#why does all of this. shakes raven. WHY ARE YOU STILL HAUNTING MY MIND AFTER 9 FUCKING YEARS.

[gaymakima]

Two theories I have (well, one theory and a headcanon) regarding Raven.

Headcanon: Raven's kindred links can influence her own emotional state, depending on the intensity of the other person's emotions.

Theory: Raven left to spy on Salem for Ozpin, with the specific purpose of getting close enough to Salem to create a kindred link with her. This plan succeeded. The mysterious portal in the V9 flashback was to Salem. Raven spent enough time by Salem's side to bond with her. Kindred links can only be broken when the other person is dead.

Conclusion headcanon: Raven, as we see her in canon, has been emotionally linked to a whole range of people, none of who have particularly positive opinions on her that don't come with a caveat (namely Taiyang and Qrow being heartbroken and bitter, Yang's feelings of abandonment, Ozpin's guilt, Vernal might be the only exception but, uh... decoy). And then you add in Salem's emotions to the mix, which have been stewing in Raven for over a decade by the time we see her.

Bonus: if kindred links can only be broken when the other person is dead, and Summer has turned into a Hound, what would Raven feel from that?

#rwby #raven branwen #salem #rwby theory #more of a headcanon but eh whatever #I think kindred link is a semblance that just gets wilder and wilder the more I think about it #can raven choose who she bonds with or does it not happen on command? #if she wants to make a bond with someone does she have to force herself to spend time with that person until the link forms #to know them to the point of caring for them? #how did she know to save yang's life in the train. is this part of her kindred link too? #finally. her portals. ik it's just an animation reuse most likely but why do her portals and similar Grimm-related things look the same? #for what reason does she have the grimm mask. besides hiding maiden eyes. when did she get it #why does all of this. shakes raven. WHY ARE YOU STILL HAUNTING MY MIND AFTER 9 FUCKING YEARS. #my post #anyways i love raven goodnight

[lord-explosion-baku]

Beel Wants a Baby

Beelzebub x Fem!reader

Warnings: cunnilingus, breeding, semi-rough sex, pretty vanilla, unprotected sex, a hint of voyeurism bc ofc Belphie’s there, hints of MC being intimate with multiple brothers (that’s just how you play the game baybeee!), very slight, and i mean minuscule, daddy kink

A/N: This is the first time I’ve written for Obey Me! and I honestly needed to get this out of my head so I could focus on other projects lmao. Please be gentle. I’m new to the fandom. (Minors DNI)

It’s not the fanning of his warm breath against your skin that stirs you away from your slumber, nor is it the press of his soft lips against the hollow of your neck. You’re used to it by now - Beelzebub getting a little more cuddly after you’ve fallen asleep. It’s probably something he’s picked up from his twin. You like it. His presence is comforting, and his affections are never unwelcomed.

However, when air-light fingers slowly, sensually glide down your chest to your navel and his hand begins moving in soothing circles, tiny knots crowd your stomach, causing a pulse to begin between your legs. When you’re finally lucid, your toes curl and your thighs squeeze together. Your eyes flutter open, and you’re greeted with his appraising purple irises that gleam with adoration.

You lift a hand to his flushed cheek, cupping his face. He leans into your touch with a soft hum.

“What time is it, Beel?” You’re not too sure if it’s morning yet. Belphegor is still snoozing away in the bed next to Beelzebub’s, but that’s a given. Belphie would sleep until noon unless somebody did something about it. Despite being a little more alert, you can tell by the sleep under Beel’s eyes that he’s only been awake for a little longer than you have.

Beelzebub mumbles back a short, “dunno,” and that’s how you know it’s not exactly morning. He’d already be talking about breakfast if it were. You faintly wonder when his stomach will begin to growl, and if he’ll ask you to come to the kitchen with him. Before things can escalate to that, you lean up and plant a soft kiss on his lips.

What you think would be a simple peck—a light kiss before you fall back into bed, and turn away before he tries to tow you with him to get a pre-breakfast snack—turns into something much more. His kiss is deep—hungry in a way that only Beelzebub can manage while keeping it arousing. He parts your lips with a flick of his tongue and is quick to to gain as much from the exchange as he can manage. He groans lowly as his tongue grooves over yours, riffing up to stroke the roof of your mouth. All the while, his hands roam your body, moving over your sides to tighten on your hips. He pulls you against him, and you feel his erection press against your pelvis, which sends another excited flutter to your stomach.

You’re only able to breathe when Beelzebub breaks the kiss to move his lips back to your neck. What once was little lip nuzzles turns into sudden nips and harsh sucking. His tongue laves over you, trailing long, wet stripes over the most sensitive parts of your skin. He bites down when your body shudders underneath him. You moan, and despite knowing you’ll be reprimanded by Lucifer (and possibly even Mammon), for having dark spots around your neck, you weave your fingers through Beel’s ginger hair, and tug, asking him for more. He’s quick to oblige, making sure that both sides of your neck get an equal amount of sucking treatment.

When your hips buck, Beelzebub takes advantage of your position and begins grinding against you—the thin material of both of your pajama bottoms proves to be a useful form of friction. You can feel your arousal begin to pool as his cock slides against your entrance, teasing you, giving you a sample of what’s to come. But you’re far too impatient for that, and you find yourself cupping him, rubbing him through his smooth pants.

There’s a grunt, and suddenly Beelzebub is shifting his kisses lower, raising your shirt over your head so he can wrap his mouth around your right nipple while his hand tweaks and pinches your left. He bites down softly, eliciting a sweet mewl from you, only to have him chuckle and do the same to your left. Then he’s lowering himself, kissing your stomach over and over, petting you. It’s odd, but he’s giving quite a bit of attention to your stomach. You don’t mind too much, except your hips are more than a little sensitive, so when he kisses you there, he gets you squirming. But he doesn’t travel lower. He just keeps kissing your stomach...until he sighs.

“Beel? Baby?” You cast a glance down on him to see him eyeing your stomach almost solemnly. When his eyes meet yours, you see it: his sadness. His brows are knitted together, and he looks so hurt that it’s almost enough to make you cry. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he dips down to kiss your stomach again.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, reaching down to brush some hair out of his eyes.

He pauses. “Yeah.”

You lean up, still keeping your hand in his hair. Your fingers move down to tip his chin up at you so he’s looking at you again. “Want me to come with you to get something to eat?”

You definitely don’t want to stop here, and going to the kitchen would be a bit of a pain, but you can’t stand to see Beel looking this sad. You’d even walk with him all the way to Hell’s Kitchen if it meant seeing him smile again. But all he does is shake his head.

“I’m not hungry for food.” He drops another kiss, and you think you’re back on track, until his head touches your stomach again. He grimaces.

“Talk to me, Beel. What’s going on?” You’re more tentative now. Awake. You cradle his head in your hands and kiss his nose. “Why are you sad?”

“I had a dream.”

Oh…

Beelzebub has told you about his dreams. Memories from the Celestial War—memories about Lilith, shot down right in front of him. You hadn’t truly been there, so you don’t share his trauma, but you know it haunts him, and you want to be there for him, especially during bad nights.

“I’m sorry, Bee. I know how those bad dreams make you feel. We can talk about it, if you’d like. Or...I could distract you.”

Again, he shakes his head. “I’m not sad because it was a bad dream. I’m sad because it was a good dream.” His eyes fall down to your stomach. “It was such a good dream. And it wasn’t real.”

You begin to move your hand away from him, but he catches you, and kisses the carpal side of your palm. “I want it to be real,” he says, “so badly.”

“Yeah?” You ask as Beel’s lips slowly travel up your arms. He pulls you against him, crowding you in what would be a loving embrace if it weren’t for his tongue sliding against your neck again. When you speak, it’s broken—breathy and needy. “H-how can I help? Can...we make it real?”  

He lets out a low sort of hum as his hand slips down your body and into your pajamas shorts. Fingers find your center, and you gasp when he begins to pet you through your already damp panties.

“Lay back,” he commands in a whisper, decidedly dropping the subject. You’re suddenly struck with Beelzebub’s change in expression. He no longer looks sad. Instead, there’s a determined shine in his eye. You can feel the heat of his ravenous intensity as you lay your head back on the pillow, shuffling out of your shorts. He moves south and spreads your legs apart so you’re open and ready. He plants an open-mouthed kiss over your clothed slit before his tongue slips up the length of you. He hums in appreciation, always loving the taste of you, even through your panties.

Tugging the thin barrier between you and his mouth to the side, Beel’s demon tongue slues out, hungrily lapping up your arousal. He’s a little sloppy and relentless as he runs long, languid strokes between your lips, but there’s method to his madness as far as your clit is concerned. The tip of his tongue barely teases it, but it’s enough to get your rocking against his mouth. As hungry as Beel usually is, when it comes to you, he’s much more likely to play with his food before his meal.

He hooks his arms around your legs to hold you in place before his long tongue dives deep into your cunt.

“O-oh!” You choke out a moan, surprised by how full you feel with just his tongue. “Beel, god, that’s—nnnh!”

“Shhh.” He slides out of you, offering your throbbing pussy little kitten licks before saying, “don’t want to wake Belphie.”

He wraps his mouth around your clit and begins to suck. His fingers prods your entrance, and he doesn’t spare another second before his large digits are halfway in. He pumps himself in and out of you, curling his fingers to the press against that spongey button that drives you crazy. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from growing louder, but still you’re whining through it, stirring Beelzebub on.

Soon you find your thighs clamping down on his head. Your heart pounds and blood rushes down to your center. You moan, halfway whining your way through climax as Beelzebub continues to devour you. He doesn’t stop until you’re done shaking and practically yanking on his hair to pry him off of you. He has a smug look on his face—a rare sight for Beel—as he licks residual slick off of his fingers.

“Was that good?” He asks, though you know that he knows it was.

“Incredible,” you pant, still trembling a bit.

He chuckles and sits up right, pulling his pajama bottoms down to reveal his thick, throbbing member. The tip glistens with a thick hint of precum, and he uses it as lubrication to begin pumping himself.  

While you slip out of your panties, you ask, “do you have something? For...protection?”

His eyes fall over your naked body and he shakes his head.

“I don’t want to use any,” he says, looming over you. He presses his cockhead against your still-sensitive clit and begins rubbing himself against you.

“But, Beel-!” You’re silenced by his mouth slamming into yours. He pulses against you, sliding his cock against your waiting, plush entrance. He groans into the kiss before pulling away, a string of saliva connected his lips to yours.

“I want a baby,” he whispers gruffly.

“A-? A baby?!”

“You were so happy in my dream,” he continues, one hand traveling back to your stomach as he continues to grind against you. “You had this cute little bump and you were so excited for her.”

“A girl?” You ask, eyes widening in disbelief. Beelzebub hums a conformation and kisses your cheek softly.

“We were gonna have a little baby girl and we were going to name her Lilith,” he explains, mouth raking over your ear. “I want to make you that happy in real life. Let me inside. Let me put a baby in you.”

This is definitely a subject that warrants a longer discussion, but you’re unable to say that when Beelzebub once again bites into your neck. You cry out, hips bucking up, allowing him direct access into your cunt. He slides in with a groan, and you are absolutely lost to him.

He pushes in deep, the feeling of his unwrapped cock filling you up in one delicious thrust. Your mouth falls open on a broken moan, and that’s when his muscular arms wrap around you, caging you against him as he begins to groove into you.

Beelzebub is strong, but he’s a gentle giant. He’s always been so careful to not hurt you when he fucks you, but this is different. He starts off at his usually benevolent pace, moving his hips so he hits just the right spot, but when his hand moves over your stomach to feel his cock pressing up against you, something in him switches. His thrusts become more relentless and he even bares his teeth when you reach out to stroke his muscular chest.

He lifts legs over his shoulders, folding you against yourself, and slams into with so much force, you find yourself yipping. He kisses you with bruising intensity, tongue greedily twining with yours before he’s pulling away, growling I love you’s and I’m gonna make you so happy.

“Happy,” you echo in a half-dazed state. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been fucked this roughly. Lucifer sure likes using toys to make you scream, but when he’s inside you, he’s more charitable than anything else. Beelzebub is being greedy, and you would have half a mind to say that he’s using you, if it didn’t feel so good.

“Bee,” you whimper as you feel a tightening in your center. “Feels so good, baby! Please don’t stop!”

His response is to hiss through his teeth and move his fingers in ceaseless circles around your clit. “You’re gonna come for me, baby girl?” He kisses you. “You’re gonna make me a daddy?”

“Ahhh! Yes!”

Beelzebub drops one of your legs and holds the other spread farther out. “Use your words, little one,” he commands, panting. “Say, I wanna have your baby, daddy.”

You repeat his words, albeit breathlessly, right before incurring the crackling of sparks of an oncoming orgasm. You clench around him, chanting your pleas, locking your arms around his neck. He kisses you deeply, silencing your warbling cries, and as you lose yourself, spasming around him, he releases a long groan, jetting out white hot seed into your throbbing cunt.

The two of you stay like that, connected, breathing together, kissing each other, and loving every second of it. He whispers to you, apologizing for getting a little out of control, and you smile and kiss his nose, making sure he knows it’s okay. He tells you that he’s excited, that you’re going to be a beautiful mother, and that he can’t wait to be your baby’s daddy. All you can do is smile and let him tuck you against him after he pulls out.

You’re not sure what to think about having a kid with Beelzebub—with any of the demon brothers, for that matter. But you’ll be sure to talk to him more about later in the morning. He’ll be sure to want a repeat of what just happened—Beelzebub is as gluttonous as they come—but for now, you’ll be happy being held in his embrace.

Until, of course, his stomach begins to growl.

“Hmph!” He’s quick to complain.

“Do you want me to come with you to the kitchen?” You offer.

“No, I’ll be fine.” He kisses the back of your neck before sliding out of bed. “I woke you up, after all. You rest.”

You hum back to him, thanking him as he walks out of his shared room, then snuggle up to Beelzebub’s pillow, already missing his warmth. It’s not long before you’re dozing back to sleep, and a new presence dips into Beel’s bed.

You feel his hands roam over your bare back before he speaks.

“Now, that’s no fair…” Belphegor's voice is crackly with sleep as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck. His breath is hot with envy and need while his arms wrap around your torso. “What if I want you to have my baby?”

#obey me x reader #obey me x you #beelzebub x reader #beel x reader #obey me imagines #obey me reader insert #reader insert #obey me

[todourouki]

↲ Back to my BNHA Masterlist

i crash, u crash.

SUMMARY: Being with Dabi wasn’t easy and it probably never will be, but he just wants to make sure you’ll stick around. Or in which Dabi tries his best to show you he cares about you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: based off i crash, u crash by lil peep! lol honestly idk about this one. but welcome back gift for me, from me, to you <3

PAIRING: Boyfriend!Dabi & Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,476

WARNINGS: Explicit Content, Dabi is toxic, Angst*, NSFW [18+] including spitting, slight daddy kink, squirting, slight overstimulation.

© todourouki

Sex with Dabi was always the same.

Routinely speaking, whenever he was back from a mission was the time you were expected to be on all fours waiting for his attention. It was always rough too, nothing short of angry and aggressive even if it was a form of “love-making.” He could call it what he wanted to though, he knew the universal term for his type of sex was simply fucking.

The positions and their timings were always on schedule. No more than 3 minutes in missionary— all the time in the world doing everything else. You never really got to touch him, and he’s never let you see his face when he came.

The relationship of hot and fiery sex mixed with an unrequited form of codependency grew to an actual romantic one somehow between the days and nights spent together, yet nothing of the dynamic ever changed. The only thing you could recall is that he groggily asked of you to “finally be his girlfriend since you already acted like it.”

Dabi was a complicated person. You never knew if he planned on waking up and deciding he wanted to be single, and honestly the day he decided to do such a thing wouldn’t be a surprise to you. He was an avid participator in the league of breaking hearts and even if you had more than enough knowledge on this, you allowed his sneaky smirk to seduce you into the sheets of his bed and hours of his days.

You eventually found yourself moving in, figuring out that he refused to sleep without the air conditioner on, never wore socks around the house, used way too much salt on his eggs, and never managed to close the curtains after he got out the shower. Above all that though, he never changed the way he fucked you.

Dabi loves you, of course you never had to question it or get reassurance. He showed you in minuscule ways such as stealing bringing you your favorite snacks after a long day without you, doing things such as buying double of what he gets from store runs because you’re in his mind all day, and telling you he’ll be safe for you once he walks out the door. He never says I love you, but he doesn’t need to.

It’s hard to get someone like him to change the way they are, so when you’re sitting on your shared bed flipping through a magazine and see a couples quiz linger across the page, you can’t help but try to feed yourself crumbs of his affection you know you’ll spend a lifetime searching for.

“How long did it take for you to realize you like me?” You broke the silence, squinting at the duo-skin toned man slouched across the wooden headboard.

You heard him chuckle, blinking longly at you with amusement glimmering within his cerulean irises. It wasn’t rare for Dabi to mock you for asking such a thing, but it was a rare moment for you to glare at him deadpanned and genuinely waiting for an answer. It fucking confused him.

“As long as it took you to make me cum the first time.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring his comment enough to make him furrow his eyebrows. It wasn’t like you to not retaliate back, you were always quick to snap back at him. Hearing nothing but his own breathing as you skipped through pages made him furrow his eyebrows. He wanted to ask if you were okay— he really did, but then you’d think he cared.

And Dabi would be a terrible person if he let you know he cared.

The silence was nearly overbearing, nearly deafening in his ears as he tried his hardest to focus on anything but your serious expression haunting him in the back of his mind. Things like this rarely bothered him. It goes to say that Dabi was rarely ever bothered.

Sure, you never asked for much reassurance and never even did as much as ask if he meant it when he asked you out mid-nap, but he really did. Sure, you lived off the whim of thinking it was, but at least the raven haired man knew it was. Right?

The sound of the magazine slamming shut and getting thrown somewhere onto the bed broke Dabi of his thoughts. “I’m gonna’ pee.” You announced, mostly to no one in particular because your soft eyes refused to meet his own. Another rare occurrence.

You lied to Dabi for the first time in your life. Did you really have to pee? Of course not. Did you have to cry in the bathroom for a quick 2 seconds to release the pent up frustration of utter confusion? Of course you did. It was annoying— living with someone and only getting treated as if you were anything in the slightest to him when his dick was inside of you. He only ever fucks you rough and never lets you see his face, and he expects you to believe he wants to be with you?

After cleaning your solemn face from dry tears, your body grudgingly made its way out the bathroom and to the bed. Your presence within the studio was clear, panties strewn across the open drawers mixed with Dabi’s briefs, shoes tucked neatly compared to Dabi’s boots tossed lazily near the door, and perfume bottles layering up against the old brown dresser. You took a quick glance at a picture of you hanging on the wall, a familiar raven-headed man’s arms wrapped around your head as he towered over your frame with his head resting across your head.

It was never worth the confusion.

“Why were you crying?” His dark voice rang out, making you slightly flinch as you dented the soft mattress with your frame.

A quick shake of the head will do, you thought to yourself as you followed your own orders. You knew Dabi wouldn’t push to find out what was wrong, he never does. And he doesn’t, lips shut as he takes a drag from some cigarette he’s smoking and giving you a longing look of aggravation. It’s even less of a surprise for him to do such a thing.

“If you have something to tell me, then I suggest you do it.” If you hadn’t known Dabi for as long as you do, you’d probably assume he was being condescending and outright rude. Because you do know him though, you know that’s exactly how he’s trying to come off to you.

You dreaded it. The eventual confrontation that was inevitable from the moment you accepted to be his girlfriend— it all led to this moment in space and time. You felt exactly how you predicted you’d feel, sick and intimidated. Not necessarily by Dabi because you know he’d never hurt you, but intimidated by the fact that it’s as easy as 1-2-3 for him to up and leave depending on your answer.

“What are we, Dabi?” And there it goes, 1-2-3.

It was like hearing a pin drop. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody did anything for the first three seconds following the ultimatum. He knew he had two options: answer genuinely and reveal information he’d die before releasing, or leave you high and dry yet again for his own benefit when it comes to the mere idea of using words he doesn’t use in bed.

Staring into your eyes never scared him, he cremating people for a living, but knowing that lying behind them were tears falling for your reflection rather than on his shoulder caused a pang to hit his chest. It was unfamiliar and unusual, but looking at your body begin to leave its space in the bed in frustration with his quietness made him snap. You were serious for the first time.

“I’m not going to repeat myself.” Your words were harsh, harsher than usual and you yourself couldn’t even tell where this newfound energy came from.

You were okay. You were okay with whatever this complicated situationship was, and you probably would have still been okay with it if you hadn’t gotten too deep in over your head and let his words get to you. Him saying he realized he liked you coincidentally while you fucked should be above you, yet here you are.

“Jesus doll, relax.” He taunted, hands reaching out to grab your arm in a fit of confusion and annoyance, “just come back to bed Y/N.”

You felt it - the minute he touched your arm and released the tiniest bit of heat coming off his palm - just how tense he was becoming. He knew once you put your mind to something, it was difficult to get you to move away from it. He knew that there was no escaping this conversation.

It was inevitable really, the fact that one day (which was, unfortunately for him, today) you would question the legitimacy of his emotions for you. You were carefree just like him, that’s why he fell for you. But you were also blunt. If you felt a way, you were going to say it and that’s that.

Easily, the scarred hand gripping onto your arm slid over to your clenched jaw. You didn’t mean to give him a hard time for not looking his way—with the way his fingers squeezed deep into your skin and tilted your head towards him, you knew you did. It almost repulsed you with how obedient your body was to his touch, glancing at him with no shame other than the dried tears threatening to spill over.

“I’m gonna tell you the one time and I’ll never repeat myself,” he threatened, voice treading amongst angry waters as his blue eyes bored into yours, “I’m serious.”

You stood your ground, eyes taking away from your scowling expression as they swirled in curiosity. It didn’t take much to make you lower your frame onto the edge of the bed, a sigh escaping your lips as you pulled the t-shirt past your exposed panties.

“I don’t say much when it comes to you, or even to when it’s about you—but you’re all I am.” Your eyebrows furrowed, clear confusion written in your face.

“What does tha—” “I’m talking.” Dabi’s aggravated expression never left, not even with the joint hoisted between his lips in nothing but frustration.

“I got nothing to give you, nothing but collected calls from jail and maybe some jewelry I stole cause I got bored. I don’t have any money, anything to my name, and nothing but a spot on the police and hero department’s most wanted list.” His words made you frown, the clear self-depreciation outweighing the cocky and arrogant attitude you once knew to belong to the man infront of you.

“I can’t look you in the eye, show you my face when you milk my cock clean— can’t do shit like that,” Dabi’s smirk was quick to appear, your eyes rolling as you met his serious gaze yet again, “probably won’t be able to take you out the country either unless we run far, far away from here.”

“But nothing I say or do will ever express the way I feel about you.” And now it’s Dabi’s turn for the 1-2-3 process, because that statement in itself made your brain stop working.

Your brain couldn’t comprehend the fact that Dabi’s free hand was circling your bare thigh, moving closer and closer to where he most felt at home. His words never faltered though, only slightly pausing to smoothly slip his hands onto the soaked folds of pink lace.

His words were thrown against empty ears. You couldn’t focus on the words flowing within the room due to the ever-growing heartbeat pulsing between your thighs. Dabi’s hand sank into your leg, heat splitting between your skin enough to hiss and throw your head back.

“From this perfect pussy,” he applied pressure to the space between your legs, the wet patch inducing a smile from his once blank expesssion. The sudden contact caused a gasp to slip from your panting lips. Almost instinctively, Dabi pressed his thumb against your tongue, “to this smart ass mouth, it’s all I need to wake up in the morning.”

Your mind was now blank. All you could think about was the feelings of Dabi's heated fingertips dancing against the confining cotton of your panties. He always had the ability of doing this to you— dumbifying you with nothing but the pads of his fingertips and making you beg for his tongue.

Watching you pant under him nearly made the expressionless man shudder in pleasure. Dabi wasnt a liar, anything and everything he's ever said being some mangled up verbal example of his brain. He was far from the type to express his feelings, show anything other than smugness and oversuimulation, and dedicate his entire life to another person.

He was far from the type, yet managed to become a perfect example of a significant other who's life slowly but surely becomes solely to live for another person. The other person in this situation, was you.

You felt him begin to leave swollen burn bubbles on the outer layer of your skin, legs shaking in a way that brought the two of you out of your racing minds.

His motions stopped, yet hands showed no intention on moving from its current place. He was staring at you intensely - as intensely as he could - to assert his egotistical dominance but you knew the truth.

And as Dabi lowered your frame into the soft, plush white sheets, he realized he knew the truth as well. Your eyes were dazed, irises looking at all of him at the same time as your body swallowed in his touch and he knew. Dabi knows deep down no matter how much taller, bigger, or dominant he ever tried to be, he would worship the ground you walked on with the blink of an eye.

Your hands found his cold cheeks, tongue still stuck to your bottom lip with Dabi's harsh finger circling the pink muscle. Not a word was said, or per say, not a single word needed to be said. The energy surrounding the one-roomed apartment was enough for the two of them.

Before you, Dabi was known to be something of a martyr. He fooled women, toying with their souls the same way he toyed with their bodies and cried trauma when they threatened to leave. He kept a string on every one he ever fucked, being cautious enough to keep them at the heel of his feet for a fun time when he felt he had enough of you.

Then, he got addicted. He drowned in your drive, finding for the first time in his life some sort of comfort. Your natural warmth, your smile, your understanding— you were someone Dabi would find himself laughing at for thinking they actually existed.

"You're gonna get tired of me one day," he bitterly smiled, eyeing you deep into your skull with nothing but sadness laced in an angry distraction, "you're gonna find some hero and leave me here all on my own."

He wanted to think he wouldn't care. If the time where you decided to go back to the better things in life, leave a lowlife villain who wants to destruct the government, and live a rich healthy lifestyle, he knew you didn't do anything less but deserve it. You were too good for him, better than anyone he's ever known in his life for as long as he'd live.

With a soft whimper, your hands turned his head from his lowered expression over to your soft eyes. He hated how quick you got him to look at you, and he especially hated how quick you made his breath stop.

"Hey," you whispered, soft smile still glowing even though you realized he had intentionally lowered his voice as well as his lips from your sight. The vulnerable expression the raven-haired man was trying his hardest to not get you to see brought a rough pang to your chest.

"You crash, I crash. Always."

Your words hit him, and boy did they hit Dabi hard. The time it took for the word always to softly slip off your tongue was just enough time for Dabi to realize the depth of your words.

They were the same ones that fell between your lips when he thought he was dying, when you thought you were dying, and now. Dabi was complex - that was evident - but he was also the simplest man you knew. All he ever really needed was some reassurance.

It was long before his fingers found their way into your scalp, slipping over the crevices of your neck and gripping onto the back of your head as if his life depended on it. All you could do was gasp.

"Can I touch you?" The words were like a record scratch, repeating through the scarred man's brain all too much to keep anyone sane.

He couldn't tell if it was the slur of your words, or if it was your soft hands running across his thick shoulders as the words whispered into his ears— whatever it was made him take up the obligation of doing anything and everything you said.

It wasn't soon before you found yourself slamming your lips against his, the sensation causing you both to moan. You couldn't tell the difference between his hands and yours, tangled limbs falling deep into the plush comforter covering your shared bed. His weight above you did nothing but encourage you to wrap your bare limbs against his now shirtless one on, hands running through the raven locks above your head.

The minute you felt the heated pads of his fingertips lower themselves down your abdomen, your head shook underneath his and caused him to part his lips from its home on yours.

"Hmph," you groaned, pouting as your hands traveled down to his jeans and began to fiddle with the zipper, "I want to feel you in me now."

Dabi was used to being in control. He was used to ordering your body around, telling you what to do and how to do it. In the bedroom, Dabi made the orders. So when he parted his lips from yours and stood over your body with his scarred hands shoving his pants down his thighs, you couldn't do anything less than moan. Knowing he was taking what you said into consideration brought chills to your skin.

"You sure you're ready for this, sweetheart?" He smirked, legs coming out of the restricting jeans he wore and leaving his tall and lean frame in nothing but gray briefs.

Dabi had a lot to brag about, in the most respectful way possible.

Your hands clawed at his waistband, giggling as you pulled his body all the way back to its original position of resting above you and let the underwear go with a loud smack. Being eye to eye with someone like Dabi was scary, no point in denying that. Her there was something about it that just drove the two of you insane— and he couldn't tell if I was anything short of love.

He silenced himself, attaching his lips to yours and preoccupying a hand into pulling his briefs down just enough. And by just enough, it meant just enough to brush your clothed clit as his painfully hard cock stretched up to his stomach. You couldn’t do anything but flinch, hands reaching out to grip his thick girth and slap it across your clothed pussy.

“Let me do it.” You smiled, eyes boring into Dabi’s own blue ones. Your free hand slipped your panties to the side, his mushroom tip dancing against the rim of your wet hole and causing the two of you to release a soft groan into one another’s face.

If there was one thing Dabi would never get tired of, it would be the feeling of your velvet walls sucking his dick closer into you. Nothing short of sensation hit him the minute your hands shoved the head in, and his almost fell inlove with the view of you watching his large length disappear into your own heaven.

It was hard for you to not cum from his entrance. Even as he bottomed out, your teeth sealing a scream from leaving your throat by pressing into his shoulder, did you realize just how big Dabi was. No matter how skinny, lean, and weightless he seemed, the girth and length on Dabi’s third leg when he was stuffing himself into you never failed to surprise you. Even through the self-inflicted pain of going into this without foreplay, you knew there was nothing that would ever fill you up as amazing as Dabi does.

“Fuuuck,” you dragged out into his earlobe, tongue licking a strip of his patched skin from your bite-mark to the lobe of his pierced ears, “you’re so big.”

He couldn’t help but whimper (another thing on Dabi’s list or shit he doesn’t do but now does because of you), the feeling of your tongue circling his ear as your pussy gripped onto his fleeting cock nearly felt like too much. It didn’t help that you were moaning and whispering in his ear with nothing but pure sex laced in your words.

“You know,” he breathed out, beginning to create a routine with his hips bottoming harshly into your cervix and slowly dragging out in a timely fashion, “this is the best pussy I’ve ever had.”

He thinks it’s a compliment, but really it stirs awake the competitive bone in your body. You ignore it though like you always do, choosing to appreciate the fact that he considers you the best at atleast something.

His hand gripped onto your neck, bringing neon stars and dots of blackness to conceal your view of cerulean eyes. Nothing but the lewd sounds of Dabi pushing his dick into your wet hole filled the room, sprinkles of your whimpers and his groans mixing amongst the darkness of the apartment.

Dabi was trouble. He never felt in control of his feelings, never knew what he would want in life, and never bothered to consider living for someone other than himself. It’s moments like these with you though, that makes him realize the God he wakes up thinking about rests between the gap in the middle of your heavenly thighs. He’d killed people before, but the power you held over him was enough to make him consider killing everyone on earth if you’d ask.

You felt him begin to grow impatient, hips pounding into your frame and causing your body to jolt up and down harshly. Words couldn’t describe how amazing Dabi felt inside of you right now. His tip crushed your cervix within every thrust, and it was Dabi’s fingers that lifted your gaping face from the trance of watching him fuck into you to his own face.

“I-I cant.” You began to slip out, tears growing against your eyes as Dabi’s hot fingers began to flick your swollen clit. You swear it’s only been like ten minutes, or maybe Dabi’s huge dick pushing against your cervix was beginning to fuck you stupid. “You’re gonna’ make me cum— make me cum too fast daddy.” You cried out, fingers dragging against the stapled back as you felt Dabi purposely drag one of the piercings located on his tip across your pulsating velvet walls. It was almost too good to be true, and you couldn’t help yourself from kicking his waist over you and forcing his body underneath you. He didn’t even have the courtesy to wipe the smirk off his sweating face.

“Get to work, doll.”

You knew why he spoke to you with such condensation. You also knew exactly why his hands pressed into your ass cheeks as you found your home on top of his bare lap. His scarred torso leaned against the black bed frame, and you decided right then and there that Dabi deserved to get his brains fucked out. So you did exactly what he told you to do— you got to work.

You were wet enough to take him some more, knees straining as you finally pushed his length deep into your stomach. The silent scream that left your lips didn’t go unnoticed though, your fingers that now gripped his cheeks pressing between his lips to keep his teasing menstruations to himself. Dabi’s eyes couldn’t come off your body, and honestly he wished they never had to.

Keeping a grip on your stomach and your ass cheek, an enflamed slap brought a powerful burn across your ass cheek and caused you to jolt against his penis.

“Jesus Dabi, a-are you trying to kill me?” You weakly pleaded, and it didn’t take long for your fucked our expression to start slurring your words.

The sound of you dropping your frame onto his body filled the room, your hips rolling against your clothed clit and bringing sensation you weren’t sure if you could handle. You were trying to focus, but the feeling of Dabi heating a hand up across your ass and slowly beginning to meet your thrusts caused your brain to jumble into a mess of nothing but him.

“Fuck, baby you look so good when you start to get stupid.” He smirked, lips running against the cleavage of your bouncing breasts and lazily sucking on the moving nipple in front of him.

You wanted to fight back, and you wanted to defend yourself against him thinking you we’re starting to get stupid. You really wanted to— the only issue being that you couldn’t. You couldn’t the minute Dabi found a way to meet your thrusts and roughly tilt your neck back up towards the ceiling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Was all you could cry out as you began to grow impatient in your lower abdomen. It just felt too good. And as if to add injury to insult, your walls began to clamp up from the feeling you knew was coming soon. Dabi paid the price.

You’d never seen his eyes get this wide, eyebrows furrowed as his mouth gaped open in shock. His eyes found its way down, the sight of your pussy gripping and swallowing his dick back in and out being something he wishes he could see all day and that’s when Dabi realizes that he is inlove with everything about you.

“It’s like your perfect pussy was made for me, baby.” He whimpered out, smirking between hooded eyes as he struggled to regain some of his consciousness. You were way too good at bouncing on his dick, and he couldn’t help but begin to meet your thrusts with more precision as he felt himself near orgasm.

“A-all for you! Always all- always all for you daddy!” You cried out, voice struggling to come out as you threw your hands against Dabi’s chest and began to bounce as if your life depends on it.

You hate doing all the work, honestly you really do dislike it. But this has been the longest Dabi has allowed you to ride him and the feeling of you literally milking his cock at your own disposal was an offer too good to ruin.

“I know it’s all for me, princess.” He whimpered out, a hand gripping the back of your neck and pulling it low enough to slam your chapped lips against his own. “Wanna know something, baby?”

The words vibrating against your own moans got lost in the sound, your headboard forcibly slamming against the wall only louder as every other thrust from you gradually grew rougher with your urge to cum. Your brain couldn’t do anything less than feverishly nod, hands slipping back onto your body and allowing Dabi to drill into you from underneath. Gasps slipped out of your parted lips with a hand gripping his black hair and the other begging to rub your own clit.

“You crash, I crash forever, right baby?” He moaned out, the words entering your ears and making you cry out with tears finally spilling down your eyes from nothing but intense pleasure.

“Fuck yes daddy, forever!” You cried out, body beginning to hunch over as you felt the pressure in your stomach compared to the way Dabi slammed into you become too much.

“Good, doll,” he moaned, pushing you so far into him, the heartbeat in your pussy was sure to be vibrating onto the veins of his dick, “so do me a favor.”

Everything happened much too fast, your dizzy state only increasing as Dabi grabbed your body harshly and tossed you back underneath him. There you were again, tossed carelessly under him with your legs trembling and pussy stuffed with all of Dabi in his glory. His lips found our ear again, licking your lobe and sucking on it right after.

“Cream all over my cock so I can stuff you up with my kids, deal?” He smirked into you, jolting into you as soon as the last word resonated on all ears.

Soon enough, he found it in himself to thrust into you like never before. You could barely breath, gasping for air as you felt your vagina began to vibrate due to stage of pleasure you were in. And just like that, your body began to run from the overstimulation of Dabi’s hot finger rubbing roughly against your clit as he drills your frame into the crevices of your mattress.

“Da-daddy I’m gonna’....” The words just couldn’t come out— he was begging to fuck you dumb.

You couldn’t feel nothing but Dabi’s dick pound into you, and if this was all you felt before you fell into a sex-coma than fuck it. It will forever and always be worth it.

It was like you were starting to see white. The feeling of one of his hands now roughly gripping your drooling expression closer to his face made you scream in pleasure, Dabi’s smirk leaving only to release a trail of saliva from his throat into the back of yours. You swallowed it with no hesitation, some of the residue slipping through your lips in a mix with your own spit as you began to drool at the feeling of his tip hitting that one spot over and over again.

And that’s when you felt it. You felt the build up, the pressure of holding back becoming too much as you belted into a mess of tears and tried to push his body off your own.

“No baby,” he roughly said, milking his cock into you even harder and rubbing pressured circles into your clit until a strong snapped within you and you saw nothing but white.

You weren’t sure if it was a sub-space you had entered, or some fucked up version of heaven people who just for their brains fucked out go, but either option felt like fair-game the minute your pussy began to squirt a mess of cum and other liquids from the space Dabi still found himself intruding. If anything boosted his confidence, it was this right here.

“Fuck yes baby, squirt for daddy,” he smirked, rubbing you harder and harder as your felt your body stiffen at the overstimulation, “fuck, you’re so hot.”

As soon as you, Dabi found himself cumming harder than he ever had, lips only being able to cry out a mantra of your name. He knew sex with you was amazing— but this was a new high he doesn’t think he’d ever went to let go of. He didn’t even have the energy to lift himself out of you, small drips of cum able to slip out of your swollen pussy making you flinch in both overstimulation and pain. The cockwarming brought chills to your arm, body sprawled underneath Dabi’s panting frame in nothing but a fucked our expression.

You felt him lift his head up, eyes glancing over your puffy closed ones and being able to do nothing more than steal a kiss from your tongue-licked lips. He knows the difference between “fucked-out” you and “genuinely-knocked-out” you, and you knew he knew the difference too. But he acted as if he didn’t.

And before Dabi could pass out on top of your sweaty and sticky frame, words he mumbled into your shoulder nearly burned into your skin. At least, just enough to make your pussy and lips twitch in nothing but contentness.

I crash, you crash. Forever and always.

Sex with Dabi was always the same— sure. It was rough, messy, and painfully over-stimulating, but it was Dabi, and it was more than enough for you.

Your mind was now blank. All you could think about was the feelings of Dabi’s heated fingertips dancing against the confining cotton of your panties. He always had the ability of doing this to you— dumbifying you with nothing but the pads of his fingertips and making you beg for his tongue.

Watching you pant under him nearly made the expressionless man shudder in pleasure. Dabi wasnt a liar, anything and everything he’s ever said being some mangled up verbal example of his brain. He was far from the type to express his feelings, show anything other than smugness and oversuimulation, and dedicate his entire life to another person.

He was far from the type, yet managed to become a perfect example of a significant other who’s life slowly but surely becomes solely to live for another person. The other person in this situation, was you.

You felt him begin to leave swollen bubbles on the outer layer of your skin, legs shaking in a way that brought the two of you out of your racing minds.

His motions stopped, yet hands showed no intention on moving from its current place. He was staring at you intensely - as intensely as he could - to assert his egotistical dominance but you knew the truth.

And as Dabi lowered your frame into the soft, plush white sheets, he realized he knew the truth as well. Your eyes were dazed, irises looking at all of him at the same time as your body swallowed in his touch and he knew. Dabi knows deep down no matter how much taller, bigger, or dominant he ever tried to be, he would worship the ground you walked on with the blink of an eye.

Your hands found his cold cheeks, tongue still stuck to your bottom lip with Dabi’s harsh finger circling the pink muscle. Not a word was said, or per say, not a single word needed to be said. The energy surrounding the one-roomed apartment was enough for the two of them.

Before you, Dabi was known to be something of a martyr. He fooled women, toying with their souls the same way he toyed with their bodies and cried trauma when they threatened to leave. He kept a string on every one he ever fucked, being cautious enough to keep them at the heel of his feet for a fun time when he felt he had enough of you.

Then, he got addicted. He drowned in your drive, finding for the first time in his life some sort of comfort. Your natural warmth, your smile, your understanding— you were someone Dabi would find himself laughing at for thinking they actually existed.

“You’re gonna get tired of me one day,” he bitterly smiled, eyeing you deep into your skull with nothing but sadness laced in an angry distraction, “you’re gonna find some hero and leave me here all on my own.”

He wanted to think he wouldn’t care. If the time where you decided to go back to the better things in life, leave a lowlife villain who wants to destruct the government, and live a rich healthy lifestyle, he knew you didn’t do anything less but deserve it. You were too good for him, better than anyone he’s ever known in his life for as long as he’d live.

With a soft whimper, your hands turned his head from his lowered expression over to your soft eyes. He hated how quick you got him to look at you, and he especially hated how quick you made his breath stop.

“Hey,” you whispered, soft smile still glowing even though you realized he had intentionally lowered his voice as well as his lips from your sight. The vulnerable expression the raven-haired man was trying his hardest to not get you to see brought a rough pang to your chest.

“You crash, I crash. Always.”

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi my hero academia #mha #my hero academia smut #league of villains #dabi lov #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #dabi todoroki #dabi fluff #touya todoroki #my hero academia dabi #mha dabi #dabi league of villains #dabixreader #dabi bnha #todourouki

[whumperooni]

two in the morning and i’m all yours

Pairing: Dabi x Reader

Tags/Warnings: tw toxic relationship, public fingering, drinking and drug mention, degradation, possessive behavior, daddy kink, fingers in moufs, reader is kind of a bimbo, mentions of punishment/trained behavior, drool, slight puking mention (just briefly, nothing graphic and not described in any detail- it’s all in the past)

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: I, uh, have never ridden a train before. But I’ve ridden the subway! So I’m just going to slightly modify the request to subway rather than train;;;; And I skimped out on fucking, but hopefully this is tasty enough to make up for it ♡

✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤✤

Two in the morning and all is quiet.

It’s quiet as Dabi yanks you into the station and it’s quiet as he makes you hop the gate. His snicker when your clumsy, drunken feet stumble over one another is quiet and your whine against his chest is quiet, too.

The terminal is a ghost town as he hauls you through it- empty, dingy, washed over in a sickly green light that makes you feel so disconnected from the world above. It’s like a horror movie, almost, but you couldn’t ever be really scared of a vaguely spooky subway station- you face actual horrors in your life every day; you’ve got crooks for friends, bloodthirsty debtors haunting your every step, ravenous heroes looking to snatch you up just to get to the League, and a monster for a boyfriend.

All that is much, much scarier than any silly subway station.

And Dabi is the scariest of it all- thrilling, frightening, vicious, nasty.

A hum slips from you- dazed and faint- and you twine your fingers through Dabi’s, smile sleepily when his hand holds yours tight.

You like the way he holds your hand as if he’s terrified you’ll try to run away from him. You like how he crushes your palm and squishes your fingers together until they’re aching for a good few hours after. It feels like you’re precious somehow- though you know it’s a twisted way to be treated.

He just wants to keep you his is all. He just wants to make sure you won’t- can’t- ever leave him.

Not that you want to. Not that the thought of doing so could ever enter your giddy, empty head.

Dabi pulls you into a car and you giggle when he yanks you to sit down on his lap, curl your fingers into shirt and peer around curiously. It’s empty in here- just like the station- and your fuzzy mind can’t help but wonder if you really did happen to stumble upon a ghost town.

Ghost town? Ghost station? Ghost subway? Ghost...

Oh, whatever.

Another giggle as Dabi grips your waist and you smile up at him- eyes so heavy and cheeks flushed, your lashes fluttering as he digs his thumbs into deep circles along your hips.

“Are we goin’ back to the hideout?”

Slurred, a little whiny- Dabi huffs at the question and his grip on you tightens as he pulls you closer. You can’t help a small shiver when his hands wander lower and you pout when he huffs again, when he moves a hand away to take his cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

“Where the fuck else would we be goin’?”

You don’t know- a hotel? Another party? Some isolated little house to break into and sleep the night away?

A shrug from you and Dabi clicks his tongue, snaps his fingers and lights his cigarette with a pretty blue flame. He takes a draw and breathes smoke out into your face and he laughs when you whine, when you squirm on his lap.

"Dabi, you're so mean."

"Oh, I'm mean now? You didn't think I was so mean earlier when I was bashin' in that fucker's face for ya."

Your cheeks flare at the memory and Dabi sneers whenever you bite your lip- gloating, smug, undeniably arrogant over the way your muddy eyes get just that much more hazy at the recollection.

It was some perv- some handsy guy with too much coke up his nose, too much whiskey in his system. He had cornered you when Dabi had went to the bathroom, had grabbed onto you and laughed at your stuttered panic, had tried to run his hands up your skirt. He’d been dumb enough not to keep an eye out for Dabi and god when Dabi had come to find you, he had melted that jerk’s face with a flaming punch.

You can still smell the stink of burning skin. You can still feel the ache in your wrist when Dabi had squeezed onto it tight with a snarl.

A shiver runs through you and you squirm on Dabi’s lap, swallow and dig your teeth deeper into your lip when he runs those piercing eyes of his over you.

“You know, princess,” he drawls, “you never thanked me for that.”

You didn’t? You could have sworn you had...

“I- I’m sorry, Dabi,” you mumble- meek, genuinely apologetic and genuinely upset that you weren’t a good little girl that had thanked him like you should have. “Thank you, Dabi. Thank you for savin’ me.”

A snort, something smug in his eyes, and Dabi takes a draw of his cigarette, blows the smoke out through his nose. You’d almost giggle at it if it weren’t for the way his fingers dig deep enough into your skin that you’re left whimpering instead.

“You’re losin’ those good manners of yours, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Am I gonna have to teach you a lesson?”

A- a lesson? Oh, no no no- not a lesson.

Dabi’s lessons are so cruel. Making you kneel on concrete with a bar of soap jammed in your mouth until you’re sobbing and gagging, puking up bile. Spanking you with a flaming hand until you can’t sit down for a good month. Fucking you in the bar right in front of the League, making you cry out your sins while they watch him scorch his palm prints into your waist.

They’re so cruel.

But you never forget your lessons. You’re always so good after them- so well behaved for him.

Another whimper and you shake your head quickly, get your drunken mind spinning from the desperation. You press up against him and you curl your fingers tight into his shirt, try and fail to keep your lips from wobbling and your eyes from glistening.

“N- no, daddy, please,” you whine, plead. “I- I’m a good girl. I’m sorry- I promise!”

Dabi scoffs, cigarette bobbing in his mouth, and he runs his hand down to your thigh, pushes it up until he can poke his spindly fingers against your panties.

“Yeah? Then why the fuck are you so wet?”

Wet? You’re...are you really wet?

Your eyes widen and you’re left gasping whenever he nudges your panties to the side, when a skinny digit runs along your slit.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he sneers. “What kinda good girl is this fuckin’ drenched on the subway?”

“D- Daddy-”

Fingers plunge into your mouth and your words get cut off in a gurgle, a garbled whine slips from you as they push down on your tongue, as his rings scrape against the roof of your mouth, as you taste yourself.

Oh- oh you really are wet.

A whimper trembles out around his digits and Dabi’s sneer grows as he plunges his fingers deeper into your mouth.

“Such a little slut,” he mocks. “A bad little girl with a sopping little cunt.”

No! No! You’re not bad! You’re not!

Tears well up in your eyes and drench your lashes faster than they usually do- how can they not when you’re drunk and ashamed? How can they not when Dabi’s fingers jam down so deep in your throat that his knuckles are past your teeth?

You gag- still trying to plead even as you do- and Dabi takes a draw from his cigarette, stabs it out on the empty seat next to him without even looking.

“Oh, baby, you’re just so fuckin’ hopeless, aren’t ya?” he taunts- so sickly fake with his sympathy, with the hollow sweetness in his voice. “You can’t help it, huh? Can’t help being wet for daddy.”

No, you can’t help it. You really, really can’t. Not with the way he’s practically trained you to need him. Not with the way he has you so tightly wrapped around his finger.

You whimper, again, as you try to shake your head and you make yourself gag even harder as you do, make yourself drip tears all down your cheeks and onto your lap.

“Da- Da- Daddy...”

It’s so garbled and pathetic, so hopelessly pitiful. Dabi’s eyes go half-shut as you try to gurgle out your drunken apologies and he clicks his tongue as drool drips down his wrist.

“Messy little skank,” he huffs- this time truly fond in his own rough way. That makes it better, a little, and you sniffle whenever he pulls his fingers from your mouth, cough and spill spit all over you as you try to catch your breath.

Dabi dips his drool drenched fingers under your skirt and you gasp, mewl as they plunge into your cunt, moan so loud it echoes through the empty car whenever he curls his digits deep inside of you.

“Daddy, please!”

A snort, a scoff- Dabi’s lips twist into a smirk right as his wrist does and you collapse against his chest, tremble with a little sob.

“Oh, angel,” he hums, “are you begging me to fuck ya right here? On the subway? Where anyone could get on and see you creaming on my cock?”

Yes? No? You don’t know.

It’s so hard to think with the liquor in your veins. It’s so hard to think with the way his fingers brush against your sweet spot with each curl, each pump he gives them.

It’s so hard to think when Dabi’s disciplined you to go absolutely dumb at just the simplest of touches.

You whimper and a hot huff of air brushes against your cheek, his free hand reaches until he can grab you by the hair, yank your head back until you’re forced to look at him through your bleary eyes.

“I asked you a question, princess,” he drawls- words sharp with a threat, eyes narrowing as you whimper once more.

“I- I- Daddy, I’m sorry...”

Slurred, stupid- at least it has his face flickering into something amused. His fingers still curl tighter in your hair, though, and you sniffle as your cunt clenches around him, as your hips try to stutter against his hand.

“Daddy, please! I want- I want it...”

Dabi snorts and you whine as his fingers slip from you, as he brings them up to his lips and gives them a lick. They’re so shiny even in the dingy light of the subway and seeing those glossy digits has your pussy throbbing, your cheeks flaring, a whimpering mewl crawling out from your throat.

“‘Course you want it,” he drawls, swiping his fingers down your shirt. “But you ain’t going to get it.”

What? But that’s not fair!

Your mouth flies open and tears drip down your cheeks as you try to protest, but Dabi grabs onto your jaw before you can speak so much as a word and he squeezes your face tight, sneers at the squeak that leaves you.

“Maybe at the hideout,” he taunts. “Maybe if you’re a good little girl and show me how thankful you are that I didn’t let that asshole fuck your dumb ass.”

He would have- he wouldn’t have...would he?

A sob from you and Dabi huffs, something softens in his expressions as you warble out a “no, please, ‘m yours” to him in a drunken, pleading whimper. A click of his tongue and his grip on your face loosens before he gives your cheek a wet little smack, before he rolls his eyes at you.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles. “As if I’d let anyone fuck my girl.”

His girl...his girl. That’s right- you’re his girl.

You sniffle, still tangled up in your upset, and Dabi clicks his tongue again before shaking his head.

“So pathetic,” he snorts. “Fuckin’ dumb, pretty thing.”

This time when you whimper it’s misty eyed and pleased, full of undying need and accompanied by trembling lips, a rock of your hips. Dabi scoffs, softly, and his hands grip your waist, force you to stillness.

“Be good for daddy,” he tells you- orders you. “Or you won’t get fuckin’ nothin’ but a whuppin’ when we get home.”

You don’t- you don’t want a whuppin’. You can be good.

Sniffling once more, you nod and rest yourself against his chest, nuzzle into his neck with a shuddering little mewl.

“I’ll be good, daddy,” you promise- soft, sincere, words just whiny enough to make him huff. “I promise.”

“That’s my girl.”

A snap of fingers, a deep inhale, the scent of a freshly lit cigarette. You melt into Dabi as he smokes and you close your eyes, let yourself be rocked into something content and almost peaceful by the gentle swaying of the subway car- a smile on your lips and tears drying on your cheeks, your cunt throbbing with more and more need with each passing stop.

#dabi x reader #rooni's shit #guh guh why are titles so damn hard

[nightfall-kachiniko]

“A Broken Promise.” Mikasa x Reader Fan fiction.

||| Chapter 2. “To Conclude “ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ! :D

Tw: panic attack, swearing.

Your eyes woken as the noise of the flying boat continues. “I guess it wasn’t a dream” you thought to yourself. The missing aroma of your girlfriend had lingered in the air from the moment you woke up. Missing her sweet smell as she would cradle you in her arms. Now the bed you both had once shared only laid your body in it. The woman you saw yesterday was no more than Mikasa Ackerman, she was a stranger. Only if she knew.

You sat up as you began looking around the room you made various memories in. Even if the amount of time the both of you had spent together in that airship was small, it still counts as something you’d treasure forever.

You were alone. So alone. The feeling of emptiness running through your head to your toes as you sat up. The soft welcoming bed had turned to a gravestone. And although she’d been acting this way since the rumbling started, despite her caring attitude the woman became vicious towards the person she calls her lover. And for the first time last night, it truly hit you, right as the stung sprang across your face, You’ve Lost The Love Of Your Life, Mikasa Ackerman.

You always had that feeling of doubt ever since she started acting this way, but the thought of you losing her was pushed to the back of your mind by the blindness they call love.

Memories faded from one thought to another as you threw on your uniform, locking your bedroom door as you did so. Thinking of her was your comfort, thinking of Mikasa, not the monster that was replaced by her yesterday.

Your body carelessly dragged itself to the bathroom, your feet walking in a drowsy manner. Picking up the toothbrush and gliding it across your teeth as the mint feeling filled your dry mouth. The number of sobs that had come out of your mouth that night would always leave an impact on you. You looked up at the person in the mirror, trying to recognize the figure you saw. “FUCK!” you yelled, kicking over your trashcan.

Your heavy pants coming in and out of your body. You sighed as you leaned on your counter, turning on one sink to wash your tear-stained face. You didn't even want to eat, you didn't want to do anything. That's all she treated you as if you were some stranger! As if you were a no-one to her. “JUST LOOK WHAT WE BECAME!” you screamed at yourself. Tears falling down your cheeks as you started to sob to yourself.

Falling to the cold floor as the day before haunts you. The look in her eyes... of pure hate, pure anger. Curling up into a ball as a sound on your door softly hushed you. “Wait, ” you said, getting up. You came out of the bathroom and made your way towards your door. “Who? And what is it.” The voice of your own spoke ever so softly, so calmly, almost as if you were numb. “Hey y/n, I just wanted to check on you and see how you were doing,” Armin said, quietly trying to help.

You breathed in slightly and out before opening the door to be greeted by a warm, tight, hug from your childhood friend. The feeling started to come up again, throughout your throat and the prickles in your eyes. You softly cried into his shoulder, hurt coming out with every breath. “Honey I’m so sorry..” He said, petting your hair as he closed the door, guiding you over to the bed to sit down.

“I know how you feel..” he breathed into your hair. “I-I just don’t get it.. Why is she acting like this… what did I do..” you sobbed. The blonde boy softly shushed you as he pecked your cheek with a small kiss. Armins way of comfort is different than others.

Ever since you had met him, eren, and mikasa, in hard times like this such as after Carla Jeager died, he would always comfort them by pecking their cheek, showing them that he is here for them. His grandpa always told him, “if someone’s sad, always give them a kiss to make them happy,” and the boy had followed his orders ever since. It wasn’t like he meant it in a romantic way, it was more of a, “hey, don’t cry I’m here, it’s gonna be okay,” kind of thing. Everyone used to call him weird for it, but you and Eren and Mikasa truly didn’t mind and knew he meant no harm in it.

“It’s going to be ok,” he said, softly trying to help you control your hyper ventilating cries.  He guiding you to sit down as he hugged your sadden body. “Does she h-hate me?” You asked over your cries. “Of course not y/n.. don’t think that…” he comforted.

“W-what did I do wrong?!” Your voice strained and cracked as your crying became more and more heavy.“Nothing y/n… not a thing..” Armin padded your back and brushed your hair as you cried into his shoulder, ”You know.. Mikasa hasn’t been doing all to well.. ever since Eren abandoned us.. she felt so lost.. as if he gave up in us..”

“Does she give up on me?! Is that it?” Tearing eyes looked at him in his own. He paused for a moment in shock, before taking a reassuring smile on his face, “no of course not! Mikasa just, she doesn’t know how to let out her emotions properly.. that’s all.”

“So she had to hit me?!” You said. Armin sighed and looked away. “Mikasa, just.. she.. she’s hurt.. but that gives her no right to take it out on you y/n.. I’m sorry she did that to you.” He rubbed his head against yours almost like a dog trying to comfort their owner. “There’s no doubt in my mind she doesn’t love you, alright?” He said, shaking my shoulders. You just melted into his arms, absorbing the only person who was there for you.

The kindness that Armin showed you made you slip back deep into thought, deep into that moment….deep back to when..

“M-Mikasa..” You came out of the bathroom, your body shaking and your breath heavy. Your girlfriend sat on the bed, reading a book when you came out. Her gaze turning from the book to you. Mikasas eyes became filled with worry while seeing your body shake with every breath you took. “Sweetheart? Baby is everything okay?” She closed her book and sat up straight, looking at you.. Your breath quivered. It felt as though the world was spinning. Your eyes became filled with blurry ness every time you blinked and eventually you slid down the wall.

“Y/n!” You heard Mikasas voice scream. Everything around you was so distorted. Stress and fear overcame you as you began crying, scared of what was happening. You heavily sobbed as mikasa wrapped her strong arms around you, her soft sweet voice comforting you. “It’s okay sweetheart… everything’s gonna be okay,” she rocked you, while whispering little affirmations of hope, letting you know you’re going to be okay.

Your body shook with every ounce of a energy it had. You frantically cried, the overwhelmingness of the panic attack you were having flooded your mind with thoughts of your past. The days were it was like there was nothing left. It felt as though you were dying. “I’m right here my sweet angel.. Shh..it’s alright my baby..” your girlfriend said, trying to comfort you.

Your tears becoming more and more hysterical as you cried. The raven haired girl held you for what seemed like an eternity. The blurry vision eventually died down aswell as the ringing in your ears. For a moment, Mikasa’s arms let go of you. And once you felt her right up close to you again, a feeling of steady ness swept over you as a blanket of warmth slept over your neck. The red scarf. Just as you felt the wrath of calmness come over your body, the sweet girl said.. “You’ll never be alone.. I promise.. I’ll always protect you.. forever and always..”

“Let me get you some breakfast, alright y/n?” You snapped back into reality as Armins voice entered your ears. The vision of mikasa disappearing as he spoke. Your mind trailed as you gave him a small nod, wiping your tears.

Armin gave you one last big hug before getting up. “What would you like to eat y/n?” He questioned. “I can make you some eggs? Maybe some bacon aswell?” The blonde stood looking at your still trembling figure. You softly took a breath in and tried to smile.

“Y-yeah.. that sounds great A-armin..” tears still in your eyes as you tried to give him a reassuring smile, stuttering, holding back your tears. Armin returned the smile with one of his own.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes alrighty Y/n?” Armin spoke. You softly nodded as he made his way to the door.

“Oh, and Armin,” you said to him. The kind Blonde boy turned around in the doorway, his gaze at you as he looked at you from over his shoulder. “Yes y/n?” He asked.

You got up, searching your messy bed. You moved pillows and blankets out the way before you finally gripped onto the item. You held it out infront of you as Armin gasped.

There in your sweet, delicate hands, laid mikasa’s red scarf. The same heartwarming piece she would wrap you in. Despite if you were happy or sad. Her scarf gave you meaning. To her, it reminded her of how Eren showed her how to live, but to you It reminded yourself of how she showed you how to live.

She always was there.

She always was caring.

She always was showing you how much she loved you.

Even if she never exactly showed it much, you always knew Mikasa loved you. Even if she yelled at you. Even if she hit you. Even if she said she hated you.

You nodded, persuading Armin to take the red scarf. “Give this to her,” you said, calmly.

Armins eyes widened, “y/n.. you- you arent serious are you?” He said, concerned with worry in his tone. “Not at all.” You replied, your numb spirit talking. His eyes looked at you and then the Burgundy scarf.

“Are- are you guys.. d-done?” Armin asked, ever so anxious.

“Yes.. yes we are.”

A/n: “ I hope you guys cried LMAO”

➪ Kachiniko ||♡︎ My Blog ♥︎ || ☾What I write ☽ 06/10/21

Chap. 1 “Come back to me”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#aot #attackontitan #aot4 #ackerman #mikasa #mikasa x reader #attack on titan #mikasa aot #shingeki no kyojin mikasa #mikasa headcanons #mikasa snk #mikasaackerman #mikasa akerman #mikasa icons #eren #mikasa x eren #erenxreader #eren x mikasa #erenjeager #erenyeager #armin art left #armin attack on titan #armin x reader #armin snk #armin alert #armin #mikasa angst #Mikasa x reader angst #mikasa x reader fluff

[author-morgan]

Would you please write some more Havi&Frigg? I adore these two, in mytology when I read about them I always think their relationship is so beautiful, so lively. 😊😁

here you are! sorry for the long wait, but i hope you enjoy it! ♥ plot idea from late-night convos with @angstygunslinger

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

THE KING OF the Æsir has many battles beneath his belt from the passing millennia. His victories too numerous to count. But there is one victory he has not been able to claim in all his years —for all his efforts, Havi has never been able to best his sweet Frigg. He claims you use the gift of foresight bestowed by the Nornir to stay one step ahead of him —a kinder way to say you cheat to win against him in physical battles and those of wit. This day is no different. Staring down the length of the training staff pressed into his gut, Havi’s gaze flicks up to meet yours, already accusing. “My queen resorts to trickery,” he notes as he rises. Huginn squawks his agreement from the right arm of his throne. Muninn only keeps a watchful eye trained on the contest.

“My love for you is no trick, dear Havi,” you refute, taking a step toward your husband, letting the training staff fall from your grasp. He follows your movements, moving closer to his queen when you lift a hand to his scarred cheek, smiling. Havi leans into the gentle touch, lips parting to exhale softly. Your fingers trail along his jaw —brushing through his golden beard, up along the scar cutting across his cheek, and further to the eyelid that droops shut, hiding the empty cavity where an eye had once been. A sacrifice for knowledge. Lips twisting into a smile, you lean into him, placing a chaste kiss upon his unmarred cheek. “Perhaps your misjudgment has something to do with your forfeited eye,” you quip.

Havi shakes his head, disguising his laughter as false annoyance. “Sweet Frigg,” he chides, arms moving to encircle your waist. Since returning from Jötunheim, he’s been subjected to his queen’s endless taunts and jests for weeks.

Twining your arms around his neck, the corner of your lips quirk upward —a confident smirk and a look Havi is unaccustomed to seeing grace your fair features. There’s a glint in your eyes, too, reminiscent of one of Loki’s impish looks. “I do not need foresight to best you,” you tell him.

“No?” Havi challenges with one of his brows raised.

Your smile softens, hands slipping down to feel the planes of his chest through his rough spun tunic. “I know you, my love.” Havi hangs off your every word; he knows it’s true, though —there are millions of souls in the Nine Realms, and none save his sweet Frigg truly knows him. “And that makes you predictable.” He lets out a long sigh, silenced when you brush your lips against his, but pulling away too quickly for him to return the kiss in earnest. “Come,” you breathe, stepping out of his loose embrace, “walk with me, dear Havi, let us not dwell on your loss.” The king of the Æsir offers the crook of his arm, willing to follow his queen to the very end.

PUSHING OUT OF a stalemate, you run the edge of your sword across a Dane’s throat, deflecting another blow with the steel gauntlet wrapped around your forearm —steadily moving across the field toward their leader, Eivor Wolfsmal, carving a path of blood and bone. With a cry, you level your blade and seek to end the battle with a fell swoop —he catches the blade against his bearded axe, teeth bared and blood streaking his face, eyes burning with the fires of Muspelheim.

The impasse stands, neither of you unable to move against the other and a fleeting moment when your eyes meet is all it takes. You stand high above the Nine Realms, training staff in hand, circling the man before you. The grip you have on your sword’s hilt falters. She smiles, dancing around him with grace, blocking his blows and dealing them out just as quickly. His axe slips from his hand, his shield lowering.

“Frigg,” Eivor breathes. The whispered name strikes something deep within you —the revelation forces the two of you apart, weapons falling to the muddy earth. Eivor’s gaze softens, his face contorting as he takes a step closer, disbelieving. “No!” He shouts, but it is too late —the lance of a great two-handed axe meets your temple, and with speckled vision, you fall into darkness.

“EIVOR!” DAG SHOUTS, standing over an unmoving figure on the field of battle. “What about this one?” Eivor steps next to him, looking down at you —face a mess of blood and dirt with a long cut running across your thigh, still seeping blood. He crouches down, slipping his hand below your neck to cradle the back of your head, as though he’s holding a lover. Just the brush of your skin against his sets him alight and brings memories that do not belong to him flashing across his mind. A smile, a kiss, sitting next to his sweet Frigg at the head of the table overseeing a bountiful feast.

Weary, you open your eyes, feeling the cool rain wash over you. You glance around the battlefield, strewn with the corpses of your people and those of the Danes and Norse, and then to the man tenderly holding your head. Their leader —a haunting reminder of the dreams that’d plagued you since childhood. We fought, and neither of us could deal a final blow. “Who are you?” Eivor asks.

“No one,” you answer. He frowns, knowing it is a lie. There is something about you he cannot explain. Eivor knows you. He knows your face, the whisper of your voice, the gentle brush of your fingers against his cheek, and yet, you are but a stranger to him.

Deciding what it is he must do, Eivor slides his arms under your knees and around your shoulders, hefting you up from the muddy ground. The protests on your lips remain unvoiced. Laughing. A hall filled with joyous cries as your dear Havi lifts you into his arms with the same giddiness as the night you wed. When your eyes meet once again, you both look away, quickly. Overwhelmed by a strange swell of relief —as though long-departed lovers are reunited. “Take her to my tent” —he passes you to Dag— “I will tend her wounds.”

With great effort, you strip away your armor, discarding it in a pile —if Eivor Wolfsmal meant to kill you, he’d have done so already. You remain mostly unscathed, save for the throbbing cut on your thigh. It is not deep enough to warrant stitching, nor does it bleed heavily enough to need the cleansing touch of fire. Tearing a strip of linen from the hem of your tunic, you bind the wound, awaiting whatever cruel fate lies ahead.

When Eivor returns, he comes with a basin of water and several long strips of clean linen. He kneels at your side, wordlessly, peeling away your poor excuse for a bandage and the split wool of your breeches. You watch him, see his brows furrow in concentration as he dips a rag into the water, wiping the muck and blood away with a gentleness unbecoming of the berserker you witnessed in the heat of battle. “Why are you helping me?” You ask, wincing when he presses down on the cut.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Eivor says —a tinge of amusement in his voice— his gaze flitting up from your thigh. After a pause, he speaks again, answering your question but creating several more. “You remind me of someone I know” —he ties a knot in the linen— “or rather knew.” Eivor scrubs his hands in the tainted water, sitting back on his haunches. He looks over you, curious, replaying what happened when your blades locked in battle, and the memories he’s seen, vivid as a waking dream.

Your breath catches when your eyes meet his, clear and nigh cold —reassured and frightened to know he had seen the same thing you had. “Who?” It’s a foolish question. You know who it is he’s reminded of. You, or rather Frigg. Why else would he glimpse you as though he’s seen a ghost?

He shakes his head, running his hand down his face and through his golden beard, still tinted with blood. “I’m not sure,” Eivor answers.

Biting down on your lip, you glance through the crack in the tent’s opening, heart hammering in your chest as ravens croak and squawk over a feast of flesh. “Havi.” It’s a whisper so faint Eivor barely hears it.

His eyes widen, lips parting in surprise —his heart thuds loudly in his ears. “How do you know that name?” He asks. The shock of hearing one of Odinn’s names amplified by your standing as a Saxon warrior.

An ephemeral smile crosses your lips —there and gone in a heartbeat— as you think about sweet Frigg and dear Havi. “I hear it in my dreams,” you admit. “It belongs to a man who looks like you.” Eivor is the image of Havi. His clear blue eyes are the same, as is his golden hair and the scar running across his cheek. The only distinction is Eivor has a mottled patch of skin on his neck, and Havi is missing an eye. “Only he has one eye.”

Eivor lets you a shaky breath. He’d spoke of these dreams to Valka —her cryptic response had made him uneasy, but that feeling pales in comparison to now —he has Frigg sitting before him. He cannot run from the gods’ plans any longer. “Fate has brought us together for a reason.” You don’t doubt it. A lifetime of praying to a Christian god, and yet it has always been the ways of the Danes and Norse that called to your soul the most.

“I know you saw what I did when we crossed blades,” you tell him, holding his gaze. Eivor’s shoulders fall. He wants to think of you as a stranger, but it feels as though he’s finally found something —a piece of him he hadn’t even known was missing until he looked over steel and iron and into your eyes. “You called me Frigg.”

He swallows the knot in his throat. Havi and Frigg —the High-One and his queen. “We were bound in another life,” Eivor tells you, there’s no uncertainty in his voice, and you do not doubt him. He moves closer to you, albeit unwittingly, and you do not shy away. You had not been afraid of him on the field of battle; you would not be now either. “Come with me” —he offers his hand— “I know someone who can help answer our questions.”

You slip your hand in his as Eivor begins to rise, helping you up to your feet. He frowns at the grimace twisting your expression —your leg pained you more than you let on. Eivor steadies you by the waist, and for a moment, the world outside the canvas tent vanishes. Instead of the edge of a battlefield, you are high above Asgard and all the Nine Realms. You lean into him, breath catching when he leans in too.

The tickle of his beard against your cheek is warning enough for you to pull back, but you don’t. Eivor’s lips brush yours, hesitant at first until he remembers you are his Frigg and, he, your Havi. It is just as sweet and soft as you knew him to be. You both part with a sigh, foreheads resting together. A smile twists your lips when you reach up, following the scar on his —fingers combing through his beard. After a millennium, you’d finally found each other.

Eivor gestures to the cot, knowing he must speak to his allies and men, and you need time to recover your strength. “Rest, sweet Frigg,” he says, lips brushing against your temple before stepping back and out of the tent. In his place remains a raven with dark, beady eyes watching over you as Huginn and Muninn once had.

[taglist:  @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelae @darkravenqueen98 ] if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!

#Eivor #Eivor Wolfsmal #Eivor x Reader #m!Eivor #m!Eivor x Reader #male Eivor #male Eivor x Reader #Eivor Imagine #Eivor Fanfiction #Havi #Havi x Reader #Havi x Frigg #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing #requested #elizabethroestone #ps if you guys dont like this font ill change this story and my last two back to the regular #just playing around with the new post editor on here

[flowerwrites06]

crying petals — pjm

Plot: Jimins’ roommate confesses to him. 

Pairing(s): Jimin x OC (Name: Gaia)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 7k+

Genre: Roommate AU

Tags & Warnings: angst, suppressing feelings, explicit smut 

Authors Note: forgot to repost this lol 

Letting herself drown into a pool, throat suffocating with flowers and her mind swirling with uncontrollable jolts of need was never healthy. Even his scent as it lingered in the air, a strange mixture of cotton and vanilla began to haunt her in dreams as well in real life. It wasn’t healthy in the slightest.

Gaia tried to focus on her paintings, long hours spent staining her fingers and filling up canvas. All of them sketches of stupid plump lips and striking eyes that sucked you in. Lured you like a sailor to a siren. So she stopped painting people but then she made cotton plants, vanilla flowers and warm rays of sunshine gleaming down on them. A defeated sigh passed her lips, a curly tress escaping from her loose ponytail and hanging over her head.

“Pretty.” The raspy voice startled her for a moment but Gaia became far too good at hiding the way her heart jumped whenever he was near.

Jimin raked his fingers through his raven black hair and relaxed onto the couch next to her. “I like cotton flowers.” He leaned forward to take a closer look at the work.

“I know.” Gaia smiled faintly. Even as a metaphor, the painting looked so damn obvious.

“Is this my secret gift?”

She scoffed in a mocking tone. “Excuse me, this is for sale.”

Jimin parted his lips, feigning shock. “You’d make me pay for your artwork?”

Gaia hummed in response, a small cheeky glint in her eye. “Every cent.”

“That’s mean.”

“Tough luck, I need money.”

Jimin scoffed throwing his head back against the back of the couch with a wide grin unable to wipe off his face.

This was the most relaxed they ever were. In the rush of Gaia going to the gallery or Jimin rushing off to the agency, hardly any time saved up for them to just sit here in comfortable silence. Maybe this was a good time to tell him. Or the worst time ever if things went southward.

When was it ever a good time?

“Hey, Jimin?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something.”

Jimin turned his head a little but could only see half of her face so he simply admired the gorgeous curls tied in a ribbon behind her. “What is it?”

“Do—do you want to know the meaning of this painting?” Her stomach twisted, a confusing mix of excitement and anxiousness bubbling up inside her. Gaia wanted to turn back somehow. Change the meaning to make it lighthearted. But it was out now, her body and mind knew it. There was no turning back.

He sat up now keeping his eyes on the girl’s expression. “What’s the meaning?”

Her fingers hovered over the drying artwork, heart racing against her ribcages as she mulled over her words. “It’s us.”

“The flowers?”

“You like cotton flowers…I like vanilla flowers. It’s—us together under the sun.”

“That’s cute.” Jimin smiled down at the painting with a new found admiration.

Gaia stammered a little before attempting to give him a smile. God, why was this so hard?

“What’s wrong?” He tilted his head.

“I don’t know how to tell you.” She chuckled nervously. How was it still so nerve-wracking speaking to the man when he already knew so many of her other secrets? “The—the vanilla flower likes having cotton flower with it.”

“Right…”

Gaia sighed in defeat knowing the metaphors would stop making sense if she continued. “I like you, Jimin.”

Jimins’ expression softened, the smile fading into one more faint but true. “I like you too.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Her breathing grew ragged and shallow at this point, fingers trembling on her lap while her knees melted into jelly. Gaia wondered how much worse her body would react if she was looking right at him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Her heart pounded so hard, she worried her ribs might crack.

“Uh—” Jimin scratched the back of his head. “How—how long?”

“I don’t know…” Gaia raised her shoulders a little, glancing at the painting again. “…a couple of years.”

“Coup­l—” Jimin’s voice almost raised but he silenced himself quickly, resting back on the couch now. “…okay.” He lets out a deep breath. “Uhm…”

Silence drawled between them longer than Gaia could truly take. She shifted on the couch, desperately wanting to look over at the male and see what his reaction was but—she couldn’t move. It was like one of her dreams again. She just sat there and felt the cotton reach up to her neck, suffocating her until the girl smiled before drowning. But this felt different. Gaia didn’t feel like smiling, this was terrifying and her body kept burning.

Gaia finally looked over her shoulder and searched his expression. As she feared, it was so damn unreadable, she wanted to look back again but she stayed. And then she spoke. “Jimin?”

“Yeah…” Jimin whispered harshly, shaking his head. “No, yeah—I uh—…” He cleared his throat as he shifted to the edge of the couch. “I need to go for a minute, okay?”

Before Gaia took a breath to speak, he pushed himself off the couch and walked away to his bedroom. “O-okay.” She nodded mostly to herself.

-

Gaia expected a lot of things out of their last conversation. In a perfect world, maybe some acceptance but realistically she at least thought Jimin might just reject her gently. So what did she get in the next two weeks?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Jimin stopped talking to her. Every morning he would drape on his denim jacket and rush out of the apartment without giving her a sideways glance. At night, Gaia would hear him come in without calling her name out to ensure it was him and not a burglar. Sometimes she heard other voices trailing all the way into the bedroom, giggling and moaning.

A tight ball squeezed in the middle of her ribcages as she slept. Deep into her dreams again, body lying in a bed of cotton flowers as they travel down and choke her. A part of Gaia wanted to scream for help, lash out for some kind of help but in the end, she just happily drowned in the cotton flowers like it was a warm blanket.

It was no way to live but she did it anyway.

Another morning, Gaia woke up scratching her eyes lightly to keep herself awake. She noticed from the corner of her eye Jimin saying his goodbye to someone he had the night before. The middle of her ribcages ached again as he gave her one small glance before walking back to the bedroom.

She wasn’t a bad person for telling him, right? Did she make it sound terrifying by using her paintings? Did Jimin think she was some kind of psychotic artist desperately wanting his love?

The thoughts both scared and angered her.

Jimin had no right treating her in this manner when Gaia hadn’t demanded him to do anything. She just spewed her feelings to man she thought she could trust.

How long did he expect them to live in silence?

Another night fell and much to Gaia’s relief, Jimin walked into the apartment without anyone under his arm. She stood at the kitchen counter drinking some lavender tea to aid in some better dreams tonight.

“Jimin?”

He hummed briefly, pushing his shoes off without looking over at her.

“Can we talk…please?” Gaia attempted to keep her voice calm but there was a part of her that felt his behavior was uncalled for. Except she felt too selfish to say it out loud.

Jimin let out a deep almost exasperated sigh before walking to the kitchen island, still in his denim jacket, trying his best to look like he wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. “What did you want to talk about?”

Gaia let out a light scoff at the blank look in his eyes when he met her gaze. “Why’re you acting like this?”

“Acting like what?”

“Distant and…” Her eyes flickered up and down his body as if trying to find some kind of shift that indicated this was a farce. “…cold. I—I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I just need some space.” Jimin answered plainly, barely even opening his mouth to speak as he shrugged off his jacket.

“I understand that but—could you at least say something about it?”

“About what?”

“Is there nothing you have to say after that day?” She shook her head.

“You said you had feelings for a couple of years.” Jimin shrugged, looking down at the cotton plants in a vase. “What do you want me to say to that?”

“It’s not what I want but how you feel about it.”

He scoffed immediately, bitter smile plastered on his face. “How I feel? Now you’re thinking about how I feel?”

“What—”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before spewing all that crap about flowers, hm?” Jimin walked away from the kitchen island towards her.

“I-I didn’t know how else to explain it, I’m sorry.” Gaia placed the teacup on the counter behind her. It wasn’t going to do much good with how much her hands were shaking.

“No I’m sorry because it’s clear I’m the bad guy for not giving you some kind consolation because you like me.” His usual sweet demeanor twisted when he seethed right at her.

“Jimin, you don’t have—”

“No no you want me to say something, I am now.” Jimin stomped closer until he towered over her. “How’d you imagine it, huh? I’d get all soft and tell you I feel the same way? I’d hold you and tell you I’ve always felt that way? Hm?” Hands wrapped around her arms, squeezing a little.

Faces stood inches closer to one another, the smell of cotton thick in her nostrils almost making it hard to breathe as her eyes watered. “Jimin, let go…”

“No this is what you wanted, right?” He muttered, moving his hands and cupping both her cheeks to make her meet his gaze.

Before she tried to take another dry breath, she felt his lips press against her. The cotton scent stuck in her throat, suffocating her as it always does. But she wasn’t happy. His lips were unmoving, just pressing like a robot. Light sobs shook out of her as she pushed him away until he almost stumbled against the kitchen island with a small grunt.

“I just wanted you to reassure me! That we were still going to be friends!” Gaias’ shakily shrieked before a light cough passed through her. “That maybe it was normal for me to feel like this and I wasn’t insane but—” She closed her eyes, averting her gaze feeling a light ache on her lips. “You don’t even care as a friend, do you?” Gaia quickly wrapped her arms around herself, gripping onto her own skin to stop her hands from shaking. “I’m so stupid.”

Jimin felt his mind numbing as his actions rushed back to him like a slap on the face. A soft tinge under his palm and on his lips, fingers gripping at the edge of the kitchen island. This was all wrong. He made it all wrong. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he spoke. “Gaia…I’m—I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Something squeezed painfully inside his chest. “It does matter.”

“Stop—pretending to care.” She whispered. “I’m sorry I even brought it up.” Gaia rushed back to her bedroom leaving her lavender tea cold and forgotten.

For the first time, she dreamt of a burning cotton field.

-

A couple of mornings past and Gaia began to drown herself into coffee, drowning in the scent of beans to somehow mask the cotton. She sat at the dining table as the sun reflected brightly through the open curtains. One knee to her chest while she scrolled through apartment listings. Part of her thought it was far too dramatic to be leaving the house she grew so comfortable in but she also didn’t want have a thick sense of tension around her every time she was inside here.

Some of them looked decent, colours similar to this one which helped make it seem more homely. However the prices on the other hand did not speak the same welcoming tone. The rent for this apartment was high enough, having to split it with Jimin. The very reason why they opted to get a good one together.

In a way, it burned her with anger even more seeing that Gaia had to be slightly dependent on the man who she thought was her friend. She heard footsteps coming up behind her but immediately ignored putting the cup of coffee near her taking a sip.

“What’re you looking at?” Jimin asked in a somewhat friendly voice.

She hated it. Not even a week ago, he almost scared her with how bitter and angry he was now he wanted to be gentle. “Apartment listings.” Gaia replied simply.

He left a small silence between them before speaking again. “Why?”

“It’s getting stuffy in here.”

“Then open a window.”

Gaia glared over her shoulder. “Did you need something?”

“I was just making conversation.” Jimin mumbled, playing with his fingers a little.

“Make it with someone else.”

“Come on, Gaia…”

“What?”

Jimin finally moved closer and sat on the chair near her, trying to search her expression but he was only reminded the hard way of how Gaia used to lock herself in the bedroom for days on end whenever she had a bad fight with a past boyfriend or a family member. This time he was the direct source. “How long are you planning on being mad at me?”

“For making me feel like an idiot and kissing me out of spite?” Gaia smiled with a bitter glint in her eye. “I don’t know, Jimin, you tell me. You like assuming what I think.”

Jimin pressed his lips together, averting his gaze. “I said I was sorry.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“And getting another apartment will?” His brows furrowed.

Gaia traced her finger on the brim of the coffee cup. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t have enough money to buy an apartment so you’re stuck with me until I manage to save up.” Her phone lit up for a moment to show a name. A name that made her lips twitch for some reason when she glanced at it.

He knew it was wrong. Very wrong. But Jimin still peeked a little at the name and managed to see ‘Seokjin Chur..’ before it faded into black again. He felt a squeeze under his ribs again causing him to sigh. “I—I don’t want you to leave.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” She brought the cup to her lips taking a full sip. The cotton was too strong when he was close, seeping through even the strong scent of coffee. It shouldn’t be this strong.

“You love this apartment, Gaia.” Jimin glanced around them. He remembered how much her face lit up when they first started decorating everything to make it look like home. Their home.

Gaia swallowed down the growing lump in her throat, trying to get more of the coffee scent into her nostrils. “I don’t love it that much anymore.”

“Why not?”

“It smells like you.” She suppressed the wince attempting to twist her features.

“Wh—”

“It smells like you and it—it makes me sad.” Sucking in her bottom lip, she forced herself not to look over at him. Why was it so easy to be vulnerable around him? To crack and tell him everything that’s bothering her. Even when he was causing this. Gaia huffed out a harsh breath, closing her laptop and walking back to her bedroom with her coffee in hand.

Jimin took a breath to call out her name again but the words hitched in his blocked throat. ‘It makes me sad.’ He rubbed over his exhausted face, letting out a shaking breath. The usually light squeeze in his chest now clenching so tight, it was agonizing. How helpless it felt not being able to reach inside him and soothe the ache. There was nothing he could do but breathe and tolerate it.

The table buzzed again and Jimin properly looked down at the lit up phone.

Seokjin Church

Hope you liked the flowers. I’ll see you tonight!

Jimin realized that night how sweet vanilla smelled when his heart was in excruciating pain.

-

The world was cruel in many forms but the worst form of all was waking up in the morning and still feeling her lips linger on his own. Jimin found himself touching his twin flesh from time to time, some confused part of his mind wanting to hold onto the memory. Despite the flooding texts on his phone, he opted to stop bringing any new visitors to the apartment.

Every time he sat alone in the living room, he tried to take the remnants of vanilla lingering in the air. Jimin watched Gaia come in and out of the apartment quietly. She started painting in her bedroom more which he knew she hated. Their bedrooms were too closed off and small to jog much inspiration.

She would leave for events Jimin hadn’t even heard about. He always assumed it was with that Seokjin popping up on her phone. He remembered a time he would always know what events Gaia went to months beforehand.

This was wrong. This was so wrong.

He couldn’t. If he even mentioned the idea that he started liking vanilla flowers a little too much, Gaia would have his head.

So Jimin stayed silent and just watched her, relished in the fading tingle on his lips and tried to take in the scent of vanilla radiating from her to calm him. He would even stop using the cotton scent on himself. It smells like you and it makes me sad.

Jimin took angry, disappointed, even downright hysterical but this? How do you soothe sadness when it’s already so mellow and delicate?

One night, vanilla flowers burst throughout the apartment. He selfishly took in the thick scent wafting from her bedroom, letting it stain his lungs somehow.

Eyes flickered over to her room, the door opened completely with Gaia looking into her vanity mirror, back facing him. Body adorning a pink fur coat up to her waist with a light denim skirt. Her long curls reaching below the coat. If Jimin looked a little closer, he noticed tiny sparkles on her tresses.

“Where’re you going?” Jimin asked, breaking the comfortable silence with a soft tone.

“Out.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” Gaia mumbled keeping her gaze on the mirror instead of the male as she fixed up her hair.

That annoying squeeze in between his chest came back again.

Jimin walked a bit further inside, peaking at her reflection. Her skin glowed in the lights around the frame of the mirror, eyes shimmering like her hair but not a smile in sight. A layer of beauty to hide what was crumbling inside. “You could at least tell me where you’re going…just in case.”

She sighed. “Just in case what?”

“Something happens.”

“I’m not going alone.” Gaia muttered simply grabbing her purse, turning on her heel before walking past him.

As soon as she passed, a strong waft of vanilla touched him forcing him to breathe it in until he lost all the air in his lungs. All of it replaced with the beautiful flower lingering around her aura. Jimin closed his eyes for a moment. “Gaia…”

“What?” Gaia asked in such a gentle tone, stopping at the door as she turned to meet his gaze.

He noticed how glazed they became, the way she gripped onto her clutch. Jimin let out a sigh of defeat. She didn’t want to talk to him. ‘It makes me sad’. “Be safe, okay?” He attempted to smile.

Gaia nodded. “Good night.” She whispered before finally leaving the room while Jimin helplessly drowned in her lingering scent.

-

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, tossing and turning on the soft surface. Vanilla thick in his nostrils overwhelming him with thoughts. That stupid squeeze in between his ribcages. Every nerve in his body desperately wanted to turn back time. Maybe if he closed his eyes really tight, he would wake up from a dream and they were on good terms again. Nothing happened. Jimin still lay here in the darkness feeling heat curdle in his belly.

His heart jumped when the door opened to a man laughing lightly and a light shush followed afterwards.

Huffing, Jimin pushed himself off the bed and walked out of his room. The rushing cool air from the living room hitting his bare torso. Exhausted eyes flickered over to kitchen where he saw Gaia without her fur coat on, a thin strip pink crop top showing while she filled up a glass of water from the sink.

“It’s really cold here.” The man in a suit, white shirt unbuttoned, the skin on his ears and neck reddened while his stretched pillowy lips extremely flushed.

“It’ll help.” Gaia had a calm voice, giving the male tired smile as she handed him the glass of water.

“Ooh is that from me?” Raspy words echoed against the glass as the man reached out brushing away her hair to show off the small reddened marks on her neck. “Sorry…”

She let out a light sigh before giving him another faint smile. “It’s okay.”

Jimin tightened his jaw, fingers curling into his palm. “Have fun?” He almost seethed.

Gaia looked over her shoulder, smile immediately disappearing when she saw the man shooting daggers at Seokjin .

“Oh…” The man attempted get back to his feet.

“Seokjin —” She muttered but he was already walking over to Jimin with a grin, holding his hand out.

“Seokjin Chur—” Hiccup. “—urch. Nice to meet you.”

Jimin glanced down at his hand. All the places he could have traced with those fingers in a drunken frenzy, relished in her soft skin and marking the most sensitive spots. He tried to push down the grimace forming on his face. “Nice to meet you.”

“Forgive me, I don’t—I don’t always drink like this.” Seokjin chuckled nervously.

“He won his biggest case today.” Gaia spoke up, a small smile returning on her lips.

“So you two—know each other?” He wanted to pretend they were a one-time thing on a night of mistakes but Jimin noticed how much she tried not to smile at her phone.

“We met, what?” Seokjin whips around to Gaia for a few moments. “Two weeks ago? She was painting this gorgeous forest while I was on lunch break.” He slurred every word with such dedication, Jimin had to dig his nails into his palms further.

So that’s what she was doing all this time. Painting and spending time with an almost complete stranger. “Wonderful.” Jimin smiled sarcastically knowing Seokjin wouldn’t remember his behavior in the slightest. “I’m afraid we do have rules not to bring in visitors.”

“You’ve brought in enough visitors for me to know that rule is breakable.” Gaia folded her arms over her chest.

It was anger now burning in her beautiful eyes and Jimin couldn’t help but relish in it a little. Despite the little clench in his chest. He did bring a lot of visitors. Some of them didn’t even bother holding their noise. Now he knew she heard them all night, noticed them leave every morning.

“Besides…” Gaia walked forward and kept a gentle hand on the mans’ back to keep him from stumbling. “…we’re not dating.”

“Right—” Seokjin hummed.

“You give all your female friends hickeys?”

“Jimin.” Gaia warned but Seokjin merely chuckled waving the comment off.

“It’s alright. I’m sure two consenting adults are allowed to have a little fun, yes?”

Jimin hummed, the grimace a little too obvious on his face now.

“We should go to bed. I’m tired.” Gaia grabbed her coat and gently guided Seokjin into her bedroom not without giving a quick glare towards Jimin.

Jimin didn’t care though. He would take burning under her fiery gaze. Fire was harsh and wild. Easier to soothe.

-

Somewhere deep in the night, Gaia walked out of the bedroom, running her fingers through her messy hair while holding onto the plastic bag.

Jimin opted not to sleep much and just leaned back on the kitchen counter drinking some water. It was difficult trying to lull himself back when he could hear Seokjin humming and kissing on the other side.

He wondered how Gaia tolerated it when it was the other way around. When he would have girls making all kinds of noises unaware of another person in the apartment. She never complained for so long. Only once tonight when she officially had enough.

With a light grimace, Gaia opened the cupboard next to Jimin and threw the filled plastic bag inside with a soft metal clang.

“So you haven’t fucked?”

Gaia let out a loud sigh, clearly showing her annoyance.

“Didn’t hear much noise.”

“He’s drunk.”

“That didn’t exactly stop him leeching on your neck.” Jimin seethed taking a generous sip as he glared into Gaia’s closed bedroom door.

“Please stop.” She muttered under her breath.

He shrugged nonchalantly despite the heat in his belly bubbling up to a boil watching that door. “I’m just wondering why you didn’t go all out if you were getting back at me.”

Gaia scoffed. “You think that’s what this is?”

“What else can it be?”

“He’s a friend. I—like spending time with him.” She tried to keep her voice low, opening the tap to wash her hands. “I needed to see some people that didn’t make me feel like an idiot.”

“I never wanted to make you feel like an idiot.”

“Well you did. So stop judging someone who actually likes me.”

“So you are mad at me still.”

“Yes I’m mad!” It was a whisper but harsh and cut through the tension like a knife. “And not because you didn’t like me back…” She shook her head. “…because the one time I needed you as a friend at least, you walked away from me.” Gaia winced, tightly pressing her trembling lips together. “You ignored me and brought in girls, you knew—you knew I could hear them.” She closed her eyes.

Jimins’ expression softened as he took a few steps forward, inhaling another fresh waft of vanilla into his lungs.

“I always thought I could tell you everything but the moment I become vulnerable to you…you shut me out.”

“Then tell me you hate me.”

Her brows furrowed, glazed and reddened eyes flickering up to look at him. “What?”

“Tell me…” Jimin padded closer causing Gaia’s breath to lightly hitch in her throat. Their toes brushing against each other, noses just a breath apart. “…you hate me.”

Gaia shook her head lowering her gaze. “No.” It came out in a whisper with how close they stood.

“Tell me you hate me.” His head felt heavy, lungs flooding in vanilla flowers but he kept breathing in more. Selfish to take what soothed him.

“I won’t.” She fixated her eyes on his chest rising and falling deeply. The cotton smell was so subtle, so light but Gaia could still sense remnants of it on his skin.

Jimin closed his eyes forcing the scent to overwhelm him completely as he felt his nose brush against her forehead lightly. “Please…”

“I said I won’t!” Another harsh whisper almost crackling into a shout and booming across the room. But her soft sobbing broke the sound immediately back to its meek tone, tears burning in her eyes and flooding to the brim.

“Why not?!” Jimin couldn’t hold his trembling hands back when he held onto her neck, gently. Fingers caressed her curls, feeling the soft textures under his palms. More selfish actions.

Gaia raised her head this time, droplets trickling down the corner of her eyes as their noses brushed. The heat from his palms radiating onto her skin making her head spin. “Why do you want me to?” She whispered.

“Because—because if you hate me…it’s easier.” How absolutely selfish. “Maybe this—this thing in my chest would hurt less if you despised me.” Every words, Jimins’ anger melted into something of desperation as the pain in chest pulsed, aching and yearning to touch her more. “Maybe if you fucking ruin me, I’d stop thinking about you.”

Her eyes stung but she still opened to watch his twisted features. “I don’t hate you.”

Jimin winced, fingers digging into the skin of her neck. “Don’t do that.” It felt too good. It’s selfish. It’s so damn selfish.

“I don’t.”

“Just lie to me.” He whispered, pressing his burning forehead against hers. “Make the hurt stop.”

“I’m not going to lie to you.” She shook her head.

Jimin took in a sharp inhale, the vanilla choking him right at his throat, staining him inside and out. “Do you like seeing me get hurt?”

“I c—I can’t hate you.” Gaia’s expression finally contorted, sobs shaking out of her. “It’s—I’ve tried…” She gripped onto his forearm when his grasp on her skin tightened. So much of this felt like a dream in the haze of tears and chest pain. But when she felt the warmth of his skin under her palm, it was real. She knew this was real. “It’s so hard, Jimin…” Gaia sniffled. “Y-You make me—too h-happy…”

For a moment, the squeeze snapped and burst. Fluttering like butterflies happily flying around flowers after being stuck in their cocoon for so long. All it took were those simple words. Uttering in the moment of pure weakness and vulnerability. It felt liberating. “I—I make you happy?”

She now knew what the burning cotton fields meant. The cotton was almost revived like a phoenix in the fire into something more alive, more invigorating. Gaia felt it as she placed a palm over his chest, feeling how joyfully rapid his heartbeat was.

The corners of her lips curled up faintly. “So happy.” She nodded.

As the butterflies soared across his chest to his belly, Jimin moved his hands down her hips and moved her to lean against the counter. Their noses barely brushing against each other. All he had to do was take one more whiff of vanilla before he leaned and devoured her soft lips.

A whimper drowned in the kiss, hands coming up and pulling at his hair. Gaia’s knees melted back into its jelly form forcing her to pressed on the counter edge to keep herself from stumbling. As if sensing her movements, Jimins’ grip on her hips tightened as he lifted her off the floor and placed her gently on the counter. Slip dress riding up her thighs, bare skin forming a layer of goosebumps against the cool surface.

Tongue pushed through her teeth desperate to explore more of her mouth as if this was a dream and he might wake up at any moment. Jimin wanted to take. Every inch as his fingers moved up from her hips to the curve of her breasts. He needed memories of her skin to stain his palm for as long as possible. Fingers rubbed down her arms before reaching those soft fingers, interlocking them together.

Gaia breathed through her nose, unable to pull away from the kiss. She wanted his warmth to fill her lungs as they gave themselves away to each other. A tingle formed in her belly as their fingers twined so perfectly they were almost meant to be one. For the first time, Gaia didn’t feel like drowning. She was flying. Soaring across the skies while the sun beamed down on her. So warm.

Jimin pushed their joined hands above her head, pressing them against the overhead cupboard before taking her other hand and gripping both her wrists on the wood. He broke the kiss softly, still planting small pecks on her flushed lips. Hand wrapped firmly on both of hers, his free fingers traced down her body again, sneaking under her slip dress and palming over her heated panties.

A light gasp stopped in her throat forcing her to close her eyes, relishing in how slow and featherlight Jimin brushed his hand across her core. “Jimin…” Chest rose and fell letting her body loosen under his touch. Still so softly rubbing the thin clothing feeling her arousal soak through and her growing nub poke out in yearning.

He could watch her all night just moving like this. Achingly slow, admiring how Gaia squirmed and tried not to moan too loud but the heat radiated so strongly from her. Jimin could feel the slight burn hitting his palm. Nudging his nose against her cheek, he took another whiff, humming in delight when he caught the mixture of vanilla and arousal. “You smell so good.” Jimin mumbled, intoxicated in the thick scent as he dipped down to nuzzle against her neck. “Always smell so good.”

Gaia wanted to speak. She took a few breaths to form words but they always died on her tongue, instead spewing meek noises of desperation. So many she wanted. So many things she wanted him to do to her but they never formed. “J-Ji-I-I want..” She whined a little. Everything burned to the point where her core ached and clenched around nothing. It was so hot. Too hot. She wanted more.

“What do you want?” Jimin whispered, tongue darting out to lick across her jawline before kissing each spot again. His fingers still in the same drawling pace rubbing up and down her sodden clothing.

Another whimper choked out of her, spreading her legs further as she pushed her hips forward to catch more friction. “Y-You…I w-I want you...”

The corners of his lips curled up lazily, sweat thinly layering on his skin leaving in more of a drunken state as he relished in the beauty’s pleads. “You have me.”

Gaia whined again causing Jimin to smirk wider. Beautiful features contorted again feeling his fingers press a little harder against the erect nub, her lower belly burning with need. “I-I want m-more of you..”

Jimins’ breathing raced as much as his heart through his ribcages. His fingers paused for a moment enjoying Gaia squirm a little more while her hips reached for his hand again. Releasing both her arms, he sneaked under her slip dress again further until he hooked at the hem of her panties. Pulling down the ruined clothing he made sure to be slow, watching how it stuck to her juices before reluctantly detaching as it he pushed down to her ankles. Carefully he brought her legs up so they rested a little over his shoulders.

She gripped her hands at the edge of the counter watching him pull off her panties from her ankle and trace down her leg. Jimin held it over her core before rubbing the loose clothing up and down her core. Body jerked, gasps leaving her without her control as her walls clenched painfully around nothing.

Jimin felt his member stir angrily in his sweatpants, the mixture of vanilla and her sweet arousal swirling in the heated air almost making him moan. Dropping the panties on the floor, he turned his head, placing soft kisses on her ankle, across her leg to the delicate skin of her inner thigh. He couldn’t resist biting down gently with a light growl under his breath.

Gaia giggled softly bringing one of her hands out to bury in his hair. Darkening eyes watched him move closer until his reddened lips hovered over her core making him gulp. His sharp gaze flickered up to meet hers, almost unblinking as he leaned down and took her throbbing bundle between his lips. Features contorted, trembling breaths leaving her every second. She tried her best to keep her voice down, the coiling heat in her lower belly melting into more leaking arousal.

Her scent overwhelmed him completely, arms hooked under her thighs. Darting out his tongue, Jimin licked up her slit drinking in every drop of her, moaning in delight when it was the only thing he could taste now. Lips wrapped around her clit again suckling and shaking his head with a groan vibrating against her core.

Throwing her head back Gaia bit down her bottom lip to suppress a louder moan curdling in her throat. Light whines still managed to escape as her hips grinded against his mouth. He didn’t stop her though. He merely moaned in response, tongue lapping on her clit causing the coil to tighten.

One arm away from her thigh, Jimin swirled his fingers to drench the skin with her juices before teasing at her entrance. Two digits slowly pushing into her, walls so snug and warm. Lust blown eyes watched his skin glisten brightly as they slowly moved in and out before looking up at the beauty. Her hand pressed over her mouth, brows furrowed and choked moans emitting under her breath. He wished they were in a more comfortable place but the walls were too thin. And Jimin had no intentions of being disturbed while he gave Gaia everything she needed and deserved.

Standing back up with his fingers still knuckle deep inside her, he felt a slight ache between his legs feeling the front of his pants a little drenched. Jimin leaned in and absentmindedly rubbed his crotch against her thigh, nose nudging her cheek again. “I want you…” He whispered in her ear, nibbling on her earlobe gently.

His movements were still so careful, taking his time to search for that rough spot inside her before moving at a steady pace. The heat was overwhelming, coil ready to loosen at any moment as Jimin kept jabbing at that same spot over and over again. “Take me.” Gaia breathed out, peering at him through hooded lids. “Take me, please.” She reached out to caress his cheek, the skin so warm to the touch.

Jimin let out a pleased sigh feeling his member twitch in his pants. He released his fingers and messily pushed down his sweatpants along with his boxers so they dropped down to his ankles. Kicking them to the side, he canceled out any distance between them feeling a sense of comfort when Gaia placed on his cheek again. Her touch was so soft he could melt right there then. Fingers wrapped around the base of his length before prodding at her sodden entrance. He turned his head and kissed the inside of her palm, raising his drenched hand and placing it at her lips.

Gaia didn’t even blink before opening her mouth and taking his warm, wet fingers, suckling on her arousal. Then she felt him sinking into her ever so slowly making sure she could feel every second of her walls stretching, hugging him tight around his sensitive shaft. His fingers helped in concealing the loud moan almost flowing out of her.

“So good..” Jimin whispered watching her suckle on his skin with such dedication. “You’re doing so well, baby.” He pushed in further until their bellies pressed against each other, member completely swallowed by her heat.

She replied with a faint whimper under her breath, body succumbed to him as his entire length filled her up. Gaia gently pressed a heel against his back as a way to tell him it was okay to move. Only mere seconds had to pass for Jimin to start thrusting into her.

Pulling his fingers away he yanked at the sleeves of her slip dress letting her breasts go free before swirling around her nipple. Jimin moved deep, thrusting in until she was completely filled and moving out until only his tip was inside.

Gaia gripped onto the edges of the counter again, shivering a little wet touch against her nipples erecting them instantly. She threw her head back with a shaky breath. “Feels s-so good..” Hair matted to her temples as her mind lost all form of control, nothing but the pleasure coiling in her belly and the tingles under her skin from his touch swirled.

“Yeah?” He smirked against her lips before pressing a kiss, lips moved so sloppily against each other in their maddening rush of ecstasy. Jimin placed both hands on the counter to steady himself, jolting his thrusts faster until they could hear light skin slapping.

The force of his hips snapping into hers almost forced a choked scream but Gaia quickly nuzzled her lips into his shoulder. She trailed up his neck, moaning lightly in his ear. “H-harder—” It didn’t take even a few seconds wait before Jimin grew vicious with his thrusts, deep inside her, brushing against the sweet spot that made her head spin.

Jimin quickly bit down his bottom lip to stop his groan from echoing across the room. Hips snapping so hard, he felt more of her arousal trickle down his length making it so easy to just take more and more. The tightness in his lower belly grew stubborn and thick, rushing up to his tip.

Gaia whimpered staring down at how deep he was, only sliding out the tiniest bit before snapping in again. Over and over again, relentless but so giving. “Jimin I’m—” The coil sprung, her thighs shaking and almost shutting but interrupted by his moving hips while she leaned her head against his chest, letting out the smallest whimpers.

Just feeling how much her walls pulsed and clenched so tight around him, her release so incredibly sodden and warm caused a burst. Shaky breathing faded into light, tense moans as he wrapped his arms around her waists, hips jerking as he filled her up.

She let out a light, shaky moan feeling beautifully full of his warm release. Gaia pulled away a little to capture his lips again into bliss infused kiss. She could feel his fingers take through her slightly damp hair, tongue exploring her mouth again still with such enthusiasm despite their loss of breath and energy.

“Don’t ever leave me.” Jimin muttered into the kiss. “Please.”

“I won’t.” Gaia nudged her nose against his, eyes completely glossy but a smile clear on her face. “Never, I promise.”

-

“So Namjoon just called…” Seokjin raised his phone briefly with a faint, exhausted smile on his face as he came into the kitchen. “He’s waiting outside to pick me up.” The man was really good at looking the least hungover as possible since he seemed like he was fresh and ready to go to work. Despite his suit being the one he wore last night.

Gaia grinned before nodding, her mood so much brighter despite the slight tiredness she felt on her legs. A comfortable blue oversized sweater with some leggings to work at home for the rest of the day. Now that the apartment had a more than happy atmosphere, she could work in the living room like she always loved. “Do you want me to walk you?”

Jimin peered from his coffee cup standing on the other side of the counter facing Gaia.

“No it’s okay.” Seokjin shook his head holding his hand up. “I’ve troubled you enough.”

“Oh it was no trouble.”

“We love having guests over.” Jimin spoke up this time with a smirk plastered on his face.

Gaia sucked in her bottom lip for a moment to prevent the wide grin trying to stretch across her lips. “I had a good time, seriously. It wouldn’t have been safe to leave you alone that drunk anyway.”

Seokjin let out a light chuckle. “Thank you.”

The girl led him towards the door giving their final goodbyes until Seokjin took a breath to speak again much in a much lower tone.

“Sorry to ask but—did we—” He pointed at himself then her.

Her brows furrowed for a moment before her eyes widened a little in recognition. “Oh—” Gaia giggled lightly. “No, you—you kinda just threw up in my trash bag and fell asleep.” She noticed the older males’ ears turn a little red at the information. “It’s alright though, drunk men can be worse than that.”

Seokjin hummed before nodding profusely. It almost looked kind of adorable. “Just I could’ve sworn I heard you moaning…” He shrugged. “Must’ve been a dream.”

“Yeah, must’ve…” Gaia gulped unable to control how much her cheeks burned.

“I’ll see you later then, okay?”

Gaia chuckled a little nervously. “See you.” She slowly closed the door, giving one last smile to the older male before shutting it completely.

“I told you. You’re louder.” Jimins’ musing voice broke the momentary silence.

“Shut up.” She pouted walking back over to the counter and taking another quick sip of her lavender tea.

Jimin leaned forward, elbows resting against the counter. “So…no more guests over from now on, right?”

Gaia smiled, dipping down and pressing a quick kiss on his lips. “No more guests.” She traced her fingers across his cheek. “And you promise me one thing.”

“Anything.” He leaned into her touch.

“Start wearing that cotton scent again.”

Jimin chuckled. “Every day, I promise.”

Cotton fields and vanilla flowers bloomed under the sunlight again.

#jimin #thebtswritersclub #jimin imagines #bts imagines #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jimin angst #bts angst #jimin smut #bts smut #roommate au #bts roommate au

[specsforwoo]

Son of Morpheus | Demigod!Lee Jeno

Parent Deity: Morpheus (God of Dreams and Human Dreamers)

Allegiance: Hypnos

This boy loves to sleep

Like LOVES to sleep

He could be found sleeping anywhere

High key his mom found him sleeping on the kitchen floor one day

And ever since he was little

He was able to remember his dreams with intense detail

His family just thought it was a 4 year old’s imagination running wild

Until the night terrors started

He was tormented with them

They started around the time he was 7

They still happen today, just much less in frequency

But when he was younger

They were really bad

Like he would wake up screaming and crying

And it took ages for him to calm down

It got to the point that his mom was considering taking him to a child psychiatrist

He found a way to calm himself though

He began drawing out scenes from his dreams

No matter what they are

Light and airy or nightmarish

It helped him cope in a way

Life continued on

And he started opening up to his mom about his dreams

He talked about a young man with tan skin and dark curly hair

And wings of a white warblers

He told stories of epic battles

Of courtrooms filled with music and sleeping bodies

Of sleepless nights talking with a man sitting on the moon

Jeno couldn’t tell if he was scared of the man or not

As he entered middle school

He started being able to interpret his dreams

Other’s dreams too

He kept it a secret though

It terrified him

He learned to accept this too

As he did everything else

But then he learned he could predict others dreams

And it scared the shit out of him

He told his best friend, Jaemin first

Jaemin just gave him this knowing look and took him to his mom

His mom sat him down

And for the first time in his 14 years of life

His mother pulled out a photo of his father

And he was shocked

It was the curly haired man that he saw every night in his dreams

Sitting there next to his mother in a cafe in Greece

He was fucking confused

Like really fucking confused

Until it clicked

That was his dad

His dad had wings of a garbler

HIS DAD HAS WINGS OF A GARBLER

Am I going to grow wings too!?!?!?!?!?!?

No, you idiot. Jaemin

I’m not?

No, you have to earn them. Also Jaemin

So that night he was lying in bed

Questioning whether or not he wanted to fall asleep

Knowing he would have to confront his father there

But a cloud with a dreamcatcher with dew drops hanging from the strings shrouded with a calming silver light appeared above his head

And he fell asleep instantaneously

His father was sitting there

Talking with the man who embodied the moon

The man that he didn’t recognize made a comment and vanished after he caught sight of him

His father turned around. It was like he hadn’t aged a day since the photo see saw

Do you know who I am?

Uhhhhh. A dude with white warbler wings??? That haunts my dreams every night. Who also happens to be my father?

He didn’t mean to sound as sarcastic as it came out

Yes, that is all true, though I don’t ‘haunt’ you. But, do you know who I am?

No

He sat him down in the dark pavilion, explaining about the gods and goddess, the war and everything in between, even how he was born.

Do I like…. Have half-siblings??

No, but Jaemin is your cousin. His father smiled

After that, the dream faded off and he was peaceful for the rest of the night

Waking up, Jaemin was passed out on the couch in the living room

Picking up the nearest thing (a remote) he threw it at the boy on the couch, causing him to wake up

WHY IN OLYMPUS DID YOU NEVER TELL ME WE ARE TECHNICALLY COUSINS????

Not my place?

Anyways start packing, Mom said I can take you to camp with me this year :)

Yes, Jaemin calls Jeno’s mom his mom

And so he went to camp with Jaemin that year

It was nothing like what Jaemin described

It was WAY cooler

On the first day people were milling around everywhere

Jaemin led him over to a couple older kids with badges around their necks

Hey Jaemin!

Jaemin introduced them as Johnny and Ten, both sons of wind gods, both camp leaders who were helping all of the new kids get around and find their cabins

They’ll take care of you, I have to go find her.

Jaemin basically dumped Jeno on their shoulders so he could go find his girlfriend smh

Jaemin told us you were Morpheus’ kid, we were thinking about putting you in the Crios cabin? Does that sound okay? We would put you with Jaemin but he said you should get to know other campers your first year here. The shorter one spoke up

The taller one, Jaemin introduced him as Johnny, pulled out a gold coin, flicking it into the air while muttering something, and a wavering rainbow appeared in front of them

Put me through to Taeil and soon the rainbow was showing an older boy as well with a red undercut over some astrology papers

The rainbow??? Was facetime???

Ten obviously saw the shock on poor Jeno’s face, carefully explaining what an Iris message was and how to do it

After that he settled into demigod life pretty quickly

Jaemin introduced him to all of his friends, the Dream team, even some older campers who he was close with

He even liked the Crios cabin so much that he decided to stay there past the first year. The Morpheus cabin was lonely and Jaemin always had his girlfriend over trying to get her to sleep

The night terrors slowly subsided and soon his dreams were more peaceful than anything else

But one time he dreamt about a girl, right around his age, running into camp, a dark aura surrounding her but obvious scared

It wasn’t the dark aura that worried him, Kun and Jaehyun both had a dark aura, both sons of gods related to death

But her aura was different, it was mixed with madness, it was close to driving her insane

Even though it was only a dream, he couldn’t shake it off

He asked everyone that he knew, especially Jaemin, he found out a while ago that he was the one who founded the camp, what the aura could be and no one knew

He also started watching the border of camp everyday

Not stalking it or anything, just glancing over whenever he had a chance

A couple weeks past and Jeno was convinced that it was just a really weird dream

But then you actually showed up

Same way that it happened in the dream

You ran into the borders of camp like you were out of your mind, you were paranoid, no one could even touch you, not even Sicheng

When Jeno had heard what happened, he ran down to the pavilion

There you were, on the ground, covering your ears, eyes wide open, terrified to shut them, and shaking in fear

Once he had pushed his way through the crowd, he placed his hand over your eyes and shortly, you had fallen asleep

After that, Sicheng had moved you to the infirmary with Jeno’s and Johnny’s help

He found that you were severely dehydrated, and even he couldn’t describe the aura around you. It wasn’t that of Kun or Jaehyun’s but it was definitely similar

You were were in and out of consciousness for about 3 days and when everything finally settled down, a raven with a snake in its mouth appeared over your head

It was symbols that no one had seen or heard of, not even Jaemin or Taeyong

The boys spent the next couple of days researching who the symbols could belong to, and eventually they found it: Melinoe

Goddess of ghosts and spiritual passage who brought mortals nightmares that drove them insane

That would explain the way you were when you first came into camp

After that, Jeno stayed by your side every step of your recovery

He also helped you to manage the nightmares and control your powers

He had been there before, dreams were a tricky subject and nightmares made it even more complicated

But slowly you got the hang of it

And slowly Jeno started to have a crush on you, and slowly it turned into more

When he finally asked you out, you were ecstatic, it would be a lie to say that you hadn’t developed feelings for Jeno since coming to camp

And when camp closed for the summer- except for the few that stayed, he found out that you were attending the same university

He had been studying astrology while you were in the art department, soon, everyone in campus and camp knew who the two of you were

Y’all were inseparable

The Dreamies even accepted you into their group

(Jisung is your favorite don’t tell Jeno)

You eventually ended up moving in with Jaehyun

He had become like your older brother at camp

When Jeno wasn’t able to help you learn about your powers, Jaehyun was there to help

He even got his mom to visit personally and talk to you about your own mom and what he role was, and most importantly, that she wasn’t a bad person

Jaehyun knew the pain that you dealt with having a parent being a literal embodiment of death

And soon enough, it was even like Jeno had moved in with Jaehyun with how much he was at the apartment

Jaehyun was okay with it as long as he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night :)

#nct #nct u #nct dream #demigod!nct #demigod!nct u #demigod!nct dream #jeno #lee jeno #demigod!jeno #demigod!lee jeno #nct jeno #nct lee jeno #nct u jeno #nct u lee jeno #nct dream jeno #nct dream lee jeno #nct imagine #nct u imagine #nct dream imagine #jeno imagine #lee jeno imagine #nct jeno imagine #nct lee jeno imagine #nct u jeno imagine #nct u lee jeno imagine #nct dream jeno imagine #nct dream lee jeno imagine #specsforwoo

[idiopath-fic-smile]

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme. 

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

“I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.

#original fiction #cityton chronicles #I'm sure that in some obscure way the fact that I'm thinking about this now is due to mainlining The Untamed #but this is definitely. not that. #warning for an extremely brief mention of transphobia that the main character condemns #also apparently there is a dragonfly-themed superhero in a 2008 superhero spoof movie? #let's say that movie exists in this world too and Dragonfly has taken a lot of shit for it #that sounds about right

[kettlequills]

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

[warrioreowynofrohan]

The Leithian Reread - Canto XI (The Departure for Angband)

This chapter contains - at the reunion of Beren and Lúthien - my favourite passage in the Leithian, and one of my favourites that Tolkien has ever written, and I think part of my reason for delaying is that I wasn’t sure how to do it justice. But that’s a little farther on.

The chapter opens with a brief account of the Siege of Angband and the Dagor Bragollach. It’s a very strong section of the poem, to the point where it’s hard to know which specific portions to quote; the rhyme and cadence and imagery is all excellent, and is enhanced by a kind of triptych structure from beauty to fire to ruin:

Once wide and smooth a plain was spread,

where King Fingolfin proudly led

his silver armies on the green,

his horses white, his lances keen;

his helmets tall of steel were hewn,

his shields were shining as the moon.

...

Rivers of fire at dead of night

in winter lying cold and white

upon the plain burst forth, and high

the red was mirrored in the sky.

...

Dor-na-Fauglith, Land of Thirst,

they after named it, waste accurst,

the raven-haunted roofless grave

of many fair and many brave.

The description of the dark forest of Taur-nu-Fuin is also wonderfully evocative: sombre pines with pinions vast, / black-plumed and drear, as many a mast / of sable-shrouded shops of death / slow wafted on a ghostly breath.

One of the great recurring themes in Tolkien is the way that all evil, whatever its initial motive and impetus, falls in the end to ruin for ruin’s sake, to the destruction and defilement of all things as a end rather than a means. The image of the Anfauglith is repeated with the desolation before Mordor (gasping pools choked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about...great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained) and the ruin that Saruman makes of Isengard (trees hewn down and replaced with pillars of metal and stone, joined by heavy chains; meadows paved over; underground furnaces with vents emitting steams, like a graveyard of the unquiet dead), and even Lotho and Saruman’s harm to the Shire (from knocking down Sandyman’s mill to make a bigger one that wasn’t needed, to the mill under Saruman not grinding grain at all but only making smoke and stench and fouling the water).

It’s not as if there is a fundamental benefit to Sauron in making the ruin in front of the Black Gate, or to Saruman in his attempts to destroy the Shire; both start out at one point with the aim of “fixing” the world and putting it in order, and this degenerates into control and rule for its own sake, and then into purposeless malice against not only people but the land itself, with misery and destruction as the only aim. We see small echoes of it elsewhere, as at Losgar.

This theme provides a strong contrast to Beren’s song before his departure across the Anfauglith, which is centred on celebration of nature and creation for its own sake, in and of itself, without any thought of control or ownership. The song fits with Beren’s demonstrated love of nature in earlier chapters, where during his lone guerilla war against Sauron he eats only plants, and is friend and allues with the animals of Dorthonion and with nature-spirits (minor Maiar?) as well: and many spirits, that in stone / in mountains old and wastes alone / do dwell and wander, were his friends. (It also has some echoes in Sam’s song in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.)

The song is given here in longer form than in The Silmarillion:

Farewell now here, ye leaves of trees,

your music in the morning-breeze!

Farewell now blade and bloom and grass

that see the changing seasons pass;

ye waters murmuring over stone,

and meres that silent stand alone!

The song also evokes a lot of the themes that came up in my discussion of CS Lewis’ The Four Loves, particularly the part on eros. Beren has virtually no expectation of coming back alive; he expect to die at best, or be captured and tortured at worst. But making the attempt is, to him, better than willfully choosing a life separated from Lúthien, and better than risking her coming to harm because of him. (The latter, as she will soon point out, is no longer something he has any choice about!) Both of them prefer the very high probability of torment or death over being parted from each other.

Additionally, Beten’s song is one of the purest expressions within Tolkien’s works of the element of admiration in love: delight in the beloved in their own right, above and beyond anything that has happened or will happen or any connection to you personally:

Though all to ruin fell the world / and were dissolved and backward hurled / unmade into the old abyss / yet were its making good, for this / the dawn, the dusk, the earth, the sea / that Lúthien for a time should be!

This feels, also, like it is getting at something deep within the mood of Tolkien’s works, where so much is destroyed or fades or is lost: the existence of beauty and goodness continues to be good, to be meaningful, even when the good and beautiful things have themselves passed away. They were, and that is better than if they had never been.

And here we come to my favourite part of the entire Leithian:

“Ah, Beren, Beren!” came a sound,

“almost too late have I thee found!

O proud and fearless hand and heart,

not yet farewell, not yet we part!

Not thus do those of elven race

forsake the love that they embrace.

A love is mine, as great a power

as thine to shake the gate and tower

of death with challenge weak and frail

that yet endures, and will not fail

nor yield, unvanquished were it hurled

beneath the foundations of the world.

Beloved fool! escape to seek

from such pursuit; in might so weak

to trust not, thinking it well to save

from love thy loved, who welcomes grave

and torment sooner than in guard

of kind intent to languish, barred,

wingless and helpless him to aid

for whose support her love was made!”

Thus back to him came Lúthien:

they met beyond the ways of Men;

upon the brink of terror stood

between the desert and the wood.

This returns to the previously-stated theme around eros: for Lúthien, being captured and tirmented in Angband is a better fate than willingly parting from him, or allowing him to leave her behind for her protection. And this, I think, is why Beren and Lúthien succeed in gaining the Silmaril: be ause their goal is not the Silmaril, their goal is each other.

But there’s more to it than that. I love the passage for Lúthien’s assertion that it is not Beren’s chouce whether she can risk danger and death for his sake. He does not have either the power or the right to protect her from her love of him. (I do think it’s something of a wonder that he still decides to go ahead with the Quest after this rather the the alternative of “let’s elope and be nature-hobos together”, but a lifetime of looking over your shoulders for the forces of Angband and the Fëanorians [yes, I think C&C would’ve gone after them out of spite even without the Quest, given their behaviour in the previous chapter] and Doriathrim sent to kidnap Lúthien back home is daunting in its own way; at least this way, if they succeed it will be over.)

This also goes for friendship (philia): in The Lord of the Rings hobbits express the same sentiment in more commonplace terms, in Merry’s, “You cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo,” and Sam’s “I’m coming too, or neither of us isn’t going. I’ll knock holes in all the boats first.” Or, even more so, in another line of Sam’s during the Breaking of the Fellowship:

“All alone and without me to help you? I couldn’t have a borne it, it’d have been the death of me.”

“It would be the death of you to come with me, Sam,” said Frodo, “and I could not have borne that.”

“Not as certain as being left behind,” said Sam.

Returning to the Leithian: Beren is still reluctant to have Lúthien accompany him into danger. And has a line here whose sentiment always seems to show up in my thoughts about Maedhros and Fingon (“Thrice now mine oath I curse,” he said, “that under shadow thee hath led!”)

Huan, returning with disguises for Beren and Lúthien, uses his second of three lifetime chances of speech to back up Lúthien’s point, and to advise them to disguise themselves as Draugluin and Thuringwethil. This includes one of the more amusing lines in the Leithian, with Huan’s Lo! good was Felagund’s device, but may be bettered. Hi, Finrod, you’re being patronized by a dog. :D He thinks you get, maybe, a B+ on the tactics planning. (Beren gets an F, quite bluntly: Hopeless the quest, but not yet mad, unless thou, Beren, run thus clad in mortal raiment, mortal hue, witless and redeless, death to woo.)

Lúthien uses magic to disguise them effectively, and to prevent the terrible disguises from affecting their minds; it’s difficult, skillful, and lengthy work: With elvish magic Lúthien wrought / lest raiment foul with evil fraught / to a dreadful madness drive their hearts / and there she wrought with elvish arts / a strong defence, a binding power / singing until the mdnight hour.

It is a few days’ journey across the Anfauglith to the gates of Angband and, again, reminiscent of Frodo and Sam’s journey through Mordor; briefer, but also worse in some respects, as they have neither food nor water.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #the lay of leithian #leithian reread #lúthien #beren #beren and luthien #huan #the lord of the rings #frodo baggins #sam gamgee

[waiting4inspiration]

Darkness before Dawn III: Trying to Scream

Summary: The hauntings don’t stop. Not even in your sleep. 

Warnings: slight horror, angst, mentions infidelity, curses, slight violence, strong language, small fluff

Word Count: 2,715

Darkness before Dawn Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist

Geralt suggested that you get an early night’s rest. You were a bit hesitant to sleep, feeling as though you won’t be able to know if or when that spirit comes back. But Geralt reassures you that he won’t leave your side. 

You should feel safe with that knowledge, but you don’t fight with the fact that he won’t be able to see the spirit. You don’t fight because he’s a Witcher. You’ll let him do this job. 

Your mother would have a fit if she finds out that a man was in your room when you were getting ready for bed. She’d be disgusted to think that a man was in your presence when you were undressing. Nevermind the fact that he would be in your room while you’re sleeping. But you’re sure Geralt has the modesty to not try anything. 

After all, you saw you look of pure focus on his face before you fell asleep. His mind is on the spirit he can’t see.

You dream that you’re in a dark place. By the stone walls around you and the crypt you bump into, you realize that you’re in a tomb. Why, you don’t know. Which tomb, you’re not sure either. 

But the eerie feeling the place gives you, the shiver that runs down your spine like a water droplet unsettles you. You rush to the door of the tomb, pushing and pulling it to try and open it. But it doesn’t budge. 

And when you glance out the small window to see if there is anyone you can call for help, you see the figure you saw in the hall. 

Gasping loudly as you push yourself away from the door, the fear inside you weights you down like lead, making your heart race in your chest as a shadow appears on the ground. The shadow stretches as you walk back away from the door. Bumping into the crypt again, you place your hands on the stone and continue to stare at the door. 

Then, you hear a sound. A sound that reminds you of bones breaking and cracking. It makes your head slowly turn over your shoulder. And you regret that action instantly. 

On top of the stone crypt is that same figure you saw outside, his jaw hangs open, seemingly detached from his upper face and no matter how much you try to scream, you can’t. When you try to push yourself away from him, he grabs your injured arm and makes a pain shoot like fire through your arm. 

Your eyes snap open, and you find yourself back in your chambers. In your bed. It was just a dream. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, you close your eyes and try to calm your pounding heart. The relief doesn’t long when you get a feeling of something being behind you. You dread turning around. 

Opening your eyes again, you look for Geralt that you remember being seated in a chair before you fell asleep. But you’re alone in the room. And you don’t know why, but you turn around onto your back and glance to the side. 

Nothing’s there. 

Running your hands over your face, you shake your head to yourself and lightly laugh at how stupid you’re being because of the nightmare. 

You hold your bandaged arm to your chest and keep your eyes closed for a moment before opening them to stare at the ceiling. 

Just like in your dream, you try to scream when you see that dark figure with a detached jaw hovering above you but you can’t. And instead of the figure grabbing your arm, it wraps its hand around your throat. 

When Geralt left your room, you were still peacefully sleeping. Your father had come in and asked to speak to him in a whisper. And he thought that nothing could go wrong if he would be right outside your room. 

“I thought about your suggestion about obtaining a Mage,” Dominic begins, turning around to face Geralt who slowly begins to close the door. “And sent a raven with a letter to the Chapter asking to send a Mage as soon as possible,” he adds, glancing back at the door and imagining your figure sleeping on the bed, how you held the blankets close to your chest. 

Geralt nods his head and hums as he shifts on his feet. “And what of the queen?”

“What of her? She no longer has a say of what I wish for my daughter,” he snaps, keeping his voice low to prevent him waking you even if you’re behind a door. “She might be her mother, but she doesn’t love her how I love her,” he mutters, shaking his head and he looks back to Geralt. “Uza would rather see (Y/n) dead than ascend to my throne. So much so, I’m starting to believe that she hired this witch to place this curse on my daughter.”

Shaking his head negatively, Geralt takes a small step forward and unfolds his arms from his chest. “The witch had her eyes on Charlotte when she placed the curse. Not (Y/n),” Geralt points out, narrowing his eyes at the king. 

Dominic sighs and nods his head, knowing that Geralt is right. He was just trying to find some other explanation for this in his anger for Uza. “What do you need the Mage for?” he questions, changing the topic from the curse to what can be done to break it. 

“We need to create protective spots in the castle, in the rooms she spends time in so that this spirit can’t attack her,” Geralt begins to explain, but his thought is cut off when he hears your gasp behind the door. Dominic does hear it because it was very faint. And Geralt turns his head back to the door. 

The king nods and glances down to the ground. “She doesn’t roam around that much-”

His words are cut off when Geralt abruptly throws your door open and storms into your chambers. 

You’re gasping for air desperately, clawing at something above you as you squirm on the bed. Dominic can see slight indentations around your throat, like handprints. First, this spirit clawed your forearm, and now it’s trying to choke you. 

Your eyes shift over to Geralt as he stands beside you and you reach up to grip the figure's shoulders to give Geralt a sense of where the thing is so he can stab it like he did in the Hall. 

But just as Geralt raises his sword, the figure lets go of your throat and disappears. 

Gasping deeply, you push yourself up and clutch your throat as you try to keep your tears at bay. Your father is by your side in the blink of an eye, and when he places his hands on your shoulders, you break down and start to sob into his chest. 

Geralt glances around the room, trying to find something he can’t see or at least a sigh of where it is. And hearing your cries makes his grip on his sword tighten and his jaw to clench. 

When you glance up, you see the figure stand behind Geralt with dark eyes. “Oh Gods,” you whisper, catching Geralt’s attention and making him look back at you. “It’s behind you,” you say as quietly as possible. 

Geralt turns his gaze over his shoulder and just as he suspected, he doesn’t see anything behind him. He doesn’t even sense something. 

You watch the spirit raise a clawed hand. Gasping loudly when it brings it down intending to slash the Witcher across the face. But his hand passes right through his head, surprising you and making you stare at him with wide eyes as the spirit carries on trying to attack Geralt. 

The spirit looks at you with dark eyes before it vanishes. You frantically search the room for it. But it’s nowhere to be seen. 

Geralt looks back at you, confusion on his face as a frown creases his forehead. “Why couldn’t it attack you? It couldn’t touch you, but it can touch me?” you question, your father turning his gaze to Geralt and waits for an answer. 

The Witcher remembers something the witch said. “The veil is broken with you,” he repeats her words, turning around to put his sword away as Dominic pushes himself off your bed. 

“The veil? What does that mean?” he questions, stepping forward as you shift slightly on your bed. 

Geralt turns around and looks down at you. “The veil is what keeps us separated from the realm of the dead. They can’t harm us because of it,” he explains, a breath catching in your throat that begins to hurt. “This curse has made her open for any attack from any spirit where we are otherwise protected.”

“What does it want from me?” you whisper, grabbing Geralt’s attention and making him glance down at you. 

He shakes his head and takes a step forward. “Sometimes, a spirit just wants to be heard. Some have unfinished business in the realm of the living and just want some help,” he begins, pausing for a second as he runs his tongue over his lips. “Others are more twisted and like to make those living feel their pain,” he explains.

You feel your heart sink to your stomach at the knowledge of what those words mean. “You think this spirit wants to make me feel his pain?” you question, your voice starting to sound hoarse and you bring your hand up to touch your throat. 

“Well, I don’t think it’s here to have a conversation about how they died, princess,” Geralt says, your head dropping between your shoulders and you stare at your bandaged arm. “You should go back to sleep.”

A laugh falls from your lips and you shake your head. Looking back up to him with tears in your eyes, you find both him and your father staring at you with sad looks. “What makes you think I’ll be able to sleep after that?” you question, bringing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. 

Dominic walks up to you and reaches out to touch the side of your face. “You need to rest, my dear,” he whispers, your eyes shifting up to him as you sigh. “Or at least try.”

“I’ll keep you company if you can’t sleep,” Geralt mentions as he steps forward. 

You smile at him and nod your head before looking back up to your father. “I’ll be fine,” you say when you notice a look of concern on his face. 

He smiles at you and steps forward to lean down and place a sweet kiss on your forehead before he turns around to walk away, leaving you with Geralt. 

Geralt shifts on his feet, unsure what to do next or what to say. He’s not the one that keeps people company. Jaskier does that. Jaskier knows how to fill a silence, knows out to get a conversation going. Geralt never really speaks that much to people. The only people he’s had actual, meaningful conversations with have been Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri. 

What possessed him to say he’d keep you company when all he’d probably do is sit in silence and stare at you?

“So, you and Jaskier seem close,” you speak first, making Geralt feel relieved that you’ve decided to choose a topic. “I mean, I can understand now where he learned how to bandage a wound,” you chuckle, glancing down at your forearm and biting your lip. “And he’s told me so much about his ventures with you, it kind of makes me jealous.”

Geralt steps forward and slowly sits on the edge of your bed. “Jealous? Why?” he questions, indulging in your conversation, knowing that it would take your mind off of what’s been happening. 

You shrug your shoulders and look up at him, a smile growing on your face when you see that he’s sitting and relaxed. You don’t really like it when he’s standing and tense. It makes you feel like there’s a threat around. “Because of all the places he gets to go. The places he travels to, the people he gets to meet, the dramas he experiences in the songs he signs-”

“You know, some of those songs aren’t even close to being true,” Geralt interrupts, your eyebrows raising and your shoulders to relax as you shift slightly closer to him. 

Laughing, you swing your legs on the side and lick your lips. “I wouldn’t be surprised though. Jaskier does tend to over exaggerate things just to make sure they rhyme.” Your words make Geralt chuckle, the low sound causes your head to turn to him and a smile to grow on your face to know that you made the Witcher laugh. 

Geralt nods his head and glances at you. “How does a princess become friends with a bard?” he asks.

You chuckle at the question and bring your leg over the other to sit cross-legged as you hum at the memory. “It was at a celebration for my father winning some war a few years ago and Jaskier was playing his music at the feast. But I wasn’t allowed to be at the feast because my mother thought that I would take away Charlotte’s chance for the people to get to know her as the future queen,” you begin, glancing down to your hands that lay in your lap as you recall everything in your mind. “I decided to spend that time in the library, and on my way there, I bumped into Jaskier. He knew right away who I was and asked why I wasn’t at the feast. And I didn’t hesitate to tell him the truth. That’s when he decided to keep me company for the night.”

That sounds like something Jaskier would do, Geralt thinks with a smile on his face. 

“But my mother realized that the Bard was missing and had the feeling that it was because of me. And when she found us…” you trail off, biting your lip as your head drops between your shoulders. 

“She punished you,” he finishes for you.

You nod your head as you look up at him. “And she told Jaskier that if he knew better, he’d stay away from me,” you add, your eyes meeting his and locking. “But he didn’t care. He snuck in the next night, asking around how to get to my chambers. And we spent the entire night talking.”

Geralt shifts in his spot, but his stare never leaves your face. “Has there been anything other than just ‘friends’ between you two?” he asks, making you laugh and tears your eyes away from him as you shake your head. 

“Goodness, no,” you giggle, looking up at him with a big smile and a certain gleam in your eyes that he finds somewhat mesmerizing. “I see him as the brother I never had. Nothing more, nothing less.”

After that, you and Geralt’s eyes lock again and there’s a small silence between you and him. You bite your lip and clear you as you put your gaze to the floor when you realize that you’re staring. 

Geralt folds his hands in front of his and turns his head to the side where the unfinished painting in the corner catches his eye. “You like to paint?” he asks, looking back at you as you lift your eyes back to him. 

You give a small smile and nod before slowly standing up and walking across the room to the painting. “It’s how I can see the world, how I imagine it to be,” you state, wrapping your arms around your body as you glance over your shoulder to Geralt as he stands to follow you. “Seeing as how I’m not allowed to leave this castle. Ever.”

He shakes his head in disbelief as he walks up to your side. Running his eyes over the painting, he imagines that it’s the view from the window it stands beside. And he can’t help but think that you deserve to see the continent, all of it. 

He can’t help but think that if this curse isn’t broken, you won’t live to see any of it.

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#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt imagine #witcher geralt #geralt #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #witcher x reader #witcher imagine #darkness before dawn

[entereaston]

“my mother looks at me & sees my father’s mistakes (plural noun; fragmented families don’t know how to coexist). my father looks at me & sees everything i used to be (noun: innocent & soft hearted). my brother looks at me & sees the worst of my parents (verb; shaking, hurting, burning); he looks at me & sees the only thing in our family that might get out alive. i look at myself & see a monster (noun; blood hands & a venomous mouth & a failing heart).”

— and i’ve failed them all ; p.v.s.

A burden is a heavy thing to carry. Even heavier when the strain bound to your shoulders was that of your own life. And even in these hours of withdrawal, as veins scream for an ounce of relief, every fibre in his body begging like a starved child for the release of narcotics. Anything, pills or powders, any single substance that would work to numb the pain of his existence. His presence is painful, his failures are painful, his inability to be loved is fucking unbearable as were the salty taste of tears at the corner of his mouth. Easton shakes, an uncontrollable chill rolling from a constant flow of cold sweat.

He’s supposed this is what hell would be, one day, when he meets his end and is made to answer for his countless sins. A list so long it made Lucifer himself look innocent in comparison. And perhaps that was the reason he'd never been religious, born as an antichrist, the embodiment of evil and disgrace of God. Or maybe it's the inability to believe in such deities when he'd been innocent once, a child born to the light and punished regardless, made to repent for breathing, for sitting in the same room as his older brother who shined golden and brilliant in comparison. Everett had never suffered the neglect of learning to grow in the shadows, never starved of love, that to the concept of gentleness seemed horrifically unattainable. If there was a God, why had he suffered? Why had his only option ever been to become this? A monster. A ravenous and hurt abomination that only knows how to cause pain.

There's absolution hidden in addiction, there's comfort there he'd never felt before, had almost forgotten after years without a relapse, congratulated profusely for his achievement. He'd had thought it wouldn't feel as good as it did, falling backwards again, ragged wings unable to sore in the breeze, dragging him downwards, down, down, down-- until finally he's numbed again, and nothing matters. Everything, even himself, is oblivion. Floating around in the void, no longer tortured by his demons, to drift rather than to sink. East should like to cast himself into that feeling for eternity, never come back out of it again, but he does. And when he does Vivianne is there, the Angel of Death fleeing from the scene, as she replaces his highs with handcuffs and wills him to be clean again.

And what a fucking joke it seems, to be deemed worthy enough of saving from one person's perception, but then condemned for his existence from the eyes of his parents. But he knows it now, in his past desperations for purpose, that it's never something meant for him. Easton wasn't meant to exist, and if he had, his purpose was only to serve as an example to those around him what it was to fall. What it was to be fucked, and unredeemable, and ugly. Would this have happened if he’d been successful? Was there any such thing as ‘success’ when what he’d aimed to do was murder the only person on earth who loved him. Adored him regardless of his monsters, the violent insecurities that impede his mind and Everett still peered down at him and saw a brother. But not anymore, not now when Easton trades brotherly bond for betrayal.

At the sound of footsteps, Easton's body jolts, shackles ringing around his wrist as he pulls again in another hopeless attempt to be freed. And as his capobastone enters the guest room, he doesn't hesitate, only now his dialogue changes from the toxicity of curses to something even more pitiful; bargaining. “I hate myself for what I did, I hate that I’m incapable of finding any satisfaction in my life if there is no chaos, and I know that I am never going to be enough in anyone’s eyes,” his voice is hoarse, torn apart and defeated from days of shouting. Hours of crying and screaming and repenting in being forced to live in his own company. “So when I’m out of here, please punish me how you see fit, and then all I ask is to devote myself entirely to the Capulets,” a pause, accompanied by delicate exhale, "If you won't let me die, then at the very least, I don't want to exist."

Easton doesn’t look at Vivianne as he speaks, his green eyes have been unable to engage with another human being in the fear of connection since that night. He doubts he’d be able to in a long time. Shunned by the woman he’d believed he could love for his failure, ashamed and embarrassed to be so desperate for acceptance that he’d go to these lengths. “That’s my bargain, if you want me to stay clean, I need tasks and I don’t care how reckless or dangerous they are. I’ll do any of them. I will be your capodecina, and that is all I will be,” It wasn’t worth it, it would never be worth it, and he would always just be this. The fragile and desperate bastard, haunted by his own misdemeanours, cowering in the shadows and destined for nothing great or lustrous as any other man named ‘Craven’.

So if this is it. Illegitimacy unredeemable. Branded into his flesh for all to see and the regard as beneath them, it’s what he will embrace instead. Edmund the Bastard, nothing regal or ethereal about him. Once believing the gods would stand for him, now he knows to be true, they would never rise for anyone who branded themselves so unjust and unholy. And he should never grow, or shine, or prosper in this profanity of his bastardising.  

#19|12|19. #drabble. #my hand slipped #addiction tw

[petri808]

@fuck-yeah-nalu Naluween week 2020 Apocalypse prompt

Lucy POV

The further I run, the softer the screams become, dying away into garbled choking and haunting ripping sounds as the zombies tear away at the flesh of their hapless victims. I wipe away the tears that cloud my vision, don’t look back Lucy, I cry a mantra in my head, don’t look back and see your family... it’s too painful to know you are the only one who made it out alive. I can only be grateful that my mother never lived to see this day or become one of the undead. Oh god, please don’t tell me corpses will reanimate too! I shake the thoughts away. Don’t you do that!

How did this happen? I have no idea what is going on because it came on so suddenly. A plague that washed across our town, the state, is the world like this? Where do I go? Is there anywhere safe? Is there anyone I know that’s still alive? I call these creatures zombies because it’s like a horror movie come to life! I saw with my own two eyes a servant killed by one of the creatures, literally her throat ripped out and blood spurting everywhere, suddenly come back to life! Then they both went after our butler...

It was only by the grace of skill that I escaped with my life. Years of running track and a conditioned body allowed me to out pace these ravenous beings. They weren’t slow nor fast, yet deadly focused on their unquenchable hunger. Is that all we have left for our futures? Whether today or 60 years from now to turn the moment I die into a zombie? I have no idea. Is it just in the bite? Was it an airborn virus unleashed into the world? Has Mother Nature forsaken us? And can we blame her for it?

All the sounds of carnage have ceased and I’m left to my own thoughts as I walk the back roads from our country estate. I have no clear direction except to avoid areas of population. It was a good thing that we lived outside of the city itself where there are less people. The heart of town must be crawling with zombies by now. Yet distant gun fire or explosions, and occasional screams remind me to stay focused at least until I find somewhere safe to hold up in.

I hear a car approaching from behind and turn to look. As it gets closer, the vehicle looks awfully familiar... It grinds to halt a few feet before reaching me and I hear the best sound I’ve heard all day!

“Lucy!”

“Natsu!”

I run to his open trucks door and launch myself into his arms. “You’re alive!” The tears stream down my cheeks as I bury my face into his chest.

“I’m so glad I found you baby! I went past your house looking for you, but it was over run.”

“Everyone’s gone!” My sobs increase. Dead or undead, no longer the people I cared about.

“At least we’ve got each other.”

“But... your family?”

“Gone too,” he grits out.

His voice tells me he’s trying to hold himself together for my sake. “I’m so sorry Natsu.”

“Can’t be helped at this point. Come on,” he ushers me, “let’s get out of here.”

I jump into his truck and we take off again. “But where do we go?”

“No idea. Right now my main concern is doing what ever I need to keep us alive.”

Ever wished you’d watched more horror movies when you had the chance? Before today, it’s not something I would have ever considered. But it sure would be handy! As Natsu drove, different scenarios ran through my mind. Would this be like a 28 Days Later type zombie that eventually starves? Or more like a classic George Romero, never dies type, that finally stops because their body has completely rotted away? But let’s just hope it’s not a Resident Evil plot line with mutant zombies and a corporation behind the whole thing. Government... maybe... The current President does have a screw loose. Anyways, I guess the cause could be irrelevant at this point. We needed to figure out ways to survive this, however long it would last.

What are the common ideas in the movies? Find a secure building, preferably easy access for scavenging food and water. Avoidance as much as possible... Oh! And weapons! Guns, ammo, a big knife. Hmm, tactical clothing, comfortable and durable. But wait?! What if the outbreak came from contaminated food?! Ugh! This is so frustrating!

“Do you still have your cellphone Natsu? I wasn’t able to grab mine.”

“I do. Sent out a group text but so far no one’s answered.”

“At least that’s still working... for now.”

We drive and drive searching for supplies if we’re lucky enough to come across them. Gasoline, food, water, weapons, clothes, and bedding. Natsu’s truck is a blessing to have in times like this to use less travelled dirt roads or even no roads at all. These zombies are everywhere! How did it spread so quickly?

I use his phone to Google what’s happening and sure enough this pandemic is sweeping across the Americas but has not yet jumped across the oceans. The world’s response was to immediately shut down borders. Planes were turned around and grounded and ports grind to a halt. Military vessels from Asia and Europe were on their way to create blockades to stop boats from leaving either American continent, and fighter jets in the sky ordered to shoot down any planes...

“Oh my god...” my hands fly up and cover my mouth. “Natsu were trapped.” The world has turned its back on us. “This really is an apocalypse for our country.”

So many theories and stories about the cause of this infection fly around the internet. Best anyone can tell it started somewhere near Maryland and quickly moved across state lines. Several articles mention a government research hospital called Walter Reed as a possible link. We’re they working on something that caused this outbreak? Why doesn’t this surprise me?

“Why? What are you reading Luce?”

“In order to keep the pandemic from jumping continents, the world is basically cutting us off. I mean I can’t blame them, but what about survivors? Is no one gonna help us to escape?”

Damn! It could be like the 28 Weeks Later scenario! Are they going to bomb us, try to eradicate us! Oh look, at least the President is confirmed dead. That useless fat bastard was a plague of his own on this country.

Ping.

“Omg Natsu, Gray answered! He said he and Juvia made it out of the city, as well as Erza, Jellal, Levy, and Gajeel too! Right now they’re holding up at an abandoned warehouse in Clover. Natsu that’s the next town from here!”

“Should we go?”

“I think so, there’s safety in small groups.”

Natsu takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “Then we have a plan.”

What the future will hold is still to be seen. Will we survive it? You know what? I shut off Google and realize no one else is going to protect us but ourselves. We have to work together if we hope to live another day, but at least we have each other and our friends.

I smile back, he was right. “We have a plan!”

#naluweenweek #naluween week #naluween 2020 #apocalypse prompt #nalu #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #nalu AU #nalu fanfiction #nalu fan fic #yes it was a jab at COVID and the US #sorry not sorry

[thedemisedroyal]

Dangerous Betrayal | TVD/TO

The Vampire Diaries & The Originals

AU Story

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴!

• E S M E •

"Please, just make it stop!" The princess yelled in agony as she held her head. All the memories rushing through her mind, all the pain, all the hurt, everything bad she had done in her life ran through her head. But it was intensified by a trillion, this was on purpose, they wanted her in be pain.

Adara and Eila laughed manically, "Oh poor little baby, is something wrong?" Adara baby talked, chuckling in between. The princess yelled out, closing her eyes, trying to fight it, but she can't, she couldn't. The girl was consumed with guilt, making her walls around her mind tremble, they were weak, ready to fall down at the slightest of touch.

She had been tortured for years and years, after her mother banished her from the Void, they had sent her to Heaven. Her parents left her there as they hadn't finished their final punishment for their youngest daughter and child for her crimes. Until then, she would be tortured, just for laughs, just for entertainment.

"You know, for the Goddess of All Creation, you are weaker then I thought you would b-"

"Esme!" The Gilbert broke out of her thoughts, she fell into her head and she looked at the mirror in a weird angle, making her eyes shine like a golden-yellow. Making her the olden days, the years that started all of this. "Esme come on, we're gonna be late!" Elena shouted once more, the two, had school, as always, and were back into cheerleading, the younger twin seemed more willing to go then the oldest. But it made sense, things were different now.

Esme grabbed her bag and water,"Coming!" The middle child yelled, running out of her room and downstairs. "Let's get this show on the road." Esme mumbled under her breath, seeing her sister, not in her cheerleading costume.

• A U T H O R •

As time went on, Elena and Stefan had gotten much closer, dating now, which led to Esme of course threatening him if he didn't anything back to her sister. But all in all, Esme liked Stefan, trying to get close to figure out what he wanted in the end.

But days went by and she had met Damon as well, sensing he was also a vampire. But Jordan also noticed Damon looked at her with some sort of admiration, or maybe some sort of love. She had no idea was this was about, but she would definitely find out soon. As it was all too weird, now that her best friend, Caroline Forbes, was dating this Damon, who was eyeing her.

Right away she didn't exactly like him, he was a cocky and arrogant man who liked to stir up trouble. For instance, when Elena had a little dinner party with Bonnie and Stefan, Caroline and Damon had arrive unannounced, soon the blonde pulled the younger twin downstairs to join the fun. Which was a very awkward introduction between the raven haired and brunette.

It was even more awkward when the oldest Salvatore brother talked about their past live affair. Who was named Katherine, Elena had informed her sister on the love triangle, whilst the two watched and dried dishes when everyone else was in the living room. Then he walked in, and then Elena left the two alone, awkwardly.

During the time, Damon and Esme got to talk a bit, trying to get to know each other, but the girl felt very uncomfortable as Damon had this weird look in his eyes, a softness, with a genuine smile on his face which was rare for him in his case. Luckily, Bonnie had came in to ask if she needed more help, as Esme was taking quite a bit of time in the kitchen.

But that was awhile ago, and now it is the day of the football game. And the girl needed to be on her game for the cheerleaders and her best friends. Though it didn't help with the Tyler and Jeremy fight, and Stefans cover nearly blown with the cut on his hand, with Elena as witness.

• E S M E •

"God guys, I'll be back, I left my jacket and water in the car." Esme rubbed her forehead, Caroline and Bonnie nodded, the Gilbert quickly ran out the field and into the parking lot. The game was to start soon, and if she wasn't present soon the Forbes girl would have her ass. Esme quickly opened up the trunk, grabbing her maroon colored jacket and her big water bottle, that's as surprisingly still cool after being left in the car.

She swiftly turned around, gasping as she was face to face with Damon Salvatore. "You scared me. W-What are you doing here?" The Gilbert questioned, Damon looked over his shoulder quickly, then putting his hand to the side of his mouth,"I'm hiding from Caroline." He whispered. Esme quirked a brow,"And why is that?" She playfully whispered as well.

"I needed a break. She talks more then I can listen." Damon widened his eyes for a second. "That could be a sign." Esme nodded her head, kind of uncomfortable. "Well, she's awfully young".

Esme narrowed her eyes at the Salvatore,"Not much younger than you are." She responded back, Damon chuckled a bit. "I don't see it going anywhere in the bigger picture. I think she's drive me crazy." Damon spoke, Esme rose her brows and tilted her head a bit. "Caroline does have some really annoying traits, but we've been best friend since the first grade and that means something to me." The Gilbert defensively spoke, sternness in her manner.

The girl watched as something switched in the raven haired man,"Duly noted. I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable. That's not my intention." Damon talked in the soothing voice, as if he was trying to persuade her. But the girl didn't fall for it, Damon was already on her bad side,"Yes, it is. Otherwise you wouldn't put an alternate meaning behind everything you say."

Damon smiled, shaking his head,"You're right. I do have other intentions, but so do you." Esme folded her arms across chest,"Really?" She questioned, wanting to see where he was going with this. Damon hummed as a response,"I seem 'em. You want me." Esme scoffed, feeling offended,"Excuse me?"

"I get to you. You find yourself drawn to me. You think about me when you don't want to think about me. I bet you even dreamed about me." Damon looked straight into Esme's eyes, the girl immediately knew what he was trying to do. "Compulsion." The voice in the back of her head reappeared for her once again. The girl was confused, what was this little voice, and most importantly, what the hell was Damon trying to play at here.

She snapped back into reality when she heard his voice once again speak,"And right now.. You want to kiss me." Esme had this emotionless look on her face, though it was pure anger, Damon smiled as he succeeded or he thought. He slowly leaned in with a smirk, Esme looked at his lip, before her face was painted with a scowl, and without thinking, Esme raised her hand and slapped him hard.

"What the hell?" Esme scoffed, glaring at him,"I don't know what game your trying to play here. Maybe trying to mess with Stefan, I don't know. But I don't want to be a part of it. And I don't know what happened in the past, but let's get one thing straight." Damon was in complete shock, Esme locked eyes with the man, who was holding his cheek,"I am not a pawn." Esme glared once more before tightly holding her water and jacket and walking away.

She didn't even realize what she had just done, she had blown her own cover...

• S T E F A N •

The blonde haired vampire watched as Matt walked away, feeling slightly more happy and comfortable with the complicated situation between him, Elena and Matt, but it was short-lived as he heard someone clapping behind him. He swiftly turned around, to see his older brother leaning against the brick wall.

"Isn't that nice? Stefan joins the team, makes a friend." Damon announced, pure sarcasm out of his tone of voice. "It's all so,'Rah, Rah, Go Team, Yeah'!" Damon raised his arm in a fist bump, clearly mocking his brother. Stefan shook his head, turning his body to leave,"Not tonight. I'm done with you." As he turned he was met face to face with Damon, who used his vampire-speed. Damon tilted his head, "Nice trick with Esme. Let me guess— vervain in her bracket? Necklace or ring maybe?"

Stefan was confused, he never gave the girl any vervain, only Elena. But he made sure to not show any unsureness, as he didn't even know why he couldn't compel her. "I admit, I was a bit surprised. It been a while since anyone could resist my compulsion." Damon lifted his eyes, throwing a innuendo in there. Stefan kept a cold, and stern face, unfazed,"Where'd you get it?" The older brother asked, "Does it matter?" Stefan started to walk away, going around his brother.

"Guess I could just seduce her the old-fashioned way. Or I could just..eat her." Damon cockily spoke, knowing that caught his brothers attention. Stefan stopped, turning around, confidence in his body,"No, you're not gonna hurt her." He slowly walked towards him as Damon turned around to face him.

"No?" Damon arrogantly asked,"Because deep down inside there is a part of you that feels for her. I was worried that you had no humanity left inside of you; that you may have actually become the monster that you pretend to be." Stefan with confidence, knowing he wouldn't hurt her, not if she looks the way she is.

Damon squinted his eyes,"Who's pretending?" Stefan looking him in the eyes,"Then kill me." Damon smiled,"Well I'm— I'm tempted." He looked up, shaking his head as he looked as if he was deciding. "No, you're of. You've had lifetimes to do it, and yet, here I am. I'm still alive. And there you are. You're still haunting me. After one hundred and forty five years. Katherine is dead, and so is Natasha. And you hate me because you love her, and you torture me because you still do. And that, my brother, is your humanity." The two had a tense stare off, but it was quickly interrupted by the annoying douche, Mr. Tanner.

"Salvatore!" The blonde haired man turned around with a stern expression, the teacher walked towards him with open arms,"What the hell? We've got a game to play!" He yelled, frustrated, Damon looked at the teacher with an idea popping in her head. "If that's my humanity..the. What's this?" He gulped, flashing a quick and sarcastic smile towards Stefan.

Then using his vampire-speed to Mr. Tanner, his vampire fad slowly unraveling, his fangs then digging themself into Mr. Tanner's neck. He yelled in pain,"No!" Stefan yelled, seeing as his brother slowly drained the teacher for all he was worth. Then just like that, he was dead, Damon turned around, blood all over his mouth, dripping to his chin, his vampire face still out,"Anyone, any time, any place." Stefan blinked in shock, this was going to be a lot more tougher.

• E S M E •

Dread...that's what filled the Gilbert body as she was in the field with the rest of the cheerleader, practicing. Until that emotion she knew all to well filled her body, it nearly paralyzed her when she felt the sense of death. She could smell it in the air, feel it in her finger tips, taste it on her tongue.

She held her head as a pain rushed through her body, she walked away from the group, though no one noticed, luckily. Then aloud ringing filled her head, making her groan, she opened her eyes, but shut them immediately when the lights hit her. "Fuck!" Jordan clenched her eyes in pain, she then moved further away from her group, feeling a sudden breeze of wind hit her face and body. She opened her eyes as she heard no one, and felt no light on her.

"What in the?" Jordan looked around her new surrounding, seeing she wasn't even on school soil anymore. No, she was in the empty park of Mystic Falls, far away from the school. She then felt a rush of power surge through her veins, Jordan gasped as she lifted up her hands to see scarlet red flares dancing around her hand.

"What's happening to me?"

#air #bonnie bennett #caroline forbes #damon salvatore #elena gilbert #elijah mikaelson #fire #kol mikaelson #nature #niklaus mikaelson #stefan salvatore #finn mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #mikaelson family #the vampire diaries #the vampire diares icons #water #scarlet witch #phantom #magic #witch

[arysafics]

prompt: clarke finds bellamys old online dating account thats obvious he hasnt used in forever, but she sees all his preferences are exactly the opposite of her (i.e. tall, brunette etc.) which makes her insecure. then he can convince her she hit him out of nowhere?

haven’t had much time to write lately since i’ve just moved apartments, but here’s a little something to tide you over until i can finish my next proper fic

like a freight train

rated t, ~1.7k words

Clarke hasn’t been on a dating site in forever, so honestly, it’s kind of fun to help Emori set up her profile. Things hadn’t ended well with Murphy, and after a string of Tinder hookups, Emori claims she’s ready to really move on and try a proper dating site, the one Raven met her current boyfriend Shaw on. There’s a sign-up fee and everything.

So Raven and Clarke have had fun picking Emori’s best photos, writing her bio, and selecting all her preferences, while Emori vetoed all their worst suggestions, and now they’re onto the really fun part—vetting the men.

They’re crowded around Emori’s laptop, sitting on her living room floor. A selection of thirty matches have come up for Emori, and the way it works is you don’t actually get to see the guy’s photo unless you agree to the match based solely on his biographical information.

“Why do all men either love fishing or cars?” Clarke asks, after the fourth man Emori has declined based on the fact that he will clearly never love a woman more than he loves his four-wheel drive.

“It would be fine if they had other interests too,” Emori says. “I like cars. And I could like fishing, I don’t know, I’ve never tried it.”

“Ooh, okay, what about this guy?” Raven interjects, then starts reading his bio from the screen.

“Looking for someone like-minded who enjoys fitness and the outdoors, particularly hiking and cycling. I also love kayaking, rock-climbing, soccer, and basketball. Would love to find someone to share those passions with me. I love a woman who can cook, not because I can’t (I can) but because I think great food is a way to share culture, history, and passion.

I want somebody laidback, who isn’t afraid to go with the flow and be spontaneous. I don’t vibe well with people who are intense or highly-strung. I hate country music and refuse to listen to it, yes, that includes Taylor Swift. Especially Taylor Swift.”

Clarke interjects then. “Emori, I don’t know about you, but I could never be with a guy who doesn’t like Taylor Swift.”

“You know I only listen to metal.”

“Shh, I’m not done,” Raven huffs. “Looks aren’t as important, but I’m partial to tall brunettes.”

Clarke snorts out a laugh. “This guy would hate me.”

“Yeah, but he’s perfect for Emori. What do you think, Em?”

“First halfway decent guy, I vote yes.”

Raven, who for some reason is the one in control of the laptop, hits the accept match button. Immediately, the man’s photo and name pops up, and immediately, Clarke’s stomach drops. Raven and Emori both erupt into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Because, of course, it’s Bellamy. Clarke’s very own boyfriend.

“Clarke, you better watch out, Emori’s going to steal your man.”

“He must have lowered his standards since then, Clarke,” Emori jokes. Clarke isn’t laughing.

Actually, quite the opposite. She feels like she might burst into tears. Her chest is all tight, and she knows her reaction is probably unjustified, but she can’t help it.

“Grow up, Clarke,” Raven says, rolling her eyes when she notices Clarke’s expression. “We’re just kidding around.”

“I know,” Clarke snaps. “I don’t care about that.”

“What then?” Emori asks. “You don’t think he’s actually still using this, do you? The photo is obviously so old, he clearly hasn’t been on here in years. Look,” she adds, pointing out the last active section on his profile, “last active 2012.”

Clarke nods, her jaw tight. It’s not that either, but she doesn’t feel like explaining it to her friends. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, forcing a smile. “I’m being stupid.”

“Exactly,” Raven agrees. “Okay, who’s the next guy?” She turns her attention back to the screen.

“I think I’m going to take off,” Clarke says. “Bellamy gave me a shopping list, I’m supposed to pick some stuff up so he can make dinner.”

“Okay, whatever,” Raven says. “See you later. We’ll let you know if Emori finds the love of her life.”

Clarkes picks herself up off the floor, says a quick goodbye and hurries out of there. She’s not really in the mood anymore.

She does Bellamy’s grocery shopping on the way home, taking longer than she needs to, because for once she’s actually not eager to see him. The things he wrote in his dating profile haunt her. How is it possible that when he described his ideal woman, he described the exact opposite of Clarke? If those are the things he wants, what is he even doing with her?

She’s not tall, or brunette, for starters. Clarke hates fitness and the outdoors, and she especially hates sports. She’s not a terrible cook, but she’s not exactly Masterchef material, and she doesn’t enjoy it, just does it out of necessity. She’s intense, and uptight, and high-maintenance—and she fucking loves Taylor Swift.

Emori was right, Bellamy clearly lowered his standards.

She makes it home eventually, and Bellamy is already in the kitchen, getting dinner prepped. He’s got on his navy apron, that Clarke bought for him, with his name specially embroidered on the front.

Clarke dumps the bags of groceries on the counter, and Bellamy looks up from where he’s chopping onions, and gives her a heart-melting smile.

“Just in time,” he says, putting the knife down and wiping his hands on his apron. He reaches for her, with the clear intent of kissing her, but Clarke pulls away from him, still hurt from reading his old dating profile. His wounded expression makes her feel a little guilty, but not enough to overshadow her dejection.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Clarke takes a deep breath. She has to talk about the calmly and maturely—they promised each other they always would. No passive-aggressive comments, or screaming matches, or walking out in silence because of a lack of proper communication. That’s how Clarke’s last relationship ended.

“Raven and I were helping Emori set up a dating profile today,” she explains. “And one of her matches was you.”

Bellamy hesitates, and she can see the gears turning in his head. “And you think…I’m still on dating sites?” he guesses. “I’m not, Clarke, I promise. I was on a few back in my twenties. I guess I didn’t delete all of them.”

“No, I know,” Clarke says. “It’s not that. It’s—it’s what you said in your bio. About what kind of woman you want.”

Bellamy groans. “Did I say something grossly offensive and misogynistic? If so, Murphy probably wrote it, he was helping me out with them.”

Clarke shakes her head. “It was all perfectly respectable. It’s just—it wasn’t me.”

Bellamy stares at her. “Well—I didn’t know you then.”

“No, but you seemed pretty certain about what you wanted. A fit, tall, brunette, who loves sports and cooking and sucking your dick.”

“I’m sure I didn’t say that last one. Besides, you do love sucking my dick.”

“That’s not the point,” Clarke huffs. “The woman you want is the complete opposite of me. Why are you even with me, when you could have anyone you want?”

Her voice cracks on the last sentence, and the tears spill over. She tries to blink them away to save herself the embarrassment, but it’s no use.

“Clarke, baby,” Bellamy says, all gentle and loving. He pulls her into his arms, and she lets him. There’s nothing more comforting than his embrace, even if he’s partly the reason she’s upset.

“I have exactly who I want,” he says. “All that other stuff is meaningless, just dot points on a list I thought I could check off and magically find the perfect partner. I was what, twenty-five? And a complete idiot. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“But I’m not laid back or fun, and I don’t go hiking with you, or canoeing or whatever,” she sobs into his chest.

Bellamy kisses the top of her head, then pulls her back so he can look into her eyes. “Truth is, I once thought that stuff mattered. I was counting on meeting that woman, I was on every dating site, looking for her. But then I met you, and there was no magic dating algorithm that could have predicted that. You hit me like a fucking freight train, Clarke. As soon as I met you, I knew I was done for. You’re it, you’re absolutely it for me. I love your intensity, I love that you care so much, that you’re so organised. I love how you pretend to care about sports for me. I love cooking for you, knowing how much you appreciate it because you hate doing it yourself. I love you. I love you. Understand?”

Clarke nods, and she’s absolutely bawling now, but for entirely different reasons. He’s said he loves her a million times, of course, and she loves hearing it. But he’s never laid it out quite like that—never had the reassurance of him telling her he loves her exactly as she is, not in spite of her faults but because of them.

“You’re still crying,” he says worriedly. “Do you still not believe me? Because—”

Clarke cuts him off with a wet kiss, still half crying. He’s too surprised to kiss her back properly before she pulls away. “I love you too,” she says.

He nods, a little bewildered.

“I love you,” she repeats, kissing him again, and this time he kisses her back. “I love you, I love you, more than you will ever know.”

He brushes his nose against hers, then presses his lips against her tear-stained cheek. “I think I might have some idea,” he whispers.

“You know, in your dating profile,” Clarke murmurs, “you also said you hate Taylor Swift.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Well, you definitely fixed that,” he says. “Is that what you were really upset about? Did I not sing every lyric when we went on that road trip and you played nothing but Taylor Swift?”

“Good point,” Clarke says. “I think I’m definitely a good influence on you.”

“Definitely,” Bellamy agrees. “Now, back to Emori’s dating profile—you know this is going to crush Murphy, right?”

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #the 100 #the 100 fanfiction #mine #prompts filled #Anonymous