, and Sable gasps in surprise. The zombie slides its cock deeper into her mouth, and she moans. Her old fantasies of relentless pursuit and rough hands dance in her mind.

The zombie moves her forcefully, pulling her hair and pushing its cock deeper into her mouth. It tickles the back of her throat and she gags, barely able to breathe past it.

The taste of salt and rot fills her mouth, intense and overwhelming.

She drops her hand from its base in favor of rubbing herself through her skirt. The pressure against her clit makes her moan.

Drool drips down her chin as the zombie thrusts inside of her. Its coarse pubic hair scratches at her cheeks as it buries its cock in her throat.

Eyes watering, dizzy with arousal, Sable comes. Her clit twitches madly against her hand.

The zombie's cock muffles the high, intense keen she makes. It doesn't let up even as she becomes limp, letting it use her while stars dance behind her eyes. It is mindless in its pursuit of pleasure.

It comes, its seed shooting down Salem's throat. With a loud moan, it slumps against the wall of the barn.

Sable give its cock a last once-over, licking it from the base to the tip and savoring the taste. It's more salt than rot now. It's almost pleasant, she thinks. Yum.

She pulls the zombie's cock from her mouth with a wet pop and lets it fall limply from her hand. Idly, she wonders how its strange texture would feel inside her hole or against her clit.

The zombie's face is as inexpressive as always, but it has an air of satisfaction about it.

Salem grins.

"Next time, bring your friend," she says.

The zombie groans in agreement.

[tomuratta]

My Preordained Place

Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Leonardo da Vinci For Codextober Day 3: Engine Word count: 316 Warnings: N/A AO3

"Ah! Ezio!" Leonardo says with a smile as Ezio enters his workshop. His hands are occupied, steadying yet another strange invention.

"Good day, my friend," Ezio replies, warmth finding its way into his voice on its own.

Leonardo's cluttered workshop has become comforting as of late, much to Ezio's surprise. It will never be home — home is a place that lives in his chest, and emerges at times to break his heart anew — but Ezio feels at peace here, able to rest and just be himself.

"And what is this?" Ezio asks, gesturing broadly at the device. It consists of many cogs and wheels, latching and interlacing in such a way that it dizzies his mind.

Leonardo grins at the question.

"I don't quite have a name for it yet, but it should be powered by steam, and I'm planning on attaching it to…"

He goes on speaking, pointing to the invention's individual parts and random items in the mess around his workshop. Ezio leans against the wall and lets Leonardo's voice fade into a drone. His passion is always charming.

"Enough, enough," Ezio finally says as Leonardo finishes his long-winded explanation. "I think you need a break."

Mock-casually, he waves a hand.

"Let us retire."

For a second, Leonardo's brow furrows, and then he laughs.

"To bed?" he asks, a knowing smile on his face.

"Yes, of course," Ezio grins.

Leonardo strokes his chin, his eyes twinkling.

"I'm not sure, Ezio. I really should be working…"

"Oh, you tease!"

Ezio races to Leonardo, grabbing him and throwing the man over his shoulder. He can feel Leonardo's body shake with repressed laughter.

"Well, as it seems I am now no longer occupied," Leonardo says, in between gasps of mirth, "I have no choice but to do as you suggest."

Ezio begins to walk, satisfaction in his smile.

"Ah! You aren't going to put me down?"

"No."

[tomuratta]

cover me with love

Fandom: RWBY Relationships: JNPR Berries (Jaune/Nora/Pyrrha/Ren), Arkos focus For Kinktober Day 3: Feminization Word count: 636 Warnings: N/A AO3

Pyrrha is as radiant as usual. She's dressed for battle, not for sex, her armor polished and gleaming.

Nora grins at Jaune. He knows his mouth is gaping, but he can't help it.

Ren has a tiny smile on his face. He looks smug.

Pyrrha strides confidently towards the bed, and Jaune's cock attempts futilely to rise, trapped by its cage.

Nora slides closer to him, reaching out and tapping the cage.

Jaune chokes back a moan.

This close, he can see a faint blush on Pyrrha's cheeks.

"Hello, Jaune," she says.

"H-Hi Pyrrha," he stammers.

"Not Pyrrha!" Nora exclaims, and Jaune remembers what she said earlier.

Your mistress is waiting.

His cheeks feel hot.

"M-Mistress Pyrrha."

Pyrrha's cheeks are bright red now.

"Good girl," Ren says softly.

Jaune whips his head to him. "Girl!?"

"Yeah!" Nora says. "That's our good girl!"

"Yes," Pyrrha agrees. "You're our… our good girl, Jaune."

Nora traces a finger along Jaune's naked thigh, making him shiver.

"And you can keep being a good girl as long as you listen to your mistress."

Jaune's eyes meet Pyrrha's. She looks confident, resolved.

She places a gloved hand on his knee. Her touch is electric, even through the barrier of fabric.

Then she takes a step back.

"Stand," she says.

"Y-Yes," Jaune gulps. "Mistress," he remembers to add.

He stands unevenly, feeling his cock bob in the cage.

"Good girl," Pyrrha says. "Now. Let's get you dressed."

Nora is kneeling in front of him in a second, a pair of lacy pink panties in her hands. Ren's calm hands hold him steady as she lifts his feet one by one, slipping the panties up his legs.

The material is soft and silky, almost translucent to the eye.

Jaune's cock strains painfully as Nora pulls the panties over his hips. He can barely see the metal of the cage through the fabric.

Satisfied, Nora steps away, grinning proudly. Ren releases his shoulders, stepping back and letting his mistress observe their work.

Pyrrha's blush is incandescent, but her voice is steady.

"How cute."

Jaune shudders. He wishes his cock could touch the panties, some modicum of friction to provide relief.

Nora holds a skirt now, something frilly and pink. Ren's hands return, and Jaune leans into them, breathing shallowly as the skirt slides up his legs.

It's short, and it rides high on his waist. If he bends over, he realizes, his panties will be entirely visible.

Pyrrha watches intently. Jaune aches for the touch of her gloves on his hot flesh.

A blouse, now. Pale yellow.

Nora slips it over his head, and the world is briefly darkened, limited to the hands guiding his body and his cock straining at the cage.

The world returns.

Nora and Ren guide his arms, pulling them through the blouse's short sleeves.

Jaune looks down at himself. He feels unrecognizable, wearing clothing he would have never been confident enough to pick out on his own.

Ren and Nora guide him to the full-length mirror at the side of the room.

It's hard to recognize himself. Even barefaced, the pink dusting his cheeks could be mistaken for blush, and his eyes are heavily lidded from the arousal clouding his mind.

"You look good," Ren says.

"What a good girl, letting us dress her and make her look pretty!" Nora praises.

Jaune turns to Pyrrha, who stands behind them.

It takes him a minute to recognize the expression on her face — it's a mixture of arousal and attraction, one he's never seen on her before.

She takes a step toward him. Time freezes.

A hand on his cheek. She leans in, tortuously close, lips a centimeter from his flesh.

"Kneel," she says.

His knees buckle.

She extends a boot-clad foot.

His lips touch the leather, kissing it reverently.

"Good girl."