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stxrvel · 4 months

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the cliff (1)

hi guys! this is the first azriel fic i post here. i mainly do marvel but i just couln't stop thinking about this so i decided to take it forward. i hope you guys like this! see u next time <;33

summary: you never thought that the road to your mate could bring so much suffering… pairing: azriel x f!reader words: +4k warnings: briefly descriptions of torture, bad words, descriptions of sorrow¿?, angst but a happy ending, i think. also, English is not my first language and i actually read acotar in another language, so sorry for any mistakes! and also!! i haven't read a court of silver flames, so probably the facts around cassian and nesta's bond and feyre's pregnancy aren't accurate, sorry for that!

part 2: the house

part 3: the court

part 4: the routine

You were sure that the decisions you had made shouldn't have led you to that place. With your limp legs dragging against the grass, the wet feel of the mud drying coldly on your skin with each gale, increasing the chills that ran through your body, not only because of the dread and fear you had for your life, but because of the scorching frost on the top of that cliff.

There was something magical about wishing upon a shooting star. You knew it, your parents were living proof that it worked. They had met just after your mother had wished upon a dying star. Mates. And they promised you it would be the same for you. You hoped it would be the same for you when, encouraged by your same parents, you wandered Prythian in search of meeting the other end of the bond that you knew connected you to someone beyond, in search of a connection greater than you could ever understand.

You firmly believed in that magic one night, in the midst of the lonely and almost desolate journey from end to end, when lying watching the night sky you saw it pass by. A helpless shooting star.

You made your wish with your heart in your hand, closing your eyes and whispering as if it were a prayer. Maybe it was. You didn't know if that was what had gone wrong.

All you knew was that, the next day, your journey was over.

You hadn't finished waking up when you found yourself being dragged across the ground of the Day Court, right at the border it shared with the Night Court, from the hands of Ilyrian soldiers who wouldn't listen to your shouted words. Or simply preferred to ignore them.

You weren't sure how much you had screamed at them, even as they took you in the most savage way possible and furrowed you through the wind, the cold gusts of the Nightmare Court piercing your skin. But it had to have been a good while, because the next time you were above ground your throat was so dry you could barely breathe.

You didn't know what was going on, not even when days later, after feeding yourself with only mush and water, you met the first person willing to tell you something and not turn his face away from you. It was a man, Ilyrian too, with gigantic black wings that covered almost all the light in the small room where you were held captive. His constant presence invoked darkness.

He never introduced himself. He would only ask “who sent you?”, waiting for a sane answer from you, one that you couldn't give because every time you tried to say something that was not remotely like what he wanted to hear, he would move two fingers of his left hand and two more soldiers would enter the room and grab you roughly by the arms, pulling you closer to a barrel with water that was in the corner of the room. That was the water you usually drank, and it was never as cold as when they entered the room.

Needless to say, after a couple of days, you couldn't even go near the water anymore.

It could've been a couple of days, weeks or months… you weren't sure anymore. Time had become an insignificant concept compared to your desire for freedom. You had explained countless times to the Ilyrian the reasons why they had found you wandering near the Court, but that wasn't enough. Not even when you told him that they could confirm it with your family in the Summer Court. No excuse was good enough, the Ilyrian seemed to simply want to find a culprit, whatever he had to do, whoever he had to point the finger at.

And then, one day, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Another lone shooting star, which you barely caught through the bars the room had for windows. The memory of your parents flooded your memory, a dark cloud settling over you and drowning out any sense of calm you were able to collect after the ilyrians left. Through tears and sobs you begged the star for a way out, hoping its magic was powerful enough to fight the savage soldiers.

The next day more ilyrians than usual appeared, but they did not enter the room. Not after the High Lord of the Night Court did so first.

And you thought the star had heard you.

“She didn't say anything?”

His dismissive, indifferent tone almost made you shudder on the icy floor, but you didn't let that take away your hope, kneeling in front of him with dried tears and dirt on your face. With your hands clasped in front of you, as if he were a deity personified, you begged him to listen to you, but you had to watch him send you a disinterested glance before he turned in the direction of the entrance.

“Take her away.”

You didn't know why you had expected the high lord to intercede on your behalf, knowing the stories that brimmed through the Courts in Prythian. Your parents had warned you. They encouraged you to pursue the bond on your chest, but begged you to go no further than Court Day if the bond demanded it. They made you promise to return, and that they would then seek a way to find your mate if he or she was beyond the Night Court. You should've heeded, of course you did. When you saw the cold, emotionless eyes of the high lord's face, you regretted every decision you had made.

Even though you knew it shouldn't have been that way, because you had never done anything wrong. You had never tried to harm someone. Maybe that made it harder. Wondering every night why. Why did you deserve to go through that? What evil was it that you were paying for?

There was something magical about wishing on a shooting star, but that magic wasn't guarded for you.

Azriel had been spending sleepless nights for weeks now, without explanation. Things were quiet in Velaris, even in the Court of Nightmares. But when he entered the darkness of his room at night, when he tried to close his eyes with his wings spread across the bed, a knot stirred in his chest. Tears would well up behind his eyes and a sadness would engulf him from head to toe. It was so overwhelming that there were few nights when Azriel could contain the feelings and despair of his shadows.

He tried not to let that deficiency interrupt his work, but it was difficult when his eyes would close at the table during breakfast, or in the middle of the room when Rhys talked about the weekly goals. Several times his friends would start asking questions, but it was easy for Azriel to say he had trouble sleeping because that was never an uncommon occurrence over the course of his long life.

It was once Rhys told him that he had told Madja about his problem and she had sent him some herbs that it all started to get weirder.

Yes, Azriel was able to fall asleep. But every night he had strange dreams. Dreams of a life that was not his own. Memories of someone else he didn't even know. Another woman's life, somewhere Azriel could barely remember when he woke up, with more people who must have been close to her, but not to him, who shared her day to day life, who celebrated together with her, who were happy. Azriel didn't wake up much better in the mornings than when he spent the whole night without sleep.

Now he not only had to deal with the heaviness of lack of sleep, but with the questions. He could never think they were random dreams because he heard the same laughter every time, the same voice, the same place. He felt the same tranquility before waking up.

Azriel believed Madja would be his source of answers then.

“Your mate is looking for you,” the old woman answered him, one sunny day in Velaris when he chased her through her tent hoping she would answer his one question. That stopped him abruptly on his feet, his body from the abdomen upward leaning forward a bit from the suddenness of the movement.

“Mate?”

Madja barely hissed in response, a sound of affirmation that would haunt Azriel for several days afterward.

“How is that possible?”

“What?”

Madja was turning her back to him, her small body hunched over as she inspected the medicinal plants she kept for sale. Azriel watched them along with her, his mind moving through the threads of thoughts, between every memory of his dreams and every memory…of her.

“How can she do that?”

Azriel heard Madja sigh and the sound of metal followed as she dropped the gray watering can she had kept for years into place. Azriel could still remember the first time it had been seen, shiny and pompous in the Velaris sunlight. Madja's brown eyes roamed over his face and Azriel hadn't felt this way since the time when Rhys's mom had looked at him with loving motherly eyes.

“Don't ask me how the bond works, Shadowsinger. The Cauldron knows how it does things.”

Azriel could sleep less after that. Madja had left him with more questions than answers. And, on that note, Azriel began to fly over Velaris more often. For some reason, he felt she was close. The bond hadn't snapped into place yet, but he knew that the time was near when that would happen. He didn't even know if it had snapped for her yet, all he knew was that he had a mate over there, too far away from him, and too scared for him to stand idly by.

Eventually, Azriel had to talk to Rhysand. Rhys, his high lord, his best friend, his brother. Probably the only person in the Inner Circle who could fully understand how he felt at those moments. Because Azriel felt he was going to lose his mind if he didn't find his mate and end whatever suffering she was going through. The uncertainty was eating him alive and the hours of hopelessness and fear that were going on inside him, around that emptiness in his chest, did not ease things at all. If he felt this way from the comfort of his home, he didn't want to imagine what she was going through.

Rhysand agreed to allow him more outings to enlarge the perimeter of his search, but the passing days proved his effort fruitless.

“Everything okay, brother?”

Cassian had met his mate. Nesta, Feyre's sister. Azriel was very happy for him, very happy that his brothers had found their life mates and that he could realize the good they brought into their lives. But there was a huge shadow that haunted him, beyond the darkness he carried with him, and it had much to do with the guilt of not being able to find and deliver his mate from suffering. He no longer knew how much time had passed. His shadows stirred restlessly every day, with every memory, with every gale.

Azriel sighed when he felt Cassian's hand on his left shoulder, as they both stood watching Velaris from the top of a mountain.

“I don't know what to do anymore, Cassian,” Azriel let out, his shoulders slumping under the pressure and stress.

He usually didn't talk about the subject of his mate with his brothers, not as often as someone would think to be so close. It was something Azriel held close to his heart and wanted to resolve on his own, but so many failures were beginning to weigh him down.

Cassian patted his shoulder and then gave it a squeeze, trying to silently comfort him, though he knew that would do little to soothe the clamor in his soul. Because, though the bond hadn't snapped for Azriel, he could well believe that he had had it tugging at his chest in an unfamiliar direction for months now. Even if he didn't feel the bond, the mere acknowledgement of its existence was agony, especially when it didn't help him find his mate.

Cassian sighed beside him, letting a few seconds pass in silence before speaking again, his gaze fixed on Velaris' expanse and his heart shrinking at the visible suffering on his brother's face.

“Rhysand is traveling to the camp, will you accompany us?”

Azriel lately had little desire for anything other than touring Velaris and the surrounding area of the Court of Nightmares looking for his mate, but this time he decided to accept. For some reason, Azriel decided to accompany them.

The Night had been feuding with the Summer for a couple of years. Tarquin and Rhysand… were not on the best of terms. The last time Feyre had traveled to the Summer, pregnant with Nyx, Tarquin and his army had held her captive because of a misunderstanding in the information they had obtained from the Spring Court and the Mortal Lands. Rhysand almost destroyed the entire Summer Court with his bare hands if not for Cassian and Azriel, who were able to broker a deal between the two as mediators. It was a very tense time at the beginning.

Mind you, Rhysand did not leave without letting Tarquin know that it would be years before they would return to the same trade, diplomatic and friendly relations as before, if they could ever speak of forgiveness. Azriel remembered how the only person from the Night Court who could cross Tarquin's lands, for a time, was Mor. They were all warned and the meetings of the high lords were suspended, at least with respect to attendance.

For that reason, Rhysand became extremely wary of anyone connected with the Summer Court and for him, being the high lord, it was not too much work to know who wandered near his lands. They had already captured a handful of Summer Court spies in recent years and held them captive in camp with the Ilyrian soldiers.

Of course, the Night Court was much more careful with their spying, having Shadowsinger himself on their side. Azriel had visited the Summer Court a couple of times by stealth, handing Rhysand reports and any strategic breakthroughs he could decipher.

There was one, however, that they could not foresee. Someone Azriel never knew was coming out of the Summer Court. It had been a couple of years since then and it seemed the Ilyrians had been unable to break the spy's stone will.

“Are you going all the way to the mountain?” Rhysand had stopped in front of Azriel as soon as his feet touched the grassy ground, a few feet from the entrance to the camp. His eyes flicked briefly to the bustle behind his high lord, his shoulders tensing unconsciously as he took slow steps towards Rhysand with his hands in the pockets of his tunic and his wings tucked neatly behind his back. Cassian landed behind him, kicking up a layer of wet grass and mud that soiled his boots.

“Argh.”

“I think I'll be at a distance this time.”

Rhysand nodded, with no intention of convincing Azriel to accompany him to give the imprisoned spies of the Summer a death scare.

“I hope the screams are worth this mudslinging,” Cassian spoke up, moving closer to his two friends, forming a small circle. Rhysand barely gave him a glance before turning on his heels and beginning to make his way to the entrance of the camp, where some of the soldiers were clustered to see the high lord. “You're going to be in the bay?”

“Yes,” Azriel walked alongside Cassian, scowling at the entrance through which Rhysand had just crossed, the Ilyrian soldiers freezing in front of their high lord. “I'll watch from afar. Right now I don't have the stomach for anything.”

“I understand, brother,” Cassian squeezed his shoulder again amicably, sending him a tight-lipped look. Cassian was quite good with words, despite many labeling him as insensitive for being Ilyrian, but he knew Azriel well enough to know when he wanted to talk about something and when he preferred not to. “See you then.”

Cassian followed in Rhysand's footsteps, approaching in long strides, while Azriel paused watching his companions disappear into the distance.

Sighing, the knot in his chest tightened. It was so strange to have a void that could feel so many things. Azriel often wondered how it was possible that he still didn't feel the bond, when his emotions had expanded out of his head and there was no longer a feeling he didn't sense inside his bones.

Flapping his wings to take flight, Azriel set off towards the bay, close to the cliff where Rhysand planned to take the Summer Court spies. He was a few yards away, close enough to make out figures, but not too far away that he couldn't hear the screams.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, damp despite the early rising sun, his shadows began to stir around him, restless. They must've sensed his nervousness, the anxiety that ran through his chest like electric currents to his fingertips, causing him to spasm and break out in a cold sweat. Azriel could barely see them moving around him, separating from his body and stirring on the ground just a few centimeters before turning back.

At the top of the cliff he could already make out the figures of Rhysand and Cassian, walking menacingly towards the inmates, leaving them no choice but to keep walking backwards until they fell into the void, where Cassian would then land them, one by one. Azriel could hear them if he wanted to, but his mind and his shadows kept him a bit distracted.

He barely made out the first screams and the sound of Cassian's wings when his shadows began to whisper, much more restless.

Close.

Help.

Fear.

Help.

Azriel raised his head and his eyes stopped just short of Rhysand's figure in front of about three spies. At that moment, Azriel's shadows took off, moving at great speed across the grass and stones, with the Shadowsinger unable to do anything to stop them, though he tried. His confused gaze swept over the small figures on the cliff, with such speed that his head was beginning to ache, but he couldn't recognize anything.

He was about to fly in the direction his shadows had gone, when a strange, overwhelming sensation, somewhere between irrational fear and deep sadness, sent his back to the ground moving across his chest, as one of the figures slipped and fell into the void. Azriel felt all the air stolen from his lungs, opening his mouth to try to catch his breath, as those sensations coursed through his entire body and settled in his chest, taking strong root as if they belonged there. They were so overwhelming that they caused him physical pain. The ache he must've been feeling for months.

The bond.

The few remaining shadows beside him whispered endlessly.

Help.

Azriel raised his head, breathing hard. He felt his chest split open, as if with great force they were breaking his sternum to pull out his heart. It was such an overwhelming and painful sensation that, but for his strong will, he would surely have lost consciousness.

Help.

Mate.

Azriel thought afterwards that he had never moved so fast or with such force as that moment, when he realized what was happening. The adrenaline that coursed through his body, even feeling electric currents run through him from head to toe from the precise moment he felt the bond, didn't allow him to think too much about how the air hurt his eyes because he already knew exactly where he had to go. He had spent so much time flying without direction, walking the wrong paths and searching in empty places. At that moment, when he had a reason and a direction, Azriel couldn't think of anything else. He didn't want to.

He could only look at the figure falling off the cliff from the moment he raised his head. He could only head blindly towards it. The overwhelming fear that threw him backwards was the fear she felt as under her feet she felt the void, her hands moving forward trying to hold on to something that would allow her to live.

Azriel felt like he was about to die with her.

He met Cassian halfway from afar, who seemed to be about to fly in her direction to catch her when he ran into his friend, but Azriel moved too quickly and with anticipation without losing sight of his mate. The chill that ran through his body could've paralyzed him with fear, but how could he stand by and do nothing when his mate was falling to her undisputed death.

He thought he heard Rhysand's scream. Surely it was so, but in his mind there hovered only the thought that he must reach her, he must get there in time. Her hands were outstretched and Azriel stretched out his hands, hoping that would help him move faster.

Mind blank, Azriel felt like he had just pulled his head out of the water, his chest opening in an unfamiliar thrill as his body felt the warmth of his mate's body crashing against him and his arms wrapped around her in a promise to never let go again. His wings wrapped around her immediately after his arms, impacting a few seconds later against the muddy ground.

He was too close to not catch her. The thought left him breathless.

For a moment, he only heard his and her labored breathing, with the whistling of the wind through the trees and the movement of the water of a stream a few feet away. For a moment, Azriel went completely blank. Whether he was there or dreaming, he didn't know.

His hands clamped tightly around her arms, encircling her entire back, feeling the reality of what had happened sink in on him bit by bit. Fear gripped him once more then, considering that there was a chance he hadn't been there to stop that. To prevent it.

He didn't want to move. Still adrenaline coursed through his body and he was so alert that he could clearly hear the voices of his friends in the distance. Seconds later, when he heard their wings, he finally moved.

Azriel met your eyes and with that look alone he knew you had felt the bond as well.

“I'm sorry,” was all Azriel could think of, his eyes crystallizing, voice breaking. “I'm so sorry.”

You were transfixed. Azriel felt you looking at him with fear and that motivated him to move away from your body, but you gripped his arms tightly to hold him in place.

Azriel felt a great heaviness in his chest as he examined your face and what he saw did not please him at all. Guilt swelled on his shoulders, a great weight that ascended with each passing second and he could hardly imagine all that you had had to go through in that camp. You were right under his nose and he couldn't find you. What kind of a partner was he to let all that happen?

When he heard the footsteps of his friends, his shoulders tensed. But it didn't go unnoticed the way you also became aware of their presence and let go of his arms, rushing to hug yourself as you moved to sit behind Azriel. scared. Still breathing rapidly, Azriel sent a warning look. Cassian and Rhysand stopped a short distance away, noticing the obvious hostility emanating from their friend's body, but Rhysand just stopped for a second.

“Azriel, what the fuck?”

Rhysand was so angry that he seemed to have a little red tinge over his face. Good, he was angry, maybe then Azriel wouldn't feel so bad about breaking his face.

“Rhys,” Cassian frowned, quickly picking up on the tense and hostile atmosphere around him. He grabbed the arm of his high lord, who jerked angrily and turned his gaze back to the Shadowsinger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you aware of what you just fucking did?”

“Rhysand,” Cassian stopped his high lord, raising his voice and holding his arm tightly this time.

Rhysand turned to look at him with a frown and it seemed that, through his mind, Cassian spoke to him. The next time Rhysand looked back at him, his expression was unclenching, but Azriel stood stone-faced in front of you, his hands clasped at his sides and ready to face anything.

“No way,” was all Rhysand muttered, moving to run his hands through his hair.

Azriel felt one of your hands on his back, his senses splitting in half to try and attend to you as he kept an eye on his brothers on the other side. He moved his head to look at you, your frightened expression trying to hide you from Cassian's curious eyes.

“Is this real?”

Azriel felt his heart crumple. Tears welled behind his eyes and burning hurted the back of his throat. He wanted to say so many things, apologize for a million other things, but in that moment he only responded, moving to squeeze your hand:

“It's real.”

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #azriel acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel x you #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #rhysand #cassian #the cliff

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yandere-kokeshi · 8 months

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— His Mate

Pairing || Yandere werewolf! Ghost x gn reader

Summary || Working on a dangerous mission, you and Ghost re-meet after being separated. However, something goes wrong— making Ghost reveal his trust identity and his obsession for you, to come forth.

Warnings || yandere, lycropathy, imprinting(?), and smut: dubcon, gender-neutral genitals, descriptions of the reader having pubic hair, talks about kids, size difference, blood obsession(?), oral (reader receiving), breeding, knotting, and slight somnophilia

It’s a dire situation.

To the explosions, nearly being hit by a bullet, and now being separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigate north to a safe house, rather a cabin dispatched amongst the coms you’d flipped too.

The language was hardly understandable, but you were able to pick up some words.

It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain pouring down on you as lightning cracks above your head. Gear soaked through, hair damp and covered in likely blood and mud; if not more. The moisture and ice surrounding you was working to create a deep freeze into your narrow bones, and it’s working– pretty damn well, too.

Mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, heart lurching out of your chest as your soaked fingers fumbled with your gun to the sodden ground.

The moist and crispy air of midnight caked your face with frozen lids, blood staining your face. Your lungs were burning, legs cramping and stinging from the amount of running you’ve achieved.

You continue going, thunder rumbling in the clouds above, exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you shoot and cut-throat enemies from behind, their thick blood staining your face, and hands. Creating an emotionless barrier; nothing behind your eyes but annoyance.

If it weren’t for your radio, you’d be pestering Ghost. But due to the stray bullet, that certainly would’ve ripped through your heart if not for the layers of plastic settled over it, you had to count on your distance and not for help.

Just a little more, and you’ll arrive. And from there, you can focus on radioing the team; shooting a private message to Ghost to ensure your safety. He was protective, after all. But, for now, you had too—

Crack.

Before you could react, chaos erupts — the sounds of trees cracking down as an explosion comes from behind you. The wave of warmth and smell of gunpowder settled into your lungs. A bomb had gone off.

Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages. The thumps of bodies and flurry of shouts shot you to your very core. Breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through your veins, you find yourself hiding behind a sturdy tree.

The bark cutting at your palms, a reminder of the unforgiving chaos that surrounds you as you brace for incoming fire. Instantly, you gripped the gun slung behind your shoulder and started reloading it; cursing at yourself for not doing it sooner.

As it clicked, ready and loaded, someone shouted out a name.

“Ghost!” someone wails, and your blood runs cold, eyes widening. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping mercenaries into the mud beneath them.

You hear yelled orders, fighters urged to retreat by the incoming deaths, like a poison parade.

Before you know it, all that’s left is the sound of your ears buzzing, the aftermath of the familiar bomb — the infinite number of trees swaying as more lightning struck ahead of you. Your brain was splattered, focusing on your inner voice instead of the upcoming footsteps.

“Cobra, come out.”

You hesitate, teeth digging into your bottom lip. But with the thick, British accented voice familiarized to your brain, you eased your head out, clenching your grip on the gun as you checked for any more enemies before your eyes landed on the man itself. His hulking build that you could recognize anywhere.

You’d be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight, fallen enemy combatants surrounded him, his gear covered in blood, as was his skull mask stained with gore.

It was considered normal — but with the moon outlining his silhouette, the light bouncing off the turbid forest floor behind him, it was intimidating.

Almost as if it was a warning about what was coming. What was ahead in the future.

“Price sent me your last coordinates before you went AWOL,” Ghost states, clearing his throat as he bent down. Knees loudly popping as his hand curled around the knife, deepened inside a soldier’s head, and pulled it out with a thick sound.

The gush of gore, and the slick sound of the knife easily coming out, made you cringe. Your throat tightened, you wanted to gag but stopped yourself as he shot a look at you.

“Left quite a mess back there,” he added, looking at you with sharpened eyes as he stood back up. His knees popping yet again. His gun shuffled as he wiped the bloody knife onto his pant leg, before putting it back into the original place.

You forced a smile, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “It’s what I’m best at, no?”

He let out a chuckle, something that wasn’t rare or common to hear. But it was something. Something that left you tingling.

He stayed quiet and looked at you — almost like he could see, and feel you. Though, he spoke up after noticing your awkward stance.

“Le’s get going, safe house is ahead. From there, I’ll radio Price.”

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you’re soaked, the scent of iron and mud assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood off your face and hands.

Though, as you look up at Simon, you quickly notice his demeanor is off; something amiss. Sure, he’s cold. But, he’s colder – brown eyes that are seemingly covered in nothing. Almost like something has taken over him, nothing of him is there; non-exist, and non-recognizable.

His distant and blocking agency seems somewhat peculiar – lost in thought, intermittently clicking his tongue whilst cleaning his gun. Concerned, you gently approach, offering a caring inquiry: “You okay?” you ask.

To which, he nods with a grunt. But you didn’t buy it, it was clear something was bothering him. But he’s known for being stubborn and not one to let people in unless necessary.

Ghost had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room – looking quite ridiculous. He was attempting to fit himself in the short-legged chair as he was cleaning his weapons, and you had to hold back a laugh. You dipped the dripping rag back into the hot water, dragging it across your skin.

“Y’know…” you started, making him stop before looking up at you. “You can tell me whatever is botherin’ you. I’m not like Johnny.”

“I’m fine.”

You raised your eyebrow at his reply, making him grunt as a less efficient, threatening way of ‘quit it before I make you’.

“Are you sure?” You pressed on, “It definitely seems like something is on your mind. And while I may not—”

Ghost said your name in a threatening tone. His brown eyes watching you from beneath the mask. Eyes boring into you, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime and gore that failed to wash away.

You sighed, and puckered out your lips like a duck, “Whatever you say, Mr. Grumpy-pants.”

Minutes blurred by you, and before you know it, the small fire had set itself out; embers flickering around as that was the only thing keeping you two sane. You groaned, looking behind you the next minute before standing up.

“Going to get more wood,” you say out loud, and Simon had nodded — letting yourself feel a bit more relieved before your hand barely curled at the knob, and it’s when you heard it; the most guttural sound that sounded like a blend of a growl and snarl.

He said your name in a painful whisper. Not your code name– your right name.

As you turn, you see him on his knees; his large hand grasping his chest. Heart attack? No. Something highly on not happening. But… panic attack?

“Ghost?” you asked, concerned, stepping forward before stopping at his shaking head. He was in pain and it was hurting you.

“Fuck—” he grunted, heaving as his body started to shake violently. “D-on’t come closer.”

Your eyebrows raise automatically, looking at him eerily. “Why can’t I get close to you?”

He grunted, moaning out in pain again, as yet another growl erupted from the bellows of his chest. And before you could say anything else, his holster gun fell from his arm to the floor. The sound of clattering and the smell of aforementioned sensed you to reality.

“I- we need to get you up, what’s going on—!”

Almost as if the universe tricked you, ripping came next — the man you knew was no longer there. But instead, a hulking black-wolf took his place, boring holes in you and cracking each bone in his skeleton into places.

Like a Cobra, you stiffened. Ready to attack the friend you once knew.

“Ghost…?” you confessed, heavy breathing as adrenaline shot through you. By the time you whispered his name, he grew in size. Being too large. Too inhuman. Monstrously. Midnight mass fur grew onto his body, the sounds of bones breaking and reforming, his gear tearing off like nothing as scarred ears, a large snout, and patched fur grew all over him like parasites — paralyzing you like venom.

You couldn’t fathom his form, taking a few steps back as he whined out in pain; teeth, once human, now becoming a famous creature that you imagined as a myth.

And these eyes, they were wide and bright as Amber and honey, the color that contrasted greatly through the darkness. They were large and squinted, and the sound of snarling brought you to know you were being threatened.

But yet, you couldn’t do anything.

His military boots outgrew, rising and shredding apart as the feet he once had, turned into paws with long claws. The curving nails scraped into the wooden floor, snapping of planks and splinters flew around his feet, echoing the noises of his cracking bones and whines of pain.

It was practically towering over you, all muscle and height, and it made you feel powerless underneath it, trapped under its hardened gaze and intensity of its possible strength.

You let a small gasp out, uneven breaths being snaked out as he licked his chops, rearing back, bending the wooden-planks and the fallen gun underneath his weight. Turning his canine head at your expression.

“S-imon…?” you whimper, hands shaking as you winced at the bones still cracking.

His large head came down, eyeing you deeply at one side before walking forward, nudging at your leg. The sound you didn’t want to let out was paralyzed by fear, you didn’t want to let him know you were rather scared, as you watched with no knowledge of what he could do next.

He left you no room to move, the fear finally choking you of words. And you could only babble out words that would normally leave you embarrassed.

“Who— what… are you?” your gaze turned to him, reminding yourself that your demand was weak. You knew so, but a bigger part of you was buried in denial. He was Ghost. Still is.

His eyes, once cold, a beautiful brown, and stood on deck, now were sharp and bright with yellow, contrasting so strongly against his scarred, ripped fur and inky shades. His head barely grazed the top of the ceiling, his ears flickering as more bones cracked in place. The snapping and crunching was horrifying.

“Smell– your smell… sweet,” those words fell into your stomach and sank like lead. His whiskered lips and sharp teeth curved around his spotted gums. He growled, smelling– grinning at your feared state, “Mine. You’re mine.”

Before you could think, your feet kicked his chest backwards — he roared, taking a few steps back from your move.

Seconds blurred by you, and right as you lunged toward the door beside you, nearly skinning your knees on the floor, you heard a thick snarl from the beast behind you.

His claws, bigger than your head, were suddenly pinned at your hips and yanked you back, making you face plant onto the floor before he dragged you enough feet away for his satisfaction. Capturing you more into the depth of his hold.

Blood– you tasted it before feeling it, your nose bleeding from the impact, and you groaned; the smell of iron making its way back to you, and he noticed this.

He turned you right-side up, his claws ripping holes in your clothes. You let a small whimper out, as his large head came to nudge at your shoulder. Almost as if he was trying to calm you, showing he wasn’t a threat.

He whined out, taking your quiet frame and heaving breaths as more fear — apologizing for hurting his beloved.

And with that, his warm wet and pink tongue suddenly started lapping at your arm, then your neck and finally a rough lick from your jawline up towards your nose. Starting at, licking up the very same blood that’s coming down your face — nearly suffocating you with his rough texture.

He needed to comfort his mate. His, his, his!

You grimaced at his tongue, the rough black and pink muscle not stopping when you moved side to side, trying to dodge it. Was he now tasting you for taste?

You pushed at its brawny chest to get some space, but he didn’t listen– his rough tongue continuing his assaults. Behind him, you could see glimpses of a tail swinging strongly behind him; the thick tail slightly wagging at your blood.

Fuck. What was he going to do? Rut you? Fill you? Mark you? Kill you?

Suddenly, he growled — earning a gasp from you, as you watched his pupils dilate, his tongue coming out to heave; dried blood on his muscle.

“Don’t mean to scare ya’. Jus’ drivin’ me insane, sweetheart,” he states, licking your jaw one last time before his claws – trying to on being careful – shreds your gear and pants to bits.

You answered with your frozen stiff body, a long wine erupting from the man above you as your teeth chatted one against each other.

“Let… me go, Simon. Now!” you demanded, but his claw rose from your bruised hip and cocked a sharp nail to your chin, making you look up at him; his golden irises digging holes into your soul. Deepening his animal need for you.

“I jus’ got you, I promise I’ll treat you well.” he purred in your ear, licking yet another strip at your face before making his way down to your sex.

“Simon–!”

“You’ll be mine, nobody will take you away from me; fill you full of my cum. Mark you, take care of you. Until I’m satisfied.” he said while lifting your lower body up from the ground, grabbing your ankles to set them beside his head, his hot breath shaking you to your core.

“NO!” you screamed, suddenly snapping back to reality. His ears folded in an angry expression, the sound positively jarring to his sensitive ears. “No– you can’t, no, no! You won’t–!”

His body was heavy, one paw leaning against your stomach to keep you still. You didn’t even realize you were squirming until he applied more weight, earning you a whine that you didn’t even know you could let out until now.

“Mine,” he growled, “That’s what you are,” Simon pressed his wide hips forward, making you feel his cock– his long, swelling hot, and erect cock that was awaiting to be stuffed inside you. His knot pulsing, as if it was begging to feel your taut walls clenching around it.

You shook your head, denying his claims. Denying his appearance. This is a dream, this is a dream. A dream!

But when he tore away your undergarments, flattening his tongue over your fluttering entrance, the sensation caused you to realize —- nothing of this ‘dream’ was fake, but instead of a standing still.

He stuffs his whole snout into your bush and groans. The feeling is alien, his muzzle warm and wet, and you shudder with it. “You smell divine.”

You attempt to swat him away, but to no avail, he growls at your antics, showing his teeth as a warning.

“Tastes good,” he purrs, his deep and raspy voice shuddering you. He started licking long, broad strokes and making unwanted moans escape your lips — fingers digging into your bruised thighs, and his saliva adding to the sensations.

You cry out, bucking your hips into his maw as he grunted– licking up all your juices like his last meal. Walls clamp down on his thick tongue, thrusting it in and out of your hole as you’re subjected to the pleasure.

Though, just as your stomach starts getting warm; your abdomen heating up like a lamp, he pulls away. Making you whine out.

“M’ make you cum in a few.”

Ghost towers over you — his thick structure showing off his heated, non-sheathed cock. Making you realize what he’s referring to as his swollen tip nudges at your entrance; the pulsing heat making you clench your thighs unintentionally.

“Won’t fit–! No. Simon—!”

You cried out as he growled in response, his tongue licking your neck to soothe the oncoming pain. It hurts so bad. Yet so good as he fills you so full.

You prayed he’d be gentle– but you knew better. And in a rough instant, your stomach swelled, and fire consumed you. Air rushed out from your lungs from his thick, girthy cock into your tightening, barely prepped channel, and you quiver in ecstasy at how utterly full you are right now.

The beast, Simon, grunts and heaves; some of his drool drops on your face as he tries to calm you down with him nudging his head into your face.

“Oh– fuck,” you whispered, panting as your teeth bit into your bottom lip.

Simon’s thick paw continued to press on your stomach, hitching out breaths as his cock slowly started to piston in and out of you. “You’d look so pretty, filled with my babies. Getting all swollen and full of my cum.”

He smirked– his thick teeth shining in the dim fire, dragging his tongue up your neck.

“Breed– need to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust, making you feel the thick part of his cock pushing inside. He let you cry out as your legs curled around his lower hips, tightening your hold as he hit that part.

And without another word, he shoves his cock back out and in, pounding into your soaked hole with animalistic, determination and vigor speed. With Simon being so deep into you, you didn’t even realize you were begging for more, and more.

“Wa—eugh” you gurgled, smearing your tears against his fur as with each slap of the furry balls on his body, he sank further. His fat cock splits you open and makes a mess of sweat, tears, and drool on the wooden floor of the abandoned shack.

It’s too much, too much— it’s too good.

Your walls tighten up around him, making him snarl out, bullying his cock into you at a more rapid pace as he pulls away from your neck; grunting in your ear with promises.

“Fill you with my cum– belly so full. Full of my pups, I promise.”

As if he didn’t nearly split you in half, he took himself almost out; gripping your hips before turning you on your stomach, making you support yourself on your bruised knees as his claws nicked your skin.

He spread apart your ass, plunging back inside, and continuing with his animalistic pace; heaving and snarling above you.

“—plea—god!” your nails scraped at the wood, leaving marks that you didn’t care about. All you cared about was his knot. His, his, his. Everything of his cum. “Fuck–! Knot… Wan’ your knot!”

You babble nonsense, your body growing tired as his knot was slowly getting bigger– creating delicious friction as it rubbed against your inner walls. But, interrupting your soon-to-be climax was Simon coming down, leaning on your lower back for support as he snarled, aggressively nipping at your shoulder before licking the open wound.

You were his — his mate, his to claim in every way.

Without hesitation, he bit on the back of your shoulder. Hard. You cried out, feeling blood trickle down your arm and neck, tears pricking in the corner of your ears. And Simon whined.

He didn’t mean to do that! He was so out of focus on breeding you, he had hurt you. Comfort. He needs to comfort you.

Simon didn’t stop licking– not until he saw that your tears were long gone, and the smell of fear and shock had gone away. But instead, blinding lust and more was demanded.

And you could no longer talk, pain lingering, but pleasure buzzing on the edges of your nerves. Numbing every sensation but the beast within you and blanked the world but him, and his inhuman cock stretching you too big. Time didn’t exist.

Your body grew tense– a white-hot flash washing you whole. Your abdomen was tightening so much it hurt, and then it snapped. And suddenly — everything grew too much.

You cried out, tears forming out of stimulation, but he wasn’t done. You couldn’t think anymore, and after several moments of his vigorous fucking, he howls– his knot expanding painfully, stretching it to unbeknownst size, and his cock twitches violently as he spills inside, the large load obscene within you.

The stretching ended with an audible pop, stuffing you completely as he bucked his hips at your squirming. “G—” you stumbled with the start, “G-get out of me!” you tried elbowing him, pleasure growing to a near painful degree before his claws grabbed your bicep gently.

Then, your stomach felt heavier. It hurts so good, and so hot.

He purred, “Be quiet, honey— m’ filling you real hot.”

He fucks into you for another few, sloppy thrusts before he stops to ‘clean’ you. Nudging you with his wet nose into your neck affectionately,

You’re a proper mess now. The load of cum feels obscene within you, all warm and sticky. He held you against his taut chest, rumbling in a way that felt like a cat purring; somehow soothing you.

His thick claw gripped under your chin, forcing you to look at him as he huffed quietly, “I’ll take real good loving care of ya’ and our lil’ pups.” he jostled you somehow deeper to just the right spot, and you whimpered; quite in a state of being fucked raw by a beast who has it’s knot stuck inside you.

“…are we staying like this?” you asked, looking down, curious and intimidated by the sight below. Mustering some strength, you slid down a tingling hand to support you as Ghost licked your shoulder.

“For a while, I reckon,” you arched your back as his teeth slithered across your beating pulse.

Fuck, a single movement by him has you wanting more. But you’re tired. So, so tired.

You tremble and whimper, feeling his cock still hard — your limbs now coming limp with exhaustion as your eyes roll back into your skull. You’re so tired on Ghost’s monstrously cock that you don't even notice that he lays down with you, cradling your body close to his warm one.

“You’re mine. All mine,” he mutters, feeling your heartbeat succumb to sleep before he starts grinding into your ass. You whined, murmuring something. But he shushes you, making you fall into a blissful sleep as the man, the monster you once knew, keeps rutting into you from behind.

—

Masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

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mina-saiyat · 4 months

Text

Fashion Show (Dahyun)

A/N: Dahyun's fashion show smut! BBC, Gangbang, piss involved lol. Please enjoy

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In a hotel in New York, a horny scene was taking place on the bed. The fair-skinned Dahyun was sandwiched between two tall black men like a sandwich. Dahyun was lying on her back with small and sexy lips. There was a white trace of semen hanging from the corner of her mouth. As her little mouth opened and closed, Dahyun let out a seductive moan. Her long hair was draped loosely and messily on both sides of her shoulders, several strands of sticky semen dripping down from her hair.

The gold mini dress on Dahyun's body was pulled down to her waist, revealing a pair of tall, white breasts underneath, with a shallow cleavage squeezed out in the middle, which swayed as a black man thrust, As full of flesh as two spring-loaded grapefruits, the two small nipples were covered with mucus, as dazzling as two crystal rubies.

Dahyun herself held her two plump and tender thighs and spread them widely apart on both sides, assuming a lewd posture, and her glistening lower body was currently having two large-sized cocks going in and out, fucked out of the ground.

The black man on Dahyun's body is bald, with eye patches on his eyes, and his appearance cannot be seen. He spreads his legs and squats, holding Dahyun's ankles with two thick hands to support his body. Underneath his eight-pack abs, the eggplant-like big cock was thrusting up and down Dahyun's slimy pussy like a pile driver. The two egg-sized balls hit Dahyun's tender flesh with the thrust, making a "snap" sound.

The black man under Dahyun has curly short hair that sticks to his scalp. His big hands tightly wrap around Dahyun's slender waist, fixing Dahyun's body to prevent her from rocking back and forth. His thick black hard cock is struggling Fuck Dahyun’s little asshole.

The two cocks in Dahyun's lower body were turned on at full power and he was fucking her in and out. Judging from the thickness and length of the cocks, even the tall European and American bitches couldn't bear it, even this petite one? A thin Asian female idol, compared to the tall black man, Dahyun, who was being fucked hard between two black men, was like a junior high school student being fucked and raped by two adults.

The room was filled with constant sounds of "slapping, banging..." and "squeaking..." thrusting sounds, as well as Dahyun's excited "Ahhh...fuckme...ah...fuckme..."

Dahyun's lower body was in a mess, and the thick black pubic hair was covered with mucus. It was unclear whether it was semen or vaginal fluid. The entire hair was wet and greasy, and her small clitoris was like a small soybean that had absorbed water. Crystal clear and translucent, two long and thick eggplant-like dicks were thrust in and out. As they were thrusting in and out, semen and nectars continued to seep out of Dahyun's pussy, and Dahyun's two labia majora were fucked to the ground. The wetness tightly wrapped the thick cock, like a small mouth tightly sucking the long black eggplant; and Dahyun's little asshole was now like a blooming chrysanthemum, with the black man's big cock The cock was thrust open and closed, and white mucus seeped out from the crack of the asshole. It seemed that Dahyun's asshole had been filled with cum just now.

The sound of "Puff, Puff, Puff..." in the room became more intense, like the sound of stepping on mud, and the sound of "snap, snap, snap..." of flesh could be heard incessantly. All that's left is the heavy breathing of several bodies. Dahyun moaned lustfully, both Korean and English, "Ahhhh… I am dying...fuckme...ahhhhhhhhh".

This fucking scene lasted for nearly ten minutes. The thick cock inserted in Dahyun's little asshole was thrust hard and hard several times. Finally, the black man yelled "fuck...fuck...", this thick cock inserted hard into Dahyun's ass, and the semen was poured into Dahyun's body one after another.

After thirty or forty seconds, the black man under Dahyun pulled out his still-hard cock from Dahyun's asshole. At this time, Dahyun's little asshole was open like a small black hole, and the Large balls of semen flowed out from the black hole, accompanied by Dahyun's crying moans.

Three bodies with obvious black and white contrast twisting on a big bed, and the sheets on this big bed are already mottled and messy. The black man who just ejaculated moved away from Dahyun, and the one who was still fucking Dahyun was holding Dahyun's pussy, moved Dahyun's legs above her head, which raised Dahyun's ass high. It looked like if he pressed it down further, she would be able to fold Dahyun in half.

Dahyun's flexibility is really good, and now the big, sinewy cock like a black donkey's cock is still violently fucking Dahyun's pussy up and down, and Dahyun's pair of tender white breasts are like little leather balls, bouncing up and down, constantly slapping Dahyun's face. Dahyun's slender and well-proportioned arms rested softly on both sides of her head as if surrendering.

“Ahh! Ahh! Ummm… Fuck me! Ah…” Dahyun's obscene screams continued to come from the bed. Now there is a layer of fragrant sweat on Dahyun's body, and there are spots of white semen on his fair body and black hair, and there are at least three black men in the room who are surrounding Dahyun while stroking their thick cocks beside.

As the thrusting continued, Dahyun's screams became more and more lewd. Every time the black man's thick and big donkey-like cock was inserted hard into the glistening pussy, Dahyun let out a sharp scream. "Ah..." The sound was like the big cock suddenly hit the switch of Dahyun's pronunciation.

Dahyun's lustful screams were rising and falling in response to the frequency of the black man's cock being thrust in and out. A stream of semen seeped out from the cracks of the pussy that was being fucked so hard, and flowed all the way down Dahyun's flat abdomen. It flowed onto the bouncing breasts. As the pair of elastic little balls swung up and down, the semen was scattered around, and a few drops even landed on Dahyun's face.

In this way, Dahyun was surrounded by several black men and gangbanged. Dahyun 's tender body was even more white and shiny in the contrast with the black men. She was folded in half like a shrimp. A tall black man covered in greasy sweat was erecting a penis that looked like a black donkey’s cock was thrusting into Dahyun's wet pussy.

As the thrusting continued, Dahyun's crying moans became more and more intense, "Ah...ahhh...ah...coming...coming...ahhh..."

In the end, Dahyun's whole body tense up, her mouth wide open as she screamed silently, and her body began to shake violently. What was even more unexpected was that as Dahyun's intense climax came, she actually spurted out from her lower body. A stream of urine, and this crystal clear urine sprayed onto Dahyun's face and breasts. Accompanied by the sound of "squirting..." was the sound of "gu dong gu dong..." and the sound of Dahyun swallowing her own piss. The black men let out a laugh.

"Fuck, this Dahyun from Twice is so slutty."

"If this kind of slut comes to my hometown, she will be taken to the village square and fucked to death by all the men in the village."

"Hey, this slut is so durable, she can still squirt after being fucked for so long."

"Edward, where did you find this slutty idol?" a black man asked Edward who was standing aside.

"Hehe, I won't tell you this, but she has been fucked by our people these days. You also know how strong our young man is. This Dahyun is not only physically sensitive but also very resistant to fuck. I'm really sorry for not selling her out. Why? So, if anyone comes to play next time, the price will still be the same, one thousand per person, discount for more people."

"Haha... of course. You also know that people with big cocks like us are usually not willing to find prostitutes to play with. With this slutty K-pop female idol who is willing to be fucked, of course many people will come."

"Thank you very much, haha." At this time, Dahyun had finished peeing, and only a small amount of urine was left. As the dick was inserted again, it gushes out of the urethra. It flows down the belly to a pair of plump breasts bouncing up and down. Dahyun's body and face were covered with glistening traces of urine, sliding down his skin drop by drop.

"Does it taste good? Little slut, Dahyun." Edward asked with a smile.

"Ahhh... so... delicious... ahhh... fuck Dahyun to death... ah... ahhhh... again... ahhh... fuck Dahyun..." Dahyun gasped and moaned, speaking dirty words in a slutty tone, her two small hands as slender as green onion grabbed her big breasts and rubbed them.

"Fuck, your bitch Dahyun, ah...fuck...ah..." The black man who was working hard on Dahyun's pussy gasped and made the final thrust. With the thrust of the thick cock covered with black veins, Dahyun's moans became more lustful.

"Ahhhhh... big cock... I want to...ahhh... fuck me to death...ahhhh... ah Dahyun...ahhh..."

"Puff, puff, puff..." Dahyun is only responded by harder thrusting.

Finally, as the black man gasped heavily, "Heh...heh...", the ugly and thick cock was inserted deep into Dahyun's vagina, and a large amount of semen was injected into Dahyun 's vagina wave by wave.

"Ah... um..." Dahyun let out a long moan, pinching her bright little nipples with her tender white fingers.

The black man pulled out his wet and semi-hard penis. Dahyun's little hole was wet, like a swamp after a storm. The hole was slightly open, and white semen slowly flowed out. Before Dahyun could take a breath, another black man inserted his large cock into Dahyun’s pussy, which was still leaking semen, made a sound of “Puff, puff, puff…”

Dahyun's voice became even stickier, as if she had been inserted into a ball of paste. During the thrusting, semen was continuously squeezed out from the joint between the two, and flowed drop by drop onto Dahyun's pink little asshole, and then it flowed down the groin and onto the already wet sheets.

Another strong black man pressing his big cock against the fair-skinned Dahyun and fucking her continuously. After thrusting for a while, the black man suddenly picked up Dahyun and then turned Dahyun over to a kneeling position, the black man clamped Dahyun's two fair and plump thighs on both sides of his waist, pushed Dahyun to the bed while thrusting, and then asked Dahyun to get off the bed with his hands on her hands.

"Ahhhhh…Urghh… Ahhh… mmmmm… Ahhh…" Dahyun whined and moaned as she was being fucked, while the black man thrust hard with his big cock, pushing Dahyun towards Walking towards the door, during the thrusting and moving process, semen and semen kept pouring out of Dahyun's pussy, dripping down to the floor like broken beads. She even saw several black men around her, stroking their large cock.

Then the door was opened, and the black man pushed Dahyun into the brightly lit living room. The sound of the weather forecast could be heard in the room. In the living room of a presidential suite, where people reunited warmly after having a meal. Dahyun, who was covered in mucus, with her long black hair spread on her smooth and shiny skin, her tits was shaking like a bitch , while being pushed up by an ugly black man who was tall, strong and full of power. A cock as thick as a wine bottle was thrusting and pushing towards the sofa step by step. The banging sound of "pah pah pah..." did not stop for a second. Dahyun's moaning like crying aroused the Endless desire of men.

The black man was fucking Dahyun in front of the sofa like a doggy. Dahyun's pair of boobs, which were as elastic as water-filled balloons, were dangling in the air, with rippling breasts, and he was fucking her fiercely. It went on until Dahyun's hands could no longer support her and her body went limp. She was only supported by her two breasts. The black man picked her up and sat on the sofa.

At this time, Dahyun was sitting with her back to the black man on the large cock that was constantly going in and out of her pussy. The black man grabbed Dahyun's slim waist with both hands and lifted Dahyun up until the entire wet and shiny cock was exposed, and then held it with one hand. He aimed his dick at Dahyun’s little asshole and inserted it all at once without any resistance.

"Ah..." Dahyun let out a low and suppressed moan. Then another black man came over with a thick cock. The egg-sized glans was still dripping with mucus. The black man lifted Dahyun’s legs and pressed the large cock against Dahyun’s vagina. Slowly push the whole egg-sized glans into Dahyun's cunt, which is flowing with semen and semen. Two petal-like labia opening like flowers, and the clitoris on the flower is the size of a soybean, appears more crystal clear.

Then, the black man inserted his entire cock into Dahyun’s vagina at once, and Dahyun let out a moan of pleasure.

As the fucking continued, more black men joined in. One of the black men sat on Dahyun's waist and used Dahyun's breasts to hold his own thick black cock and thrust it. The other two black men took turns to fuck their cocks, inserting it into Dahyun's mouth, the black man's cock was too big for Dahyun's small mouth. Only a third of the whole big cock could be inserted before it could no longer be inserted, but Dahyun was still swallowing and sucking desperately. As if eating a delicious lollipop, Dahyun's two thin white hands were not idle either, each holding a big cock and stroking it up and down.

Dahyun, just like a human semen sucking machine, constantly being fucked by the huge black cocks. Every time someone ejaculated in Dahyun's pussy, there would be another one as hard and thick as a wine bottle goes in again.

"Oh... uh... uh... uh... uh... uh..." Dahyun's lustful moans were suppressed in his throat. The sound of "slapping, banging, banging..." and the sound of "puff, puff, puff..." never stopped for a moment. Various insults from black people like "fuck... shit... dirty girl..." were heard from time to time.

During this period, a black man even ejaculated his fishy urine into Dahyun's mouth, and Dahyun swallowed it greedily. Every time she was fucked to climax, more urine spurted out from Dahyun's lower body, and then the black guys just thrust harder.

As the thrusting continued, the entire sofa became wet. The black men lifted Dahyun to the ground and continued to rape her. Until it was almost time to leave for the fashion show, Dahyun was still moaning and crying as she was being fucked by the thick cock.

#minasaiyatis #twice smut #dahyun smut #twice dahyun #twice imagines #female idol smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #male reader smut

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54625 · 3 months

Text

thinking about the phycological torture qFit is going to be put through for the next few weeks, like

He's in a rough state already, head ringing and legs probably shattered from his fall. He's bleeding and barely conscious. He drags himself along the ground, a flesh hand already grazed and a metal hand already dented. He reaches a ledge. Peers over. In the dark he can just about make out the shapes, but the smell and the twisting in his gut is undeniable. Rot. The rotting of bodies. The rotting of years old corpses, mangled, crumpled, starved, crushed, emaciated. He thinks of the creature's words. I had friends once, they're still here on this island. Do you want to see them?

Against his own will, he pictures Ramón lying at the bottom of the cave; sniffer teddy discarded a foot away and covered in mud, comforting the corpse. He pictures Pac; all rib bones and hollow cheeks, in the new once clean clothes he loved to show off. He pictures Sunny. He pictures Tubbo. He pictures Phil. He pictures Mike. He pictures Bagi. He shuts his eyes and moves to leave, but his body is broken. He can't escape this place, and he won't be saved. They won't think to look for you here.

#i know those Madagio are quotes aren't exactly accurate i was doing this off the top of my head okay #qsmp #fitmc #Madagio be like “oh so you wanna lose your edge and disobey my orders about attachments? That's it young man; two weeks in the corpse room”

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dracowars · 11 months

Note

Could I please request an Anakin X reader where reader gets overwhelmed in a mission and Anakin gets her out?

overwhelmed | anakin skywalker

pairing: anakin x jedi!reader

word count: 1,1k

summary: where y/n gets overwhelmed on a mission

a/n: i missed writing so much, especially for anakin so i really hope that you enjoy it <3 feedback and reblogging is always appreciated!

warnings: angst, mentions of death, mentions of blood

universe: star wars

"What's happening down there?!", Anakin screams at the hologram map in front of him, demanding to know what is going on on the planet beneath the Resolute. His eyes frantically roam over the map, trying to find the source that caused the small transporter and the protective shields around it to be blown to bits. "General Y/L/N, do you copy?"

It was supposed to be an easy mission with no complications. The plan was simple: deliver the required weapons and care packages to the surface of Ryloth to support the troops and then leave again without a trace, not alarming the Separatists while giving your men an advantage. But instead of doing that, you walked right into a trap.

Pressing your body, which is still shaking from the bomb's hard impact, against a shattered part of the transporter, you try to control your breath, squinting your eyes to see through the dust. Inhaling it, you cough several times, waving your hand in front of your face to make the smoke slowly disappear. You hardly see anything around you, at most silhouettes of soldiers lying on the ground, injured or worse. And very close by, you hear the loud mechnical noise of spider droids coming your way.

Ignoring the panic rising within your veins, you close your eyes and try to think about your next move, trying to find a way out of this. Only then do you notice your com and the voice coming from it, instantly grounding you.

"I copy. We ran into an ambush, I don't know how many of my men survived", you answer into the comlink, forcing your voice to sound as steady as possible. But Anakin notices. He always does.

"You need to get out of there. Right now!", Anakin says with pressure, not paying attention to the fact that he has never felt so relieved to hear you voice, that, as far as he can tell, you are safe and sound. And he does not care what his men around him think, why he is so keen on getting you out of there in one piece.

When the explosions happened, Anakin felt his heart stop, his world stopped spinning. But hearing your voice right now makes it a lot more bearable because you are still there, you are still with him. He should have been down there with you and he is beating himself up for not insisting on coming with you.

"Sir, I don't think that is possible", another voice clarifies through the comlink as Bly, your commander, approaches your side, kneeling in front of you as he speaks to Anakin. His armor is covered in dust and mud, but he appears to have survived the attack without any major damages.

"Why not?", both Anakin and you ask at the same time.

"General, you are injured", Bly points out, motioning to your lower body, which is, indeed, covered in blood. Taking in a deep, shaky breath, your eyes widen and you press your hand on the bleeding wound where a piece of metal must have hit you. Only then do you notice the excruciating pain running through your body, previously hidden by the adrenaline that was still rushing through your veins mere seconds ago.

"How bad is it?", Anakin wants to know immediately, his knuckles turning white from grabbing the table with the hologram map forcefully as it is making fun of him for not being down there with you, only showing him what happened without him being able to intervene.

"I don't think any important organs are damaged, but I can't be sure, Sir. And the Separatists are approaching our current location quickly", Bly explains, offering you an encouraging smile, but all you can feel is bile rising up your throat and panic lacing your laboured breathing. "They knew we would come."

"And they were only waiting to strike", Anakin concludes, lowering his head while searching for answers. But with his heart painfully beating against his chest and your ragged breathing over the com, he can't concentrate. He needs to get you out of there.

"Prepare a shuttle", he orders one of the clones around him, his voice harsh and demanding while you are down there, possibly fighting for your life right now.

"Sir, we are not equipped for such a rescue", you hear from afar, the unbearable pain blocking everything out.

"I can do it, Anakin. It's f-fine", you try to convince him, your hands trembling and your voice only a whisper. Every breath hurts, it gets worse every second and you know that you reached your limit.

You know you won't make it. Even with Bly by your side, the chances of leaving this planet alive are falling close to zero. This realization hits you hard and a single tear slips down your cheek, leaving a wet streak on your dirty face.

"A-Anakin?", you call out to him in pain, the beeping in your ears getting louder and louder. But he does not answer.

Looking up at the sky, in the direction where your transporter came from, where Anakin is located right now, you force a smile on your lips. Black stars cloud your vision as you desperately reach for the Force, calling him.

"General, what are you-", is the last static sound you hear before your body slips into complete darkness.

════════════

Anakin is not the type to stand there doing nothing when the love of his life is on the verge of leaving this galaxy, no matter the cost. And he certainly does not care about being equipped for the rescue. Because if someone is going to get you out of there safely, then it is Anakin Skywalker.

And that is exactly what he is planning on doing the moment he leaves the bridge, when he jumps into the Twilight and lands on the rough surface of Ryloth. When he takes down every single droid with his own hands, leaving behind a trail of destruction. When he finally reaches you, unconscious frame held up by your loyal commander.

Immediately, he takes you onto his arms, carrying you to his ship with the remaining soldiers following and flanking you. The determination in Anakin's eyes is eerie, he speaks no word, only making sure to get you off this planet in no time.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, he reaches out to you with the Force, just like you did before leaving into unconsciousness, telling him to leave you behind and complete the mission. The moment he does, he feels your warmth, your joy emanating through his body and your eyes flutter. Softly, your hand touches his, your lips parting ever so slightly as you croak: "I knew you would come."

"I always will", Anakin answers, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead, squeezing your hand in his gently. "I will always come for you, my angel."

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diorcities · 1 year

Text

bunny

previous. part one .next.

pairing: park jisung x afab!reader genre: smut, dark academia. content: virginity, corruption kink, hand job, oral fixation, nipple play, female masturbation. wc: 2k.

description: this academy is full of secrets, as much as it is full of bunnies. hairy and docile ones, and harmful and evil as well. you've never been able to belong to their little group of worship for jisung. they don't know. they simply don't know, that you would do anything for him. whatever it is he desires.

the sun passing between the branches of the willow tree where your body lay made funny figures on your skin. the temperature was ideal to lie down in the garden of the academy between classes, being customary for students to eat or study. you preferred to sleep.

you read for a while one of those boring books that made you sleepy, and when it was the perfect moment, you fell into the arms of morpheus, like a rock. for that reason, you missed the second class that afternoon.

you got up lazily resting your back on the base of the trunk, moving the open book away from your face. your gaze wandered around the enclosure; made up of victorian structures and ruins. the academy was thirty minutes from the next civilization, surrounded by lush forests and mountainous landscapes. in spring, squirrels and rabbits wandered through the green areas, and the trees showed their greenest leaves. in winter, the panorama consisted of temperatures close to negative degrees, trees with bony branches and meters and meters of snow.

you didn't like spring very much, and obviously, winter neither. you used to think that the middle of the two seasons was the best, after summer vacation, fall was by far the best season.

after pondering for what you thought were hours, you decided to face what was surely going to be a comeuppance. however, you were willing, more than willing, waiting. as you headed to the room for your next class, you didn't notice that your uniform had gotten mud on it from lying on the grass.

bunny noticed. with her delicate hands, she covers her mouth while she laughs without much disguise. “look who we have here." her entourage was supporting. “yn” other bunny mentions, disgusted. unintentionally, and because you really didn't feel like avoiding them, you let them surround you. “ugh, is that... mud?” bunny covered her nose under your piercing gaze. if it affected her, she showed no signs of it. bunny clicks her tongue, “did you fall down a rabbit hole?” she asks herself, “or maybe, you're used to being on the ground.” her hands travel to your chest, pushing hard. her entourage opens like a door and reveals the floor. you fall with a crash, causing laughter from the bunnies, who, one by one, file off. their laughter stretches down the desolate corridor until they're lost. with parsimony, you manage to compose yourself and go to your next class.

twilight looms on the horizon as you enter the tunnel connecting the tower to the central building, the shadows lengthen and shrink as you proceed through the endless corridor. cold hits your body, hearing only the sound of your shoes on the stone floor, expanding into echoes.

your footsteps stop abruptly, and your muscles tense under your skin, as your eyes study the small, static figure a few feet from you. pearly fur shimmering in the moonlight. with floppy ears like small braids and eyes as black as abysses, they observe you while their nose moves, sniffing.

it lets you hold it when you pick it up off the ground. the fur is even softer than you thought. its frail and petite figure. heart under its ribcage pounding under your hand, placed on the area. “we had a dissection class the other day,” you narrate, reversing your steps. “we stuff bunnies.” your footsteps replace the stone floor with dirt and grass as you walk away from the tunnel and into the forest. your nose approaches the fur, inhaling gently. “what a beautiful fur,” you murmur in a high-pitched voice. your lips leave a small kiss on the rodent before depositing it on the ground. “now go away, little friend,” you say, waving your hand, but the rabbit remains where you left it. “boo!,” you exclaim, then. and that's when the rabbit leaves.

your heels turn to return to the shelter of the tunnel when your eyes catch a shadow looming over you. the feeble light from the street lamps in the courtyard barely illuminates his face; outlines his figure with a halo of orange light. “did i scare you?,” he wants to know. you shake your head. you can feel him smile even when darkness engulfs him. “we're late for class,” he announces, looking at the sunset, yet your eyes remain on him. “i need to clean my skirt,” you mumble in a low voice. his smile widens. “need help?”.

you feel him lurking behind your back, at a prudent distance. walking through the dark tunnel, only listening to the sound of his footsteps in time with yours. in a corner, you walk up the stairs to the second floor, feeling your skirt rise slightly. jisung laughs lightly but doesn't say anything else. he follows you to the bathrooms, closing the door behind him. seeing him study you through the mirror, his gaze fixed on the dark stain on your skirt. your hands go to the waistband of the fabric, lowering it to your ankles, as you stay only in your underwear.

you feel the warmth of his body as he approaches, his arm encircling your body to the front, the sudden proximity making you catch your breath. his warm breath hitting your ear.

his hands brush yours as he takes the fabric from your grasp, and without saying anything, he walks away to the sink. you watch him rolls his shirt up a few inches, exposing his forearms. his veins bulge as he turns on the faucet and begins to wash the mud off. “how did you get mud on your skirt, anyway?” he asks, breaking the silence. “from the garden,” you reply.

jisung hums, turning off the faucet when his chore is done. his body leans against the sink, holding out his skirt to you, waiting for you to take it. your body instantly approaches him, under a spell. he watches you intently as you dress, his eyes shifting between your breasts and your face; it's impossible not to look back at him. “thank you,” you say. “no problem.” his lips stretch into a lazy smile. “you… do you need help with something?” you see him deny “nothing that requires your help, kitten.”

he stands up from the sink, towering over you. you have to look up to meet his eyes again. “tell me what it is,” you demand to know, cutting him off. “why?” he asks. “i want to help,” you reply, “i want to help you.” where did this wish come from? you couldn't know it, but it burned your chest. just thinking about letting him go made your body writhe in sharp pain. you wanted to help him, you wanted to please him. there was nothing in this world you wanted more than to make him happy.

“what are you willing to do to help me?”

“anything.”

when he smiles, the burning in your chest turns into a warm feeling. his hand comes up to your face, cupping your cheek. slides down to your jaw and rests there as his thumb rests on your lower lip. “open up,” he asks. your lips part to let him in, his finger resting on your flat tongue, before curling it around. instinctively, you begin to suck on his finger. teeth scraping lightly, tongue wrapping and moving. “pretty,” jisung whispers before a throat clearing attacks him. his pink lips part slightly in concentration, his gaze darkening at the sight of your mouth taking his thumb so well.

your hands go to his chest, moving up and down with difficulty, before sliding down. they rest gently on his abdomen. “do you really want to help me?” he asks again, and you nod multiple times. yes, yes, yes, as you resume your way to his crotch. a hard bulge under your warm palm. your thumb strokes the prominent surface, catching his muscles tense. his body falls back into the sink, your body overlapping his as your palm presses over his erection. your tongue takes care in the movements it makes on his finger, while you give it a few strokes on his length. your fingers going to the zipper of his navy blue pants. “do you want to touch it?” he wants to know, and you nod again.

his thumb is withdrawn from your mouth, and you miss him immediately. you unbutton his pants and pull them down, just enough to see his underwear. your fingers go to the waistband, lowering the fabric, and freeing his cock, long and veined. tip is flushed. a small spasm attacks it, and it seems to you the most beautiful thing in the world.

your hand wraps around him, feeling hard and heavy. his soft skin stretches as you begin to pat him. jisung lets out a low breath. your eyes stray from the length of his to see his pretty face twitch. frown and parted lips. you move your hand up and down, while the other finds its way to the base, palm down.

his hands go up your body, unbuttoning your shirt and revealing your bra. it's old-fashioned and without a cup, which reveals your bristling nipples. jisung brushes his thumb around one of them. an electric current expands from the place where he touches you. you let out a hoarse moan as his fingers squeeze the sensitive area. back arches unintentionally. your hand begins to move faster on his cock. a growl attacks him, burying his face in the valley of your breasts.

you feel his dick pulsing under your hand, warm and soft. you milk it, curling your fingers at the tip, making movements from top to bottom while giving small touches with your thumb. jisung stirs under your touch, in a labored gasp. a few more stabbed thrusts were enough for him to spill his warm semen in your hand. hot and thick. your mouth begins to salivate at the sight of the pearl liquid pouring out of its pink tip.

“you want a taste?” he asks when he sees the place where your gaze is fixed. bringing his index finger into the liquid after you nod, moves it closer to your already open lips to receive his seed. you savor the sweet taste of him, cleaning his finger with your tongue. “turn around,” he orders, giving you no time to react and moving you himself. positioning behind you, both facing the mirror.

his hand goes around you to wipe away the remaining cum that remains on your hand, and when he's done, his hand slides down your belly and out of the mirror reflection, under your skirt and resting on the waistband of your clothes inside. “did you get wet, kitten?” he asks as he feels your breathing ragged as his fingers finally insert themselves under the fabric and brush against your pussy. “just a few strokes on my cock and you're already dripping?”.

his fingers slide through your folds and through your silky arousal. your face twitches as he finds your clit and starts moving his fingers in circles. your mouth opens to let out small, low moans, while your hips move to the beat of his fingers, wanting more friction. his body presses against yours, holding you against the sink and his chest. his movements become deeper and more agile as he massages your clit. your walls clinging and clenching to nothing, legs tightening around his hand. your wishes finally being heard by jisung, lowering his fingers between your folds towards your entrance. his fingers dig into your cunt, and a whiplash of sharp pain accompanies them.

jisung removes his fingers quickly, causing a plaintive gasp to escape your lips. his strong grip turns you on your axis, now facing him. “are you virgin?” it takes you a few seconds to string together what he says. jisung teases you, “answer me.” you bite the inside of your cheeks and nod.

jisung clicks his tongue, disapprovingly. you watch him lose himself in his thoughts, sinking deeper into worry the moment he realize something you totally miss. a few seconds later, he shakes his head and looks at you. “i'm so sorry,” he says, looking embarrassed, “but i'm afraid we have to stop.”

“but-,”

“no.”

“please,” you beg. “jisung, please.” your hands make fists in his white shirt. his hands grab your wrists, but he doesn't pull them away. “god, do you want me to fuck you so much?” he questions, raising his eyebrows expectantly. you soak your lips under his gaze. yes. you wanted him to destroy you completely, to use your body at his whim just like now, to take you so hard you could barely walk the next day. you crave, fervently to see his naked body covered in sweat while he fucks you or one of his bunnies, you don't care. but instead of telling him that, you just nod, hoping he can see between the lines. however, jisung puts pressure on your wrists. “say it.”

“yes, jisung.”

he smiles, before leaning over you and bringing his mouth closer to your ear.

“you'll have to do something for me first, then.”

#nct smut #nct dream smut #jisung smut #nct dream jisung smut #park jisung smut #♡jisung

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wallydrling · 1 year

Text

a billion trillion kisses (for you)

pairing: wally darling/reader

rating: g

author's note: gender neutral reader to the best of my ability, probably some discrepancies having to do with the lore, i made wally taller lol

ao3 (it's formatted so much better on there. i hate u tumblr!)

You’d moved to Home last Spring, on one of the rainiest days the little town had ever seen.

Looking back now, it’s a fond memory. But at the time, rain pouring down from the sky, soaking your hair and your clothes and all your cardboard boxes, it’d been miserable. You remember just wanting to crawl beneath a canopy tree and cry. Your boxes of books had all fallen apart, landing on the wet pavement outside of your house. Your favorite shoes were ruined, covered up to the laces in mud. It felt like a sign. Something sent from the universe, urging you to turn around and leave. To go back to where you came from.

Only, you couldn’t remember where that was. You still can’t.

And right as you’d given up, settling on your front porch with your face buried in your hands, the clouds parted. Metaphorically, of course. The sky continued to cry. But, a set of footsteps headed towards you, sloshing in the puddles that had formed, and you’d peeked between your fingers to see–him. All lean legs, and a deep, blue cardigan with hair to match, covered up in a red raincoat. He’d been wearing loafers, then. Something you’d come to familiarize yourself with, something you’d later recognize as his signature. He walked towards you with all the confidence in the world, and a bright smile on his face.

“Hi there, new neighbor!” He called out, loud enough to be heard over the rain. “I’m Wally. I live just over that way,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I couldn’t help but notice all of these books lying on the ground, and then I saw you and thought, ‘Oh, looks like they need help!’ So, here I am.”

His very presence had seemed so outlandish back then; so unreal. His will to lend a helping hand had felt a little bit degrading. Someone as bright as him, bursting with color and cheer, coming to stand in front of you on such a horrendous day. You’d wanted to be mad, to snap at him to go away. You remember that you hadn’t really felt like socializing, then.

But before you could get a single word out, Wally knelt to the ground, and began gathering your books in his arms. They were covered in mud, and dripping rainwater. They dirtied his cardigan as he held them to his chest, but he didn’t seem to mind. Once he had his arms full of them, he stepped around you, and walked straight into your house. Like he lived there, too. Like it would’ve been silly of him to wait for an invitation.

Shocked at his boldness, you sprung to your feet, hot on his heels. You watched with big, wide eyes as he set your books down on the floor. The carpet was covered in muck and water, and Wally even more so; the mud on his cardigan would likely stain, and his rainbow pants were patchy with water. His hair, still half-styled in a pompadour despite the heavy rain, dripped rain down his yellow cheeks. He wiped his hands off on his pants, and flashed a bright smile at you.

“Do you need some help getting the other boxes in here?” He’d asked.

You blinked at him, once. Twice. Had no idea what to make of him. And then, subtly, you nodded. “Yeah. That’d…that’d be appreciated.”

So, that’s how you met your best friend.

Only, now, that terminology is beginning to feel incorrect. Because Wally is a friend, yes, and he is best in the sense that he is your favorite in all of Home (Julie would positively lose it if you said that aloud), but it's been a year of living in this town; of seeing his bright smile, and hearing his awkward, warm laughter nearly every day. It's been easy to hold Frank, Eddie, and even Howdy at a distance–two of the three are already a pair, and you don't see them nearly as often as you do Wally. Even Julie only shows up knocking at your door a couple of times a week.

You and Wally have become near-inseparable. If you aren't taking walks, stopping to cloud gaze every so often, then you're painting together. If you aren't painting together, you're ransacking the bodega, or arranging weekend picnics in the park for all of the residents. And if you aren't doing any of those things, then the both of you are curled up on your sofa, flipping through magazines, or reading poetry together. It isn't even a conscious thought anymore; not on your end, at least. It's become so normal to wake up, go about your morning routine, and then meet up with Wally come noon.

The other residents are getting suspicious, to say the least. Julie hounds you about it each time you have a sleepover (at least twice a week), Eddie has started wiggling his eyebrows in your general direction each time he sees you together, and even Howdy in all of his obliviousness gives you a picnic basket of food randomly one weekend for, "your date with Wally. On the house!"

You're not sure if the others are teasing Wally as much as they're teasing you, or if he'd even notice, but you know it's only a matter of time before someone makes an implication that you can't come back from. You're essentially bracing yourself for the question, the one everyone has yet to ask–what are you guys?

Julie is hosting a 'color-by-numbers' event at her house this evening, and nearly everyone will be in attendance. And if they asked you the question, you wouldn't have an answer. Not a clear one, anyway. You and Wally are friends; you can say that with confidence. You're each other's confidants. Wally has told you things he's never told anyone else. How Barnaby has spent a lot of time teaching him how to recognize his emotions, and how he gets lonely, sometimes. Was almost always lonely before you moved to Home. How he is so scared to lose you and the others, the anxiety of the thought alone renders him paralyzed if he thinks about it for too long. He trusts you, and you trust him, and you love him, even more so. You don't really know what to make of that.

So, there isn't one answer to the question of what are you guys? There are a dozen, jumbled and criss-crossed and tangled, and you can't pull them apart alone. You'd need Wally's help, and that would mean confessing, and you're not willing to do that. It could ruin everything.

When late afternoon rolls around, you're ready to go. You're wearing your favorite outfit, and your hair is styled to perfection. You've even put perfume on; the kind Howdy made for you from fresh berries, and you don't know why that matters or if Wally can even smell, but–

You're getting ahead of yourself. Getting nervous. Now isn't the time for a freak-out. You take one last look in the mirror, steel your shoulders, and set off for Julie's house.

"Yay, you're here!" Julie throws open the door, tugging you inside before you even get the chance to knock. "You're the last guest to arrive. Now we can really get the party started!"

You wave at the others as you step into the living room. Sally is here, serenading Barnaby with a ballad you've never heard before while he closes his eyes, nodding along with her voice. Eddie and Frank are bickering about something, but Eddie is borderline giggling, so you know it isn't serious. Howdy is getting his paints all lined up in a row, face pinched in concentration. And Wally is sitting in front of the couch, back propped up against it. Your eyes meet his, and he smiles at you softly, stealing the breath from your throat. You stare at him for longer than is appropriate, and you know this because Julie clears her throat quietly, and pulls you to sit down on the floor next to her.

"Everyone got their color-by-number sheets, paints, and brushes?" Julie asks just as she places a sheet of paper in front of you. "Let's begin, then!"

It's fun. It always is, with this group. Barnaby is teasing Julie for painting outside of the lines, and Sally and Howdy have turned it into a competition to see who can finish their painting the fastest. You're happy, laughing along and trying not to spill paint water as you bump elbows with those around you. No one is as good an artist as Wally, but they certainly try, and he's all too happy to help Barnaby get the tiny bits with a detail brush, or help Eddie select the best shade of red. He makes polite conversation, and tells these silly little jokes that aren't really that funny but everyone laughs anyway, and even offers to clean the brushes once the paintings are finished, but–something isn't right. You can tell by looking at him that he's got something on his mind. His eyes are foggy, and his smile doesn't quite stretch his face the way it usually does.

He heads into the kitchen with a cup of dirty paintbrushes, and you quietly murmur to Julie, "I'm going to go help him. Be right back."

You don't give her time to react before you're on your feet, hurrying after him. You sidle up to him, silently watching as he runs each brush under the water, using his fingers to clear the paint away. He doesn't turn to look at you, and so you duck your head forward to try and catch his gaze. He positively avoids eye contact.

Okay. So, something is upsetting him, then.

"Wally?" You try, keeping your voice even. "Are you alright?

He's silent for a moment, hands stilling beneath the faucet. And then, "No. Not really."

He is never usually this upfront about his emotions. New to acknowledging them, he typically spends a lot of time deciphering what he's even feeling before discussing it with you. You'd just seen him yesterday. He was fine and happy and sweet as he dropped you off at your home, and waved goodbye. This–the coolness to his voice, and the stilted look on his face– is a recent development.

"You're mad at me," you say, slowly. The words don't feel right on your tongue. The two of you never fight. You've never even seen him angry. "Aren't you?"

He drops the paint brushes into the sink and sighs. Actually sighs. "No. Not mad at you."

"Mad at something I did, then?" You ask.

He turns to look at you, finally. He is nearly the same height as you, just a tiny bit shorter, but he's able to look directly into your eyes. His mouth is stiff and straight, and you hadn't noticed from far away, but his eyes look dull up close. Lifeless.

"Barnaby said something to me, earlier today," he tells you. "I've been thinking about it."

"Okay," you nod, unsure of where this is going.

"He said, 'if they haven't returned your feelings by now, it's probably because they don't feel the same way, pal,'" Wally does his best Barnaby impression, but it's too slow and a little flat. "And then you came inside, and you sat next to Julie and Howdy! So, I think it must be true. And I am very, very not happy about that. Very…sad. Yes, that's it. I'm sad."

Your heart does this weird thing in your chest, and your stomach tightens. His feelings? What exactly are they specifically? You've upset him, somehow, without even meaning to. You've made him sad without getting a say-so. If he'd just talk to you, you could explain. You could clear things up.

You reach out to take his hand. Physical affection is still new to him, and you know that. You try to be careful; try not to push him. He is learning more and more every single day, and you know that he's grown to love hand-holding. You tangle your fingers with his, and his cheeks go a little pink. You can't stop staring at them.

"Wally," you begin, trying to keep your voice level despite the butterflies in your belly fluttering around because of his touch. "Remember a few months ago, when we talked about how you have to tell me when you're feeling lonely, because I can't just know all on my own?"

He nods. "I remember."

You flash him a small, gentle smile. "Good. Okay, so–all emotions are like that. You have to tell someone what you're feeling. They can't see into your mind."

"But," he starts in a huff, foot tapping against the tiled floor, "Barnaby said-"

"I know what he said," you carefully cut in, giving his hand a little squeeze. "But, this is just like when you're lonely. I can't understand how to help, or make you feel better until you tell me about it. Okay?" He nods. "Alright, so…why don't you try and explain what feelings I supposedly haven't returned."

"It's hard," he says. He lets go of your hand, and leans back against the countertop. "It's different from sadness, or loneliness. I know what they feel like. And I know happiness, too, and even anger. But this is–I don't know what to call it."

You hum, mulling over his words. "Well, can you tell me what it feels like? Physically, I mean. Like when you're sad and your eyes burn, or when you're lonely and your chest hurts."

"It's like," he closes his eyes for a moment. "Hot. My cheeks feel warm, like when I help Poppy take her cookies out of the oven, and the air hits my face."

"Okay," you say. "Good. Keep going."

"And sometimes my stomach, just–I don't know. It feels like there are tiny worms inside, wriggling around," he says.

You think you understand what he's trying to explain. What feeling he's attempting to map. You know it all too well; have been beating it back with a stick to keep it at bay in his presence for weeks and weeks. Still, you don't want to project anything onto him. So, you wave a hand and urge him to continue.

"Sometimes, when you hug Julie, I just get so mad," he murmurs. He is looking at you now, all wide eyes and clenched fists down by his sides. "And when you and Sally go on walks, and she holds your hand, I can't-" He cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath. "Barnaby says it isn't fair to feel like that. He says it's selfish, but I just–I can't help it."

Your lungs seem to stop working within your body, air stuck in your throat. You can't open your mouth; can't unhinge your jaw. You have no way to expel it.

"When you hold my hand, it tingles," he takes a step towards you. "I made Barnaby teach me how to hug because I wanted to do it with you."

You remember that whole debacle. When you first moved to Home, about a month into your friendship, you'd tried to give Wally a hug. He had totally gone limp in your arms, unaware of how to even hug back. And then, suddenly, a couple of weeks later, he'd gotten better. Was able to slide one arm around your waist. It progressed further with more experience, and now, he is perhaps the best hug-giver in all of Home.

You blink at him. Manage to wheeze out, "You learned how to hug…for me?"

"Yes," he nods. He takes another step towards you, the toes of your shoes touching, and the look in his eyes cannot be described as anything but hopeful. He raises both hands up, up, and cups your cheeks. "I've been watching Frank and Eddie a lot. Barnaby says they have a special kind of love. That they–they're partners, and they've promised themselves to each other."

Your ears are practically on fire, your entire face so hot you know Wally must be able to feel its warmth.

His thumb swipes along the apple of your cheek. "I know that their touches are special. Different from how Barnaby and I touch, or Julie and Sally do. I want–I've been watching them, and I want to have what they have, with you."

"Sometimes, they say 'I love you' to each other, and I know they mean that in a special way, too," He smiles now, soft. Rose-petal delicate around the edges. "I want-"

"Wally," you squeeze your eyes shut so tight you see pops of color behind the lids. Your heart feels as though it is clambering for an escape, trying to make its way up your throat. "Stop, please. I can't–you don't even understand what you're saying right now. You don't know what love is. You don't know what it means."

"That's not fair," he whispers. He brings your face closer to his. "You asked me to explain, so I did. And it isn't–it's not fair for you to decide what I do or don't understand. I'm trying my best."

"I know," you say on an exhale.

"I told you how I feel," he goes on.

"I know," you echo.

"And I know what it means to want to hold someone," he murmurs. "I know, now. I didn't before."

"Before what?" You ask, despite your better judgement.

His eyes sparkle, just a little. Just enough. "Before you."

"Love is a heavy thing, Wally," you tell him. Your knees feel weak, and this is so hard to take in, so hard to conceptualize because you've never let yourself entertain the thought before. But you're trying to get the words out, for him. He deserves your honesty. "When you promise yourself to someone, it's difficult to take it back."

"I wouldn't want to take it back," he rushes out. One of his hands moves around to press against the base of your neck. "Why would I want to take it back?"

"Well," you begin, slow, "you could become unsure-"

"I won't," he interrupts, impatient and jittery.

"You could decide that you didn't mean it."

"Never," he says, almost startled. "If this feeling in my belly and my head and my chest is love, I don't–I'll do everything I can to make sure that it never goes away."

"There are lots of ways to love somebody," you argue, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Futile. You are fighting a losing battle, and you know it.

"Stop," he pleads, resting his forehead against yours. He closes his eyes. "Just tell me. Was Barnaby right? Do you really not feel the…the same way about me?"

You laugh at this, wet and sticky in the back of your throat. "Has Barnaby ever been right about anything?" You tease.

"Rarely," Wally says with a grin.

"I love you," you tell him. "Like, the same way that Frank and Eddie love each other. I love you like a promise."

"Like a promise," he repeats. He moves back, far enough that you can see how big his smile stretches his face, but he's still got one palm on your cheek, and the other on your neck. "Like-"

He leans forward and presses a closed-mouth kiss to your lips, pulling away with a little smack, and a triumphant, "Muah!"

Your eyes go so wide you fear they might roll out of your head, and your face is so hot it might as well be spewing flames. Wally is standing there, looking pleased with himself and the tiniest bit smug, and a laugh startles its way up your throat like bubbles. You playfully shove at his shoulder, and fall into him as you laugh harder.

"I saw Frank and Eddie do that, too," he tells you, one arm wrapping around your waist.

"Of course you did," you mumble into his neck, grin splitting your face. "That's not–it wasn't quite right, but the effort was there."

"I'll get better with practice," he says.

Scandalized, you pull away to look at him, mouth agape. "Wally Darling! Are you flirting with me right now?"

"Yes," he says, blunt. He smiles bright and pretty, and boops your nose with his finger. "I've read two of Julie's romance books. I'm a very fast learner."

You return his smile, and press a hand to your chest, right over your heart. You feel positively full to bursting, and you know that, whatever comes next, things won't be smooth sailing always. Wally has a lot of growing to do, and you're going to have to learn to support him along the way. Love is not clear-cut; isn't written in permanent ink on notebook paper. It ebbs and flows like watercolor paint, and can wash away as quickly as it came.

But–Wally looks at you, skin yellow-orange beneath the dull, overhead lights, and he grins wide and infectious and so, so pretty. He leans forward to press another kiss to your cheek, smacking a second, "muah!" into your ear, and it isn't everything. It isn't an answer, or the end-all be-all. But it is good, and right. And it is enough.

#wally darling #welcome home #wally darling x y/n #wally darling x reader #wally darling x you #welcome home arg

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emira-addams · 3 months

Text

Hazbin Hotel - Carmilla x Rosie - The Devil is a Part-Timer - Headcanon

Carmilla gets trapped on Earth with her daughters and Rosie and Velvette, and they need to pretend to be family so as not to attract any attention among the humans as them being demons until they can return to Hell...

The last thing Carmilla could remember was her arguing with Velvette and Rosie knocking on the door

The Overlord-Meeting had just been over, an exhausting meeting and the main topic had been that weird hotel of Lucifer's disillusioned daughter and the probability of the end of the annual exterminations as a result of Adam's death

With the help of her daughters, Carmilla had been packing up her things, Velvette still sitting in her seat with her feet on the table, engaged in a very heated discussion with Carmilla while she tried to get home as soon as possible

Velvette was convinced that they had to fight back and bring down Heaven now while they still had the chance

Suddenly there had been a knock on the door and Rosie was standing in front of her

When Carmilla opened her eyes, she was lying on her back, damp green grass beneath her and the silhouettes of trees and shadows of skyscrapers above her, the red horizon of Hell had been replaced by a dark blue sky, planes and helicopters imitating shooting stars

The noise of the city was terrible, the volume unbearable, shrill sirens and car horns, she had to cover her ears and when she sat up, she realized that she was sitting on the ground in the middle of a park in a big city

Carmilla was not alone

Less than a meter away from their mother, her daughters lay unconscious in the grass, Rosie found herself on her side under a tree and a good distance away, in the mud on the edge of a small lake, they saw Velvette

"W-What happened?" Slowly Rosie came awake, shaking, her balance faltering, and Carmilla needed to help to her feet before the worried mother could go and check on her daughters

"Where are we?" Rosie also seemed completely overwhelmed by the volume, the bright lights and the sheer size of the city; she and Carmilla had never experienced such centralization and automation in their lifetimes

"We're on Earth..." Velvette tried desperately to rub the mud from her clothes, more concerned about her appearance than the fact that they had somehow escaped Hell and were now trapped on Earth

"Why are we on Earth? We have to go back to Hell!"

"What do we do now?" Velvette asks in confusion as they leave the park and stop in front of a large shop window, all of their images appearing strangely human in the reflection

"We'll blend in," Carmilla concludes. "We look like humans, so we act like humans..."

She has a plan and explains to the group that they need to be as inconspicuous as possible, they need to blend into the everyday life of a normal person as much as possible, they shouldn't attract any attention until they have found a way back to Hell and their first step in implementing their plan is to find a place to stay and food to eat

At the city library, Odette forges the right faked documents for them on a computer while the rest of the group searches for ads for cheap housing in newspapers spread everywhere

Odette chooses the obviously simplest option and makes their group into a family that has just moved here from abroad, Carmilla and Rosie playing married parents and Clara, Odette and Velvette becoming sisters on paper

"I'd also need your name for the records, Miss..." requested their landlady.

"Rosie!"

"Your full name with your surname, please, Miss..." replied their landlady, shaking her head.

"Oh... Please excuse me, my full name is Rosie Carmine! We're married!" Rosie pointed to Carmilla with a proud grin, while Carmilla quickly averted her eyes, desperately trying to hide the blush that was now creeping inevitably into her cheeks. Although Odette had already warned her mother that Rosie would be playing her wife, saying it out loud was another matter that inevitably made Carmilla's heart skip a beat. How was she supposed to get used to sleeping in the same bed with Rosie any time soon?

"You really do have three wonderful daughters!" their landlady enthused as she showed them their tiny apartment, which was a one-bedroom unit with an open kitchen and an adjoining bathroom with a shower.

"Don't get the wrong impression, I'm just adopted!" Velvette interjected.

"We still love her just as much as our other two daughters..." Carmilla pressed through gritted teeth as she pulled Velvette into a halfhearted hug. "Play along..." she hissed lowly as Velvette struggled unsuccessfully in her arms.

Carmilla gets a job at a fast food restaurant to make the money for rent and food. In addition, she enrolls her daughters and Velvette in school to maintain their cover. Rosie stays home most of the time, taking care of the household and her family, while she spends her free time researching on the internet and in the surrounding museums and libraries to find out more about their situation and a possible way to get back to Hell.

Velvette is very less than thrilled that she has to live under the same roof as Carmilla, play their daughter and go back to school.

Even though their cover is indeed very convincing, their every move is watched by agents in black suits and black SUV's, which park in the street and near their apartment more and more frequently as the plot progresses. Carmilla is followed on her way to work, Rosie can't go to the supermarket alone once without agents following her through the aisles and Clara, Odette and Velvette are being tailed at school. Who are these people and what do they want from them? Are they well aware that they are from Hell?

I'm still working on this idea, it's in my WIP's and I'd love to write a full fic about it soon. It's more or less a slow burn Blooming Gun fic playing on Earth, with a lot of pure domestic bliss and fluff and some action (involving some secret demon hunting agents from the government), and Carmilla and Rosie secretly crushing on each other.

Carmilla thinks that Rosie is merely playing her role as her wife very convincingly and doesn't dare to explore her feelings much further, while Rosie desperately tries to give Carmilla the hint without actually having to say the words.

Clara and Odette have long since accepted Rosie as their other parent and are enjoying their second chance to live a semi-normal life outside of Hell with their mothers, more or less accepting Velvette as their sister.

After some time, several conflicts and some heartfelt conversations, Carmilla actually adopts Velvette as her daughter. The turning point in their relationship is a situation at school in which Carmilla takes Velvette's side as her mother and defends her as her daughter.

What do you think of this idea for a fic so far?

Do you have any suggestions or any wishes for scenes or content that I definitely need to include?

Masterpost:

Chapter 01:

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frogchiro · 2 years

Note

no thoughts today just simon and his happy trail

You're goddamn right

edit: JESUS IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A QUICK THIRST AND INSTEAD TURNED INTO THIS

warnings: fem!reader, no outright smut but slightly suggestive, both the reader and ghost are naked but it's for warmth (more or less), probably ooc ghost, but hey! it's monster! simon!, feral behavior, possessive ghost

No thoughts head empty, only feral monster!Simon who will let out a rumbling growl that makes his broad chest visibly vibrate to call put to you when he feels like you're not giving him his well deserved attention.

You're both currently nestled inside the abruptly thrown together nest of old blankets and some flat pillows you found in the safehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere after you had to quickly retreat after an ambush from enemy forces.

Your Lieutenant, Ghost, moved through the thick dark forest surrounding the safehouse like a shadow, navigating effortlessly but you pinned it up to his....well, monstrous nature.

After you finally arrived you tried to even out your breath while doing your best at keeping it as quiet as possible while you observed the massive chest of Ghost expand as he inhaled and scented the air looking out for any potential danger. Luckily after just a few very tense seconds that felt like hours, Ghost let out a huffing sound and let you know that you were safe and that you'll have to stay here until the next day before regrouping with the rest of 141.

While Ghost got busy with gathering some old scattered parts of destroyed furniture to make a fire in the small fireplace after deeming it safe and that your enemies are far enough to not make you betray your position, you decided to look around the building for some spare blankets and towels that you could use as makeshift bedding.

After checking the only two room of the upper level of the old building you make your way downstairs with the few blankets which weren't wet and covered with mud and mold; just the short memory of them and the smell made you gag as you descended the stairs and noticed that Ghost already started the fire, its orange flames shyly raising up and dancing in the fireplace.

You made eye contact with the burly man and noticed that he stripped himself of the heavy bulletproof vest and various pouches and remained only in his black cargo pants, heavy boots and black uniform, but what made you stop in your tracks and almost gasp out was the sight of his face without the skull mask and balaclava. Of course you saw his naked face without the covering before, but those moments were very few and far in-between so you would be lying if you said that you weren't blushing at the sight of Simon's scarred masculine face. The black paint smudged around his black bottomless eyes which seemed to glow with a strange light-or was it just the flames reflecting inside them?

You were torn out of your thoughts when you heard Ghost letting out short bellowing sounds from deep within his chest, not nearly loud enough to be heard outside but enough to make you focus on him again- just for what the noise is for, to call the attention of his pack.

Flushing with embarrassment at being caught staring in an attempt at saving face you lifted the bunched up materials slightly and explained that you found these to make a quick bed on the floor unless he wants to sleep in a mold-ridden bed.

You smiled slightly at the displeased sarcastic huff he let out and made your way closer to the burly man and started to arrange the materials on the floor close enough to the fireplace to be kept nice and warm but far enough to avoid possibly catch fire.

While placing the blankets and pillows on the ground you heard the thunderous footsteps of your Lieutenant coming closer to you, a few quiet rumbling noises escaping him as he helped you arrange them into a circle before deeming it enough and with another rumble he fell into the bed while pulling you forcefully down with him.

And so you found yourself in this...situation; your naked chest expanding with a sigh at the clinginess of the monster before you. Well, he's your monster after all, your Lieutenant, your Simon and a member of his, well, pack.

Ghost would deny it to Hell and back, but deep down Simon was terribly touch starved and needy for attention, at least from certain, selected by him people, namely you and Johnny. Unfortunately the scottsman wasn't here so you were the one to take the brunt of his...affection.

You knew already that when Simon got into his monstrous headspace he was running on animalistic primal instincts and you were sure that right now they were telling him to 'keep her close, keep mate close. It's cold and dangerous, need to keep mate safe, here' as you could basically hear the cogs in his mind turning, especially when his initially quiet growls became much more insistent and he rose up from his spot, muscles bulging and tensing with barely contained strength, scarred chest vibrating with every bellow.

Since you knew that teasing Simon while in this headspace wasn't the best option, especially considering the situation you were both in, you decided on complying with him and returning quietly to the nest of blankets, keeping your head and eyes low to not anger him further.

When you finally settled again against the big male you smiled gently at the huff Ghost let out, relaxing a bit after feeling your bare breasts against his naked chest and the rest of your soft body plastered against his.

You still didn't fully understand what kind of entity Simon was, no one really did, not even Soap, but apparently even primordial entities liked to be touched and petted when in the right mood as ridiculous as it may sound.

Although slightly more relaxed you noticed that Simon was still tense, the heavy muscles still tensing on his bare stomach so you decided on attempting to calm him down even a little since you knew that tomorrow you had a long trek before you and the both of you needed as much rest as possible.

You raised yourself slightly on your elbow before slowly trailing a soft hand over his chest, massaging it slowly in a relaxing manner and smiling at the slow and steady vibrations before making your way lower to his tense stomach and trailing your fingers over each nook and cranny, the broad expanse tightly corded with muscle slowly relaxing before making your way even lower below his bellybutton and rested your hand on Simon's happy trail.

The appreciative growl from your lover was enough of a message that told you that you were doing a good thing, the feeling of his muscles flex slightly under your hand and his strong hips bucking slightly up into your warm touch. You knew it was a sensitive spot of his, Soap's too and Price was going feral when you caressed his toned stomach slowly, but with someone like Simon you felt as if you were caressing a wild beast.

You knew it was probably making him horny but it wasn't the time nor place for sex, that would come with the remote comfort of your own rooms back at the base where you know is safe.

For now you'll just stick to this, this slow, syrupy sweet affection of caressing your mate's lower belly, the coarse hair on his stomach scratching slightly against your hand but you don't mind; instead you rest yawn and rest your head on the man's strong shoulder and feel his muscled arm wrap tightly around you to bring you closer, nosing against your cheek before giving it a tiny affectionate nip.

You both doze off into sleep, warm and safe in each others embrace, the fire crackling quietly and the sound of rain outside the building. You can't wait for your return to the base~

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #oh jesus this was a ride #i hope you enjoyed it ;;#and yes #you're living the life and you're fucking the entire 141 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley

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liveyun · 11 months

Text

h a e g e u m | 02 (repost)

banner by @archivededits ♡

—pairing : yoongi x female reader

—genre : mini series, crime au, thriller, angst, eventual smut

—w : (M) non-Idol!BTS; barely edited ; italics are the flashbacks , explicit scenes in form of injuries, blood, angst + amygdala lyric parallels, please, this fic is not for minors at all, reader is kept hostage for a while ; slight gore ; multiple POV’s, cameo of a certain bunny (classic) , (explicit scenes of) panic attacks, mentions of being drugged, sexual harrasment innuendos and slight mentions, yoongi and the chopstick scene, rifles and Jeongguk, someone gets actually k#lled by them, passing out of exhaustion, Yoongi is slightly mean.

part 01 | next | 2009 | chapter index | taglist

03. WHOSE FAULT?

a/n : hello!! if you're bumping across this twice, that's right. it's reposted because this damned site glitched bad while all what i tried to do was to edit. also, i’ve made some minor changes, too :D happy reading!

Your throat burnt.

At first, you couldn't understand why did you wake up— your head felt heavy on your neck, eyes burning at the sensation of keeping them open. Throat felt as if raw salt was rubbed furiously over a wound. Sweat stuck on your flesh like your second skin, and your muscles felt painfully sore.

I don't know your name

Raindrops. The raindrops felt gently on your cold, yet burning skin as you struggle to keep your eyes open. It was dark, dark all around. Your ankle was in pain, yet you remained lying down in the floor, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. You felt your jacket cling uncomfortably to your damp skin and you shiver at the feeling of the your blood mixing with the rainwater which clung to your flesh. You don't honestly remember wearing a jacket, because you were dressed in a tee..

You felt the dotting scabs on your skin moisten as water dripped down, feeling your body convulse with the cold which blows over the haunted room.

As rain pours outside, the shelter's pathetic state becomes even more apparent. Water drips incessantly from the leaking roof, forming puddles on the uneven ground. The walls, once painted but now peeling and discolored, offer no insulation, allowing cold drafts to permeate the interior. The musty smell of dampness and blood and lingers lingers in the air, making it difficult to breathe.

A journey through memories

Your hair falls on your sight of your now blurry vision. Your eyes are tired, and irritated. They feel painful to be opened, and cold droplets travel down your cheekbones, dripping down your hair tresses. You gasp pathetically trying to breathe, twisting your head to find a certain someone.

Him.

You spot him, lying right beside you. His white tee, transparent due to the rainwater, sticks to his pale skin, propped half-way through his upper torso. His messy parted bangs fall over his eyes, making them disappear.

His lips are slightly parted, trying to gasp air just like you, water dripping down his temple just like yours, his skin shining with the small droplets of water taking homage on his small, button nose. He's drenched as you are. And even more injured; his jeans, once a light faded uraniun blue, is now soaked with blood and mud, ripped open at his knees. The flesh of his right thigh was sliced open, blood clogged down in between the fabric and his flesh.

A blood chilling shiver runs down your spine at the sight; at how you feel the pain in your chest despite yourself.

His white tee is already ripped in half, a long, throbbing scrape extending from his sternum to his belly button.

Your vision travels upto his face, noticing bruises on his neck and cuts on his lips, and when you reach his eyes, you notice that..

His scar is bleeding.

Though you don't see the whole of it, covered with his mass of hair, but you see a droplet of crimson bleed out of the scar, now a maroon transversal thick line, dried scab. It bleeds out and mingles with his silky, wet skin with the rainwater, but the bleeding didn't cease. A drop falls out, slowly, slowly.

Your chest tightens at the sight, yearning to reach out to him and wipe it off, and even without thinking twice, you cup his cold, wet cheek. Wiping off the blood which trickles down. You wonder if it hurts him as much as it hurts you to look at.

Though you yourself feel shocked at your action, you don't budge. You simply stare at him, and your touch has maybe stirred something in him. You see the brown of his eyes sparkle open at your touch, barely a creak, as he sighs, softly in your touch.

How do you feel these days

“ Run. ” his voice came out rather hoarse, as if not been in use since a long time.

Tears threaten to well up in your eyes at his words.

“ But Yoongi, you're injured..” your voice is shaky by the time it reaches out of your throat. He shakes his head, a small, tired huff coming out of his lips which sounds quite like a laugh.

“ I'm all fine, Bonbon.. ”

and when his eyes meet your own, a thunder cracks up in the now distant, weeping sky.

And the rain increases in its entirety when his blood soaked hands reach up to cup your cold, now drying cheek, wiping off a lonely tear with his thumb which made its way down the confines of your eyes.

A sob threatens to bubble up it's way up your chest seeing him so weak, so vulnerable like this, all this because of you, you feel like drowing and never getting up. His brow furrows as more tears slip down your eyes, a sob spilling out of your lips as you break down completely in his touch.

“ I can't leave you like that, Yoongi, please..” you're sobbing by the time you hold his wrists cupping your cheeks. He pulls your face closer to his, not untill your foreheads touch. His breath mingles with your own as his eyes locked to yours own, and even if they weren't clearly visible, they were filled with emotions, glossy.

You cannot afford to lose him. You cannot be selfish. You want to stay by his side, hold his hand and treat his injuries. Just not the physical ones, but also the ones which take time to heal, leaving behind scars for eternity.

“ Bonbon, you have to stay strong for me. You would, won't you..? ”

You have to stay strong.. for him?

A small cry of his names leaves your lips as you hiccup, his gentle, yet patient fingers caressing your burning skin with delicacy.

It's just not a simple question, it's a ask for a promise. A promise which you grant him with shaky hands and trembling voice, with slurred sobs and a broken heart.

You know that he's hurting as much as you are, even if his own emotions are buried inside for your sake. He's not pretending, he's being real here. If you die, you both will die. It's funny really, how you feel your heart cracking as pain blooms from the lower ribcage to right at the centre of your chest, the tightening knot in your chest which threatened to break at any moment.

But if one of you escapes, you— you don't know.

The shed under which you're resting feels small as you run, run in the downpour which doesn't seem to cease at ay point. The earth is gloomy with grey skies and grey beach sand as the shine, leaving behind footprints of your own. You struggle to see your path infront because of the never ending tears welling in your eyes as your body screams to stop, stop behind and take him with you, take his pain away with you, your whole being screeches with pain.

But you don't stop, because you have made him a promise.

Memories I want to have erased

–

You gasp as your eyes fly open, searching frantically for whatever you just saw infront of your own eyes. But what your eyes met..were certainly not what your dreams did.

A wave of darkness washes over you, seemingly suffocating the air. Nostalgia floods over you for some unknown reasons, because this reminds you of something you don't wish to remind yourself. The walls, once painted a faded shade of white, are now covered in peeling, cracked wallpaper, revealing the decaying plaster beneath. The faint scent of dampness permeates the room, hinting at years of neglect and abandonment, along with the rough years of angst it might've faced throughout its years of youth.

You realise that you're alone and helpless. You do not wish to pry on your nerves any longer, because you remember him, and his face the last thing before you're met with darkness. You huff a small breath, you're alive.

But at what cost?

Dim light from an unknown source filters through the tattered, moth-eaten curtains, casting eerie shadows across the room. The floorboards creak underfoot, as if whispering secrets long forgotten. Cobwebs drape from the ceiling like forgotten tapestries, swaying gently in an unfelt breeze caresses your skin, comforting you in an eerie way. Overall this room is awful in its appearance, yet it's not so disgusting as you'd imagine it to be.

You soon realise that your hands feel numb, almost dead from the lack of circulation. It doesn't take a rocket science genius to find out that your wrists are tightly tied behind the chair you're seated, and so are your legs together. Your wrists jerk as a reflex as soon as you realise that you're still in your uniform, now soaked with sweat and your hair is tied in a ponytail, though you don't remember doing so anyway.

You exhale out a sigh through your nose as even you're gagged with a cloth tied over your mouth, feeling perspiration accumulate on the underside of your eyes are droplets, blinking away. The room feels awfully quiet except the obnoxious winds blowing and the sound of rain mixing together, and you realise that you're done. Your eyes scan over to the room, squinting hard to make out the objects you can visualise in the centre.

In the center of the room, an antique wooden table sits, covered in a layer of dust and neglect. A single flickering candle, its flame struggling against the darkness, casts eerie, dancing shadows that seem to mimic the macabre atmosphere. A weathered, leather-bound journal lies open on the table, and you wish if you weren't seated so far away, you could've moved forward to take a look at the browned pages which seem so inviting right now. Alas, you're bound up.

It's actually intresting to you to know that you're still alive and not dead.

Your eyes scan everywhere they can, except that the room is bland. In the further corner of the room,there resides a weathered brown piano, standing as a silent sentinel of forgotten melodies. Forgotten, just as the memory you unlocked in your dream.

A lump makes it's way to your throat at the awakening of the nostalgia seeing the old brown piano. The piano's once-polished wooden surface has dulled with age, now adorned with a delicate layer of dust that tells tales of neglect and solitude. Its deep brown hue, once vibrant and lustrous, has mellowed into a warm patina, revealing the passage of countless years. It seems like the piano hasn't been used since decades, the thick layer of dust being evident for the proof enough.

The instrument's elegant frame, though showing signs of wear and tear, still exudes an air of dignified grace; almost as if it weeps silently for it's forgotten, yet it keeps its head high, gracefully. The ornate carvings along the piano's legs and edges, while faded and partially obscured, hint at a bygone era when craftsmanship held great significance.

As your gaze moves closer, the intricately designed ivory keys come into view. Once pearly white, they now bear the marks of age, with slight discoloration and tiny cracks that betray the passage of time and the touch of countless hands. The ebony sharps, though darkened, provide a striking contrast against the aged ivory.

A sense of melancholy hangs in the air, as if the piano yearns to be awakened once more, to fill the room with its resounding melodies and evoke emotions long dormant. Yet, the room remains silent, with only the soft whistling of the wind filtering through the cracks in the timeworn walls. You can only let out a longing sigh, wishing if you could help the piano with it's melancholy. Again, you're left with no hope.

A tattered sheet of music, yellowed with age, rests upon the closed lid of the piano, its notes long forgotten and its pages delicately curled. It speaks of past performances and cherished moments, now preserved only in the fading ink and fragile paper. There's something written in dark amd bold, a funky handwriting in black stands out the papers above all, but it's far away for you to read it. Only the winds which blow occasionally along with the splutters of rain reminds you that you're kept hostage, in an unknown place, now just a commoner, a no one.

You close your eyes.

You do not absolutely wish to dwell on your memories as a cop. You've tried to always be honest in your pathway of work, always working hard; but universe has always got different plans for people like you, and karma goes in her reverse path during times like these.

The same man who saved you from your demons, is now the same man who's possibly keeping you hostage, away from the world.

Yoongi.

Now known as agustD.

The room is filled with silence untill there is a creak of the floorboard underneath your feet; cracking obnoxiously. You know you had to be imagining things, but who knows? Anything can happen.

You do not know how much time has passed since you were drugged and terminated as an officer, but you're sure it hasn't been way too long. You were possibly shot a dose of pentobarbital, and because the toxins are relieved from your body, you wish to pee so bad. Your throat is dying for a drop of water. You gulp down your own saliva painfully, thanks to the gag you're bound with. It cannot be more than 48 hours; and pentobarbitals aren't really such strong of drugs to be used. The floorboard creaks again.

The air grew colder, carrying a faint scent of floral smear and an unidentifiable, sickly sweetness which you cannot recognise, but the smell floods you with an unknown memory which you cannot seem to unlock, yet.

Soon you can make out a silhouette in the dark, visibly a thin figure, possibly a man. If you're kept hostage, there's no need to pretend. You may will die or whatever, so pop off. The stranger's steps were unnaturally silent, barely making a whisper against the cracked floorboard; and you try to concentrate more on the noises of the crickets outside more than the throb of your head or the incoming steps of the stranger. His steps near you, this time, a bit louder, and suddenly comes to a stop.

Almost as if they're surprised to see your presence.

Your inner self is screaming over and over again to look up and take a peek at the stranger who's presence is felt in this room, and you finally raise your head up.

Your eyes widen.

Large, doe, coffee coloured eyes meet your own, and you swear you were just an inch away from gasping loudly into the cloth refraining you from doing so. His eyes are always capable of expressing his emotions, though his face remains perfectly stoic; slight almond shaped eyes with their gentle corners widen nevertheless his expression, and you can tell that he's as shocked as you are.

Jeongguk.

“Noona..?”

Aw hell man.

His voice has matured a lot, though the ridges of his voice retain the boyish charm you were once familiar with. It's now a lot more deep, more like a rasp in the beginning to a slow hum in the end, and you swear you feel your heart paining.

This kid has grown up to a man.

You're very well aware that he has grown lot much taller than he was, taller than how you are.

He has a well built figure though he remains clocked in his midnight black shirt and skinny jeans. His short sleeved shirt gives you a full view of his arm littered with art pierced on them, and so are his eyebrows done with. His face is a lot more angular and defined than how it was years ago, now slightly tanned, even, with his midnight blue hair flowing over his eyebrows.

You hum back a greeting to him, muffled.

“ Noona.. ”

He repeats again, almost as if he's trying to work his own brains out. His voice comes out as a statement of confirmation rather than a question, this time.

Your eyes never leave his own, as if you're questioning him all the questions you've ever had in your mind ever since you've come here.

You couldn't imagine that even Jeongguk would be with Yoongi, but somehow you had to keep that in mind, that Jeongguk grew up with Yoongi, practically. Even if that meant that Jeongguk was just a young teen when you left Yoongi, and you are only left to wonder what does the neglect of youth does to people. The innocence behind his bambi eyes retain themselves, and it aches you to the core to know that Jeongguk is just as pure that he chose to be with him, even if that meant that he has lost all of his means to live in a world of normal adulthood.

Why didn't you leave Yoongi? Why do you still work with him? Do you not know the dangers he possesses? But these questions don't enter the air freely, because either you're bound up, or you just don't want to speak.

Jeongguk takes a few steps forward, his brows creased. But freezes immediately as you two hear the presence of another person. There's a small thump nearby, and you almost visualise his bunny ears peeking up at the noise, getting alert; only the difference was that he was a grown up man now with a huge body. He turns away immediately his arm slides over the door to wham it open and stride over to see who's the intruder in the dark night.

You're left alone, again.

But not for soon, though. This time, the woodboard creaks again, and this time you feel a lot more anxious than how you felt earlier.

Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, perspiration gathering in yoir temples, and you breathe in wildly. The air around you feels suffocating as suddenly there's a gaint man in the entrance, stumbling his way inside. He sways on his toes as he walks with steps, with a flushed face and an disheveled appearance. You freeze in your chair immediately as you realise that this man is drunk, watching his dirty clothes and drool slipping over his overgrown hair, screaming lack of personal hygiene.

This man instills a sense of danger and unease with each step he makes inside the room, suddenly taking homage on the floor with his upper half propped up on the wall nearest to the door.

He slurs something in his speech which you don't quite understand, but you do catch on his satoori dialect as he speaks.

You just pray to God Jeongguk appears soon as possible, because your restraints are bound quite tightly, a way where you feel is almost impossible to open up so that you can run. But you fear you cannot do it with how limp your body seems to be now. Even in a situation like this, you trust Jeongguk more than anything else because if he had any notorious intentions, he'd have executed it by then, but he didn't really, did he? You tug faintly at your wrists, only to feel a jerk of pain shooting up your arm at the loss of circulation.

Please, no. You cannot even fight back this man in this state. Even if you wrte trained enough for situations like these, panic fills your veins. You desparately try to free yourself without making any possible noise, as you see the man grunting to himself.

That's when his rusty eyes meet your own.

Shoot. His lips stretch to a grin, more like a smirk, and you know you're damned. He stumbles to get up properly, mumbling incoherent words as he nears your chair with such loud steps that they alone makes you want to throw up. You don't know whether to panic even more and trash around in vain, or just sit in silence and accept your destiny because this would happen whether you do something about it or not, no matter how strong your efforts are, but your body gives up.

You're kept in hostage by Yoongi, and you're bound to be eaten alive by monsters in the dark. You're about to die being captured by the flames you, in your whole career fought to extinguish all the life. His leather shoes are seen in your vision, telling you that he's standing infront of you.

Did Yoongi honestly hate you so much, now to have you in this situation?

Tears sting in your eyes as soon as you watch the dirty, blood scabbed, glove clad hand of the man resting on the hand rest of your chair, right above your own. His hand feels disgusting to be on the top of yours and he fucking reeks of weed and cheap booze. His breath really brings up bile from your stomach, and your head feels light headed. You harshly turn your head to the side, hoping to cut off some of the stench.

That's when you feel rough fingers grip your chin and turn your head to the person standing infront of you. Oh god, the stench is so fucking disgusting that you now seriously think you're either going to pass away or throw up all over. Harsh fingers raise your chin up and you finally get to see the man hovering over you.

His eyes partially hidden behind long, unkempt bangs, adding a mysterious and unsettling element, adding to the dread already setting down your stomach. His gaze is intense, malicious even, piercing through you with an unsettling combination of amusement and malevolence. It's as if he knows something you don't, and he derives pleasure from your unease and discomfort. His body is so close to yours that you almost feel squished in between the chair and him. You wish to deliver a straight punch and run away from this punk, but maybe…this is your fate.

You squeeze your eyes close tightly, not wanting to face that motherfucker any longer. You feel his stinking breath near your lips, and you nearly lose it all. You grit down on your teeth, feeling your body give up as longer as you resist the restrains on your wrists; as you try to trash up your wrists in an attempt to free yourself up. But that goes vain when the front legs of the chair lift themselves up and the hind legs fall behind. Perhaps you lose your balance, or the chair gives way unexpectedly. As you tilt backward, your feet lose contact with the ground, leaving you momentarily suspended in mid-air.

A sudden rush of adrenaline courses through your body as you realize you're falling backward. Your arms instinctively shoot out to either side, attempting to grab onto something for support, but the momentum is too great. Time seems to slow down as you brace yourself for the impact, your heart pounding in your chest, realising that you're still very much bound and the man is free. You did the stupidest thing ever, and now he has access to you in a better position.

The chair tilts further back, and with a mix of surprise and panic, you feel the sensation of weightlessness. The man leaps forward, and you anticipate the harsh fall and the impact on your head as you'll fall. The chair's backrest supports your upper body, while your legs dangle in the air. As you continue to descend, you feel a moment of weightlessness..

But the fall never comes. You expect the impact of the hardwood; of the pain, but that never comes..

Only, it feels as if time as frozen— your eyes shoot open as you do realise that you're frozen mid air. The man is no where in front of you now— atleast not in your immediate vision. You realise that your chair is being held by someone in the position as you were.. You crane your neck, and what you saw was what you definitely did not imagine in the wildest of your dreams.

A single gunshot shatters the stillness. The sound reverberates through the room, jolting your somewhat sleepy and mild sense; A muzzle flash momentarily illuminates the darkness as the bullet is propelled forward at an incredible speed, and you're very well aware of the impact, because you expect yourself to flinch, but maybe years of handling a rifle gas taught you better.

Time seems to slow down as the bullet finds its target, the shabby man. It strikes with unyielding force, tearing through the air. The man's body jerks backward, caught off guard by the impact. Pain and shock register on their face as they realize the gravity of the situation.

A red stain begins to spread rapidly across the man's clothing as blood seeps from the gunshot wound, right on his left, clothed calf. He stumbles forward, struggling to maintain balance, but the force of the shot proves too much. With a gasp, his body collapses down with a loud swear on the floor, the blood quickly forming a small puddle.

Your heart rate is thrice the rate as it was a few moments ago, knowing that the man was shot right infront of you by someone who's most likely holding your chair in the same position as well.

Your breath gets clogged in your throat as you process the information, watching the man grunt and look up at the source of the gunshot; only for him to snarl with a curse, muttering something out with his arms trashing wildly in air, looking for leverage.

“ You're not a m..man..if you try sav..ing sl-sluts like he—”

You do not even have the time to blink when wiith lightning-fast precision, a shadow in the dark launches forward, almost like a wild cheetah hunting on his prey, closing the distance between them.

Only then you realise that in the faint lighting, you saw a pair of chopsticks grabbed tightly in their pale, right wrist, hovering mid-air as he hunches the sticks forward, right where their target is. They strike with the precision of a predator, targeting vital points on the startled man's body, who screams in agony from the sudden attack.

The man's eyes widen in shock as they feel the initial stinging pain, realizing the severity of the situation. The man's strikes are precise and calculated, finding vulnerable spots between the man's ribs and joints. Each jab and stab of the chopsticks draws blood, causing the man to weaken with each passing moment, grunting and screaming out curses. Blood squirts out with each jab, but the hunter never ceases his torment.

Despite his struggle, the man's strength begins to wane, his movements slowing as life drains from his body, with a final grunt.

And that's when the hunter raises their raven haired head up, to meet your eyes with his own, blazing with red hot anger, still hovering over the corpse of the man.

The same, pitch black, cold, raging, feline eyes which your vision last perceived before you passed out some forty eight hours ago.

The same eyes whom you recognised deep inside yourself the apparent first time you saw them through a camera, but you were caught in the strings of denial for yourself, all throughout.

Yoongi.

Who just murdered a man right infront of you.

With a pair of chopsticks.

Your exhale comes out rather as a stuttering breath when you realise that a match target rifle rests on the chair edge, right beside your shoulders.

Your eye follows the trail to the owner of the hand, the very beginning of tattoos littered on the tanned skin which glistens in sheen layer of sweat.

Jeongguk.

Your thoughts raced like wild stallions, colliding into one another, as a desperate attempt to grasp reality became futile.

Logical reasoning became a fragile thread, threatened to be severed by the onslaught of irrational fears; sure, you’ve done this countless times in the stretch of your career, but for the first time, you actually feel your heart thumping wildly at the sight of a rifle which, not even a few minutes ago, had someone fall victim to it's cruelty.

Your mind was slowly becoming labyrinth trapped in a conflicting emotions, unable to distinguish between genuine danger and figments of imagination, trying to process if any of these were even real.

Your neck hurts by the time you're looking up at the younger man, still holding your chair in mid-air.

His facial expression remains quite unreadable, with a hint of confusion in them; but as soon as your eyes meet his own puddle of coffee, they soften like butter kept in the open rays of warm sun. His ridges of eyebrows, though, remain a bit rigid as if still aware of the danger lying in the surrounding. But his voice comes out soft, soft, as he speaks to you,

“ Are you alright, noona..? ”

You almost wish to answer him; you truly do.

Your chest heaved as a response from the adrenaline rush dying in your bloodline, leaving your body lax in the restraints. Your dry lips open themselves to speak, but close immediately as you find your throat dry, and the gagged cloth prying your vocal chords.

“ It's not the time for this shit, JK, ”

a rogue voice interrupted your little trance you had fallen into, and you watch Jeongguk’s eyes travel to the source of the voice, of course, it's Yoongi. His brows furrow as you try your best to keep your eyes open, trying to turn your head at the man again, blinking with difficulty.

The more your tried, vision blurred, colors blending into an indistinguishable haze.

The piano reflecting a ray of light falling on the worn out ivory, a mass of raven black in the middle of your gaze, and a pale face. You try to clear your visions by blinking rapidly, but the attempts to steady yourself proved futile, as your body succumbed to the overwhelming burden of exhaustion, your unconscious mind succumbing to the blurred voices you hear, but failed to actually perceive them.

“ Hyung, listen to me. Noon— ”

“ Did you really think that she was in the condition to talk to you? ”

And finally everything was a darkness.

You were far lost to realise that the raven head tried his best to not actually prounce on the younger man, with anger, keening to accept that something far more dangerous could've taken place if the man to whom he laid down the responsibilities to atleast keep you safe for the time being could've not heard the other bastard.

You were far too fragile in a situation like this where he knew he had to do something to make sure you were okay, atleast, but right things never came in the right time for a man like Yoongi. But he knew that maybe it wasn't Jeongguk’s fault, entirely.

Good things never came to Yoongi themselves. Or even if they did, his presence, good fortunes wilted, for his company was a forerunner of demise. Like a toxic rain, his aura destroyed every gleaming opportunity that dared to approach his path. Blessed were those spared the touch of his presence, for in his wake lay the ruins of countless dreams, crushed beneath the weight of his cursed existence, just like how he crushed you.

reblogs and replies are always appreciated! 🌹

#bts fics #bts au #bts x reader #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts angst #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi x you #yoongi au #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi smut

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trulycertain · 3 months

Text

Blankets

In which the shadow-cursed lands are freezing, Lora's undead boyfriend is shivering, and she decides there's only one solution: hug that vampire. And bring blankets. Meanwhile, Astarion gets to further discover the joys of non-sexual intimacy.

Sappy fluff on those lines Astarion has about cuddling, and about missing his partner's body heat. Act 2, after his big "I like you" confession. 3.1k. Ao3

The shadow-cursed lands have a certain character. It's a menacing, get-the-fuck-out-of-here character, but it's definitely a character. The dark and the weather - or lack of it - have a feel all their own.

"Who gave this place permission to be so damned freezing?" Astarion's trying to keep his usual stiff-necked poise, even slouched by the fire, but the cold's starting to defeat him. Hunting helped for a while, it was obvious, and it'd probably be a lot worse if he hadn't fed, but nothing seems to keep the cold at bay for long. His mouth is working as he tries not to let his teeth chatter - probably a lot worse with fangs.

"Blame Shar," Gale mutters, daring to without Shadowheart close by, and Lae’zel snorts. “But tonight is frigid even for this cursed place.”

Astarion pulls the blanket tighter round himself - worn but thick wool, with a little embellished, almost fleur-de-lys border in delicate gold thread. Somehow that hasn't unravelled. The rest is drabber than his usual style, though needs must, Lora supposes. But there's a pink patch, one she swears she sewed more haphazardly...

Wait. Lora knows that blanket. It used to be one of hers. It's the worn one she dropped outside his tent the first night they camped together - when he'd spent the journey muttering about the mud and the lack of baths, she'd spent it letting his snotty insults roll off her back, and she'd woken up the next morning to find said blanket had... mysteriously disappeared. That was months ago.

The thread's new.

“Damn this,” Astarion mutters, before she can muck everything up by saying something. “I'm turning in. Wake me up if we're all eaten by shadow undead.” And then he stalks to his tent, blanket thrown over his shoulders like a stereotypical vampire's cape; she watches him go in concern.

“Goodnight?” Gale manages.

Silence falls, even more than usual in the Shadowlands. Gale coughs. Wyll stirs the fire with a stick. Lae’zel sharpens her sword just a little more pointedly.

Lora lasts perhaps two minutes before she's grabbing a fur and an extra blanket from her tent - firmly ignoring the curious amusement she can feel from the other side of the fire - and sidling into Astarion's vaguely hedonistic lair, stepping past blood jars and haphazard books.

Astarion’s already reclining on an elbow, of course; he heard her coming. “Oh? Didn't know you were feeling frisky. At least it might warm us both up.”

Even though it's a joke, any coquettish effect is mostly ruined by the three layers he's wearing - undershirt peeking out from under his collar, another shirt, and some kind of robe he must have stolen along the way - and his miserable little nest of blankets. And the subtle redness to his nose, the tension in his shoulders to stop the shakes. Gods, there’s barely anything here, for all the treasure trove outside his tent. He’s all but slee – trancing on the ground. Elf or not, he’s got to be freezing.

Lora shakes her head, sliding to her knees next to him. “You're shivering.”

“Of course I'm not. Am I?” Astarion looks down at himself and sighs. “I suppose I am.” He is. Vigorously. “How are you not?” he adds, in confused disgust.

Lora throws the extra covers over him. And then she wriggles half out of his tent, ignoring the fact that Wyll is now leaning round Gale to watch, and returns with half of Astarion’s cushion stash.

“Is that why you're here? To make a delivery?” That arch voice is muffled through wool, until a pale hand pulls it away from his face and Astarion blinks at her owlishly. Well, half owl, half very disgruntled sheep. The pomade’s starting to lose the fight against blanket friction, flyaway curls sneaking back into shape. It’s... sweet.

“If you want. But I thought I'd ask if we could share,” she says, gesturing to his bedroll.

He blinks at her, sobering. “I thought we'd spoken about, ah…”

Is it patronising to be proud of him? Probably. It doesn't change the fact she is, terribly, even while guilt for how they started is trying to squeeze the breath out of her.

A hand to her heart, Lora says, “No funny business. On my mother's life.”

Astarion squints at her, amused but with the tiniest hint of wariness underneath. “You don't have a mother.”

Sombrely now, eyes steady on his, she says, “On my lyre.”

Those little lines start around his brows - he's frowning, trying to work her out. And then, like so many small moments over this journey, she sees the second he decides to trust her. With an incline of his head, Astarion says, “Accepted.” He blinks, and snorts. “But darling, it's not as if I have an excess of body heat to give. If anything, quite the opposite. I'll, ah, leech from you.” He tries to grin fangily through the shivers, and then it occurs to him. “...Ah. You were trying to save my dignity, weren't you?” He sighs, and untucks a corner of his blanket pile, dragging a cushion or two under his head and turning away from her. It's the nearest to an invitation she's likely to get.

Unable to watch him in his misery any more, Lora swiftly ties the tent flaps, tries not to bolt into his absurd nest of cushions, and tucks herself in. “Oh. These are soft,” she says, plumping one. Silk. Shouldn't even ruin her hair too badly.

Astarion huffs a laugh at that - mostly silent, but she spots the movement of his shoulders.

Slowly, loudly, she shuffles closer and puts an arm round him; Hells, below wool and linen, he's absolute ice. He makes the smallest noise and stiffens, shoulder blades like shelves against her.

Lora lets go, instantly - but there's a hand snaking to her hip before she can shuffle backwards, pulling her to him.

Astarion murmurs, “I was just startled, that's all. You're so warm.” His tone is wondering - and then embarrassment at himself catches up with him. He goes tense all over again, but Lora just re-wraps an arm round him; curls the rest of herself round him too, knees against his knees, hips against his hips, chest to back.

It's the softest breath he lets out, almost inaudible. He tries, “This is ridiculous. It's not as if we're in some snowy wasteland.”

She says, “No light. No heat.”

“Hm. You know, once I would have said something like, ‘You're all the light I need. A lone star in the darkness.’”

With a laugh, she puts her nose against his shoulder. “Isn't that meant to be you? Considering the name, and all.”

“Shh. Don't ruin my metaphor. It took me a whole five seconds to think of it.” It's a slow thaw, the way he's melting against her as he speaks: bit by bit, inch by inch.

Lora sniggers against his robe.

Where her hand rests on his chest, she feels slim, strong, freezing fingers join it. Astarion says, softly, “I won't say I don't miss the sun. But you… help. You're so - ugh - colourful. And warm.” His head ducks, and then her hand’s being lifted to cool, gentle lips. He lays a kiss to her knuckles.

Lora’s chest fills with something that makes her realise she's a terrible bard, because she's uncertain how to describe so very much. She kisses a pointed ear - it twitches the tiniest bit in his surprise, barely there and in a way that would likely irritate him if he knew.

“It's probably the big glowing mace,” Astarion grumbles, carefully ruining the compliment - belied by how gently his hand’s still holding hers. That first time is still fresh and new: the way he took her hand like it was a precious thing. How pleased he was just to hold and be held. His grousing is relaxed, half swallowed by his pillow.

Many wouldn't say he's an ideal partner for cuddling: he's all sharp angles and sharper elbows, albeit ones dulled by his clothing. He's freezing marble except for where his hair tickles her nose. But his toes twitch against her shins and his voice is a low rumble where she rests, and he fits in her arms like they were made for it. Lora knew these strong shoulders and these long limbs would be good for something, and apparently that something was holding a short, slowly warming undead elf.

For all he's not tall, he's long, somehow: elegant limbs with a deceptive amount of strength hidden underneath. She'd thought the first time they slept together he was all lean muscle and sinew; now she realises he was starving. It just takes longer in a vampire. There's a solidity to him now under her hands: his shoulders are the slightest bit broader, his thighs a little less skinny. Lora wants, all over again, to tell the man she met in that clearing not to do this: to go hunting with her instead. To ask for a bit of her blood. To take her hand. Not that he would have listened.

“You've gone all tense,” Astarion remarks. ��Have I done something?” His voice is on the knife-edge of casual.

Yes. No.

She swallows. “It's so quiet here. The birds don't sing. I feel exposed when I do. The silence leaves you with your thoughts - not always the good ones.”

“Mm.” All at once there's a small hurricane of movement next to her - before she quite knows what's happening, he's eeled out of her grasp and turned to face her. “Luminis,” he says, softly, all cut-glass enunciation; close to where they've bedded down, a jar - empty, thankfully - illuminates. He takes his fingers away from it.

Scarlet eyes search her face. It felt easier to hide in the half-dark, even though he could see her perfectly well… Oh. The light isn't for him, is it? His fragile mortal lover, so small in the grand scheme of things.

The words spill from her mouth unbidden, and she wonders, for far from the first time, how she ever became a bard. “I, ah, I get on edge, in this place. You said I was… colourful.”

“It's a bard thing, I'm sure.” Astarion’s voice is wry, but there's a crease of what looks like concern between his brows; he’d be appalled if it was pointed out.

“Here, that feels like I'm a target. I feel watched all the time.”

Grimacing, he says, “Ugh. Awful, isn't it? It's not just you.” But it's less theatrical than it would be with the others. More honest.

Astarion eases closer to her, hair falling over his forehead but eyes still dark and curious on hers - and something like realisation is dawning on his face. He always knows someone's soft spots. Lora wants to crawl away, to make some pleasant joke to distract them both; she makes herself be brave and stay, instead.

He places a hand on her arm, lightly, uncertainly, as if real tenderness is a song he's heard so many times but he isn't sure how to play by ear - and then he cups her face, still with a tentative hand. There's no laughter in his voice when he speaks. “Lora, darling, are you scared?”

“Aren't you?” she says, sounding small and helpless and hating every second of it.

Astarion barks a laugh, seeming to startle them both. “Love, we're all terrified of this place. Karlach’s spent half the journey quaking in her fiery little boots. Gale seems to be reading so he doesn't scream. But you're always so… cheerful.” He strokes his thumb over her cheek, again with a slow lightness to it, as if he's ready to move away the moment she says something, as if he might be overstaying his welcome. As if it isn't keeping her grounded. Sadness is in the tight lines around his eyes, his mouth. “I thought you'd sublimated it all into jokes and anger. Or perhaps that's just me.” He gives her a grin that's almost sheepish, by his pointedly-confident standards. Sobering, he says, “I should have seen through a fellow liar.” That's too gentle, too worried to have any sting to it.

The words are so hard to find. “Having someone with me helps. To watch this place back. You've got the fastest eye of any of us.”

Amusement flits over his face, his eyes skating to her throat. “I didn't think you'd want these fangs so close to your neck.” Double-edged, with the barest hint of real fear under there, the way so many of his offhand jokes are.

“They have been enough times before. You” - she clears her throat, and tries not to feel ridiculous - “you look after me?”

Astarion blinks a moment, eyes widening. “I do, do I?” He's trying for wryness, but his voice has something else to it. Something raw, but she can't tell if it's good or bad.

Lora says, hastily, with a demented kind of mildness, “Usually by stabbing things that are trying to kill me. And you can see in the dark, and I can't. And you slee - trance less.” And the shadows are less frightening when met with a wry voice and flamboyant arm-waving. And she's learned to feel him at her back, even when she can't see him.

She wants to squirm, but he's leaning to catch her eye. He says, with a disbelieving half-smile, “My dear, are you saying you feel safe with me?”

Lora sighs explosively, ready to be laughed at -

“Gods, I really have taken up with a madwoman.” But the words are softer than they should be, and he… tugs her into his arms, and holds her tightly.

Oh.

Lora freezes - he does, too, as if scared he might have overstepped his bounds. She wraps an arm round his waist before he can decide that she must hate this and he should run away again, her head settling onto his shoulder. He's warmer, she's glad to note, the shivers gone entirely. Still not as warm as someone alive, but getting closer to his normal.

Astarion says, “I'll keep the shadows at bay. You just focus on keeping me warm.”

“I can do that,” she says, faintly.

“Can I take away the light?”

“Sure. It's not the dark that worries me. It's… being alone, in the silence.”

Astarion throws the tent back into darkness with a whispered word - and then stays there: chest against hers and legs tangled, breathing every so often out of habit instead of necessity. A hundred little sounds even in a man as consummately quiet as him, from that to the brush of his clothes against pillows. Lora feels him start to stroke her hair with that careful touch, uncertain of his welcome; she hums happily, and he keeps it up. It's worth a little extra work in the morning for this.

A memory winds slowly back into her head: a man who'd give her florid nicknames and yet all but flee after sex, their arrangement going mostly unspoken. The second time, and that touch on her hair, so oddly uncertain for a man that confident in bed. She hadn't understood it at the time.

All I had to do was not fall for you.

Astarion turns his head, breath cool on her ear. “Lora?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

“Mmhm." It's vague, said into his hair.

She feels him laugh faintly against her.

When Lora wakes to the morning light, she's somehow spooning him again; his forearm is wrapped around hers, holding her there, but he’s contorted himself to lean a book next to him so he can read.

Wait. That wasn’t in his tent last night. Lora tries to get her mind around the image of him sneaking out of bed, getting a book, and sneaking himself back in under her arm. Somehow, it makes a worrying amount of sense.

Astarion lets go of her the moment he senses she's awake, saying idly, “Have you ever considered a second career as a backpack?”

“How long have you been thinking of that one?” she mumbles, only realising she's nuzzling her nose into his hair when she gets tickled.

The book snaps shut, and Astarion pushes it aside with three fingers. “Is your pillow talk always so cynical? What's wrong with a good sweet nothing?” But he turns to her, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

For a moment Lora just lies there in some sort of disbelief, because she knows how nights with Astarion end. She wakes up alone, with only a bite mark to say anything happened at all, or there’s some convenient excuse he pulls out to sneak away.

But there’s a man in her arms, now, running a little cool for a mortal but not the block of ice he was – his hair wildly curly, his movements soft and slow and easy, the tiniest satisfied hum running through him as he eases into her embrace. “Gale is skulking about, making breakfast,” he says into her shoulder.

“Sounds good.”

“No, it sounds terrible. You’re better than a furnace. The bastard can show off to everyone else, but I’m keeping you.”

“Just for warmth,” Lora says.

“Obviously.”

“Are you warmer?”

His voice is a wry drawl, but something content is sneaking in around the edges. “Toasty, darling.”

Lora strokes a hand over Astarion’s back, over the layers of nightshirts and robes. For the barest moment he tenses – whether it’s because of his scars, or whether he thinks she’ll touch him somewhere less innocent, try to push his limits. She doesn’t, and he makes that faint content sound under his breath and goes loose again, his nose against her neck, curls tickling her cheek. It all feels like an impossibility that’s half a dream, like capturing the moon in a bucket of water, or...

A throat’s cleared outside the tent.

“Gale?” Lora says.

Through the tent, a wizardish shadow gazes awkwardly up at the sky. “I see. I shan’t ask if you’re decent in there. I somehow doubt I wish to know.”

Astarion mumbles, mouth still half against her skin, “If you untie that tent flap, I will kill you.”

“Ahem. It occurs to me that only one of you needs food – well, until I perfect that Waterdhavian blood pudding recipe. All the same, I’ve made a porridge with honey and almonds. Whenever you’re ready.”

Lora’s stomach growls just at the sound of that; she tries not to be embarrassed.

Astarion says, with the faintest fond undertone to it, “Ugh, mortals.” Rolling away from her, he adds, “Go, darling. It’s best never to deny your hunger.” He grins at her, and it’s full of teeth – but it softens as he adds, “And if you need further protection from the night’s shadows, you know where I am.”

She does. But it’s Astarion who sneaks into her tent the next night, a couple of ragged blankets tossed round his shoulders. She shifts to make room, opens her arms, and he fits himself between them like it was where he was always meant to be. Perhaps it was.

#tav x astarion #astarion x tav #astarion ancunin #Tav #gale of waterdeep #Lora mctavish #baldur's gate 3 #My fic

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ghostlychief · 7 months

Text

tomorrow will be kinder

Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

WC: 1900+

Warnings: brief mention of deaths; hurt/comfort; some fluff

Summary: When overly stressed by the calamity of your job, you find yourself pulling away from your teammates and even sometimes, your closest friends. Luckily for you, they don’t go anywhere, and patiently wait for your return. Although one person in particular, never lets you fester alone.

A/N: Hello!!! Feels like I haven't posted in awhile, so here we are. I hope if you stumble across it, you enjoy <3

-*-*-

You look down at the ground, while smoke billows around you, slightly clouding your vision. All you see are bodies caked in mud, lying motionless on the dirt path and you wonder to yourself how many dead bodies you have seen throughout your career.

How many? You couldn’t even count, there’s no point, not when it’s been this many. Maybe this was the tipping point for you. When the cold bodies that once held lives don’t bother you anymore. You no longer feel sonder creeping through your bones, making sure it covers you completely when you witness death. No, you just carry on like nothing happened. Day after day, your capacity to care and feel anything slowly drained out, and now you’re left empty and dry, wishing for relief from the arid cracks forming within you.

It's like you’re on autopilot, and have been for awhile now. After your last mission, you vaguely remember writing up your section of the report and handing it off to Price. You might have gone back to your quarters and spent the remainder of the day in bed. You cannot recall.

The days since then have gone by slowly, not much action going on. You don’t mind the quiet because sooner or later it’s going to get louder and louder until you’re back where you started: with destruction and death surrounding you, once again tipping you over.

You know you have been acting different. This has happened before, and your teammates understand why. They’re not too pushy about it, even though it seems like they ask you out to drinks or dinner more often than usual. You know they’re just worried and want you to feel included and that you are not on your own for this. You appreciate them, you really do. But they eventually get the hint that you just need some time by yourself, and the invitations stop coming. You don’t mind though, now you can finally rest without any external cacophonous noise. You only have to deal with the noise up in your head.

Going back to your quarters, you shut the blinds and lock your door, finally ready to take a fucking nap. You shut your eyes and sleep overcomes you.

-*-*-

When you finally come to, you realize you’ve woken up due to someone knocking (quite loudly) on your door. You briefly glance at the window, and there is no longer sunshine peeking through, so it must be past dinner time. You look at your watch and see that it’s almost 8p.m. You slept for a few good hours.

You rustle your way out of bed, not really caring what you look like. Unlocking your door, you mentally curse at whoever decided to come wake you, and you swing the door open more aggressively than you meant to.

When you glance up, you notice your teammate, Ghost, standing tall in your door frame, his toned arms crossed over his chest. He, for once, isn’t wearing any kind of mask over his face, which allows your eyes to dance across the scars that cover him. He has one in the hollow of his left cheek, a couple on his temple, and finally, one jagged mark near his upper lip, which has come to be your favorite scar of his. You were with him when he got it, after all.

You don’t miss the skip in your heartbeat as you admire the man in front of you, having to crane your neck in the slightest to do so.

You manage to say, “What are you doing here?” Your voice sounds a bit rough and groggy since you just woke up. You’re also pretty sure your hair is a mess too, and of course your t-shirt and shorts are ruffled in that “after nap” look. So basically, you are the spitting image of beauty.

“C’mon now, Dumpling. We both know why I’m here.” He once again makes your heart skip a beat, and you mentally curse him for it. Who is he to come here and make you feel these things? You were once annoyed by the nickname he gave you, but now, you mentally blush whenever he calls you that.

You still remember the day he designated the name for you. It was one of the first times he came to your room. He was fascinated by all of the small trinkets you had, looking around your desk and the shelves on your wall. When he came across your dumpling light, he started laughing. It’s one of the few times you’ve heard him laugh at all.

He turns towards you, a small smile on his lips, “Does that actually provide any light for your room? It’s so tiny.”

You restrain the urge to scowl at your new found friend from work, and say, “Actually, he does light up my room quite well. It’s for the ambiance.” Your tone quirked up at when you said ‘ambiance,’ which had Simon laughing again, but this time at you.

“Here, look.” You walk over and turn off most of your lights, only leaving on the string of lights and a couple other small lights. Low and behold, the dumpling light stood out amongst his companions, illuminating the shelf he was sitting on, casting a warm glow on you and Simon.

He looks so soft in the luminosity, looks so different than the rigid man you see in the field every day. You refrain the urge to trace his scars with the pads of your fingertips, so desperately wanting to trace his lips. You really need to snap out of it.

Simon acquiesced raising his hands up, “Alright, alright. I misspoke.”

You bump your shoulder against his, arms crossed, “Damn right. Never insult my dumpling light again. He’s good at his job.”

Simon turns his head towards you, “This dumpling means a lot to you, huh?”

You know he’s just teasing and you shrug, “I guess. I mean I’ve had him for years, and look how cute he is!” Your nose scrunches up as you smiled at the stupid light, and you didn’t even notice how Simon was looking at you. But if you did notice, you would have seen his smile drop to a warm grin, eyes sparking in the tender light of your room, looking at you with endearment.

When you finally turn back to him, he ruffles your hair and asks, “So, what shall we do on our night off, Dumpling?”

Your eyebrows shoot up and your voice cracks, “’Dumpling’?”

Simon leaned toward you, dipping his head down to yours so his lips were at your ear, “That’s your new nickname.”

“Oh hell no. Nope, not happening.”

“I don’t know, seems pretty fitting.” You were going to kill him.

Simon starts walking to your door, with you trailing behind him, arguing with him about his new moniker for you. Unfortunately for you, the name sticks.

You bring yourself back to the present and quip back, “To bug me?”

Ghost huffs, and decides to just bulldoze into your room without even asking. Rude. Although, he makes sure not to bump shoulders with you. Also, it’s not like he doesn’t do it often, so you let it slide and close the door behind you. You plop down on the bed beside him, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. Your room on the base isn’t spacious by any means, but it does its job while you’re on call.

You managed to get a full-size bed, which is tucked away in the corner of your room, furthest from the door. Pictures, paintings, and drawings cover the corner, making it into a cozy place for you to hide away in. String lights line your left wall, which gives the room a soft warm glow that shines in Simon’s eyes whenever he’s here. You also have little knickknacks scattered around, each one showing your personality bit by bit, almost like a trail to your soul.

You find solace within the four walls of your room, but you can’t solely give credit to it, you have to save some for the quiet, yet brooding man, sitting beside you. Your best friend.

Your shoulder rests against his sturdy one, and you can feel him breathing. You always seem to gravitate towards him, like planets orbiting a star.

The room is still quiet, and you bring your leg up on the bed and fold it, so you are slightly turned towards Simon. You bring up your other leg so it’s resting over the top of his knee. He’s wearing his favorite black joggers, and there’s a stark contrast between your white socks and his dark pants.

You trace your fingers along his forearm, trailing up and down the length of his arm. Something you don’t even realize you started doing until Simon takes that arm and wraps it around you, pulling you into him.

His voice ruffles your hair as he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shrug, and mumble, “I don’t know.” You bury your face into his chest. Once again trying to avoid confronting your problems, and instead wanting to hide away.

“Speak up, Dumpling.” There’s a teasing undertone in his request, and it almost makes you crack a grin. Almost.

He tries again, “It’s just me, you know. You can tell me anything.” His hand rests comfortably on your shoulder and his thumb starts rubbing small circles on your arm.

You let out another sigh, “I’m just tired. And overworked, and I think I need a break.” Simon waits a beat to make sure you’re done talking before he offers his opinion on the matter.

“You know, that’s completely normal for the kind of job we have, Y/N. It’s alright to want to get away from all the violence and sadness we see every day. That’s just the human in you.”

“I just feel so disconnected from everything right now, and don’t know how to fix it.” You bring your hand up to Simon’s resting on your shoulder, and intertwine your fingers with his.

Both your hands are calloused and rough, but his hands have always felt perfect in yours, his large fingers encapsulating yours easily.

“We don’t have to do anything right now to fix it. We can just be, okay?”

You manage to murmur out an “Okay.”

Simon pulls you down with him, so now you’re both laying comfortably on your bed. He momentarily sits up to tug the blanket that rests at the foot of your bed, over the you both, then wraps himself around you. You can hear his steady heartbeat in his chest, and it pulls you down like gravity, anchoring you to stay in the orbit of his warm embrace. You can feel his lips on your temple, and he places a delicate kiss there before saying, “Tomorrow will be better, I’m sure of it.” You lay like that for the remainder of the night in the company of Simon.

Simon, who never fails to assuage you, make you feel lighter and like your old self again. Make you feel human. He seemed so sure of himself that you will overcome this, so you finally believe him, that yes, tomorrow will be kinder.

-*-*-

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fatehbaz · 11 months

Text

Mangroves. Estuaries. Shorelines where land meets water. Fluidity and porousness of boundaries. Imposition of imperial, colonial, European property law and the “fiction” of solid borders. Profit extraction from property, the “legal magic” of creating permanent borders, and the destruction of coastal forest-worlds.

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[T]his tropical coastal ecology is a site of continual refiguration: neither sea nor land, neither river nor sea, bearing neither salty nor fresh water [...]. The mangrove has been prone to confused definitions, [...] also a complex coastal ecosystem in itself. With these hybrid conditions of “belonging,” the mangrove lends itself to helping us think through the present-day schematic of Euro-American crises [...]. Its polymorphous personality as a sediment-carrier, land-builder, defender of numerous life forms [...] renders the mangrove a fascinating study in the biopolitics of selfhood. [...] The Sundarbans covers an area of 10,000 square kilometers of intertidal zones between parts of southwestern Bangladesh and the state of West Bengal in India. The largest mangrove forest in the world [...]. As a landscape, the Sundarbans is marked by unfixity, since its intertidal nature places it between appearance and disappearance -- with islands being submerged overnight. [...] [T]heir porous quality does not allow for clear border-making. In reading [...] satellite image[ry] of the Sundarbans, produced by what is said to be “the most stable, best characterized Earth observation instrument ever placed in orbit,” we are met with the trembling instability of borders. [...] [H]ere the coastline becomes indiscernible as a single entity. The legal vexations of such amphibious and obtuse terrain become pronounced in sea-rights cases, wherein border-making becomes the necessity of tenure. Forming rulings over such zones lays legality prone to paradox. In the Blue Mud Bay case, heard by the High Court of Australia in 2008, a legal body was called upon to make a determination regarding the shifting geography of a mangrove coastal region. In the final ruling the aboriginal Yolgnu claimants were successful, with the court ruling that the column of tidal water lying above land should be regarded no differently from the land itself. Thus the court’s attempt to encompass Dholupuyngu cosmology and “aqueography” occasioned a legal magic transforming water flow into the fixity of “land.” [...] The mangrove line is, hence, one of sedimentary reclamation rather than clear political divisions of terra firma. In mangrove zones, human determinations become ghosts.

Text by: Natasha Ginwala and Vivian Ziherl. “Sensing Grounds: Mangroves, Unauthentic Belonging, Extra-Territoriality.” e-flux Journal Issue #45. May 2013.

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Traveling through Bengal in the eighteenth century, [...] [travelers] saw a highly sophisticated water-based economy -- the blessing of rivers [...]. The rivers were not just channels of water; they carried a thriving trade, transporting people and goods from one part of the delta to another. [...] Bengal’s essential character as a fluid landscape was changed during the colonial times through legal interventions that were aimed at stabilizing lands and waters, at creating permanent boundaries between them, and at privileging land over water, in a land of shifting river courses, inundated irrigation, and river-based life. Such a separation of land and water was made possible not just by physical constructions but first and foremost by engineering a legal framework. [...] BADA, which stands for the Bengal Alluvion and Diluvion Act, a law passed by the colonial British rulers in 1825 [...]. Nature here represents a borderless world, or at best one in which borders are not fixed lines on the ground demarcating a territory, but are negotiated spaces or zones. Such “liminal spaces” comprise “not [only] lines of separation but zones of interaction…transformation, transgression, and possibility” [...]. Current boundaries of land and water are as much products of history as nature and the colonial rule of Bengal played a key role in changing the ideas and valuations of both. [...] [R]ivers do not always flow along a certain route [...]. The laws that the colonial British brought to Bengal, however, were founded upon the thinking of land as being fixed in place. [...] To entrench the system, the Permanent Settlement of 1793 created zamindars (or landlords) “in perpetuity” -- meaning for good. The system was aimed at reducing the complexities of revenue collection due to erratically shifting lands and unpredictable harvests in a monsoon-dependent area [...]. From a riverine community, within a hundred years, Bengal was transformed into a land-based community.

Text by: Kuntala Lahiri-Dutt. “Commodified Land, Dangerous Water: Colonial Perceptions of Riverine Bengal.” RCC Perspectives, no. 3, 17-22. 2014.

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[A]t the shore, where the boundary between land and water is so often muddied [...] terrestrial principles of Western private property regimes feel like fictions [...]. Shorelines, indeed, do much to trouble the neat boundaries, borders […] of the colonial imaginary […]. And so thinking about shallows necessitates attention to the multiplicity of water, and the ways that tides, rivers, storm clouds, tide pools, and aquifers converse with the ocean [...]. For Kanaka Maoli, the muliwai, or estuary, best theorizes shoreline dynamics: It is not only where land and water mix, but also where different kinds of waters mix. Sea and river water mingle together to produce the brackish conditions that tenderly support certain plant and aquatic lives. [...] As Philipp Schorch and Noelle M.K.Y. Kahanu explain, the muliwai ebbs and flows with the tide, changing shape and form daily and seasonally. In metaphorical terms, the muliwai is a location and state of dissonance [...], but it is not “a space in between,” rather, it is its own space, a territory unique in each circumstance, depending the size and strength or a recent hard rain. […] [T]he muliwai [...] as a conditional state [...] undoes territorial logics. [...] It is not a space of exception. Rather, it is where we are reminded that places are never fixed or pure or static. Chamorro poet Craig Santos Perez reminds us in his critique of US territorialism that “territorialities are shifting currents, not irreducible elements.” If fixity and containment limit, by design, how futures might be imagined beyond property, then the muliwai envisions decolonial spaces as ones of tenderness, care, and interdependence. [...] Because water has the potential to trouble the boundaries of humanness, it may furthermore push us to think through […] categorical differences […], to consider the colonial mechanisms that produced hierarchies of bodies to begin with [...].

Text by: Hi’ilei Julia Hobart. “On Oceanic Fugitivity.” Ways of Water series, Items, Social Science Research Council. Published online 29 September 2020.

#abolition #ecology #landscape #imperial #colonial #tidalectics #caribbean #archipelagic thinking #wetlands #mangroves #estuaries shoals swamps deltas etc #indigenous #ecologies #geographic imaginaries #carceral geography

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