#Sunlight on Rustling Hulk

[internet-sadass]

More Than You Bargained For But Better Than You Thought You'd Get (Jason Voorhees x female reader)

Blurb: You just wanted to get some photographs of the object of your obsession but said object had other ideas in mind, namely pounding the stupid walking fleshlight that dared to not flee when he pursued.

Alternative title: the reader is a big fan of Jason and decides she wants to get some pictures and some dick from him :)

Warnings: smut, size difference, size kink, outdoor sex, this is a slasher fic so there's mention of violence.

AN: it's kinda iconic that my return to tumblr comes in the form of a jason voorhees smut fic 💀 anyways, big masked mamas boy has me in a chokehold rn and I was itching to write some filth about him.

It was mad. No, actually, it was utterly deranged of you. But you just couldn't help it. Newspaper clippings weren't enough and the grainy footage of him hulking his way between the trees you had seen on the news sure as hell wasn't enough. Even your imagination, as boundless and talented as it was at conjuring up scenes of that towering figure knocking you to the floor and using you like a glorified sex doll, wasn't enough.

You had to see him in the flesh, snap a few pictures of your own. He was like a wild animal, deadly yet cautious, with an equal chance of fleeing or pursuing you.

This whole mad plan is why you were here, walking along the dirt path that weaved between the trees. The infamous lake caught the sunlight in the distance, sparkling like a discarded foil wrapper. Even though your pace was steady, nothing more than a stroll, your heart pounded, and your body leaked a slick sheen of sweat. It was a little embarrassing that just being in a location where he could be was making you so unbelievably aroused. Just the mere chance of seeing his silhouette had turned you into a beast in heat, trudging through the woods to find something to rut against so the aching between your thighs would stop. Despite how unbelievably hot and bothered you were, you were determined to keep walking, keep wandering the woods of Camp Crystal Lake until you found him.

Four hours had passed, and that determination was starting to dry up. You leaned back against a tree stump and drank water while looking through the few images you’d snapped on your camera. They weren’t of anything special, just the infamous ‘Camp Crystal Lake’ sign and a few shots of the woodland you’d been roaming through. The rational part of your brain whispered that this was a good point to turn around, return to the car park, and drive home. But no, you’d come here to fulfil your fantasies, and by God, you’d do that, even if the only part of him you saw was a shadow and the only photo you snapped was a blur of his hockey mask.

You got up and started walking again, this time without the guidance of the path. Weaving between the trees, you progressed deeper and deeper into the belly of the woods, straying further away from the relatively safety of the sunlight-lit dirt track. Any sounds of other hikers faded and were replaced by the constant low sound of the wind rustling leaves, the occasional twittering from an invisible bird somewhere above you, and the snap of twigs under your boots. The stark lack of any signs of human life sent an odd thrill through you: no one would be here to save you or interrupt your mission. You’d be at his mercy if he spotted you, a little voyeur intent on getting pictures of the object of her obsession, and decided to put a stop to his personal paparazzi.

A jolt nearly made you trip over yourself. Managing to regain your balance before you could fall face-first onto the mossy forest floor, you looked down. The laces on your right boot had come undone, and you’d stepped on them, yanking yourself to a stop. With a mumbled curse, you crouched down to retie them. Drawing back up, your gaze settled on the endless blur of trees ahead of you, interrupted only by an off-white oval.

Wait.

Frozen in place, your breath caught in your throat. The unmistakable hockey mask, attached to a figure trying to conceal his bulk in the foliage, was staring right at you. Ever so slowly, as if any sudden movement would make this hulk of a man scurry away like a spooked deer, you pulled the camera slung around your neck up to your eye and squinted into it. Twisting the zoom lens, you watched him momentarily before clicking the button and capturing an image of his half-hidden form. You clicked a few more times. The hockey mask tilted to the side, questioning your actions.

‘Fuck, that’s so cute.’ You thought absently as you clicked away, probably filling up the SIM card with hundreds of duplicates of the same image.

The hockey mask recentred itself. Jason’s question of what the woman standing in the middle of his forest was doing had been answered. He lurched into a heavy-footed but brisk walk, closing the distance between himself and the small figure ahead of him. Much to his surprise, you didn’t move, didn't turn and flee. You stood, camera raised, finger pumping at the button, taking endless pictures documenting his emergence from the undergrowth. The camera only lowered when you peeked over the top of it and realised he was no more than ten feet away from her.

“Shit.” You hissed, letting your camera fall from your hands and hang around your neck. Spinning around, you began to run, stumbling over the uneven ground.

But you knew that you were half-assing this. You weren’t running as fast as you could, you weren't actively trying to escape. You were basically jogging along, listening to the thud of his footsteps draw closer and closer. This was all a ploy, a little game of cat and mouse. Jason liked to hunt, to pursue, and you were going to give him that. Let him have the pleasure of catching you, and then you’d see if you could change his mind about what he would do to you when he got his hands on you. As you lazily dodged trees, you felt the space between your thighs grow slick, both your panties and shorts beginning to bare damp patches.

It took only a few minutes before your hair was grabbed, jerking you to a halt. Before you could even take a peak at the huge form that was casting a shadow over you, the hand clenching your hair used your locks as a means to hurl you to the ground. The wind was knocked out of you with the impact, leaving you dazed for a moment. Regaining awareness, you flipped yourself onto your back so you could look up at the predator that had caught you.

The few pictures you’d seen of Jason did not do him any justice in terms of his height, you thought, mouth agape as you looked up at the tank of a man towering over you. You’d thought plenty about Jason’s size and how much bigger he would be than you, but now that he was looming over you, your innermost desires about his ability to toss you around and utterly destroy you with one hand alone were confirmed.

“Oh…looks like you caught me, huh?” You said, bold as brass, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your voice didn’t even quiver. It was as if you were talking casually to an acquaintance, rather than a murderer who could literally snap you in two. You wanted to tease him a bit, see if you could press the right buttons in his brain to get your sick desires fulfilled.

“Whatcha going to do to me now, hm, Jason?” You whispered. As you spoke, you spread your legs slightly, biting your lip. If your mind hadn't been so addled by adrenaline and obsession, you probably would have cringed at the pathetic neediness of your actions.

Jason cocked his head to the side at the mention of his name, much as a dog would do. His eyes locked onto yours, watching you with a mix of anger and interest. He thought for a few seconds about what you had asked, about the way you wasn’t screaming, begging, or attempting to escape. Something in his animal brain stirred.

Grabbing your arm, Jason yanked you up, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process, then dragged you to the closest tree. You were ungraciously thrown against the trunk, rough bark tearing at your cheek and leaving a collection of scratches across your skin. Your heart thudded in your chest, pounding so loudly in your ears that you wouldn't have been able to make out anything Jason had to say if he were to speak. You giddy recollected the many hours you’d spent fantasising about this exact thing happening, and now it was actually going to happen. Or, at least, you hopped it was happening, and that Jason wasn't about to split your head open against the tree.

Fingers gripped the waistband of your shorts and tore them, scraps of denim falling to your feet. The thong you’d picked out oh-so-purposefully that morning got the same treatment. Your breath came out in ragged pants as you looked over your shoulder as Jason, watching him inspect your naked lower body. Leaning against the tree, you spread your legs wider, giving him a better view of your holes, letting him pick which one he wanted. He gave a huff of approval or interest. Your cunt clenched at his reaction, squeezing more slick out of you. He was killing you with how slowly he was going, taking his time to stare at the pink lips of your slit and the pucker of your asshole.

With his decision made, Jason unzipped his jeans, sliding them and his boxers down enough that he could pull his stiff cock out. He pumped it a few times, beckoning more blood into it. His cock matched his gargantuan size, both in length and girth. Considering that his hand, that was big enough that his fingers would be able to easily cage around your head and crush it, was just about able to close around his length, you knew that it was going to split you in two. A trickle of white pre-cum leaked from the crown, dripping onto the moss.

All you could do was stare, wide-eyed with terror and arousal, as he lined himself up with your hole. When the warmth of his pre-cum smeared against your opening, you twitched and clenched. Even your body seemed to have its doubts that the literal beast of a dick would fit without causing you major internal damage, and was trying to save itself from being pillaged by tightening up. Jason was having none of it, as he grabbed your hip with his free hand and steadied you, trapping you so that you couldn’t wriggle away as he pressed the tip of his cock into you.

A pained groan left your mouth as your entrance struggled to stretch around just the tip of his length, the pinkness of your lips becoming white as the flesh became taut. You took a shuddering breath in, leaning hard against the sturdy trunk of the tree, as your body reluctantly took on the oversized head of his dick. The hand on your hip curled into your flesh, nails catching on your skin. That was your only warning before Jason thrusted into you, cramming nearly all of his length into your velvety insides. It felt like his dick was never ending, filling up space inside your body that you were sure you didn't have, bulging out into your guts. The head hit your cervix and pressed hard against it, threatening to burst through it.

“Ha…fucking hell…I wonder if I’ve got…” You burbled out between pants, struggling to even breathe or speak, as if Jason’s cock had made its way up into your chest cavity and was crushing your lungs. You drooped your head between your arms to look at your body. A prominent bulge was settled in your lower belly, distending it. Jason shifted a little, pulling out then back in again, and you watched his movements appear through the flesh of your abdomen.

“H-holy hell…” You moaned, slightly mind blown that one of your biggest fantasies (aside from, you know, fucking Jason Voorhees) was right there in front of your eyes.

You didn't get much more of a chance to admire the outline of the massive cock pressing against your belly as Jason began to rut into you at a furious pass. You’d expected he’d have fucked in the same way he chased, slow and heavy, but he was surprisingly agile with his thrusts. Each time he sheathed himself inside you, his crown pressed thickly against your cervix and G-spot, not that Jason was aiming to make you cum. He was just chasing the high of being inside the hot, wet, vice-like grip of a cunt that was more than willing to take everything he could give it. It had been so long, maybe decades even, since he’d felt anything but his own cold hand around his cock, so the sensation of your pussy and the heat of your body felt like heaven to him. He let out grunts of pleasure as he slid himself nearly all the way out of your gaping hole, just the tip still encased in your warmth and wetness, and then slammed back into you, forcing your cunt to swallow a dick it was not naturally designed to take. The deep-rooted masculine need to pound and fill whichever hole welcomed it had taken hold of Jason.

Of course, even though Jason wasn’t aiming to make you cum or pleasure you in any way, that didn’t stop you from orgasming. The steady thud of his meaty cockhead against your cervix, paired with the strain of his girth stretching you open, drew an orgasm out of you relatively quickly. A crescendo of moans and begging reached its peak when you felt your stomach clench and the tension in your cunt snap. You were certain you had squirted, as you felt something warm and wet roll down your leg. Then again, it could have been blood from your pussy being torn by the savageness of how Jason’s cock speared you open. Everything was going hazy and blurry for you, as any ability to think rationally had been destroyed as soon as Jason had laid his hands on your flesh. You resigned yourself, clutching onto the tree trunk for support, barely able to keep yourself up as your legs trembled whilst you were pounded through one orgasm and into another.

Jason wasn’t sure how he felt about the noises you were making. They were similar to the screams and gurgles he’d pulled out of countless victims before, but there was no fear in the noises you were making. Still, they let him know he was doing something to you, and the way the muscles of your cunt tensed and relaxed around him confirmed that the something he was doing to you was probably good. Some part of him wanted to see your face, to see what expressions you were making.

Wrapping both hands around your waist, his fingers touching as he did so, Jason lifted you up, keeping you skewered on his cock. Still holding you, he flipped you over so you faced him. You let loose a squeal of pain and struggled pitifully when the ridges of his cock caught on the gummy walls of your cunt as he spun you around. Moving the pair of you closer to the tree, Jason pined you against the trunk with one hand under your breasts, holding you immobile by the ribcage. Panting, you gaped at him, still in shock after being rotated around and feeling his length definitely tear something inside you. His eyes met yours, and he stared for a moment, unblinking and devoid of any emotion, before he started pummelling at your cervix again. Fearing you’d fall or he’d lose his grip, you tried to wrap your legs around his waist, which only made you sink deeper onto his cock as you opened your entrance up more. His cock slid further into you, only stopping when he was sheathed balls deep in you. It literally felt like his cock was all the way up inside your chest, the tip nestled between your lungs.

Jason felt the pressure build low in his body, threatening to spill over with every passing second. His desperate rutting slowed as he drew out the process of bringing himself to completion. Each slide of his cock into you was accompanied by a sickening squelch, as your insides had coated his length with slick twice now. His breathing was heavy, rattling behind the mask, and his cock pulsed in time with each ragged breath, twitching in anticipation. Pressing himself as deep as he could without his tip breaking through the ring of your cervix, Jason emptied his load into you with heavy, hot spurts. You swear you could hear the filthy, wet gurgle of your hole being filled with the copious flood of seed, your womb swelling and cramping as it was flooded with the viscous fluid. Even with his length plugging your entrance, some cum escaped, trickling down the cleft of your ass.

You looked absently up at the masked man who had ravaged your hole, used you up like a cheap whore, your cock-drunk brain unable to form a single intelligent thought. He stared back as he casually slid his softening length out of you, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing and leaking a mix of his fluids and your own. His grip on your ribcage loosened, and you were dropped to the forest floor, where you lay, slumped against the trunk of the tree.

Exhausted, your vision went blurry, darkening at the edges as your ears buzzed with static. Before you fell unconscious, you saw the massive shadow of Jason pause and turn to look at you a last time before he trudged his way through the maze of trees and disappeared.

You awoke some time later, head spinning. It took a few moments before you remembered what the actual fuck had just happened to you. You fumbled about, searching for your camera, before realising it had stayed around your neck the whole time. Miraculously, it hadn't been crushed or really damaged at all, minus a smear of something covering the lens. You rubbed the smudge of god knows what off the glass before pulling the camera-strap over your head and holding the camera out in front of you. Smiling lopsidedly, your brain still not fully working after the whole ordeal, you snapped a picture of yourself leaning against the same tree Jason-motherfucking-Vorhees had fucked you against

#jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees x you #jason voorhees x female reader #jason voorhees smut #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #friday the thirteenth #jason voorhees fanfic #obligatory massive cock because jason is a big boy #slasher smut #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction

[itashiro-hitsuchiha]

Closed RP:

The burning in her chest—it felt unbearable, like a fire was eating her from within. Perhaps it was—the woman who had shot the arrow had such a way with heat and flame, and as she loomed over her broken body, she couldn’t help but feel the smug satisfaction of the woman standing over her. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut, and breathed a last breath.

And then she was gone.

Or…Pyrrha thought she was gone. She felt…like nothing for a bit. And then, suddenly, she felt grass tickling against the back of her neck. She groaned, weakly blinking her eyes open, and sat up slowly—bright sunlight blinding her for a moment. She stared around, shielding her eyes to the light, and blinked in confusion.

She wasn’t in Vale anymore—she didn’t know where she was. A wide glade surrounded by tall, curling trees surrounded her, the air fresh and clear like she’d never experienced before. Her body was stiff, but slowly she stood. Shaking her head, she cast her gaze slowly to her surroundings, then to the forest before her.

“Where…where am I?” she softly murmured aloud.

The forest seemed at peace as the sound of the wind rustling the leaves and the chirping of birds and clicking and chittering of nearby animals filled the area. This was not to last very long as soon the sound of a shrieking roar and heavy trampling footsteps echoed around. The ground seemed to rumble from the source of the noise. A hulking and monstrous figure came bursting through running across the glade. What looked like a humanoid figure was riding stop this beast and the two looked to be in a struggle.

The light had finally illuminated the being as an owlbear and a person in a struggle. The owlbear was riddled in injuries and gashes when the other figure took his axe and slammed it into the nape of the beasts neck to finally make it fall limp and lifeless. Afterwards the person slid off and removed his axe and with heavy breaths he set it down in the grass and took a moment to recover. After which he turned his head over. A dark blue cloak hid his head as he took notice of the strange woman. He slowly began to face her and take a couple steps towards her. This showed his massive height as he stepped into the light. He wore no shirt but simple cloak and pants with a variety of items hanging on his belt. His skin was pale but riddled with black tattoos of various shapes. Aside from a few cuts He seems to be completely fine after that ordeal. He says nothing as he stood before her looking like he's trying to guess why she's out in the wilderness all alone.

[hemoplagued]

Deft fingers slid through the creature's hair as the mage hummed a low melody akin to a lullaby, voice sweet as though from a honeysuckle while such beautiful flowers were woven into the Darkin's pale tresses. A long trek up the nearby Ionian mountains to gather herbs had rendered the mage in need of a rest, despite being carried half of the way there, and the soft breeze upon his skin was enough to cause him to smile. Robin, naturally given his state, did not have much to thank Vladimir with - for the company and the darkin momentarily being his personal carriage, and so he settled on caressing the beast in such a way that he hadn't been touched in centuries. The sun sat atop the crown of his head, illuminating each wintry hair with its brilliance,

"You're rumbling, are you pleased, my lord?"

The hulking monstrous form was settled rather gracefully in the grass. Wings spread outwards and the sun's rays shone on them both. Despite the light, the corrupted armor which twisted into Vlad's skin to create the darkin carapace remained as black as night. Cracks and crevices in the battle-torn armor allowed barely any sunlight to reflect from its mettalic appearance. He looked like he was sunbathing, enjoying his time spent with the smaller as the man simply caressed him. The gentle fingers weaving through his air, the soft smell of Robins's grace, lavender, honey, and then the freshly cut herbs floating in the air. Seemed to permeate from his body.

Vlad couldn't control the purr which rumbled from his form. His chest was plagued with the gentle vibrating as he seemed to lean into lithe fingers running against his scalp. Eyes which had been closed previously during this time of solitude and ease, opened slowly, staring at the pale-haired mage. The sun's rays shot around his locks of white hair, forming a crown, a halo even, over the smaller head. Vlad for a moment was lost in the sight of the other before he was snapped back from his thoughts with the simple question. It was as if all the sounds of the world had returned, the wind, the rustling of leaves, and distant birds. Reaching his ears suddenly as Robins's question cut through the air.

He chuckled, the noise inhuman in his fanged mouth. “Very much so. It is hard not to be with a sight such as this.”

#;『letters』 #witchcraftandburialdirt #its my little blorbo beebus robinnn hewwo egg mwah #;『Sweet Songbird』♥ Robin

[gobboguy]

Songs of Power Part 6: Converging Destinies

Chapter 1: The Strength of Orcs

The temperate deciduous forest was a tapestry of hues, vibrant greens embracing the sunlight filtering through the towering oak and maple trees. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, and the forest floor crunched beneath the sturdy hooves of the caravan's beasts of burden. The dwarven caravans from the nation of Bhia, stout and determined, pressed forward along a narrow path. Wooden wheels creaked and echoed in harmony with the rustling leaves, a symphony of nature interwoven with the muted sounds of the caravan's progression.

Guiding the caravan were the dwarves of Bhia, their beards adorned with intricate braids and clasped with finely wrought metals. Khazra, a formidable female dwarf, walked alongside her caravan, a bow slung across her back. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, ever watchful for potential threats. The dwarves were on a clandestine mission, transporting weapons to their villages on the disputed border with the Calona Duchy, a feud that had persisted for decades.

As they traversed the forested path, Khazra's father, Ghad-Kar, a weathered dwarf with a grizzled beard, approached her. "Stay alert, Khazra," he grumbled, his voice as sturdy as the rocks in their mountainous homeland. "We cannot afford surprises, especially with the rumors of giant green warriors lurking in Gorkin pass."

Khazra nodded solemnly, her hand gripping the hilt of her bow. "I'll be vigilant, Father," she assured him, her eyes flickering towards the shadows between the trees. The forest seemed alive with secrets, and the air crackled with tension.

Suddenly, the tranquil ambiance shattered as the sharp whistle of an arrow cut through the air. Khazra instinctively ducked, her heart pounding. Ghad-Kar bellowed, "Down!" just as an arrow grazed past, narrowly missing Khazra. Panic gripped the caravan, and dwarves scrambled for cover.

Khazra swiftly turned toward her father, only to witness a horrifying sight. An arrow protruded from Ghad-Kar's neck, and blood gushed between his fingers as he clutched at the wound. His eyes met Khazra's with a mix of urgency and sorrow. "Khazra," he gasped, his voice strained. "Protect… our people."

The forest, once serene, echoed with the chaos of the ambush as Khazra, her hands trembling, fumbled for her bow. The air thickened with tension, and the dwarven caravan found themselves plunged into an unexpected battle in the heart of the temperate deciduous forest.

From the depths of the forest, a guttural cry pierced the air: "Mog, granav uuk vicavorausan!!" The tranquility of the temperate deciduous forest shattered as hulking figures descended upon the dwarven caravan. Orcs, clad in a mishmash of fur and leather armor, burst forth from the shadows of the trees. Their muscled arms and legs rippled with strength, and both male and female orcs bore imposing physiques, the women boasting ample breasts and the men sporting fat guts. With weapons brandished, they swung down from the trees with primal roars, their eyes gleaming with a ferocity that echoed their fearsome reputation.

In the ensuing chaos, the Orcs unleashed a torrent of surprise attacks and overwhelming strength. The dwarves, caught off guard, struggled to fend off the relentless onslaught. Khazra, determined to retaliate, drew her bow, but before she could release an arrow, an Orc female, swift and agile, intercepted her. With a deft motion, the Orc deflected the arrow and, displaying surprising agility, seized a steer by its horns. In a stunning display of strength, she flipped the beast onto Khazra, the massive weight crushing her beneath its bulk. The Orc female emitted an oinking laugh, a sound that echoed through the chaotic battleground, and taunted Khazra in a brutish voice, "Puny dwarf no match for mighty orc!"

The battlefield erupted into a chaotic dance of clashing steel and primal fury as Orc warriors engaged the dwarves in brutal combat. Orcs with gnarled axes and jagged blades swung wildly, their movements driven by raw power and a relentless desire to conquer. Dwarves, clad in sturdy armor, fought valiantly, their hammers and axes meeting the savage onslaught. Grunts and roars filled the air, punctuated by the clash of weapons and the occasional cry of pain.

Amidst the turmoil, an Orc warrior, towering and heavily muscled, locked eyes with a determined dwarf wielding a double-headed axe. The Orc lunged forward with surprising agility, dodging the dwarf's initial strike and countering with a sweeping arc of his own weapon which cleaved the dwarf clean in two. The clash of steel echoed through the forest as the combatants circled each other, each seeking an opening. In another skirmish, an Orc woman, agile and cunning, faced off against a stout dwarf armed with a warhammer. The Orc danced around the dwarf's attacks with fluid grace, her leather-clad form a blur of movement. With a lightning-quick strike, she disarmed the dwarf and delivered a swift kick, sending him sprawling to the forest floor and then she leapt upon him, delivering savage blows with her knife which opened his guts to the sky.

The forest floor became a canvas for the intense struggle between Orc and dwarf, with each clash of weapons and every strategic maneuver contributing to the ebb and flow of battle. The air was thick with tension and the scent of sweat and blood as the combatants fought for supremacy in the heart of the temperate deciduous forest.

Amidst the fray, the Orc leader emerged, a towering figure wielding a massive two-handed warhammer shaped like a boar's head. With each swing, skulls were crushed, and dwarves fell before the brutal onslaught. The leader's ferocity was unmatched, and the ground quaked with each thunderous blow.

The clash of titans unfolded as the Orc leader, wielding his massive boar-headed warhammer, faced off against a dwarfish champion, his sturdy axe gleaming in the filtered sunlight. The two combatants circled each other with calculated intensity, the ground quivering beneath the weight of their powerful footsteps. The Orc leader, a hulking force of brutality, swung his warhammer with bone-crushing force, aiming to overwhelm the dwarven champion. The dwarf, however, exhibited unmatched agility, darting and weaving with a grace that defied his stout stature.

The battle reached a crescendo as the dwarf landed a series of precise strikes, exploiting the Orc leader's momentary lapse in defense. Yet, the Orc leader, fueled by sheer determination, retaliated with a thunderous blow that sent the dwarf sprawling. The forest echoed with the clash of metal against metal, and both combatants bore wounds as badges of their ferocious struggle. In the end, with a final, mighty swing, the Orc leader overcame the dwarfish champion's resilience, sending him to the forest floor. The Orc leader stood victorious, his heaving chest and triumphant roar marking the culmination of a fierce and closely contested battle. With a swift blow that fell like a thunderclap, the Orc Leader slammed his massive warhammer down on the dwarf champion's skull, splattering gore and brains and painting the forest floor red.

The dwarven resistance crumbled in the face of the Orcs' surprise tactics and overwhelming physical prowess. The forest, once a haven of serene beauty, was now the stage for a brutal clash between two fierce adversaries, and the Orcs reveled in their triumphant advance. The Orcs oinked and slapped their bellies, painting the corpses of their opponents yellow with steaming urine and drowning their foes ambitions in abject humiliation. The forest was alive with the sound of Orcish victory and the cries of dwarvish resistors.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #SongsofPower6

[carnal-lnstinct]

𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 "𝐼 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑌𝑜𝑢".

Summary: A series of short one-shots inspired by this prompt, 1-35. I am not going to write all the prompts and I will not be writing them in order, but based off inspiration. To fuel my “horny on main” I may focus mainly on writing for Goku but there may be a few with other characters. Not all fics will be suitable for all ages. Minors should not interact with prompts rated mature/18+.

Completed Prompts: 2 / 4 / 7 / 10 / 12 / 16 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 31 / 34

12. When we lay together on the fresh spring grass

Pairing: Broly (DBS) x Female Reader ( God of Destruction ) - PLATONIC Rating: T Warning: ( canon-typical violence, mentions of death ) A/N: Reluctant God Mom has hard-to-hard with newly adopted man-child. I haven’t really written for Broly in a while I almost forgot how to

He joins you today for lounging in the grass. By the lake where the larger trees shaded the area just right, a comfortable mix of warm sunlight and a cool breeze graced this spot with the perfect comfort for a nap in the peaceful outside. Nothing but the rustling grass and the sound of the water. More appropriately, you were trying to nap in peace with his company until he shared his thoughts. A rare opening up from a normally quiet presence, but it garnered your attention to humor his unprompted conversation.

“You think I have everything?” You chuckled softly in your throat. Your eyes open looking toward the sky through the breezy tree limbs. Quite the exaggeration of your character. “That is cute... but untrue. I do not have everything. I live by a discipline that allows me to exist comfortably.” 

“You destroy things --people-- on purpose. No one tries to stop you.” The large saiyan points out. He turns his eyes upward finding the wide sky above as well, lightly adjusting his hands behind his head. “Because your power scares them.”

“You can understand what that is like.” You harmlessly chided in return.

Broly has been here for a while now, along with the other two remaining of his kind. Mostly for the sake of training, but every time you turn around his silent, hulking stature is close by trying to get chummy with you by some awkward means. Sometimes mimicking the way you do certain things to blend into your background or become better acquainted with the normalcy of general etiquette and a lifestyle away from Vampa, the methods of a child taking in the basics of self-sufficiency by watching the adults around him successfully do the smallest things. To some degree, he gets his way of gaining your attention when it’s desired in the beginning. Forcing you to acknowledge him by staring from the far end of the table when you have something on your plate he wants or correcting some behavioral issues that one would expect from living on a desolate planet for his entire life.

 Your interactions develop beyond simply correcting him, recognizing the bits of personality in that deadpan frown as you allowed yourself to be more receptive to him and let your curiosity learn about the history of this long lost saiyan. It taught you to be more patient with him and lessened your indifference, though he continues to test the former every so often. You felt like you had to catch his mistakes before they happened, giving more caution to him and what he tried to do outside of training. Eventually, you spoke regularly with him and became more proactive in helping him with the small things while Whis and the others focused on training that power of his. More smiles in his expression came through as he progressed and not too long had he blended in with the ruckus of saiyans for the better. But he didn’t leave you out. It was the strangest thing when he would come back to you to share his experience and achievements at the end of the day with the last of his energy, as if you knowing completed his day. Perhaps a means of tracking his progress if he was confident enough to bring it to you, you assumed. An odd thing to trust in a God of Destruction, yet he smiles proudly when he shares his story of the day’s lesson. 

A contagious smile.

You can admit this saiyan is surprisingly more tolerable than the other two, still a handful and downright awful at chores but less noisy for starters. Despite his independence, he looked to you more than he did Whis and his saiyan counterparts in his uncertainty or for understanding. And suddenly you find yourself speaking up for him in various situations without hesitation. As if you had to when his eyes sought you out. Your unusual interference is heeded by everyone who witnessed it, whether you were defending the large man or reprimanding his recklessness with a disapproving wag of your finger. Whis couldn’t help but tease at your “care” for the saiyan as you made it quite clear from the start you want nothing to do with them until they were strong enough to rival you. You brush it off as nothing special.

But there was no denying you asserted a charge over Broly a tad more shielding than you did Goku or Vegeta.

So, what could it have been to prompt this sudden conversation topic? To the eyes of a misfit mortal, did someone with a divine reverence as yours seem to be, and therefore have, everything? He does not appear to hold that fear of you claimed to be held by others, you’re not sure what it is he actually fears. Envy, then? Did Broly desire to have “everything” that you are, feared included? He’s not so far from the latter. “Any saiyan in this universe who could have what you have could assume such a luxury. Respect,” You proposed as what he really meant. “-Or fear, and power. But...” You continued to speak with a shrug of your shoulders and closed your eyes once again. Broly attentively turns his head toward you. “Then I would be forced to deal with them, you see? Having too much of something doesn’t mean we have everything. My ravaging has an order, yours is gratuitous at best, and often mortals fear both.”

Broly’s own introduction to his remaining counterparts wasn’t exactly a warm one. It didn’t occur to any of you that living among the seventh universe was your own berserker saiyan similar to that of universe six’s Kale. He’s different however, unnaturally stronger than any saiyan you have known before. It made you wonder if your search for the prophesized super saiyan god was actually misinterpreted. That while the vision did reveal itself through the saiyan Goku and eventually Vegeta as well, there was another who surpassed that power with very little trying. The way you heard it, this super saiyan alone overpowered two Super Saiyan Gods, their blue transformation, and Frieza before he came to join them under Whis’ tutelage. His potential to gain the power of God Ki is more likely than his counterparts if he can continue to withstand the lessons Whis had to offer. There was a lot of rough edges in his fighting method to smooth out, as to be expected of a saiyan, but there are still some other blocks in his mental capacity that he must overcome to achieve the perfect form for God Ki. The idea of that would scare anyone aware of the powerhouse he already was.

It’s impressive, still. And a shame such power is more of a burden for him. You could definitely rattle the cosmos in a battle with him, he may be the one to push you to your full potential after so long. But there was no joy in fighting someone who was just flinging himself around like a battering ram at whatever moves. You tilt your head toward him with open eyes, seeing his eyes turn away.

He didn’t like your answer. How you spoke of destroying things, that doesn’t sound like him at all, Broly surmises with a wrinkle in his brow. But then he considered how his father sought to handle his power and what ultimately became of him tapping into more strength than he ever has before, and it sounded exactly like him. Fighting like that felt free, and even fun, until he found his limit. And then it broke, he broke, and suddenly he was pushed to a new height of power inevitably becoming what his father feared. Broly was somewhat grateful the old man didn’t get to see him become that wild monster. All he remembers of his father’s final moments was shutting out the man’s voice in favor of fighting it out a little longer, achieving what he had trained for at all costs. And then he’s gone. Paragus did want his son to be strong, but never wanted him to lose himself to his strength no matter what and Broly was more than aware of that. His true power was scary, and no one should want that. 

Broly wondered what your true power was like, then. With a title like “Destroyer”, you couldn’t have been any better than he was at that time. Goku and Vegeta speak of you as if you could go off at any minute, warning him not to get on your bad side. A warning uttered in quiet fear. Whis just encourages him to proceed with caution or not at all if he could avoid your presence. Yet, that has not been his experience with you. You’ve gotten angry at him before, and he tensed at what he expected was something worse than the collar he once wore about to come his way. But you just left him after, calling for Whis to “retrieve his pet project”. It was very, very brief, but Broly was afraid of you the. Never again since. The way you controlled yourself during that time stuck with him. If you were so strong and feared, and could control that which made others afraid of your power then he could learn to do the same. He could be strong, and he could be free. Just like you, and in doing so have everything. However, if he failed to do so, then he knows death is what waits for him. There would be no other option for a power like his if you exist to destroy it.

“All I have is my strength. That and... nothing anymore.” He closes his eyes back, resigning himself to a curious sensation to the fate put upon him. “...Would you destroy me for that?”

Your eyes narrow slightly and once more you shrug your shoulders. “There are possibilities where I may need to intervene with you. Do you ask because you, too, are afraid of me?”

The way you spoke reminded Broly of how his father use to speak to him. If you chose to kill him, then you had no choice. Paragus spoke with fear and would reach for his remote, but you spoke calmly like the energy around you silenced everything, and everything listened in return. You talk about killing people like it was nothing, like Paragus of Vegeta and Frieza to everyone, but the fear others responded to you with is more palpable than those who feared even Frieza. So does he still have that fear for you, after all?

“...No. I am not afraid.” Broly lifts a hand from behind his head and looks into his rough palm. With his tragic eyes and a soft sigh through his nose, he drops his hand to his chest. He sits up, legs crossing and hands lax in his lap. “Unless we are playing, I wouldn’t want to hurt you on purpose. I wouldn’t want to hurt Kakarot or Vegeta. I know what my power can do. If I...need to be stopped. I hope it is you to do so.” Broly turns his head towards you and sees the odd look you were giving him. “You are like me, so you should be the one to do it.” You answer with an indifferent hum and turn your eyes away from him with another shrug.

“If you have to kill me, would you still consider you and I friends?” Broly asks.

You answer with another odd look at him. He is charmingly naïve, there was no denying that. You can sense Goku’s handiwork behind that idea for some reason. You scoff, “We were never friends, Broly. Gods of Destruction do not “make friends” with mortals.” You informed.

“I will be your friend.” He politely insisted, a small, melancholic smile rising in his features. “It can mean nothing right now because we are together, we are alive at the same time and get to see each other but if I have to die, then it can mean something important to you after.” He lifts his eyes toward the sky, hand absentmindedly closing around the green pelt tied around his waist. “I miss my friend Ba even though we are no longer friends. It makes me happy to think about the fun we had playing together, I still think of him as my friend.”

You sigh quietly, the story of the Vampa Beast recalled to your memories from his tales. The desire to nap had long passed, and so you sit up as well. “Dear boy, I do not want your friendship.” You grunted. “How silly, to insist a destroyer god to want such a thing. Am I to use that to comfort me after your mortal life comes to an end?” You murmured softly to yourself, steeling your apathy in your visage against a bitter lump creeping into your chest. Shaking your head, you give a curt huff. “What’s with this grim topic anyways, did you plan on dying any time soon? Here I thought saiyans never stop pushing themselves to do anything, especially fight.” You stretch your spine and left your indifference firm in your eyes, a learned response to close oneself off from sentimental influences that would hinder a destroyer’s duty. “If I have to destroy you then I will, and that’s that. You serve your place in this universe, have a little fun on the way, and then move on to the afterlife just like everyone else. Got it?” 

“...Then what becomes of you? What will you do after that?” He continues to ask.

“-What?” You turn to him with an arched brow. What else is needed after that?

“You will be all alone.” He points out, tilting his head to look down at you. “When we are all dead and gone.”

Your cold façade weakens for a moment, casting your face in the opposite direction from him. “I will continue to act as a Destroyer God until I can no longer. That is all. As I said, I do not have everything.” You softly concluded.

“But until such a time, I have you and those other rowdy saiyans to keep things interesting for a spell, and Broly,” You reach over, taking his chin in your hand to turn him to face you. “They have you, too. Same goes for your other friends and most importantly you’ll always have your potential. That is not “nothing”.” You affirmed to him, seeing his eyes brighten from the gloom he let take hold of him. In return, you grinned and folded your arms to your chest. “Keep up what you’re doing. Whatever path you saiyans are on now, you are on it for a reason. Whis is not training you to die any time soon... And I do not see a future to destroy you where you learn to conquer your inner strength.” You nodded, then shrugged casually and reclined back into the grass with your arms under your head. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get to play, then. Really see what you’re made of.”

You close your eyes, breathing a sigh of relief getting that joyless topic out the air. But a new weight does settle on your stomach. You look down finding Broly using your abdomen as a pillow, his eyes reflecting the light from the sun looking back at you. You frowned.

“We’re not friends, saiyan.” You insist more curtly turning your nose up at his action. Broly smiles, feeling your hand brush his hair and closes his eyes. “And if you tell anyone about this, I will take back what I said.”

#broly x reader #broly imagine #broly #dbs broly #dbz fics #dbz imagine #dragon ball super #DBS #My writing #*TWYSILY

[debiteful]

Okay so this one is based on an anon request I got. A particular detail made me uncomfortable, but otherwise the concept was solid. If you want elaboration on my feelings on that, you can ask, but I don't wanna bog down the story with that ramble ^,....,^'

A wereboar discovers a human living beneath their floorboards. This person is in exile and being hunted; to make matters worse a very tough person is hunting this human. The good natured wereboar decides to help the human evade capture.

Content: soft, safe protection vore, panicking prey, willing human prey, boar-human hybrid pred, belly bulge, fearplay, threat/false claim of digestion, regurgitation, comfort afterward

Tuki walked up their front steps, feeling the familiar creak of boards beneath their feet. The bungalow stood alone in a woodland clearing, the perfect place for someone like Tuki to live. Isolated, yet close enough to civilization to get the supplies they needed.

Once inside they let their loaded sack fall to the floor. They knelt and began going through it, sorting the things within; food went to one side while fabric went to the other. Behind them, they heard a rustling noise. Very slowly they stopped rifling through the bag and listened. Their nose twitched and they snuffled curiously while slowly turning their head.

Something was scraping against a floorboard over there. Had to be big, a rat wouldn't sound like that. Maybe a raccoon? Looking around, Tuki could see one of the cabinet doors was open in the kitchen. That little thief!

The homeowner crept across the floor as quietly as they could. Unfortunately, stealth was not their strong suit. Their weight made the floorboards groan with every step.

The rustling went quiet. Tuki bent low and sniffed at the floorboards with little grunts. They had to be getting close. The scent of some creature wafted up; it didn't smell like racoon.

"Hey!" They called gruffly, "Get out here you vermin!"

A soft whimper and hasty scrabbling from below the floor was the only response. Tuki growled and leapt to their feet. In a flash they were out the door and scrambling under the cabin. Leaf litter and dirt kicked up as the creature tried to hurry away. Tuki crawled on their belly, moving arm over arm with surprising speed thanks to bulky muscles.

As the creature became silhouetted by the daylight on the far side of the cabin, its pursuer frowned. That almost looked like a person… 

Tuki stopped and called, "Hey! I won't hurt you. Wait!"

It froze. They could see a head swivel and bob while it tried to get a look at them. They approached slowly.

The creature backed out from under the house, sunlight revealing its form. It was a human! Mud streaked their ashen face and twigs stuck from their unkempt hair at odd angles. They kept taking steps backwards, eyes trained on the crevice where Tuki would emerge.

By the time they were free to stand, the human was halfway to the tree line. They brushed themselves off and stood by the back of the house, "Hey! I said I wouldn't hurt you. You look like you could use some help. I- well I don't like that you stole some food, but you clearly need it. Come inside and I'll help you."

The frail person tilted their head one way, then the other. Big, dark eyes glittered as they considered the offer. They seemed human, but right now they reminded Tuki more of a yearling doe. 

Tuki held out their hand, "Come here! I promise it'll be okay."

They blinked, then approached. Tuki let their arm fall and turned towards the front of the house. They didn't need to look back to sense that the bedraggled human was following a short distance behind.

Inside Tuki was able to heat some water so they could bathe. While they did, the host picked out some of their own clothes that might fit. An oversized shirt made a dress-length tunic for the human. Then they set to cooking up some warm food; they could tell it would do them good.

Over the meal, Tuki managed to gather that his name was Lark, and he was hiding from someone. He was vague about that, as if worried Tuki would change their mind about being so hospitable if they knew. Sensing the reluctance, they didn't press the matter. 

After even this small bit of care, Lark was looking much better than he had been. His cheeks had a warm, healthy glow, and his hair was hanging in loose curls just above his shoulders. He looked a little silly in the large shirt, but at least it was soft and clean.

A loud knock at the door rang through the cabin. Lark jumped and spilled the soup he had been sipping from a bowl. His eyes were wide with alarm, and suddenly his whole body shook.

Tuki stood to answer the door but he darted over and grabbed at their arm. "No! Don't!" He hissed, looking up with pleading eyes.

They frowned down at him, "Why not?"

"They're here for me; they'll hurt me. You gotta hide me somewhere- somewhere they won't find me!"

Their frown deepened and they cast a worried glance around the simple dwelling. The only room besides the main area was their bed and bath room, but that didn't exactly have any hiding places. If he could get back under the floor, then maybe- 

Another flurry of knocks rapped at the door. This time it was accompanied by a warning voice, "Whoever is in there, open up or I'll have to come in myself!"

Lark trembled and clung to Tuki's arm. His wordless plea was all across his face. Their face softened and they whispered, "Do you trust me?"

"I- what? I have to; if you have a plan, then do it!"

Tuki nodded and gently removed him from their arm. The human watched with a creeping dread as before his very eyes his host's shape shifted. Their face elongated, sharp tucks sprouting from between their lips. Their stubble lengthened and hair thinned, becoming thick bristles. Ears lengthened and flopped, and their form filled out their shirt better.

Beady black eyes full of concern gazed at Lark from that monstrous face. His host wasn't human; they were a were-boar! 

He sucked in a shaky breath and fought the urge to turn and run. Filled with desperation, he knew flight was not an option.

He squeaked as their powerful hands grabbed his slight shoulders and lifted him. His feet reflexively kicked a little as they left the floor. Their jaws opened wide, saliva hanging in thick strands that trembled with their hot breath. The humid air washed over his face as he screwed his eyes shut. Terror pricked at his belly and sent his heart racing as he felt a slobbery tongue rise up to greet his face.

Their maw shut around his head and shoulders gently. Even if he wanted to cry out, he couldn't, smothered by wet flesh as they crammed his head down their throat. They swallowed; it was a sickening feeling to have those powerful muscles constrict around him.

He could hardly feel their hands grasp his hips now and heave him deeper in. His legs kicked wildly and he fought for air through the panic and slime. His whole body became completely enveloped in rippling muscle and coated in saliva as he slid downward.

Tuki wiped their mouth with the back of a hairy hand while the other slid down to support their swelling belly. They felt their gut stretch as their hastily gobbled prey slid down and was forced to curl. Their stomach walls were taut and smooth around Lark's quivering form. The bulge of their belly strained against their shirt, making it ride up a little. It wasn't very inconspicuous, but it would have to do. 

They plodded over to the door just as whoever was outside turned the handle. The door swung inward to reveal the would-be intruder, a hulking man carrying a baton in one hand and clutching the short leash of a massive dog in the other. The beast snarled and snapped at Tuki, but they held their ground. The man looked surprised, but a snear took over, "There you are, you dumb brute! You couldn't hear me knocking?"

Armed and with that vicious dog, Tuki knew they couldn't fight. Especially stuffed full like this. They would have to talk their way through this. "I could," they said crossly, "but I was finishing my dinner when you so rudely interrupted."

"I have important business, more important than you stuffing your face, pig."

Tuki narrowed their eyes, "What is it then?"

"I'm on the trail of a dangerous fugitive who is an enemy of the state." At that Lark squirmed inside their belly nervously, but went still as the man continued, "I tracked him here, intending to apprehend him so he can be exiled permanently."

The dog was straining against its tether, sniffing with interest at the threshold. Its master didn't spare it a glance, stone-cold eyes fixed on Tuki and club raised menacingly. They replied, "Well I haven't come across anyone dangerous." 

"He's a sly curr, might not seem dangerous. Have you seen any strangers around here? Heard anything odd?"

"Hmmmm," Tuki said, weighing their options. They scratched at their belly, drawing up the shirt to reveal the rounded bulge sagging over the waist of their pants. "There was this one little fella, big doe eyes. He stole some food from me," the anxious squirms started up again, making their protruding gut wiggle. "So I ate him instead!"

"You what?" The man snarled. Slowly his gaze drifted down to their taut stomach, and horror crept into his eyes at seeing it move. He looked back at Tuki with disgust, "You ate a man?"

"Hardly a man," they shrugged, "More of a vermin. I'm not too picky though," they said with a smirk.

Seemingly at a loss for words, he just gaped at the wereboars belly for a while. Then he looked past them, into the house, "I'm going to have a look around, just in case." 

"You won't find much," Tuki gloated, patting their belly. A burp rumbled up and escaped loudly. The dog sniffed the air then bayed and reared up to investigate their snout. They laughed and the man dragged it away and into the house by its leash.

Tuki kept a wary eye on the two invaders while they leaned against the threshold. Lark still hadn't settled down, his body writhing within the flexible limits of the stomach. Little muffled grunts could barely be heard above the gurgling fluids shifting around him.

The dog barked with savage excitement as it found Lark's dirty clothes. The wash water had already been drained away, leaving little explanation. The man hooked the tattered clothes with a finger and brought them to Tuki, "Whats this? Is it yours?"

"No, you're welcome to it. I took those filthy rags off that human before I devoured him. I have some standards," they huffed. 

The man eyed their still moving gut, "You ate him alive?"

"Of course! Killing is so messy, I don't like to do it in the house. Besides," they leaned in with a ghoulish grin, "I like to feel them squirm as I digest."

Lark flailed as best he could within the cramped confines, but the real reward was the brief widening of the intruder's eyes at that comment. He scowled, "Can't you spit him up? I have a job to do."

Offended, Tuki leaned back, "What? And waste a perfectly good meal? No, you were too slow. He's mine now. Besides, it's not like he's going anywhere. Just tell your master you did it; how're they gonna know any different?"

He considered, then trudged past the wereboar, hauling his dog along, "Fine. But if I get in trouble, don't think I won't send someone after your hide too!" 

"I expect nothing less from a scoundrel like you."

He froze and clenched his cudgel. Tuki dearly hoped he wouldn't try to use it. Thankfully, that was the case, and he stomped off without another word.

Tuki shut the door and locked the bolt into place, just in case. They went over to their chair and sat down heavily. Their belly bumped against their legs as Lark continued to wriggle frantically. His whining could be heard by Tuki, and their heart lurched. The poor creature must be terrified. If only they had had more time to explain.

They got up and hurried to get a towel, then went to their bedroom and stood infront of the bed. They heaved, and with great effort Lark slid up and out of their stomach. He landed on the towel laid out to catch him and lay there shivering. Before he could scramble away, Tuki shifted back to their human form and bundled him up in the towel. He fought against the warm folds of cloth weakly before realizing he wasn't in danger. The wereboar sat on the bed and cradled the swaddled human in their lap, using a corner of the towel to wipe his face and hair. 

He looked up with wide, tearful eyes, "You…." He couldn't find the words.

They hugged him tightly then gave an apologetic stare, "You're quite the mess, again. I didn't know what else to do. He would've found you if I hadn't-"

He cut them off, "I know. I know. It's just- the things you said, they were terrifying. Especially from, well, in there," his eyes flicked meaningfully to their belly.

They nodded and continued to clean him up carefully. He relaxed into their hold, inhaling the fresh air deeply.

Neither of them spoke. Both of their minds independently wandered to the same, simple question: what next? Neither of them had the answer right now.

#soft vore #safe vore #protection vore #digestion mention #reluctant prey #wereboar pred #anthro pred #human prey #belly bulge #bulging belly #similar size vore #same size vore #unintentional fearplay #panicking pred #regurgitation #hurt/comfort #debiteful writing

[downywrites]

Did I post this before?…Birb can’t remember.

Purpled plays a game of bedwars with Techno, but gets a little over his head with it. (ah shit, here we go again)

He swung his legs back and forth on one of Hypixel’s waiting benches, watching players fight and quarrel on the islands in the distance. The feeling of the splintering wood underneath him made him wince as he shifted a bit.  Purpled sighed, leaning his head on his hands. Notch, I’m so bored. Why does everyone suck today? He felt a tug of temptation to join them, to slaughter them with the edge of his sword and the silver spark of his witty remarks. He waved it off, shaking his head a little. I can’t do that, not today. I’m waiting for him. Him...His eyes unfocused, thinking about the man he was to spar with today. Technoblade. He’s well-lauded and all that, but is he really that good? I mean, I know he was good back in the day, but things are different. So different. He focused back to see one of the people on the island getting yelled at. He leaned in, looking at the player closely. Noticing an illegal weapon on him, he shook his head, tutting quietly. “Jeez, you’d think that they would know to not cheat in such a public place.” A rough, ragged voice spoke up behind him. “You’d think so. They ain’t that smart, though.”

He yelped, turning to look at the offender. Purple eyes met crimson. Purpled jumped off the bench, stumbling a little bit. “W-wha? How did you get here so fast? I didn’t-” “Hear me? Of course you wouldn’t hear me. I prefer not to be heard, Purpled. That’s the warrior’s way.” After his brief startle, he collected himself almost immediately, looking at the hulking piglin hybrid up and down. The two of them were very close to one another- he could hear the heavy breathing of the warrior and the small snuffling noises he was making in between breaths. He glanced at his face for a moment, a sudden wave of shyness overcoming his usually witty and snarky personality. He stuttered a little as he spoke. “S-so! How did you get all this gold? I thought you couldn’t bring in things you didn’t find from Hypixel.”

The bigger of the two grinned a little, tusks shining an off-white in the sunlight. “I found it here too. Got them from unlucky people who got in my way. They were annoying anyways. Shouldn’t have waved gold in the piglin’s face.” He pointed towards the bedwars pedestal. “Are we going to do this or what?” The younger bedwars player’s mind swirled in confusion. What was he saying? Was he being sarcastic? Mocking? Completely neutral? Dear Notch, I have no clue what he’s thinking. He took an uncertain step towards the statue. More important question. Do I like him? Should- “We can back out if you want. It just means I have a little less blood for me later.” He snapped out of his little trance, looking at the piglin in a mix of annoyance and challenge. The pink-haired warrior dug out something from underneath his nails, leaning on the statue in a pose of pure apathy. He looked at the younger with a look of bored expectancy, a look that he had seen on himself in the mirror on particularly dreary days. He bristled a little, but he knew that it probably wasn’t on purpose. The guy is supposedly not the best at social cues. I’ll just have to bear with it. Bear with it, bear with it…

He gritted his teeth a little. “Yeah, we’ll do this. Let’s go.” He stalked up to the statue, ready to tap it, before a ring-encrusted hand grabbed his wrist. “Before we do.” He held up a small modded enchant book. “Asked the mods if we could do a private, modded match. Makes it more fun.” Purpled snorted, a bit of his normal snarkiness showing through again. “Need a little boost? No probs. Seems fine to me.” Techno grinned again, showing the bottom rows of his teeth in a minorly intimidating gesture. “Whatever you say, kid. Just telling you, this may be one of the more dangerous bonding activities we can do.”

The younger ignored his statement, tapping the statue and setting up a new private match. “Dangerous for you,” he muttered, purple irises flicking back and forth as he read how to add in the mod. Snorting, Techno kneeled down, chains swinging back and forth as he moved. A specific one that hung from his tusk and connected to a clip on his ear caught the boy’s eye. Their eyes met, purple gazing at crimson with the intensity of a man who had seen the furies of war. Techo looked back at the boy with no such idea in mind. He gestured towards the statue. “Ready?” Purpled nodded, eager to begin. His mind whirred to life again, immediately planning out his modes of attack against the piglin. I know this will be hard, but I really, really want to win against him! I heard from Tommy that he was good, but how good? Man, I sure hope that he does something really different than the others!

Techno looked in amusement at the boy. I’m guessing he’s already planning. What did I expect? He is a bedwars player, after all. The thing is, he doesn’t know what the mod that I installed does. He herded the boy, who was certainly still very lost in thought, towards the statue, tapping it on its cap-covered head. As the two warped, Purpled yelped in surprise at the noise. “What?” He looked up at the piglin in astonishment, landing on both feet and stumbling a little as he touched the ground. Techno simply shrugged from across the map, hoping the boy could see him. They both stepped into their respective pickup areas, items making small noises as they picked up the valuables from the ground. Purpled, humming with excitement, was chomping at the bit to get to Techno. I’m not sure if he remembers, but speed is key here. I’ve got to get to mid fast!

He scooped up the gold and iron frantically, running over to the shopkeeper and exchanging items with him quickly. As he ran, he dropped iron bars here and there, making the man snort a little at the bedwars player. He whispered to the other shopkeepers through the corner of his mouth. “That one’s always in a rush, ain’t he? Eccentric one, mi lads. If ya haven’t seen ‘im around, ya missing out. Always got the most fascinatin’ stories to tell in the lounge, ya know.” As the boy ran, placing blocks quickly, he looked out to the piglin’s island, expecting some movement. Nothing. As he reached middle, he gathered the emeralds carefully, glancing out to the island again and again. Nothing. He walked back to his island, whistling a tune. He armored himself and gathered materials. When he peeked out at the island, once again, he saw no activity. No defense, no nothing.

“What is he doing?” He wondered aloud. “What kind of strategy is that?” He walked out fully, looking around in confusion. The second he stepped near to his bed defense, the sound of fabric rustling reached his ears. A pink and red blur pounced on him, pinning him to the slanted fabric. “Gotcha.” A low voice purred beside his ear. The sound of his voice made him shiver. “W-what? How did-” Techno shushed him, continuing to pin the boy to his defense.

Realizing his lack of movement, the astonished boy began to struggle in his hold, pushing against him as much as he could from his pinned position. The piglin growled lowly, pushing him further onto the fabric, his chains hanging over the boy’s neck and ears as he did so. One of the chains, specifically the one that he had his eyes on earlier, scraped ever so slightly over Purpled’s neck, dragging gently over his collarbone. He yelped, struggling a little more to avoid the sensation. Technoblade raised an eyebrow at his reaction. “Oh? Are you ticklish? Didn’t hear Phil tell me ‘bout that.” He stared at the pinned boy beneath him, making him turn away and blush a soft pink. “I-I’m not.” Techno grinned, shifting a little so the chain moved over his neck again. Purpled scrunched up his neck a little, giggling lightly, before looking straight at Techno with wide eyes. “Ihihit’s nohot what it looks like! There was- ack!” The piglin scooped him up with both arms, cradling him lightly, before moving towards the middle of the islands.

With every step he took, Purpled could feel the power and speed in his movements. At one point, he stopped at a large gap, looking down at the void below. The void sparkled lightly, beckoning the two of them into its cold embrace. The piglin stared as if he was entranced, looking at the sparkles for a few minutes too long. Purpled began to wriggle, hoping that the hybrid wouldn’t notice his movements. Techno seemed to pay him no heed, staring at the (decidedly gold-looking) sparkles down below. As he moved, he noticed a small little movement, catching his eye in an instant. Freezing in place, he looked for the movement again, heart in his throat. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Techno’s ear, a little floppy triangle nestled deep in the man’s ponytail, twitch ever so slightly. Purpled sighed lightly in relief, moving to hop out of the piglin’s arms. I thought that was a larger part of him. If it was, I’d be-

One of the hands that held him shifted slightly, making his breath hitch slightly. He looked to his side to see one of his hands shift to keep him pinned in his grasp. “No escaping. Not on my watch.” A large hand grabbed at his side, making him squeak a little. “Oh? Did my little captive just squeak? I thought you weren’t ticklish.” He grabbed at his side again, listening for the telltale squeak. He grinned at the high-pitched giggle he got in response, finally snapping himself out of his daze fully and looking straight at the flustered boy in his arms. “C-captive? I’m a captive?” Ignoring his stuttering protests, the piglin gently squeezed at the boy’s sides, making him squirm and giggle. “Hehehey! Stohop!” “A person who isn’t ticklish wouldn’t say that, would they? I think you might be a little bit of a liar. And you know how liars get punished in our household?” Purpled pushed himself away from his hand as much as he could. “Hohohow?” His hand grabbed firmly at his side, vibrating lightly. “TehehehECHNO!” He leaned down a little bit more, whispering as well as he could into the younger’s ear. “We tickle them.”

The bedwars player would have paled, if his blood would cooperate. Instead, warmth flushed into his face and cheeks as he giggled and pushed at the hand half-heartedly. He knew better than to attempt to escape the piglin, especially since he had seen the man follow that beanie-wearing bird hybrid across the SMP. He had seen just how fast Techno could go. There’s no way out of this, is there? I should have known that he was up to no good. The warrior in question began to move to his own base, hopping from place to place with ease. As the gentle winds buffered at his face, he unconsciously buried his face deeper into Techno’s chest, making the man smile. Why is he so cute? The voices, for once (or twice) in his life, agreed with him readily. E. Technosoft? Technoprotect. Purpled is so cute, aww… He placed blocks as he went, bridging with ease and jumping from area to area as if he was practicing parkour. Maybe this kid wouldn’t be that bad of an addition to the family.. No. I have enough people as it is. As he thought, the boy shifted in his arms, looking up at him with wide eyes. “M-Mr. Techno? Uh..are we there yet?” He looked down to meet his eyes, melting a little at the sight of the kid. “We’re almost there, Purpled.” He ignored the voices’ plea to call him by a nickname or something equally embarrassing.

Come on, Techno. Don’t be a party pooper.

Blood god is soft aww-

Nope. He shook his head, trying to ignore the voices as best he could. Not soft at all. Once he felt the smooth stone of his base below his hooves, he placed the boy on the bed, trusting him not to break it. (Not that he would care, anyways. Technoblade never dies, and that’s a fact.)

He loomed over him, staring down at him. Purpled shrunk away from his stoic gaze, flushing a little more. “Why dihid you bring me here?” Techno smirked from his vantage point, gold-encrusted tusks twinkling like stars among an ebony sky. He leaned down, putting both of his arms on the two sides of the bed, ruffling the sheets gently. “I was told to do a bonding activity with you. And the one that seems to work the best with everyone is tickling them.” Purpled giggled a bit at the word, squirming a bit in excitement fear. “B-but, you said-” “We’d play a game of bedwars? We’re currently on a map, with the same things and circumstances as a bedwars game. Same difference.” He punctuated his words with a quick jab to the boy’s sides, grinning at the resulting squeak. “St-stop! Dohon’t do that!”

Techno ignored him, placing one of his hands over the other’s stomach. He let it rest there, hand and wrist heavy on his tum. Purpled, looking down at the hand from his position, whimpered a little, secretly wanting him to start already. He wasn’t used to this sort of waiting game with virtually anything. But a small part of him was enjoying the slow-paced teasing. After all, it’s not like he gets a lot of time to slow down and relax, after all. He just didn’t expect this hulking piglin to be the one to make him take a chill pill. He tried to slow his breathing, shoulders shuddering lightly as he did so. Techno noticed, corners of his mouth quirking up a bit at the cute sight of the purple-clad boy trying his best to relax his shoulders. “Is something the matter?” he teased, shifting his hand ever-so-slightly from its position on his quivering belly. He squeaked quietly, ears turning a slight shade of red. “I-Its nothing!” He refrained from telling the piglin that he was resting his hand on one of his most sensitive spots. The less he knows, the better.

Techno was unimpressed by his reaction, quirking one wine-colored eyebrow shifting upwards. “Nothing, you say? And what if I do this?” He rubbed lightly over the boy’s stomach, moving in a slow, almost lazy circle. Instantaneously, his ears were blessed by Purpled’s small, bubbly giggles. “Nohoho! Dohohon’t!” Instead of speeding up and ruthlessly wrecking him, the piglin continued to rubs languidly over his tum, wondering how much of the light teasing the usually fast-moving player would be able to handle. The voices agreed with his methods, but stayed unusually quiet.

Tease slow.

Hah, Technoslow.

Technoslow? He ignored the slight ribbing, choosing to whisper quiet teases and rub at him some more. Purpled continued to giggle away, flushing lightly under his scrutinizing gaze. What is he thinking? He’s so serious. Also, is he going to speed up or what? He was beginning to get more and more flustered as he continued to rub the same spot at the exact same speed. He squirmed lightly, trying to push his stomach into his hand, but he pulled away just as much, snorting quietly in mirth. “Getting impatient are we?” “I’m not impatient, you’re just going so slow-” “Want me to go faster? With pleasure.” Techno’s gold-encrusted fingers dug lightly into his ticklish tummy, making the boy yelp and giggle louder. “Ehehehe, Tehehehechno…”

He turned his head away from him, trying to avoid eye contact in his embarrassment. “Is your tum a little bit ticklish, hm? That’s so cute.” Purpled curled up a little bit at that, shaking his head. “Nohohot cuhuhute!” The piglin quickly darted his hand underneath his hoodie, scratching lightly at the sensitive skin on his belly. His laughter went up an octave, bubbly giggles morphing to full blow laughter. “Tehehehechno! Yohohohou- dohohohON’T-”

“Don’t what? Do this?” He traced the outside of the boy’s navel, watching as the boy squirmed and flushed a brighter shade of red. “Yeheheheah! Thahahat!” Techno grinned and sped up his circling, making the boy squeal. “Do that? Alright, Purpled. Whatever you say, kiddo.”

“NoHO, IHIHI SAHAHAID DOHOHON’T!” The piglin pulled his hoodie up fully, exposing his quivering tummy, and nuzzled his face and snout onto the boy’s exposed skin, fluffy cheeks and face making the nuzzles almost torturous to the flustered lee. Purpled all but shrieked, hands flying to Techno’s face and pushing at him as best he could. “NOHOHOHO! PLEHEHEASE!” The boy, flustered as he was, felt a smattering of butterflies in his stomach, ready to take flight. “You like that, kid?” Purpled couldn’t bring himself to say no, nodding through his boisterous laughter. The warrior smiled, nuzzling deeper into the hysterical boy’s tum. “Hey Purpled, what’s your favorite fruit?” Purpled cocked his head a little, confused. “Whahahahat dohoho yohohohou mehehean?” Techno grinned. “Because my favorite fruits are raspberries.” As Techno lifted his head from his tum, he inhaled sharply, before blowing a large raspberry on the prostrate boy’s stomach.

Purpled shrieked, wiggling and pushing at the piglin’s head in hysteria. “EEE! TEHEHECHNOHOHO!” “Yes, Purpled?” “S-SWIHIHITCH SPOHOHOTS!” He quickly shifted to his sides, squeezing and tasering lightly. Almost immediately, his laughter calmed down a little. “Better, kiddo?” “Yehehehes...Th-thahahanks…” The boy flushed from beneath him, looking away from him bashfully. Techno smiled softly at the purity of the kid. He’s so soft and small, isn’t he? Always one to rely on tactics more than brute strength. It’s kind of cute, actually. As he poked and prodded the squirming boy’s sides, he heard a noise akin to a small chirp come out of the boy's mouth. Purpled slapped his hands to his mouth, eyes widening in shock.

Techno slowed down a bit more, prodding at the same spots in an attempt to elicit the same reaction. When he poked a specific spot right beside his ribs, he chirped again, a soft sound that certainly didn’t match with his laughter and stood out like a sore thumb to Techno’s sensitive ears. “Are you a bird hybrid?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Purpled’s facial expression freeze. “No, no I’m not.” “You’re not? Are-” “No. I’m not.” The voice that came out of his mouth seemed robotic, cold, completely different from his normal voice. No teasing or sass tinted his voice. Why is he lying about this? Did someone teach him to do this?

He shifted his hands to his back, feeling for the joints of his wings carefully. He sucked in a breath when he felt wing-binding bandages instead of feathers. “Who did this to you? Who-” “I did.” He looked at his face in shock. “Why would you do this to yourself?” He felt his heart sink into his boots. Purpled’s stony face revealed nothing about his inner emotional state, simply repeating what he had said before in a eerily monotone voice. “I did.” Internalized trauma? I knew there was a reason Phil wanted me to ‘bond’ with him. Jeez, he really needs to tell me what I’m looking for. This is getting ridiculous. Techno gently groped for the end of the binds, loosening them with small, deft movements. Purpled made no move to stop him, blankly staring at him as if he saw nothing. As if he saw nothing and everything at the same time. As if he was stuck in time, he made no noise, not moving from his stock-still position. The warrior’s concern rose as he continued to unwind the binds, weak, dilapidated wings flopping out from their restraints.

Do they even have muscles anymore? That’s going to take quite a while to strengthen. Damn, how long has Purpled bound his wings like this? He poked at one gently, stopping immediately when the boy inhaled sharply at his touch. He knew better than to attempt to help on his own. “I need to get you to Phil. Are you okay with that?” Purpled made no effort to answer him, continuing to stare into space. The voices supplied him with info to fill the gaps.

He’s disassociating.

E.

Kill?

No kill.

His wings are done for.

He shook his head. No, I’m not going to let him lose his wings. Phil and I can still help him, as long as he cooperates. Even though his voices continued to tell him that there was a low chance of giving him back the ability to fly, he scooped the boy up, running over to the exit portal as quickly as he could. He darted through the crowds of people, ignoring the looks that he got in return. He typed in the coordinates he needed to warp to, heart in his throat. This is serious. His wings look as if he hasn’t unbound them for weeks. Did someone force him to do it? Was he on an abusive SMP? So many questions, too little time.

The second the portal let him into the SMP, he pushed through the snow with the urgency of a husky returning home, snow crunching merrily in stark contrast with the flurry of emotions in Techno’s chest. He slammed the door open, hoping that he didn’t break the doorframe in the back of his mind, before calling for Phil. “Phil! Purpled!” Philza climbed down the ladder, smile freezing at the sight of the boy’s emaciated wings. “Oh shit.”

He slid down the rest of the ladder, hopping off with practiced ease. Rushing over to the two of them, he hurriedly scooped up the limp boy, hurrying him to the medical area of the house. He placed the boy down on a medical table, belly down, and took a proper look at the state of the boy’s weakened wings. He pulled one out to its full extension, wincing at the way it moved. He halfheartedly tried to preen the remaining feathers on the wings, gasping quietly as a few feathers came out with the slightest touch. Techno stood to the side, fiddling with his armguards and chains. After a few minutes of horrified silence from the duo, Philza’s strained voice, usually calm and cool under pressure, rang out, echoing slightly in the sterilized area.

“His wings are really weakened. I’m not sure if we can help him.” Techno grunted at that. “No.” Phil turned to look at him fully, surprised. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I can’t-” “I didn’t decide to bond with this small child, try to learn everything about his likes and dislikes, and run with him in my arms across the whole of hypixel for him to lose his wings.” Techno gently pulled out the boy’s wing, tracing a single finger on the areas where muscle should be. He heard a little giggle come from the boy, making him smile a little.

“We can make this work. First things first, I think we need to teach the boy how to be okay with the way he looks. He’s been the one binding, after all.” Philza, still shocked at the idea that Techno made an actual bond with the small, hoodie-wearing bedwars player, nodded slowly, charm string on his bucket hat bouncing slightly. “H-he’s been binding? He was the one binding it?” Techno made no move to answer that. He flipped the boy over onto his back, being very careful of his wings. He began to shake the kid softly, trying to make him snap out of his daze...was it still a daze? He looked at him closer, confused. Could he be asleep? Poking gently at his cheek, he tried to rouse him again, only getting a soft snore in response. Oh yeah, he’s asleep. The voices spoke up again, drowning out all reasonable thought for a moment.

Kill him.

Liability.

No, don’t do that.

Syndicate?

E.

Blood for the blood god.

Kill, kill, kill-

“Stop.” He shook his head, trying to clear his head. “I’m not killing him. No.” “Voices acting up again?” He nodded, not attempting to look at his friend in the eyes, lest he loses focus on his train of thought. Boots click softly on the floor, and suddenly, he feels a warm, comforting blanket of pressure wrap around him. He struggled to control his breathing, shoulders shuddering. The wing wrapped around him curled around him, squeezing him comfortingly. The noise of the voices continued to whisper, making him shiver. I need to control them. I’m not killing him. Phil moved closer to him, trilling at the larger one of the two. “Hey, hey. Listen to me, okay? Techno. You’re fine.” He continued to speak to the man, hoping desperately that he would snap out of it soon.

At this rather inopportune moment, Purpled began to stir, shifting around a little. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up with one arm, yawning a little. “W-wha?” He looked around blearily, confused by the unknown area. His eyes widened a little when he saw Techno, grinning sleepily. Unknowing of the dilemma going on in his head, he moved into the piglin’s line of sight. “Hey, Techno. Thanks for helping me.” He smiled at him, giving him the most charming smile he could .Didn’t want him to be mad at him, no? I mean, this is probably his house. As he looked, he realized that the person beside him had wings too. He looked at the other man, tilting his head slightly in puzzlement. “W-who are you?” He recognized him from the parties and hangouts the SMP would do, but knew nothing else about the man. He’d never seen his wings, either. Did he bind, too?

Techno snapped out of his daze, looking down at the young avian. He grinned back at the kid. “Hey. Good to see you’re awake.” Purpled stared at the older avian’s wings in wonder. He blurted out, “Your wings are so big and pretty, mister...uh…” “Philza.” Phil was already charmed by the little one of the trio. He’s so small! I kind of want to keep him...nope. Not doing that. I already have enough adopted children. Even as he thought that, he continued to internally coo at that younger one, tilting his head at the same angle as the boy. “We need to take care of your wings, mate. You think you can let us do that?” Purpled flinched lightly at the word, but tried his best to stay still. They are trying to help me...right?

Against his better judgement, he queried, “B-but..why do I need my wings, Mr. Philza, Mr.Techno? Why can’t I just...do without? They’re not very useful anyways.” He pulled out one of them with his hands, wincing at the feeling of limp flesh shifting as he did so. “It’s not like I can fly with them.” Philza gently grabbed at the other wing, tracing over the wing structure. Purpled giggled slightly, trying to stay still for the elder. He poked at a certain mass at the very edge of the crook, pointing at it. “Can you feel this? This is one of the last muscles to erode. As long as you have that muscle, you should be able to fly again, with some work.”

Purple eyes widened in shock. “But- I thought- I thought I couldn’t fly? Ever?” “Nah, kid.” He poked at the mass again, smiling at him. “You can.” He felt liquid burn underneath his eyes. He blinked, trying to keep the tears back. Through his tear-blurred vision, he saw Philza smile at him. “We can make it happen kid.” Techno piped up for the first time in quite a while, snorting angrily. “And whoever told you you can’t fly is going to get a personal visit from me and my axe of peace.” He pulled out a shining netherite axe, tapping it lightly on the side of the table.

Purpled laughed, a watery sound that made both of the elders stir to life, ready to hug him. But he waved it off, swiping off the tears with practiced (almost too practiced) ease. He stuttered slightly, warmth and gratefulness seeping into his voice like heat from a hot chocolate into a pair of cold hands in the wintertime. “T-thank you.” He moved to hug Philza, grabbing at the man and sobbing into his shirt. Phil pat his back, rubbing soothing circles into them. “Of course, kid.” Techno moved closer, dropping the axe on the floor with a clatter and wrapping his arms around the two of them. “Group hug,” he deadpanned, snuggling into the two and effectively squashing the smallest in between the two of them. Purpled made no move to escape the duo, chirping happily.

The house was silent. The three of them basked in the soft, warm feeling of being loved. Unfortunately, no such peace ever stays intact. With a loud bang, Tommy slammed the door open. “What’s up, motherfuckers!” He sauntered into the room, grin freezing on his face at the look of surprise on Purpled’s face. “Oh...hello.” Purpled smiled at him, too happy to be disturbed by the rambunctious kid. Tommy speed-walked past them, not trying to disturb them anymore. Muffled by the layers of fabric and feathers, Phil quipped lightly, “Any more things to disturb the hug?” Techno huffed. “I mean, if you wanted to know...I did find out that Purpled’s ticklish.”

Purpled’s heart stopped. Oh crap. “No, hehe...let’s not talk about that…” “Nah, I think we should talk about it. It’s real interestin’...” The youngest scrambled to escape the duo’s grasp, only to be grabbed by the hood of his hoodie. Philza pulled him back, grinning. “Oh no, you don’t.” He turned to look at Techno, smiling as the two of them untangled themselves. He scooped up the younger, poking at his ribs as he did so. “Ready for round two, kiddo? I want to find out all of your spots myself.” “NohoHO!” Techno stood back, crossing his arms with a slight smile. I guess some things do end up turning out right after all. He leaned back, watching the other two have their fun. And all was calm outside the house of the syndicate...except, you know...literally everything. But that’s a story for later.

#Lee!purpled #ler!techno #old fic #my writing #downy writes #dsmp tickle #mcyt tickle #Tell me if I posted this alreadt #Lol #sfw tickling

[cozy-the-overlord]

Happiness

Summary: A daughter of Thanos, Eija had grown accustomed to the isolated nature of life on the Sanctuary. Only when her father orders her to keep watch over an injured prisoner does she begin to realize how lonely it is.

Written for @lucywrites02′s Lucywrites19 Writing Challenge on prompt #6

Word Count: 4,078

Pairing: Loki (Marvel) x OFC

A/N: Lucy: *puts together a list of really nice, sweet, loving prompts that would make for some wonderful, fluffy fics* 

Me: And I took that personally

Honestly, this turned into more of a separate challenge for me to see if I could take a fluffy prompt and write an angst bomb. I can say I’m both pleased and thoroughly ashamed of myself.

Happy Birthday, Lucy! I hope you don’t hate me too much after this one ...

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture (it’s not super graphic, but it’s definitely there), blood/injury, character death

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian @imnotrevealingmyname

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

“Are you happy, child?”

It wasn’t the type of thing Eija had expected the hulking warrior to ask a street urchin like her, especially not after catching her wrist in his pocket. Really, she should have known better than to try to steal from someone so clearly capable of crushing her skull within his fist, but his golden armor had glistened so temptingly in the sunlight and besides, she had never been caught before …

When he caught her wrist and yanked her in front of him, Eija was sure that this was the end. The penalty for stealing was steep to begin with, but stealing from a noble (and certainly this man must have been a noble) could lose you your head. But he said nothing of punishment. Instead, he curled his purple lips into a smile and asked her that question.

“Are you happy, child?”

No one had ever asked her that before. No one ever really asked her anything—the most Eija ever got were the curses spat at her on the street, on the luckless days when pickpocketing had brought her nothing and she was forced to beg for sustenance. No one cared enough to ask after her.

No, she told the warrior-noble, no, she wasn’t happy. She was hungry and tired and cold, and she didn’t have money to buy food.

The towering creature laughed, caressing the brilliant hilt that hung at his waist. “I thought not. Come,” he said, stepping forward and motioning her to follow. “I have something for you to eat on my ship.”

…

Eija tugged at the laces on her boot. She had tied and untied them three times already, but she could think of nothing else to do in this tiny room, so she went in for the fourth. Besides her, the Jotun sagged against his braces in the metal chair, his labored breathing the only sound to break the stillness. He didn’t look very Jotun. Lord Thanos had explained that it was some kind of enchantment—the AllFather had magicked away his blue skin when he was a baby to make him look more Asgardian. Eija didn’t really understand the reasoning behind such an action, but she didn’t need to. Her job was simply to make sure he survived the night.

It was a frustrating assignment. Eija wasn’t a healer—she had no idea what she was supposed to do if death came knocking for the prisoner. Unfortunately, she wasn’t exactly an assassin either, and so unlike the rest of her adoptive siblings her role on the Sanctuary wasn’t considered to be of critical importance.

So here she was. Babysitting.

The Jotun groaned. It was a soft noise, but it was enough to rip Eija’s attention away from her shoes. He shifted against his restraints, but there was no force behind the movements.

“Hey,” she called. “Are you awake?” She shouldn’t have been talking to the prisoner. Somehow, she knew Lord Thanos wouldn’t like it if he were to find out. Still, the metallic room housed a lonely existence, and Eija was desperate for any kind of distraction.

Although the prisoner didn’t exactly seem to be the ideal conversation partner. He flinched at the sound of her voice, his feeble movement falling still as abruptly as it began. Perhaps she should have gone back to her laces, but Eija was intrigued. She left her stool to stand before the Jotun, peering down at him through his shackles.

“Are you awake?” she asked again. He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his head hanging limply against his shoulders, as if he hadn’t just been rustling about. The thought of some grand Jotun (Asgardian?) prince trying to trick her by playing dead was so comical that Eija had to bite back her laugh.

“Hey,” she said instead, trying to add some of that Black Order sharpness to her voice as she tapped his arm. “Knock it off. I know you’re awake.”

He looked up at her then, his movement slow and labored. It almost made her wince, just looking at the way he struggled to open his bloodshot eyes. Lord Thanos had allowed Proxima charge of the Jotun today, and she had clearly made the most of it—his face was so swollen that she never would have recognized the man Corvus had pulled out of the depths of space only a week ago.

“What do you want?” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. He was making a valiant effort to control his breathing, but Eija knew the look of fear when she saw it. She had seen it in the faces of almost everyone who found themselves in the presence of Lord Thanos and his children, although those faces were never focused on her. This must have been the first time she was the cause of such terror.

It was an odd feeling. Eija wasn’t sure she liked it.

She shrugged, dropping the serious tone. “I just wanted to talk to someone. It gets very dull in here.”

The prisoner only stared at her.

No, not the ideal conversation partner at all.

Eija sighed. It seemed she’d be returning to her shoelaces in short time after all.

“Can you tell me your name at least?” she asked. No one had mentioned it yet, and Eija had been afraid to inquire. Lord Thanos hadn’t been particularly happy when he gave her this assignment—his anger had been more directed at Proxima, for nearly killing the prisoner, but Eija didn’t want to give him a reason to turn on her. She wasn’t often the target of the Mad Titan’s fury, but the few times she was were enough of a lesson for a lifetime.

But the Jotun made no response. “Is this a trick?” he asked finally.

“No. I’m just curious.” A strand of black hair had fallen into his eye. Eija was tempted to brush it away, but she held herself back. “I’ll tell you my name, if it makes you feel better,” she offered.

She waited a moment for him to give some kind of answer. He didn’t.

“Eija,” she said. “My name’s Eija.”

He inhaled. “Did he send you to kill me?”

The question caught her off guard, although perhaps it was fair. “What? No, no I’m just— no,” she stuttered. “I don’t … kill people.”

He eyed her, unconvinced. “Why are you here, then?”

“To make sure you don’t die,” she said. “They were worried, you know.” Proxima had been quite proud of herself. Eija had overheard her bragging to some of the others earlier in the day about how she had the little prince calling out for his mother by the end. They had been laughing about it, how quickly he had succumbed to childish instincts, but the thought intrigued Eija.

She had never known her mother. Before Lord Thanos had found her, she had had no one but herself, scrounging up what food she could from what she stole on the street. She never cried for anyone, no matter how frightened she was. She had no one to cry for.

She wondered what it was like.

“Are you truly not going to tell me your name?” she asked. It was a bit disappointing. She had hoped he’d be at least a little more interesting than this.

He swallowed slowly, painfully. Whereas before it seemed he was afraid to take his eyes off of her, now he seemed unable to meet her gaze.

“Loki,” he finally whispered.

“Loki,” Eija repeated. The name made her smile, although she wasn’t quite sure why it would. “It’s nice to meet you, Loki.”

She asked him more questions as the night went on—questions about his home, his family, his childhood memories. At first, he wouldn’t answer any of them. He’d just stare at her blankly as she posed her queries or whip his head away as if he couldn’t stand to be faced with the words.

So, she changed tactics. She told him about growing up on Knowhere, before Thanos found her, about how when she was not yet six years of age the man she had known as her father dumped her on the side of the road and flew away into permanent obscurity, and about how she taught herself how to reach into another’s pocket and pull out exactly what she was looking for by practicing on the other unsuspecting urchins who lived alongside her on the street. It was strange, to relieve those stories before an audience. Because he was an audience, like it or not. He was listening to every word she said, even more so, she suspected, than he wanted to let on.

When she left that morning, after Corvus came to take over for the day, her throat was so dry she could barely speak. It was a nice kind of dry, though. The Black Order never demanded her voice anyways, so it wasn’t a noticeable inconvenience.

It was worth it.

“You again,” Loki muttered when she slipped into the cell the following evening. “Eija.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “You remembered my name!”

“You talked a lot.” He blinked sleepily. “You had a nice voice.”

Eija stopped. She wasn’t certain she heard him incorrectly. “What?”

He yawned. “You had a nice voice.”

She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. It was quite possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her, as ridiculous as it seemed. Eija doubted her siblings could even recognize the sound of her voice—if they did, it would have been to scold her for stepping so far out of line, certainly not to pay her a compliment.

“If you’d like,” she said eagerly, pulling the stool across the room so she could sit next to him. “I can tell you more stories?”

It became the part of the day Eija looked forward to most—the moments where she could talk for hours about anything she wanted, without the ever-present fear of her siblings’ mockery or the Mad Titan’s chastening. It felt … safe, in a way that she hadn’t felt safe before. Warm. She always felt so alone on this ship, wasting away whilst awaiting orders. There were points where even her own thoughts seemed to abandon her to the darkness.

But not here. Not with Loki.

He seemed to enjoy it as well. Of course, she held no illusions that he was quite literally a captive audience, but he listened. He remembered the things she said to him. On good days, he’d even ask her questions, add in thoughts and stories of his own.

“You said you don’t kill people,” he asked suddenly, on one such visit. “Did you mean that?”

Eija shifted uncomfortably. This had always been an awkward subject. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not an assassin. I don’t have the training.”

“What do you do here, then?”

She inhaled. “Steal things.”

“Steal things?” he repeated. “What kind of things?”

Eija shrugged. “Anything he wants,” she said. “Weapons, passkeys, precious gems—whatever.” She remembered that day, when Lord Thanos had taken her from the streets to his ship, what he had said as she devoured the soup his servant placed in front of her.

“I have more trained killers than I know what to do with,” he told her. “But perhaps I could use a sneak thief.”

Eija had agreed to everything he said— it wasn’t as if she was in any position to refuse him, and besides, anything had to be better than sleeping in a trash bin. And so, she became the Titan’s personal retriever, sneaking her way across the galaxy and returning with the treasures he coveted in her pockets. Her methods were straight and to the point. She was in and out before anyone even noticed her presence, and, unlike her adopted siblings, there wasn’t a trail of bodies left in her wake.

“But if your role is to steal things,” Loki asked. “Then what are you doing with me?”

Eija didn’t answer right away. Thanos had not ordered her to continue her night watch over the Jotun prisoner. He hadn’t said that she couldn’t, but she was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be pleased to find that she had. What was she doing here?

“I just like to talk to somebody, I guess,” she said. “Besides, somebody has to make sure you make it through the night.”

Although it became exceedingly clear with each passing day that such a task may be outside of her abilities. One night, she could hear his hacking all the way down the hall, rattling the walls as she rushed to his side. She found him sagging limply against his shackles, soaked in blood and sweat and goodness knows what else as he choked on his own breath.

Eija didn’t know what to do—she could only wipe the blood from his face and hold the bottle of water to his lips.

“What does he want from me?” he croaked, once he could finally speak. There were tears running down the creases of his face, although whether that was from emotion or pain Eija couldn’t be sure. “Why is he doing this to me?”

For once, she said nothing. She had no answer for him.

She tried asking Gamora once. It was no secret that the Zehoberei was Lord Thanos’ favorite—if he were to tell anyone his intentions for the prisoner, it would be her.

But the assassin gave her nothing. “He has a use in mind,” she said. “Don’t question him.”

“But,” Eija hesitated. “If that’s the case, why is he hurting him?” She gulped. “If he has a use for him, shouldn’t he be … using him?”

Gamora glared at her. “If he’s not strong enough to survive this, he’s not strong enough to do Thanos’ bidding.” Her tone lowered in warning. “Remember your place.”

Eija did remember her place. She was reminded of it with every passing moment—leashed to her lord’s beck and call, every day walking that delicate tightrope of anticipating his wishes without asserting herself too far in his eyes, living in fear of the day when the bottom finally fell through and he decided to unsheathe the blade at his waist.

Was this his plan for Loki as well? Torture him to death’s edge until it pleased him to make him yet another glorified slave? She thought of Loki, shackled to his chair, heaving and coughing up blood, sentenced to wither away until Thanos found use for him … for what? The mere crime of existence?

And here she was, letting it happen, watching as Thanos sucked the life out of him, simply using him as a receptacle to her own selfish need for attention.

She was just as awful.

But there was nothing she could do about it. Was there?

Unless …

The thought started as a hypothetical. Isn’t that how all treason began? A tiny what-if, buried under one’s daily worries? The hangers of the Sanctuary were hardly well-guarded. There was little reason to guard them, after all—few on this vessel had cause to sneak off of it, and those who did hadn’t the opportunity. And with the current position they had been holding the last few days, only a small way from the Krylor jump point, which could then take you down through one of the major galactical traffic-ways …

Stealing a ship would be almost too easy.

It wouldn’t work, she told herself as she stood amongst her siblings in Thanos’ court. The ship was one thing, the passenger was something else entirely. Loki’s chains were specifically designed by the Mad Titan to stifle the magic of that whom they held. They were the very definition of unbreakable. And the key—Thanos kept it on his person at all times, hooked to his belt alongside his blades. Any scheme was doomed to fail.

But sometimes, opportunities present themselves.

“And where are you going, child?”

Eija jumped out of her skin when she turned the corner and nearly collided with the lord himself. It took her a moment to find her voice.

“To watch over the prisoner, as you ordered, sir.”

He frowned. “That was weeks ago. You’re not still doing that now?”

She bit her tongue, so hard it hurt. “W-with all due respect sir, you never told me to stop.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. Such action is no longer necessary.”

“Yes sir.” She nodded. “Apologies, sir.”

Eija stood there shaking long after he had continued down the hall. Her heart felt as if it might pound its way out of her chest. He had to have noticed. In a moment, he’d come storming back up the corridor, grab her by her neck, and crush her skull against the wall.

But he never did.

It was just Eija, alone in the hallway, clutching the golden key between her trembling fingers.

There was little time. Her theft could only go overlooked for so long. She didn’t have the chance to question herself as she rushed to Loki’s cell—any moment spent in doubt was a moment wasted.

Loki seemed to be unconscious when she first arrived at his side, but he popped up with a start the moment she reached for his chains.

“What—" he gasped, eyes wild. “What’s happening?”

The key clicked in the lock. He heaved a breath, falling forward as the shackles fell open.

“You’re going home.” Eija’s mind was racing at a mile a minute. They couldn’t steal a Q-ship—it was too big; they’d would be noticed immediately … “Can you fly a pod?” she asked.

He gulped. “Possibly?”

“Good enough.” She pulled him to his feet. It was at this moment she became aware of the fact that she had only every seen him seated. Loki was tall. Much, much taller than her, and when he sagged against her it took all of her strength to keep him from tumbling to the metallic floor. For a moment she feared that he was too weak to even stand on his own and nearly panicked, because oh goodness how was she supposed to carry him all the way to the hanger—

But he managed to stabilize himself, gripping her shoulder so tightly that she lost feeling in it, but standing on his own. Slowly, she was able to walk him into the hallway.

The hanger was only a few floors above them, but the elevator ride felt like an eternity.

Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop …

If it stopped before they reached their destination, they were both dead.

Besides her, Loki’s breathing was labored. He hadn’t said anything since she had come to get him.

She squeezed his forearm, hoping he couldn’t feel how she was trembling like a leaf. “You alright?”

He nodded weakly. “I assume you have a plan?”

“The pods are lined on the far wall of the hanger.” She inhaled. “When the door opens, we run like mad and get you on one. And then you take off for the jump point, and don’t stop until you’ve hit traffic.”

Loki turned to her, brow furrowed. “What about you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yes. Surely you’ll not stay here?”

Eija gulped. There wasn’t time to think about that now.

The elevator doors clicked open to reveal a thicket of barbed shadows and twisted metal. The hanger was lifeless and barren this time of night, lit only by the glow of the cosmos streaming in through the glass. They made their way in perfect silence, the only sound being the pounding of her heartbeat behind her eardrums. Every dark shape seemed like a waiting figure. Now, it was Eija that clung to him too tightly, terrified that at any moment someone would jump out and rip him from her grasp. By the time they reached their destination, they were both wildly out of breath.

The pods were small, thin one-man transports. Calling them ships was really being too generous. They weren’t really meant for long term travel, but they could work for a few jumps—long enough to get to civilized airspace, which was all he needed. She helped Loki into the compartment, careful to keep him from hitting his head on the low ceiling. This damn ship had caused him enough pain already.

He sighed, leaning against the seat in one short moment of rest before turning back to her. “You still haven’t said what you plan to do.”

Eija hesitated. What could she plan to do? She had nothing waiting for her beyond this ship. As with all of his children, Thanos held a piece of her that he would never relinquish, no matter how far she flew.

“I’ll stay here,” she murmured. “For now, at least. They might pick up on something if too much is out of place.”

“But—"

“Please,” Eija hissed. “You remember what I said, right? Take the Krylor jump, and just keep towards Xandar.” She inhaled so deeply it hurt, trying to bury the aching dread building in her chest. “Stay with the crowds whenever you can—he won’t bother with you if it means he has to go through heavy populations.”

Loki nodded, but she wasn’t certain he was listening. There was a sadness behind his eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. He squeezed her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips in the lightest of kisses.

“Thank you, Eija,” he whispered. “May fate be kind to you.”

…

The alarm went off some hours later, when morning dawned upon an empty cell. They came for her only minutes after. Eija hadn’t been certain of what she would do—would she scream when they broke down her door? Cry for help? Fight for her life? But as the Black Order filed into her room with their weapons drawn, Eija felt only an overwhelming calm. It was good that they were here. The longer they spent with her, the more of a chance Loki had of getting away.

She went with her adoptive siblings willingly.

They took her to the same tiny room where this had all begun, shackled her to the same chair she had watched over so diligently. Eija barely registered it.

Surely, Loki was hundreds of star systems away from here now.

Surely he was safe.

When the pain did come, it filled every fiber of her being, burning through her body as if she were nothing but dry kindling. Her vision bled white. Her screams ripped her throat raw.

They asked no questions. She was relieved for that at least, because her every coherent thought shattered to pieces long before it could reach her lips.

She understood now why Loki had cried for his mother. She would have too, had she a mother to cry for. Instead, she just cried.

Eija wasn’t certain how much time had passed before he arrived. It could have been hours, it could have been months, but at some point when she dragged her aching head to look up she found Lord Thanos staring down at her, the stony weight of disappointment heavy on his features.

Gamora stood next to him. She spared a glance at her former sister, softer, sadder, almost sympathetic, before she turned back to her father.

“Sir, the Jotun is out of tracking range. There’s nothing we can do at this point.”

Out of range.

Eija thought of Loki, raven hair streaming in the breeze behind him as he pulled himself out of the craft, safe on some green, luscious, faraway planet that the Black Order could never reach. She smiled, blood dripping from her lips.

Thanos’ expression remained immovable.

“Well, child,” he finally said, looking down at her as he caressed the glinting hilt at his waist. “Look upon this mess. See what you have done. Are you happy now?” He reached out with his other hand, tipping her chin up towards him with a single finger, as if the mere thought of touching her disgusted him. “You look happy.”

Eija felt a laugh tickle her throat. It came out as more of a cough, blood and bile staining her tongue. Still, she could not bring herself to stop smiling.

“I am happy, sir.”

It was true. A beautiful warmth flooded her aching chest. She laughed again, closing her eyes and letting the feeling wash over her.

She was still laughing when the blade severed her throat. 

#lucywrites19 #loki marvel #loki fanfic #loki x ofc #happiness #cozy writes

[stillebesat]

The Sweater

Cartoon Therapy: Emile Sanders Shorts: Remy (Sleep)  Sanders Sides: Janus  Blurb: Emile had said he was making a sweater for a friend. Only he neglected to tell Remy that this friend wasn’t exactly...well...human. Fic Type: General, NotQuiteHuman!AU, Kid!Janus Overall Fic Warnings: Extra Limbs, Implied Child Abandonment Taglist in Reblog 

“You didn’t have to come.”

Remy flinched at the unexpected rumble from the towering man walking next to him. After three days spent with Emile, he was sure that he would have such a reaction under control sooner rather than later...so long as the dude stopped speaking up out of the blue like this that is. 

Emile licked his lips, adjusting his glasses as he held the tissue wrapped package closer to his chest. “Really.” 

Remy took a sip from his Starbucks cup, savoring the warmth of the hot chocolate in the chill evening air, glad that the snow had stopped falling for a glacier minute. “Gurl.” He looked up over the rims of his sunglasses and smirked, again trying to not take it to heart that this guy was a good hulking foot taller than him. “I soo did. With all the blood, sweat, and tears I put into helping you--you owe me this at least.”

It wasn’t everyday that he walked into the room reserved for teaching beginners how to be dressmakers in search of an extra spool of green thread to find this unexpectedly gentle giant awkwardly hunched over the sewing machine attempting to make….something.

He’d heard the term bull in a china shop before, but Remy had never felt the term applicable to anyone until he saw Emile. He’d been sure one wrong twitch of his dinner plate sized hands would mean bye bye sewing machine. 

Of course, after getting the big guy to spill the beans and admit that he’d been trying to make a sweater for a ‘friend’ by threatening to kick him out of the sewing lab for being there outside hours; Remy had learned that just like the Mythbusters had proven, despite Emile’s wrestling sized figure, he was just as delicate as the bull in the episode had been. His large fingers were far more dexterous -if prone to being pricked by needles- than Remy had expected of the guy who could probably crush a watermelon with his bare hands. 

But that didn’t mean he’d leave this amateur to his own devices. No Ma’am! Not after he’d seen the pitiful first attempt of something that could have been a sweater fit for a large teddy bear or maybe a small child, Remy had delegated himself as Emile’s pseudo teacher if only to ensure no sewing machines ended up crushed into teacups. 

He needn’t have worried though. Emile had a soft touch. 

The big guy bit his lip, keeping his eyes firmly straight ahead in a way that told Remy he didn’t want to make eye contact. 

That was probably wise for him because Remy could pull a mean puppy dog look when he wanted to. He’d received more than his fair share of drinks on the house from it and he could and would use those eyes against Emile if he thought it would help his case.

Emile exhaled, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just--I don’t know if--if Stitch will like...well...strangers. He’s very shy.” 

Stitch. Like the alien from that kids movie. 

Kids movies that Emile was rather obsessed with once he opened that particular can of gummy worms though Remy was sure he was only beginning to uncover that massive iceberg of an interest. This intimidating mountain of a man had morphed into quite the giant nerdy softie when it came to him talking about his cartoons.  

Maybe that was why the sweater had been comically small. Of course, getting the proper sizing for this gift from Emile had been rather...like pulling teeth. It had taken a full hour of wheedling before Emile had admitted that he was only guessing at the size he needed for this...friend.  

“Sugarbee.” Remy shook his head. “If he likes you I don’t see how little--” and it galled him that he had to call himself little because he was a good five foot eleven inches thank you very much. “Old me would frighten him away.” 

Emile shrugged a shoulder, fingers brushing the string on the package. “He’s just...I don’t want to scare him. I barely have any trust with him as it is and if I bring someone new--” 

Remy rolled his eyes, flexing his fingers around his cooling cup. It was like the guy was talking about a feral dog and not a person. “Trust me, babes. I ain’t gonna scare him.”

The sweater on the other hand?

That was less certain.

Because it had to be the strangest one ever created. 

Like Remy had seen his fair share of Ugly Sweaters over the years.

But this one would probably take the cake if only for the fact that Emile had insisted that said sweater have six arms.

After having to figure out the logistics of that particular snag, and after doing most of the sewing of those extra arms himself, there was no way Remy wasn’t seeing the reaction of this ‘Stitch’ kid to this particular present.

Maybe the dude just liked pretending to be the alien and Emile was humoring him. 

Regardless, Remy wanted to make sure that said monstrosity actually fit. It was a good eighty-two percent of his work after all and he prided himself on his garments fitting perfectly. 

Emile exhaled, still avoiding eye contact. “Just...stay behind me okay?” 

Remy gulped the last of his hot chocolate, tossing the cup into a nearby trash can as he followed Emile around the corner into a tree filled snow covered park. “Three steps back. Got it, Princess.” 

Though seriously, if Stitch wasn’t afraid of Emile, towering giant that he was, he highly doubted his presence would be an issue.

Remy shoved his hands into his pockets, letting the big guy move ahead to cut a swath through the untouched snow like a snowplow on a highway towards a huge pine tree in an out of the way corner that had branches all the way down to the ground, hiding the trunk completely from view. It was an odd spot to meet a ‘friend.’ Especially since said friend had apparently not arrived yet. 

Remy exhaled, hunching his shoulders. “Looks like we’re early.” He commented, glancing around the park, seeing no one else. Which made sense. It was nearly sunset. It was cold. The sky had a dark enough overcast that he was sure it would start snowing again any second. Who in their right mind would be out right now?

“We’re not.” Emile said, glancing over his shoulder. “Remember. Stay back.” He again cautioned before he knelt, letting out a soft three pitch whistle. “Stitch?” He called softly. “Hey buddy, it’s me, Emile. I--I brought you something.” 

Remy frowned, staring at the silent tree. “Did you actually have me help you make a sweater for a mutant squirrel?” That or Emile had a screw loose and he’d just spent three days making a monstrosity of a sweater for an imaginary friend. “Shh!” Emile hissed before again whistling at the tree. “Stitch? It’s okay. This is Remy. He’s a…”

Remy raised an eyebrow as Emile bit his lip, glancing back at him. 

“He’s a friend, he won’t hurt you.” The big guy edged another foot closer, hand brushing the tips of the pine needles sending snow showering down off the branches. “Please come out? I--we brought you something.” 

The pine tree remained silent.

Remy shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, regretting more that he’d drunk all his hot chocolate. “Maybe he’s not home.” Everyone who was anyone in their right mind would be anywhere but outside in this weather.

“Maybe you’re scaring him.” Emile snapped back before wincing. “Ah...could you like...kneel down? Please.” 

Remy scoffed. Him? Scaring the imaginary friend? If Emile wasn’t scary then Remy definitely wasn’t scary either. “And freeze to death?” He asked, awkwardly crouching on his heels. His designer shoes were already feeling the damp chill of the snow working its way in to soak his socks, there was no way he would allow his knees to experience the same torment. 

“Stitch?” Emile pleaded, again whistling as he edged closer. “Stitch.” 

They were gonna be out here until midnight at this point. “Come on, Stitcharoo.” He said ignoring the big guy’s frantic hissing to shut up. “I’m friendly. Emile is friendly. We’re all friendily freezing here so how about you come out an--” Remy cut off as the branches rustled. 

A single yellow eye peered out at them, glinting in the fading sunlight. 

Okay. Imaginary friend out. Mutant feral squirrel back in.

“Meal?” A shaky voice asked. A young shaky voice.

Ooohhh Goodie. Remy pressed his lips together, fighting the way his heart had jumped into his throat. Freaking talking mutant feral squirrel. It had better be a mutant squirrel because if there was a freaking child living in this tree in the middle of a freaking snow storm--

Emile visibly sagged with relief. “Hey Stitch, buddy. You okay?” 

The eye gave a slow blink. “C-c-cold.” 

“Aren’t we all.” Remy muttered, glad that his sunglasses protected him from whatever baleful glare the creature was casting on him now. He gave a two fingered wave. “I’m freezing too, buckaroo.” 

“Remy.”

“What?” 

Emile gave him the patented Will you shut up look that would have made any mother proud. 

Remy made a face. “You never said I couldn’t talk.” He was still behind him wasn’t he? He was crouching in the freaking snow freezing his toes off. He should be allowed to talk to the glowing eye that had better not be a child living in the tree in the middle of winter! 

Emile exhaled, before pulling off the string on the present, unwrapping the black and yellow sweater. “Remy and I made you this, Stitch. To help with the cold.” He said, holding it out in all its six-armed glory. 

A soft gasp came from the tree as the yellow eye opened wide. “Me?” 

“Yah, kiddo.” Emile said, nodding. “Can I help you put it on?”

The branches shifted, the yellow eye glancing to Remy before vanishing. 

Sugarbee hadn’t been kidding when he said his friend was shy. 

“C-cold.” The voice whispered from somewhere within the tree. “Meal. Safe?” 

Remy fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, anger burning in his chest. They’d be out here all night at this rate. “Yah, honeysuckle, you’re safe. Let Emile put the sweater on you okay? I’ll stay right here.” There was no one else in the park. Who would leave a child out here alone! One that had apparently been out here for a while if previous conversations with Emile were anything to go by. 

The branches didn’t move.

Perfect.

“Stitch.” Emile whispered, slowly lowering the sweater, stretching out a hand to the branches. “Please? You’re cold, let me help you this time.”

Remy frowned again, poking Emile in the back. “This time?”

Emile flinched. “He--ah...he hasn’t actually let me...touch him? Before. This is the closest I’ve gotten.” 

Oh for the love of! Remy shot to his feet. “Gurl!” 

The big guy was there, a plate sized hand on his chest holding him back and radiating heat like the sun, before he could take a step. “I said he was shy.” Emile said, eyes wide and pleading. “Don’t. Scare. Him.”

Ah huh. And in the process of not scaring him they were just going to have this mysterious friend freeze to death because there would be no way a simple sweater would help the kid survive the night! Remy growled trying to move around Emile, but it was like trying to move around a mountain. “The sound of that voice tells me that’s a child, Sugarbee. A FREAKING CHILD and you’re just letting him stay here.”

“He doesn’t trust humans!” 

That pulled him up short. “Humans.” Remy repeated, lowering his sunglasses. “HUMANS? Is he not human, Emile?” If this was an actual real life Stitch then--then!! 

Emile had the grace to look embarrassed. “I--I---uhh--” 

Remy threw up his hands. He would burn that particular bridge when he got there, But right now, he needed to see this ‘not human’ child and make sure he was safe. Remy ducked under Emile’s arm, scooping up the sweater in the process. “Hey Stitcharoo.” He said crouching at the base of the tree branches, ignoring the frantic warnings hissing like a teapot behind him as he pulled off his sunglasses, hanging them from the collar of his jacket. “It’s gonna snow again, tonight. You know. Get colder? Freeze. And my buddy here is like this giant heating blanket and wants to keep you warm. You’ll like the warm. I promise it’s--”

He froze as a child’s pale hand, nearly tinged blue, popped out of the tree, visibly shaking as it poked his cheek before jerking back out of sight. 

“It’s--it’s--I uhh Hi?” Remy stuttered out, brain trying to process what had just happened as he rubbed the spot the child had touched. 

Surely. Surely, he hadn’t seen what he thought he’d seen. There hadn’t been glittering scales on that hand. No. No trick of the light. Maybe it was cosmetic? Part of a costume?

The branches rustled before two hands, two scaled covered left hands, parted them, revealing a child’s face half covered in scales, peering back at him. “Hi.” The kid said, eyes -one golden, one a regular brown- shifting to Emile as he knelt down next to Remy before focusing on Remy himself. “Safe?”

“I--” Remy blinked before nodding dumbly as a third hand, a right hand with no scales on the pale skin this time, reached out to Emile’s ginormous hand. 

Suddenly Emile’s insistence that there needed to be six arms made a lot more sense. If Remy had already seen three hands, surely that could mean that there were three more still hidden out of sight. 

“You’re safe.” Emile said, gently taking the boy’s hand and squeezing it. 

The boy bit his lip before he surged forward straight into Emile’s chest. “Wa-warm.” He whispered, multiple hands gripping onto his coat as snow from the branches above showered down on top of them.

Remy tsked, quickly shaking off the white powder, heart pounding like a drum as he took in the ragged state of the kid’s clothes, the so called ‘sweater’ he currently wore was barely worth the name, only having two proper arms and four more holes in the sides for the--for the, Gee Manetti, the kid actually had six arms!!!! as Emile pulled open his tent of a jacket to wrap around the boy. 

“I got you. I got you.” Emile soothed as he scooped Stitch--Remy really hoped that wasn’t his actual name--into his lap, getting his bare feet out of the snow. 

The boy visibly shivered, tucking his toes -normal human toes beyond the left set being more scaled- into the crease between Emile’s shirt and pants. 

Remy bit back a growl. No shoes. Barely any clothes. Some welcome to Earth this kid got. Just because he had six freaking arms didn’t mean that the boy deserved to be abandoned! Even Superman had had a willing farm couple to look after him! 

“I hope you know he is not staying here.” Remy softly scolded, moving cautiously closer. Despite his misgivings about exposing the boy to the weather, he pulled Emile’s coat away so he could get his divine gift of a sweater onto the kid, a difficult feat as Stitch had practically glued himself against Emile’s side. 

The boy made a sound of protest, but didn’t fight him, eyes barely open as he watched Remy finagle the sweater over the rags he currently wore. 

It was pathetic. The boy was practically skin and bones! Remy could feel each individual rib as he tugged the fabric over him for crying out loud! Not to mention the arms themselves were practically sticks! This kid had been neglected for some time. It was--it was---Remy did growl. No one should have to live like this! 

“If you aren’t taking him home with you, by golly I will bring him to my place.” He said, pulling each sleeve over the boy’s ice cold hands. “Crofters! Emile, he needs another three sweaters, new pants, socks, SHOES, mittens--no no gloves. Probably gloves. This isn’t RIGHT!” The boy was COLD. His scales were like ice. How he wasn’t dead yet from hypothermia or frostbite was a mystery but No Ma’am was the kid gonna spend another night out here. “He needs soup, hot chocolate, a warm water bottle, a heated blanket a--”

“I know.” 

Remy jerked his head up at Emile’s quiet words. “Well. Good.” He pulled off his coat so he could slip his own sweater over his head and use it to create some temporary pants for the kid, until he could find something better. At least the boy had two normal legs so he could stuff one into each sleeve. 

“Do--” Emile cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on Stitch’s hair. “Do you...have a place for him?”

Remy blinked as he slipped his own coat back on. “Do I---of course I do--do you not?!” What had he been planning to do once he got the boy to trust him? Leave him here?

Emile flushed, ducking his head.

Okay. Okay. He took a calming breath as the boy dropped two of his hands down to grab one of Remy’s in a tight grip, golden eye practically glowing as it flickered between him and Emile. “Rephrase. Do you have a place to stay yourself, Em?” 

“Not one safe for him.” Came the soft response. “I...it’s barely safe for me.” 

Barely safe for a guy who could feasibly dead lift a car? Punch a hole in concrete? He’d have to unpack the meaning of that particular admission some other time. Right after he had time to process that this kid had six freaking arms and was either an actual alien or escaped mutant experiment of some sort. 

“Right.” Remy exhaled, running his free hand through his hair. “Right. First. We get you both back to my place. Second. Get him warm and fed.” Maybe to a doctor--did he even know any doctors who could handle this?! “Third. Figure out living arrangements. Capiche?” Oh and Fourth. Figure out the boy’s actual name or give him a cooler one because no way would he be continuing to call him Stitch. 

That was a simple enough list right? Just four things. Nothing complicated about that. 

Emile blinked, adjusting his glasses. “But you don’t know me.”

Remy scoffed, squeezing the boy’s hands. Sure three days haraunanging the guy on how to properly thread a bobbin wasn’t a normal way to invite someone to be your roommate, but it wasn’t the worst way either. “I don’t know the kid either, Em. But I do know that he needs a home and if you need one too then you’ve got one with me.” The dude had a good heart. He’d been attempting to make a sweater instead of buying one and poking holes in it for crying out loud. 

“I--uh--” Emile cleared his throat. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” At least not until he got them all out of the cold. Then they could talk.

The kid shivered again, tightening his grip on their hands. “Safe?” He whispered, resting his head against Emile’s chest, eyes flickering between them both. 

Safe? There was no question about it. Not with another snowstorm coming. Not when Remy desperately itched to pull out all his extra fabric from his sewing closet to throw onto the kid just to give him a proper, better fitting outfit. “Of course, honeysuckle.” He said, pulling the tent of a coat that Emile wore back over the boy to protect him from the cold. “We’ll keep you safe.” He looked up, meeting Emile’s eyes, smirking as he found acceptance there. “We promise.”

#The Sweater #stillebesat #Emile Picani #Remy #Sleep #Janus #Deceit #extra limbs tw #child abandonment tw #Kid!Janus #Kid!Deceit #Stitch #Cartoon Therapy #Sanders Shorts #Sanders Sides #Sweater Verse

[lone-flower]

#FFxivwrite2021 entry - prompt: “Avatar” ➤ 400~ word count ➤ less of a fic, more of an exploratory writing on character creation

avatar /ˈavətɑː/ noun •  an embodiment or personification

        It starts in void before exploding in a bloom of colour and musical fanfare. An outstretched arm with an open hand, an invitation into the unknown. The world opens to you like a picture book, pages unfurling with a gentle rustle, a gentle swell of prelude announcing its arrival, and ere long something will take shape.

        On an endless plane of aquamarine bright particles listlessly waver about, and a person comes into view; a man! Brunette, not too tall, with a hint of scruff to his chin, clothed in garb fit for an adventurer you suppose. At your manipulation, the man transforms into a myriad of manifestations; a petite dragoness, a 6’9” hulking mass of musculature, a pint-sized gentlewoman, or perhaps… a cat?

        The current ephemeral setting strikes you as inappropriate, and at the mere thought suddenly you find yourself standing atop a windy cliff near the ocean - no, in the middle of a desert road. The sunlight is hard across the form’s shoulders, and a feeling of empathy takes you to the intimacy of what seems to be an inn room, dim flames flickering in their sconces and casting light about the wood panel walls. You believe this will do.

        You set about molding the appearance of the figure to your preference, such as clay in the experienced hands of a skilled artisan. Hair style and colour, skin tone, face structure, blemishes. All that which you wished you could choose from birth just as this being can; a part of you might even envy that. They experimentally vocalise, trialling a variation of pitch and cadence, motioning to themselves dramatically much like an actor on a theatre stage. They rage, cry, smile, and dance; you particularly enjoy the smiling.

        Satisfied with your handiwork, the form is rendered with a variety of weapons with accompanying attire, each suited to a diverse range of roles. Upon choosing one, you’re astonished to find you can even choose when they celebrate the day of their birth! As you feel yourself nearing the end of this experience, you are requested to name this new life, much like a parent might name a child. With a flourish the form is given a moniker, and they show their joy with a cheer, knowing no greater happiness than coming into existence; you might even envy this as well.

        It’s with this flourish that your creative work comes to an end. The form — the avatar — gives a warm gesture of farewell; there’s that parent and child feeling again. You wonder what awaits them, what adventures or trials they might encounter. You feel like it’s farewell, but for them it’s hello.

        With a turn of their heel, they step into the world which anticipates them; a realm reborn.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #;writing #ffxiv

[ataleofaxes]

Chapter Two

*Made of the Void*

(If you prefer AO3, it is also posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857010/chapters/49612964#workskin )

In the place beyond all, older than time and the heavens and the earth, where darkness dwelled and minds unraveled, a figure stirred.

 The figure was not the only being in the shadowy realm unknown to all but the most knowing, and the most cursed… many things dwelt in the mire of mists, howling and clawing and writhing in their desperate, clinging existence. Some were monstrous, great, hulking monoliths of stone and shade… some were so small they were invisible to the eye, mere wisps in the greater dark. Some hunted the vales of the shadow, and some hid in dank, lightless holes.

 Lost souls called out for those that could never save them, the damned screamed for relief… but the figure, above it all and almost apart, seemed either unbothered by, or uncaring of, the tumult about him, striding to the top of a dark and featureless hill on the edge of the ruins of an empty city.

 The figure was, of all the beings beyond the world of the living, the most mundane. He was clad in what appeared to be a simple black cloak, sweeping around hidden feet and long, thin legs; large, skeletal hands were folded behind him, punctured through their palms with holes holding a darkness yet darker than any about him in the world of shadows and eternal night. A likewise skeletal visage was perched above the neatly pressed neckline of an almost blindingly white sweater, serene but for the cracks that marred it.

 He seemed lost in thought, as he walked to the crown of the hill above him, thin sockets filled with violet light locked on the ground at his feet. A thin mouth narrowed further, twisting downwards into a frown, before his gaze rose, meeting the middle distance with purpose and resolve.

 A wave of his hand brought to life a stool, settled in the blackest of grasses, and another a great, gilded mirror, hanging motionless in the still air. He seated himself on the stool with poise, filled with a grace that belied his gangling limbs, and turned to face the murky surface of the mirror, as though expecting to make something out in its clouded metal surface.

 A flash of bright purple, sending a gathering of curious creatures screeching into the clinging boughs of the wood gathered about the foot of the hill. A crackle of magic, potent and electrifying, and with its advent, the surface of the mirror shifted, the darkness fleeing to gather  around the intricate frame and revealing a flurry of images, flitting by much too fast for an unpracticed eye to follow or comprehend.

 Caverns both deep and old, suffused with mists not unlike the ones in the world of darkness. Bitterness and dust, stone paths bathed in tears and blood. A winterlocked forest, a fenced, derelict village of log cabins, shadows in the trees, bloodstained snow. The scurrying of many legs. A rushing river, rowed by a hooded figure… shattered bone, and a cruel, unhinged gaze, filled with murder and madness. Twisted trap, and tortured figure, mangled by hard, rusted iron… the rise of an axe, glittering with the same malice and hunger that filled its master’s destroyed socket.

 Deranged laughter, silent through the veneer of polished glass but chilling to the core.

 The skeletal being turned his face away from the scene the mirror paused upon, a depth of sadness overtaking his visage that couldn’t be described with mere words. He heaved a shuddering sigh, raising a large hand to rub over his face, as though to remove what he had just witnessed from his memory, before flicking two fingers at the mirror, shifting its image away from the massacre it reflected and to something far less dark.

 The light of the sun, shadowed only by the wisps of clouds and the peaks of mountains. A city, bustling in late day. Dusty, dry streets, filled with twilight and tire tracks and the laughter of children. An alley, paved with loose dirt and gravel, littered with trash and broken glass. A line of dumpsters, rusted and once painted green… and a little girl, pulling a loaf of bread from one of the trash bins. She seemed to inspect it, turning it this way and that under the light of a nearby lamppost, then nodded and set it beside her on the ground, beside a small pile of likewise reclaimed treasures (another loaf, a few cans of what looked like beans, several packages of noodles) before diving back into the bin, clearly searching for more.

 The child looked no different than the others that roamed the streets, in the height of her youth (though, perhaps too thin and small for the lines that pulled at the corners of her lips and eyes)... but for the glow of her too large eyes, lamplike and a blue so bright and sparkling it could only be compared to magic.

 The figure upon the stool, for the first time, smiled and chuckled as, in the mirror, the girl let out a silent exclamation of excitement, holding aloft an unopened box of pastries triumphantly; he shook his head, obviously fond and understanding, before again flicking his fingers at the mirror, the image shifting away from the girl… to a mere few feet away.

 Atop the dumpster just beyond the one the girl was digging through, swaying slightly in a breeze and seeming to observe the scene, was a large, glittering, scarlet butterfly, jewel-like and casting fractals of crimson light across the painted bricks of the wall beside it with each steadying flap of its wings.

 It’s antennae twitched, as the mirror focused on it, its small body rising as its legs straightened, and for the first time in the figure’s observance, it seemed as though the butterfly was actually      aware     of the being looking on it, its many faceted eyes turning to meet the skeletal figure’s through the reflection.

 A whisper, on a chill wind, swept around the being. Soft as the fading sunlight in the mirror, an echo, like the rustle of reeds in a gentle river.

     Gaster…  

 The figure straightened, on his stool, a hand rising to touch the edge of the mirror, as though to steady himself.

 It wasn’t often he heard his name, anymore. Sometimes, in the gathering, endless dark, he began to forget it… he couldn’t afford to forget it, to let himself fade into the shadow.

 Not yet. There was work to be done.

 “Frisk,” he whispered back, in both recognition and affirmation, and the butterfly shook its wings, shifting its gaze to the girl just out of sight. Gaster, understanding the wordless motion, nodded and gripped the edge of the mirror a little tighter.

 “It has to be soon. He’s losing himself, and Papyrus is no better. Does she have them all?” he queried, voice carrying the rasp of long disuse, and the butterfly flapped its wings twice (once for ‘yes’, twice for ‘no’), antennae drooping at the news. Gaster nodded, expression tightening.

 “Hurry. I will help all I can,” he replied, then, again, flicked his fingers at the surface of the mirror, though the energy he had carried before was muted, his motion jerky and slow. He was visibly weary, the violet light in his sockets dim and the shadows that formed his cloak breaking away from his form in misty flakes, but he made no move to stop or rest.

 He was looking intently through the inside of what looked like a hospital, through the veneer of the mirror, pausing on faces in a blur of unknown reasoning. He seemed to be looking for something specific, rejecting most with motions of his hand, only pausing on the most pallid and gaunt of visages that he passed over before moving on.

 Not just any soul would do, after all. It had to be strong, willful…

 And determined.

#axetale #gaster #aliza #ruby

[starslikecandlelight]

come, find me lying in the bed i made

A/N: my (late) contribution to day 3 of carolnat week ( @carolnatweek ). i went with one fic, scrapped it last minute and decided to write another short one-shot, ended up with a 4k word monstrosity instead, oops.

– – –

I.

The first time Carol meets Natalia, she’s eleven years old, and out on her family’s annual camping trip.

She’s sharing the tent with her brother, who wouldn’t stop snoring, and she can’t seem to go back to sleep no matter how hard she tries, so she unzips the flap and slips out into the darkness outside the tent. The air outside is cool and heavy with the promise of a thunderstorm later that morning, and she tilts her head up, enjoying the cold breeze against her sweat-slicked face. The inky blackness of the night is slowly giving way to daylight now, and she can see the faintest streaks of pink starting to make their way across the sky – the forest surrounding them seems much less foreboding in the early dawn, the hulking, almost-sinister shadows of the trees fading into a dull, misty grey, and she scrambles her way up the trunk of the oak tree just at the edge of the clearing, sprawling herself across one of its lower branches as she waits for the rest of her family to wake.

Years later when she revisits this memory, she’ll notice how eerily quiet it is – it’s a forest at dawn, but where there should be the quiet chirping of birds around them and the rustling of other animals – deer, racoons, or even wild dogs and coyotes – in the forest undergrowth, there’s nothing, not even the whispering of the leaves in the wind.

But now – she’s oblivious to this almost-unnatural wrongness surrounding her, and she’s just about to close her eyes and nap up in the tree when –

It’s so faint that she just barely picks it up – a high-pitched, shrill scream from somewhere deeper in the forest in front of her. She raises her head from her arms and blinks sleepily, thinking for a moment that she’s misheard, but –

No, there’s another scream, louder this time; Carol almost falls out of her tree this time at the sudden bolt of terror and panic that lances through her.

They live in the suburbs, and Carol rarely spends any time in the woods – but she remembers one day, two years ago, they’d travelled upstate to camp here at their usual grounds, and Carol’s father had brought them down the trail, following the sound of a panicked screaming until they’d come across a coyote, its paw caught in a trap.

“Illegal traps,” she remembers her father explaining to them, pointing it out to them a safe distance away. The coyote’s nearly frothing at its mouth from fear and terror, and her heart clenches as it tries to tug itself free once more, yelping in pain – there’s blood coating the rusty metal springs of the trap around its foot, and the fur on its leg has been rubbed red and raw. “They’re not s’pposed to trap coyotes this way.”

“Why?” her brother had asked, wide-eyed and curious.

“It’s cruel. They take too long to die.”

She doesn’t remember what happened to the coyote afterwards, but she does remember the way it had shrieked at them, all shrill and panicked and so very terrified – and she follows the same screams now, deeper into the forest, her heart thundering in her chest.

It’s not a coyote waiting for her at the end of the trail, this time ‘round. It’s a –

A girl.

It’s a girl, around her own age, with the sharp iron teeth of the coyote trap caught around her ankle, and she’s scrabbling at it, her fingers red and bloody; when she looks up at Carol, her eyes are wide and wild and so desperate that it knocks Carol backwards for a moment and steals the breath out of her chest.

The girl’s movements still, and for a long moment, she stares across at Carol, before the faintest baying of a dog in the distance snaps her back to the present.

“Help,” she croaks out hoarsely, reaching out to Carol, and Carol doesn’t question – she drops to her knees, reaching out for the heavy iron cuff locked tight around her ankle; she fights back a shudder at the sight of the cruel metal teeth embedded into the girl’s skin and instead runs her fingers around the edge, looking for the spring that will release the mechanism and set her free. She can feel the weight of her brilliant green stare on her as she works, and for one long, dreadful moment, she thinks that she’s gotten it wrong, that she’d be stuck in the trap until Carol arrived with more help, but the lock gives a quiet click and falls apart in her hands.

The howling is getting louder now.

Carol catches the girl in her arms as she stumbles out of the trap, lets her lean against her while she regains her balance, and can’t help but stare – she’s so pretty, she thinks. The early-morning sunlight filtering though the leaves catches against her bright red hair, turns it into a beautiful fiery-gold, brilliant against her pale skin, and there’s something unearthly about her that makes Carol duck her head, suddenly shy.

“Thank you,” she feels a hand, warm and hesitant, rest against her wrist. “You saved me.”

She shrugs, self-conscious. “It was the right thing to do…”

“Natalia.” Natalia smiles at her, holding out her hand, and in spite of herself, Carol grins back in return and takes it.

“I’m Carol. Danvers.”

“Well met, Carol Danvers.”

They stand there for a moment, smiling stupidly at each other, until a short, sharp bark echoes through the branches, and Natalia drops her hand, her smile fading away, and Carol doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before she takes three steps through the trees and dissolves into the forest.

– – –

II.

The second time she runs into Natalia, she’s fifteen years old and traipsing through the forest after another argument with her parents; she crashes through the undergrowth, leaving a trail of mud and footprints in her wake as she fights her way to her spot at the bank overlooking the river. It’s where she likes to spend her time alone, away from the mess that’s the rest of the camp grounds; tourists rarely venture this far out into the woods anyway, and she enjoys the seclusion and the loneliness and the quiet here.

Except this time, she won’t be alone.

She spots Natalia as soon as she emerges from the trees and into the riverbank – it’s been four years, but she thinks that she’d recognise that red-gold hair anywhere. Natalia relaxes when she recognises Carol, waves a quiet greeting, and pats at the grass beside her in a silent invitation.

“Hello,” she begins simply, watching as Carol shucks her shoes aside to dip her toes into the gurgling river below. “Carol Danvers.”

“Hi, Natalia.”

They sit there quietly for a long moment, watching the rest of the forest pass them by – and Carol studies Natalia discreetly out of the corner of her eye, staring at the thick, angry-red and mottled scar that wraps around her left ankle, above the bone.

At least, she thinks she’s being discreet, but then Natalia turns and her lips twitch up into a knowing smile, and Carol can’t help the flush that rises up her neck and heats up her cheeks.

“You know, if you’re curious,” Natalia begins softly. “You can just ask.”

So Carol fishes her feet out of the water and draws her knees up to her chest when she turns to face Natalia, eyeing her. She’s wearing a thin, pale-grey dress today, slightly damp from the morning dew and the river, her hair pinned up into a long braid that reaches halfway down her back. Her shoes are nowhere to be seen, and Carol can’t help it – her gaze traces the raised red skin around her leg, and blurts out –

“Is that from the – “

“The trap, yes.”

“It looks…” She reaches out for a moment, half-wanting to touch, before pulling away, but Natalia doesn’t seem to mind; wrapping her fingers around Carol’s wrist, she tugs until her fingers are brushing against the cool skin. It doesn’t seem to hurt anymore – Natalia stiffens slightly, doesn’t react further when Carol runs her hand over the bumps and ridges marring her ankle, but Carol can’t suppress the shudder deep in her chest. “Gnarly.”

Natalia’s brilliant green eyes track her movements when Carol releases her ankle; she relaxes, her shoulders slumping as crosses her legs and tucks her feet under her, every single movement quick and neat.

“I don’t do well around iron,” she tilts her head, meeting Carol’s gaze.

“Allergies?”

Natalia laughs, the sound bright and happy. “I suppose one could put it that way, yes.”

They put away the topic for the rest of Carol’s trip, and Natalia shows her around the forest, brings her to all her favourite spots that Carol’s never seen before – there’s another clearing further away from the main trail where no-one ever visits, and a tiny waterfall upstream of the river, and another spot where they spend one entire afternoon otter-watching. She half-envies the way Natalia seems to stalk through the forest, silent and surefooted, the trees almost appearing to part way for her while Carol trips and stumbles over the root of every other tree they pass by.

“How d’you do it?” she’d grumbled, once, and Natalia had laughed, reaching out a hand to pull Carol back to her feet.

“Practice.”

The night before Carol goes home after summer, they’re sitting at the edge of the river, watching the fish dance their way between their legs, and Carol reaches out to grab Natalia’s hand.

“Spend the night with me,” she begs, half-crestfallen when Natalia shakes her head – she’d been having the time of her life with her, and doesn’t want to part ways just yet. “Please? We can have a sleepover and stay up all night and talk until I have to go.”

Natalia hesitates for a long moment, squares her shoulders, before nodding once. “Okay.”

It’s not hard to sneak Natalia past her parents and into her own tent – they’re already snug in their tent and half-asleep, and her brother barely looks up from his phone when they slink past, they collapse into a fit of giggles while Carol fumbles with the zipper, shutting them into their own little world together.

She reaches up to flick on the lamp swinging off the tent pole and blinks in the dim glow – Natalia’s face is suddenly inches from hers, and she swallows, feels the heat rising in her face and turns away hurriedly, hiding the flush across her cheeks.

“Here,” she pats at the ground beside her, and Natalia crawls over and settles herself beside Carol, and it suddenly strikes Carol how out of place Natalia looks, smiling at her all bright and graceful and so very ethereal against the dull, mundane backdrop of Carol’s daily life.

Natalia doesn’t share much, she’d learnt this days ago. She doesn’t talk about her home, or her family, or where she goes to school – but Carol is more than happy to fill the gap, telling Natalia about her brother (“He wants to go away for college after this year.”) and her parents (“My dad doesn’t like it much when I wander around out here.” “Why not?” “He thinks that girls should stay home and look after the house, but Mom tells him that he’s old-fashioned, so here I am.”) and her dreams (“I want to move out to the city one day far away from here, where my dad can never find me.”), the last thing she remembers telling Natalia is that she’d miss her when she goes back home before falling asleep.

When she wakes up the next morning, Natalia’s gone and she’s tucked neatly into her sleeping bag, and there’s no trace of the other girl left behind.

She takes a final glance back at the forest before her dad demands, impatiently, for her to get into their car.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It’s three weeks later when Carol’s back at home, buried in a book about mythology before she nearly falls out of her chair when she reaches the section on fairies and fae folk.

She remembers the iron trap, its teeth buried deep in Natalia’s ankle, and Natalia’s comment, “I don’t do well around iron.”

“Allergies?” she had asked, and Carol groans, remembering the way Natalia had laughed, then; everything clicks into place suddenly, and she half-wishes she could return to the forest and seek her out and ask her if her suspicions are true.

God, I’m a fucking idiot.

– – –

III.

Natalia turns up outside her tent the year she turns eighteen.

She’s in her tent alone this year – her parents had dropped the family tradition after her older brother had moved away to college, and although they’ve never understood her obsession with the forest, either, they haven’t stopped her from coming back without them in tow. Brunnhilde, in the tent next to hers, is still snoring away (it’s almost amazing, Carol thinks, how she can still hear her over the thunder and the rain drumming on the thick plastic canvas of their tents), and Carol’s about to close her eyes when there’s a sudden looming shadow and a quiet, insistent scratching at her tent flap that startles her so much, she’s out of her sleeping bag in a heartbeat, her knife in hand, half-tempted to cut her way into Brunnhilde’s tent and crawl in with her for comfort.

It takes her one long minute to calm down – because she’s not a wimp, okay, but it is a dark forest, and old forest, miles away from the nearest town, and she hears the legends that the locals in the town whisper about the things that stalk through the trees at night; when her blood finally stops thundering through her ears, she can hear the faintest whisper, barely audible over the sounds of the forest and the rain.

“Carol?”

“Natalia?” She blinks once, incredulously, then reaches out to undo the flap of her tent; Natalia half-crawls, half-collapses inwards and into her arms; she’s soaked through and shivering from the cold, her pupils wide and blown. The shadows outside her tent – usually so comforting and familiar – are suddenly strange and alien in the storm, and she zips up the tent hurriedly, squinting a little against the spray of rain against her face. It’s warm in her tent, and safe, and she fumbles with the knots, making sure that they’re secure before turning back to Natalia, who’s backed up against the corner and curled in on herself, and Carol feels a sudden spike of apprehension in her chest.

In all the time she’s known Natalia, she’s never seen her look so scared and small before. It makes her chest ache with a strange mix of protectiveness and longing, and she gives in to her heart, reaches out and pulls Natalia into her lap, ignoring the dampness that soaks through her pyjamas and to her skin, and strokes her fingers through the bedraggled wet strands of hair escaping from their usual neat braid.

“Nat,” she breathes, and Natalia buries her face into her neck, but her shivering has stopped, so Carol takes it as a good sign. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

She doesn’t know how long they remain there, huddled together in the corner of her tent with Natalia wrapped up securely in her arms – it might have been hours, because she half-remembers hearing the storm pass overhead, the rain slowly fading into the distance, and half-remembers Natalia growing limp and slack in her arms, her breaths coming in steady puffs, tickling against the skin of her neck. She also remembers tightening her grip around Nat as she closes her eyes, half-afraid that when she wakes up, she’d find her gone again, leaving no trace of herself behind; but when the morning comes, and she blinks awake to find Nat still curled up in her arms, green eyes staring up at her, watching her as she’d slept.

“Y’know, it’s usually considered creepy to stare at people while they sleep,” her voice comes out hoarse and croaky, but Natalia doesn’t laugh – instead, she reaches out for Carol’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and Carol feels a rush of warmth bloom in her chest.

“Thank you,” Natalia whispers quietly, rubbing her thumb over the back of Carol’s hand. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Fairy-folk trouble?” The question spills from her lips before she can stop herself (though in her defence, her curiosity had been bubbling within her for years) – Natalia stiffens in her arms, slipping off her lap to sit across her, her face tight and drawn.

“You know.”

“I guessed,” she shrugs. “It wasn’t that difficult.”

“Then you should know that there are things that want to keep us out of your world – they chase us out, or hunt us down to kill us – “

“The hunters,” Carol murmurs, remembering the first time she’d met Natalia, and when Nat nods, she shivers, feeling sick and cold that the idea of grown men cornering Nat alone in the forest. “Why?”

“We guard the old places,” Natalia explains, her voice soft. “We stop people from hurting the land, and when we’re here, the old magic is strongest, and the forest thrives. Some people don’t want that, and they’re winning.”

“And when they do?”

“We go away.” Her eyes meet Carol’s, dark and tired and glimmering with unshed tears. “The magic leaves – it’s fading away even now, and the doorways between your world and mine will close, and I lose this place forever.”

A pause.

“I lose you.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can come with me, I’ll bring you up to my college and you’ll be safe there, they’ll never be able to find you and you don’t have to worry – “ she doesn’t even realise that she’s begun rambling until Natalia shakes her head.

“This is where I belong, Carol Danvers. If I follow you – I lose my magic. I lose this forest, I lose my home.”

“But I don’t want to lose you.”

They fall silent for a moment; Natalia doesn’t move away when Carol leans over and cups her cheek in her hand, brushing her thumb over her cheek before tilting her head up; she doesn’t say no when Carol hovers over her, before pressing her lips to Natalia’s in a slow, sweet kiss.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she repeats again.

Their argument goes nowhere for the rest of the summer – when Carol goes home after summer, she goes home with Brunnhilde and a promise from Natalia to write to her, whenever she can. Natalia comes to see her off, and Carol pulls her away from prying eyes.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t forget – “

“ – To write, I know that, too.”

But the smile on Nat’s face is fond and soft, and Carol closes her eyes when Natalia pulls her into a hug, inhaling the sharp-forest scent that clings into her, before Brunnhilde presses on the horn once, twice, and then Carol has to let go.

– – –

Interlude:

Natalia keeps her word, and writes to Carol while Carol’s away at college, four states away; they’re long, rambling letters about how the trees are faring this year, and how many new birds hatched that spring, with precious little detail about how she’s faring, but Carol cherishes every single one of her words anyway, running her finger over the loopy cursive handwriting over the paper.

Carol keeps hers, and goes back to the forest every summer. It’s always a relief to see Natalia, sitting at the riverbank waiting for her – they never talk about the time slowly running out for them, and spend the time walking through the land hand-in-hand; she doesn’t even complain when Natalia decides to sit her down and braid the flowers she’s been picking into her hair.

“Come with me,” she tells Natalia at the end of every summer, holding her close, wishing that she can pull Nat into her and never let her go.

“You can’t make me choose between my home and you,” Natalia replies, and Carol never pushes her.

She kisses Natalia, long and sweet, before parting ways, always wondering, at the back of her mind, if she’ll ever get to see Natalia again.

– – –

IV:

She comes back alone for the last time the summer after she graduates from college, before she moves across the country and to New York for good; Natalia is waiting for her at her usual clearing this time, sitting on the oak tree at the edge of the clearing where Carol had spent so much time on, so many years ago.

“I heard you driving in,” she slips off the branch to greet her, and when Carol pulls her close, she notices with a rising concern that Natalia seems tired, now. Duller. The sharp scent of the forest doesn’t seem to cling to her as strongly as it did before, and it’s like whatever magic that had tied her to the other world had faded away, leaving something ordinary and human and mortal behind.

She pulls away slightly, meeting Nat’s eyes – they’re no longer that sharp, bright green that she remembers from the years before, but still brilliant all the same, and Natalia shrugs, giving her a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m coming with you.”

There’s a wild excitement that rises in Carol’s chest, before the accompanying guilt washes over her. “Nat, I – ”

“This forest is dying, Carol. The doorways are closing now, there’s just one left, and when it does – I don’t want to lose you.”

“Are you certain?”

And Natalia takes her hand, squeezes it once. “Yes.”

They spend the next week walking through the woods together at night. The heavy, otherworldly presence that used to hang over the trees is fainter now, and fading away, and it’s safe, Natalia tells her, for them to wander around, even without a lamp at night. She takes Carol down the winding path that leads to her home, but where there nothing there except a copse of trees, their limbs stunted and twisted into strange shapes by a force that Carol can’t begin to explain. They linger there, hand in hand, until the sun sets and the fireflies begin to emerge; there’s a weak glimmer amongst the trees, an odd, weak shimmer in the air, and Natalia watches it but doesn’t move, her face pale and determined, until it gives out entirely, and fades away into the darkness for the last time.

Carol opens her mouth to speak, but Natalia beats her to it. “Let’s go home.”

Home refers to the tent they share now – to the way Natalia curls up into her each night, her head tucked against Carol’s shoulder and their legs in a tangle under the sleeping bag. It’s the way Carol can relax, closing her eyes to the sound of Nat’s steady breathing in her ear, secure in the knowledge that Natalia had chosen her this time, had chosen to stay behind while the doorway back to her home had collapsed in on itself and shut, forever. It’s the way Nat works beside her, dressed in Carol’s old college t-shirt (which looks oversized on her), her red hair tied up in a loose ponytail, when they pack up Carol’s old car together and the way she reaches out for Carol’s hand, sitting in the passenger’s seat beside her.

Home is the car when Carol takes her long-planned road trip up from Louisiana up to New York, where she has a new job and a crappy apartment waiting for her with her name on the lease – but unlike in her plans, she has a passenger tagging along with her. Natalia’s in the seat next to her with the window wound down; the wind whips her red curls ‘round her face when she throws her head back, laughing at Carol’s terrible imitation of The Beatles when she croons along to Here Comes the Sun on the radio.

(She offers to drive, twice, after Carol nearly runs them off the road in the middle of the night, but Carol points out – rightfully – that she has no driver’s license, and Natalia had pouted until Carol had promised to teach her how when they’ve settled down in the city.)

It’s the way they dance around each other in the mornings, fumbling around, half-asleep, trying not to be late for work. Nat finds a job at the florist near their home, and it’s not much, but it’s a steady job that helps them afford their rent, and the old lady who runs it takes a liking to her immediately, gushing over how she manages, somehow, to bring even the sickliest plants back to life.

It’s also the way they lie together on their mattress at night, the windows thrown open to let the heat out, listening to the city pass by under them. It’s loud and chaotic and so very overwhelming – a far cry from the forest Natalia had lived in all her life, Carol thinks, half-guiltily, but as though sensing her thoughts, Nat leans over her, and presses a kiss to her lips, slow and soft and sweet.

“I chose this,” she touches her forehead to Carol’s, and Carol closes her eyes, her adoration for the woman curled up with her welling deep in her chest, almost too much to bear. “I chose you.”

When she opens them again, Natalia is still staring down at her, her green eyes warm and soft. “I love you.”

– – –

V:

A small family pulls up in a rental car in the campground in upstate New York. It’s the middle of summer, and the children – a pair of twin girls, both red-headed and green-eyed – scramble out of the car, half-wild with excitement, tugging at their mothers’ arms.

“Your mama and I met in a place like this, many years ago,” Carol tells her daughter, who wrinkles her nose slightly at the idea of her mother being young, once. She reaches out to lace her fingers with her wife’s. “Do you miss it?”

They had stopped by – a quick detour in a road trip back to Carol’s childhood home – a few years back, and the forest is gone, now, and there’s a new suburban town built in its place. Natalia tilts her head, considers her family for a moment, and shrugs.

“Not anymore. You’re my home.”

#carolnat #carol danvers #natasha romanoff #carol danvers x natasha romanoff #carolnathalloweek2019 #god this took way too long to write ksdksd #also as u can see #i took AU and absolutely went wild with it

[galahdianglaive]

Queensglaive

Nyx watches the dawn begin to blush across the sky. The night is over, and with it go the daemons. He breathes unevenly. The burning ache in his skin is spreading. A numbness trickles through the pain. Flecks of ash start to drift upwards. Nyx watches, a slight smile pulling at his lips. Hey, sis, he thinks, see you soon. 

 He wants to look at the blooming daylight for just a little longer. The way it bends and arcs and bubbles up over the edges of broken city around him, massive hulks of toppled statues rising like mountains. If only he could have seen the sun rise over Galahd once more. 

Some power, huh, he thinks to himself. A faint laugh splinters along his breath. He wants to spit out the phlegm gumming up his throat, but there’s little use. His body will dissipate soon enough, vanishing like smoke into the sun. He squints against the glare, his eyes starting to burn the way the rest of his body is. Humming like a live flame. 

Scattering debris. Rustling clothes. Unsteady, quick steps. 

Nyx stirs, a groan rattling in his throat. His eyelashes brush his skin as his eyelids struggle to open. He tries to speak, but only a faint gurgle comes out. He coughs, and squints as the sunlight slices back in. 

Gold. Just a haze at first. And then twin points of blue. 

A twinge in his chest, unrelated to the kingly power devouring him. 

“Thought I…told you…to get ou-…out of here…Princess,” Nyx struggles. “The…ch-chosen…ki-” a cough interrupts his words. He feels like he’s going to fall apart. “The ring…” 

He meets her eyes, smiles faintly. 

She’s covered in dirt, but the determination in those eyes. Nyx thinks he understands now how it is that the oracle is said to have given hope to so many. Even he feels the faintest stirring of it. 

“Don’t you have people to save, princess?” 

@divinitychosen

#divinitychosen #:3 #[;;queensglaive;;]

[jrcashwrites]

Camping

Pairing: Flip Zimmerman x Female Reader

Warnings: Lemons ahoy! 

A/N: Thank you always to lovely @ravenj84

“Finally getting out of here for a bit, Zimmerman?”

Chief Bridges raised an eyebrow as Flip placed the paperwork down onto his desk. Stepping back, the detective waited patiently as his boss scanned over his request.

“Thought I’d get out to Gunnison before the first snowfall.”

“Beautiful this time of year up there.” Chief Bridges commented as he stamped his seal of approval and handing the papers back over to him. “Enjoy yourself.”

Flip couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement as he walked out of the station to his truck. He’d never taken anyone camping with him before, usually using his time off as a bit of solitude up in the mountains, far removed from case files and detective work for a weekend. If he was being honest with himself he’d never had anyone he’d ever wanted to ask to accompany him before.

You’d come in like a whirlwind, catching the detective off guard one night at the Red Lantern. Finally fulfilling a long standing promise to Ron and Patrice for an after work drink, Flip finally found the time to meet with his friends. He hadn’t expected for them to bring another along, finding you sitting in his usual spot in the back booth, forever altering his usual nightly routine of frozen dinners and reruns.

Making a quick stop at the grocery to pick up a six pack of Coors and a bottle of your favorite bourbon, he arrived at your apartment. Plopping himself down on your couch, Flip made himself comfortable as you switched off the television set and joined him.

“How’d you feel about a little weekend getaway?” Flip asked as popped the tab of his beer open with a hiss.

Leaning against his side, a vision of a weekend away on a white sand beach surrounded by palm trees with a shirtless detective lounging in a hammock next to you floated through your head

“Up to the mountains,” Flip added, causing any thoughts of the ocean to evaporate instantly from your mind’s eye. “Thought you’d might want to come camping with me?”

“Camping?” you questioned, sitting up on the couch a bit to look over at Flip.

Suddenly feeling nervous he’d even brought the idea up, Flip faltered. Maybe you weren’t the type that thought spending a weekend out in the woods as an idea of fun. Second guessing himself, he worried that maybe it was too soon altogether to ask you to go anywhere other than dinner or the movies.

“If that’s not something you like... I just thought…” he began to ramble, trying to redeem himself on his fumble.

“Flip,” you interrupted, immediately silencing the hulking ball of nerves beside you. “I’d actually really like to go camping with you.”

Breaking into a small smile, Flip felt a wave of relief come over him that you had agreed. He hated that he felt like such a blithering idiot half the time around you, always questioning why such a beautiful woman as yourself was hanging around the likes of him. Relaxing at your acceptance, he swung his arm back around you, allowing you to curl into his side again.    

***************************************************************************************

When Flip asked if you’d ever been camping before, you eagerly said yes, even if it had been a long while since you’d gone. Your family had taken you on summer road trips as a child; piling everyone into the nine passenger station wagon with a pop-up trailer hitched to the back and driving up north to a scenic state park. Your father and uncle would set up camp on the dirt plot, hooking the trailer up to the provided electrical outlets.  A shower area and general store were just a short walk down the paved road, where you and your cousins would stock up on bags of marshmallows to roast later over a fire. It was hardly roughing it in the wilderness, but you’d always enjoyed it nonetheless.

Never once did Flip mention that his definition of camping did not provide any modern amenities.

As Flip turned onto the unpaved road, the rusty Chevy bumped along causing you to hold onto the dashboard as best you could. After a few miles of rough terrain knocking your head against the ceiling of the truck when he hit a particularly deep divot in the road, he finally slowed to a stop, parking alongside a row of pines.

“Ready, sweetheart? It’s about a mile out to the lake from here.”

“A mile?” you blurted, staring at Flip as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. “What I wouldn’t give for an ATV right about now.”

You muttered the last bit to yourself, but pretty sure you heard the soft rumbling of Flip’s laughter at your admission.  

Trusting that Flip knew what he was doing, you hopped down from the Chevy, grabbing your backpack from the bed and swinging it over your shoulder.  Flip gathered the rest of the items from the truck. Crossing the dusty road, you set off into the woods.

Flip made the trek seem easy, leading the way through what seemed to be an endless sprawl of forest. A few steps behind, you wondered how he was barely breaking a sweat even though he was carrying twice as much gear as you were. Flip was clearly in his element and you couldn’t help but admire how good he looked; plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows and rifle strapped to his shoulder.

“Where exactly are we going?” you questioned, catching up to Flip’s side as the trail finally widened enough to allow you to walk comfortably beside him.   

“It’s gonna be worth it, trust me.”

“It’d better be,” you hummed, adjusting your backpack straps on your shoulders.  

“This is what I get for taking a city girl out in nature,” Flip joked playfully as he brushed a bit of stray hair out of your face that had worked itself loose along the way.

“Shush you,” you playfully nudged Flip’s arm. “There’s not as much city in me as you’d like to believe and besides, I wouldn’t want the mountain man I have with me to feel useless.”

“Is he cute?”

“Oh, very much so.”

The rest of the hike, Flip pointed out various things to you in the wilderness as you walked along. A rare black squirrel scampering up the side of a tree, the name of a distant bird that called out. Impressed with his knowledge, you hardly noticed the final ascent as you listened to him rattle off a list of things about the area with confidence. He clearly knew it well, which hardly surprised you. He’d grown up here, this was practically his backyard, even though it seemed like the farthest reaches of the earth to you.

The trees began to thin out as you reached the top of the hill, a large lake spanning out along with a breathtaking view.

“Worth the hike?”  

Pausing, you took in your new surroundings. You had never quite seen anything like it before. The lake glittered a deep blue in the sunlight, seeming to reach on forever. Mountains sloped up from either side of it’s banks, rolling off into the distance as far as the eye could see.

“It’s beautiful,” you commented, still in awe that such a spot existed.

“Good.  Cause this is our home away from home for the next few days.”      

Flip dropped his pack from his shoulders, leaning his rifle against a nearby tree.  Pacing a few times across the area, he determined the flattest spot for the tent, digging the item from his backpack and unfurling it on the ground. Making quick work in a matter of minutes, it was set up, followed by a small fire pit.  

“We’re going to need some firewood,” Flip noted, as he wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Joining him in the nearby woods, you soon had an armful of fallen sticks and a few larger logs. Not being completely inept, you returned to the campsite, stacking them into the fire pit in the teepee shape your father had taught you long ago that would sustain the best fire.  Tucking some dried leaves and kindling around the base, you struck a match, stepping back as the fire caught, quickly spreading to the larger logs.

Flip couldn’t help to smile as he returned, a stack of logs of his own in his arms, at you sitting near the fire. Dropping the firewood to the ground near the fire pit, he kissed the top of your head.

“Not bad for a city girl.”

“I told you I wasn’t completely helpless.”

*****************************************************************************************

Daylight was already fading from the sky, casting hues of soft pinks and oranges over the still waters of the lake. The fire cracked and popped, burning strong and casting a warm light over the campsite. You helped Flip prepare dinner, adding spices to the cast iron pot he’d rigged over the fire as he stirred the ingredients to a simple, yet delicious meal. Laying out a blanket, he joined you as you sat down, warm bowl in hand.

You could get used to this, you thought as darkness fell around you. The first few stars began to twinkle in the inky black sky above. After cleaning up the dishes and packing them back away, Flip joined you near the fire. As it began to burn low in the small pit Flip had dug out to contain it, you noticed how quiet the woods were at night. Gone were the tweets of birds and rustling of forest animals through the underbrush. Your ears rang for a moment, unused to such silence. It was peaceful, yet eerie all at once, to be in such a secluded place. Pulling the over-sized flannel Flip had leant you closer around yourself, you shivered slightly in the cool night air. Leaning back against Flip, he wrapped his arms around you.

“Cold?” Flip asked, pulling you closer to his body from where you sat between his long legs.

“Just a little.” you admitted. Between the hike and the warmth of the sun, you had been almost too warm all day. As night fell, you realized you may have underestimated how quickly the temperature would drop at a higher elevation.  

“Think I could warm you up a little,” he purred into your ear, nipping at your lobe.

“You think so?” you hummed back, tilting your head back to look up at him.  

“I do.”

Catching you with a kiss, you wiggled a bit in Flip’s arms to turn yourself in his grasp. Straddling him, he let out a low moan as you settled yourself on his lap. He tasted of the spice from dinner, mingled with the tobacco from his last cigarette. Deepening the kiss, you ran your fingers through his hair, rocking your hips against him.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Flip warned as you twirled the long strands of his hair at the base of his neck.  

“Mmm, why’s that?” you cooed.  “Am I going to get myself in trouble?”

“There’s no one out here to hear me making you scream.”

More than once, your neighbors had pounded on the wall, warning you and Flip to quiet down. The apartment walls did little to contain the noise, much to their dismay. It took all of your willpower not to laugh the next day when Ms. Paterson from next door warned you that “next time I hear such a racket in the middle of the night, I’m calling the police.” Little did she know that it was law enforcement between your legs that was the cause for such a ruckus.

“I’d like to see you try,” you challenged Flip, rocking your hips once more against him for good measure. You could already feel he was hard, straining against his jeans. “Make me scream your name.”         

Letting out a strangled sound, Flip moved you from his lap, turning you on to your back.  Hovering above you, Flip ghosted his hands over your chest, palming at your breasts over the flannel. Diving towards your neck, he pressed his lips against you, nipping and sucking against your skin.

Flip hummed between kisses. “You are in so much trouble.”

“Have I been bad, officer?” you murmured as your back arched from the blanket and Flip pressed a line of kisses along your collarbone.   

“Fuck,” Flip groaned as he struggled to undo the buttons to your shirt. He desperately needed to feel the softness of your skin against his palm.

A low giggle escaped you, knowing that pushed Flip over the edge. Feeling his hand trail down your stomach he dipped between your legs. Pressing against your center, you took a deep breath as Flip rubbed his hand over the fabric of your pants. While it felt good, you needed more. Reaching down, you unbuttoned the top of your jeans, Flip’s fingers quick to join, pushing the fabric down your legs.

Feeling the cold night air hit against your wet center, you stiffened for a second at the sensation. Flip wasted no time in pressing a warm finger against you, teasing you slowly as he circled your folds before dipping inside. Grasping his shoulders, you exhaled as he began working in and out of you at a torturous pace, adding a second and then a third. Goosebumps prickled against your skin, the mixture of pleasure and the chill of the mountain air cascading over you. Flip continued, pumping his hand rhythmically as you squeezed your eyes shut. You were lost in the feeling, his thick fingers working you as his thumb circled your clit.  Nearly there you were teetering on edge when the loss of contact made your eyes fly open and suck in a deep breath, as Flip pulled his hand away.

“Think I was going to let you come that easily?” Flip smirked, before bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a pop.

Giving Flip a sly smile, you grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, pulling him close. Teasing him, you licked a stripe up the side of his neck. Salty and sweet, you relished the taste of him. Biting his neck, he let out a low groan. You were easily going to be the death of him and he wasn’t complaining in the slightest that this was how he was going to go.           

“Are you going to cuff me, officer? you teased, letting go of Flip’s shirt to stretch your arms above you.  “Wouldn’t want me to get away now would you?”

Pinning your wrists in his grasp, Flip held you steady with his large hand. “I’m off duty, sweetheart. Plus there’s no headboard to cuff you to.”

“But sir,” you mockingly protest, playing into Flip’s current conundrum. “I’m sure you could find some way to restrain me.”  

Ever the quick thinking boy scout, Flip pushed the flannel shirt from your shoulders, making quick work of knotting the fabric tightly around your wrists. Satisfied with his handiwork, Flip ran his hand down your chest, delighting in how your body arched into his touch, begging for more.

Fumbling with his belt buckle, Flip wasn’t sure he still had the necessary motor skills left to work the leather free from his waist. Managing to get it undone, he unzipped his pants, taking himself out in his palm. Pumping himself a few times, his hand felt useless, especially as you were splayed out before him, legs parted, waiting eagerly for him to sink into you. Lining up to your entrance, Flip could barely breathe as he slipped into you. He would never grow tired of the soft exhale you made as he sunk deeper into you, steadying his hands against the blanket, careful not to crush you with his weight as he began to move.

Soon finding a rhythm, Flip rocked against you, driving deep as your hips snapped to meet each of his thrusts.  

“Let me hear you,” Flip encouraged. “Be a good girl for me.”

Struggling against the fabric bonds, tight around your wrists, you tried to wiggle free but to no avail. The sensation of restriction only added to your pleasure as the flannel dug against your skin. You cried out into the night as Flip thrust into you.

“Fuck! Flip, please!”

“Please what?” he asked, his voice low and thick.

“Please,” you begged.  “Please fuck me harder.”

“Careful what you wish for sweetheart.”   

Withdrawing from you, Flip grasped your hips, flipping you to your knees. Faltering for a second, you steadied yourself as best you could on your bound wrists. Feeling his weight against your back, Flip reached around you, tearing the knotted shirt free allowing your hands to plant flat against the blanket.

“You look fucking beautiful like this,” Flip confessed, taking in the sight of you bent before him, your thighs slick with your arousal dripping from your center.

Giving your ass a firm slap, Flip let out a growl as he dove towards you, licking a long stripe against you with his tongue. Shuddering, your fingers grasped the blanket, desperately trying to hold onto anything that would ground you as Flip continued to lap at you. As he circled his tongue, you let out a cry, unable to contain the sounds you were so used to keeping quiet. Continuing on, Flip worked you until you were trembling, on the brink of collapsing, your arms weak from holding yourself up.  

Pulling back from you, Flip’s chin glistened in the pale moonlight that blanketed your surroundings. Hardly fazed by the mess, Flip took hold of your hips once again, guiding you back as he pushed into you.

“Flip!” you moaned as his cock sunk deep within you. Wrapping an arm around your middle, he leaned down against your back, pulling you close as he rocked back and forth in time with your movements against him.

“Such a good, good girl for me,” Flip murmured, his voice deep as his pressed his lips against your cheek. “Just like that darling,” he encouraged.  

#flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman x female reader #flip zimmerman/reader #flip Zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman #one shot #flip zimmerman/female reader #flip zimmerman/you #reader insert #Female reader #reader #lemon #lemons ahead

[ivara-is-my-friend]

it took like a week but i got it done boys

Max enjoyed Earth. The luscious forests were still thriving amidst the Grineer industrialization. The air was always filled with the bustle of the lush jungles around them, the birds hiding in the trees near constantly making noise, along with the various wildlife scurrying around the forest floor. Of course, there was the ever-present bustling of the frontier troopers stationed there, but she had learned how to tune out the sounds of her fellow soldiers after countless missions with them.

It was the rare downtime between missions. Max wandered around aimlessly, scuffing her boots through the dirt and grass. Trouvaille lounged in a patch of sunshine between a few fellow troopers, while Ivara fiddled with her bow, propped up against a piece of machinery.

A kuaka dashes through the undergrowth, garnering Trouvaille’s attention. He’s quick to dart after it, prompting Max to reluctantly chase after him, sternly calling his name. He pays her no mind, instead continuing his mad chase through the brush. She scuttles quickly through the leaves and grass, stomping through the muddy trails.

The creature, having gained distance with nimble speed compared to the hulking kubrow, is quickly able to scurry into its den, away from curious eyes. Trouvaille persistently sniffs and searches around the entrance, but finds no way for something of his size to fit in. He slumps down on his haunches in defeat, ears pinned back in frustration. Max catches up, slightly out of breath, to sternly glare at the panting companion.

They’d been led a good distance away from where they’d started, far away from the other soldiers and Ivara. It’s only now that Max realizes she’d forgotten her Argonak back beside the Warframe.

An anxious feeling festers in her gut. “Trou, let’s scoot,” she commands lightly, hoping to be able to return to base before anything bad happened. Trou reluctantly gets to his feet, shaking off dirt and debris he’d accumulated from his mad dash through the forest. The brown spots covering his black fur are accompanied by splotches of mud, almost blending in to his natural pattern. Max stoops to pat off some of the more stubborn clumps of mud.

It’s when she’s working on one of the final spatters of mud on his back that she feels it. A shift in the atmosphere. It went from feeling natural and relaxed to tense, as if they were being closely watched. A quick look around gives her no input, as she sees no other being peering back at them. Even the birds in the trees seemed to have sensed the change, as they went eerily silent from their perches.

“We gotta go. Now,” she urges the canine, quickly turning back to the trail they’d taken to get here. The feeling of being watched stayed persistent, sending a shiver down her spine.

Just as she was turning around to lead them back, a dash of smoke caught her eye. It lasted for a split second before vanishing, only to reappear nearby almost immediately in a different location. She spun to face it, turning her attention away from the trail.

And then he was there.

She remembered his terrifying demeanor, as if it was something that could be forgotten in the first place, made all the more intimidating after the armaments Hunhow had bestowed upon him. The small cloud of smoke dissipated quickly, revealing Shadow Stalker’s kneeling form.

Max was frozen. Usually she had a Warframe with her to aid her in these confrontations, but here she was essentially defenseless. She only had her meager Amp she’d crafted with Onkko. Her Warframe would attack, and she would sneak in quick blasts occasionally to make the fight easier. While it was optimal for removing Stalker’s resistances, it was pitiful compared to the attacks she would be facing.

The assassin rises to his feet silently, smoothly. Trouvaille backs up into Max, ears flat against his head and fur bristled. A low, threatening rumble emanated from his throat, doing his best to protect.

Stalker levels her with a contempt-filled glare. She shrinks back, meagerly taking a few steps back out of reflex. He unsheathes War, holds it sturdily in both hands. It shimmers in the sunlight that’s filtering in through the tree canopies, as if displaying the power it contained.

With a hiss, he ushers out an infamous warning.

“You shall not leave this place.”

With a snarl, Trou launches himself towards Stalker, spurring them all into action. The kubrow dashes between the hunter’s legs, swiping with sharp claws. Stalker is distracted, even if only for a moment, and Max takes it to her advantage. She darts towards the trail back to base, trusting that Trou would be smart enough to be quick to follow.

She hears another hiss from the newcomer. Stalker twists away from the meager onslaught to follow her.

“Zus? Zus! Can you hear me?” Her voice is frantic, any training on how to remain calm and level-headed in stressful situations having been quickly forgotten. Her comms stay silent, and with a jolt she realizes that they’ve been jammed so she has no way of calling for aid.

She chances a quick glance over her shoulder as she hauls through the forest. Stalker is pursuing her now, War still held at the ready. His steps are silent compared to the hectic stomping of the Operator’s feet on the dirt and mud. She vaguely sees Trouvaille tearing after them, in a mad dash to catch up to her before the shadowy figure does. She spots Stalker swinging the giant blade back, going in for a strong swipe.

Max turns away to face the path she’s speedily taking, swiping overhanging branches and foliage out of the way. She tries to drastically increase the distance between the two of them before Stalker can attack.

She doesn’t make it far.

A whoosh, a gust of wind swirling by, and suddenly she’s knocked off her feet and onto the ground. It takes a moment to regain her bearings, but she recognizes what he’d done: a blast of energy from the sword, a mimic of a Warframe’s ability.

For a moment, she lays there, dazed. Her shoulder and ribs ache from the harsh impact. Trouvaille catches up, and firmly stands above her prone form protectively. Stalker heeds him no mind, instead striding up to the downed Operator with vengeful intent.

“I am your reckoning,” he growls out, raising War for a final strike.

Then, off to the side-- another rustle of leaves. All three turn to look.

It’s enough.

Without notice, Max and Trouvaille vanish from sight. The rustling intensifies, and Stalker turns his confused self to address the newer threat.

A volley of arrows fire out of the bushes, hitting their target with significant damage. Stalker grunts in pain, and hefts War back up to attack.

Max knows what’s happened, and she’s incredibly grateful for it: they’d been struck with a cloak arrow, meaning Ivara was nearby. The swarm of arrows appearing from thin air are another strong indicator to her presence. It gives her a chance to catch her breath amidst the chaos.

Ivara shows no signs of letting up. A near-constant stream of arrows pour from Artemis Bow, a majority of them turning Stalker into a living pin cushion. He gives out various huffs and grunts of pain as he tries to locate the source, but Ivara stays in Prowl, out of sight. Max meagerly fires a quick blast from her amp to help Ivara along, drawing Stalker’s attention for a split second.

Eventually, Stalker realizes that he’s in over his head. With an irritated hiss, he sheathes War and kneels, dissipating into the same cloud of smoke he arrived in.

With the attacker gone, Ivara appears beside Max and Trou. The cloak bubble dies off, revealing a scuffed-up Max. Ivara is quick to fret, rushing to the downed Operator and checking on her. Max begrudgingly allows Ivara to check her over, resisting the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation as Ivara thoroughly inspects her for scrapes or injury.

“I do believe I’m fine,” Max quips as Ivara tilts Max’s head around to check for bumps. Ivara heeds her no mind, and does not stop her thorough inspection until she’s sure Max isn’t seriously hurt.

Ivara finally lets up, and steps back and Max slowly and carefully gets to her feet. Her rib cage and shoulder still feel achy from the rough impact, but not enough to keep her down. Trouvaille sits at attention next to her, carefully keeping an additional eye on her. She carefully swipes her hands around, brushing dirt and dust off her armor.

Ivara nods her head back towards base.

“Yeah, I guess we oughta get going,” Max sighs. With a forlorn look down the trail, she realizes she now needs to follow it all the way back. She doesn’t feel up for it. She’s already worn out, and the idea of walking that far of a distance is discouraging.

Ivara pauses; cocks her head to the side like she’s thinking. She taps Max’s shoulder to garner her attention, and hooks a thumb over her shoulder to point at her back. When Max gives her a questioning look, Ivara spins around with her back to the Operator and points again.

“You’re kidding.”

Ivara points again, with more enthusiasm.

“You’re not kidding.”

With a huff and a smirk, Max clambers onto Ivara’s provided back, and lets her Warframe wrap her arms snugly around her legs to hold her steady. Max hooks her chin over Ivara’s shoulder to look ahead. Ivara beams, holding her head up high and hefting Max further onto her back.

“I sort of hope you know the way back, because I sure don’t.”

#i don't particularly like this but?? i got it done hey ho. #max #some writin

[iironwreath]

Gold [Cihro]

Cihro almost missed it.

Sunlight filled his vision for less than a second, but it was enough for him to slow his careful step through the abandoned streets of Westruun. His scouting party continued ahead of him, none the wiser. He looked. Across the street, in the gutter and out of the safety of the shadows, was a single gold piece.

He perked up. His pouch was light with only silver and copper, and neither of the two in abundance. He glanced back at his party. One at the rear, a kobold, turned and waved for him to continue following. Cihro strained his ears and heard the tell-tale heavy footfalls and grunts of goliaths in conversation. He couldn’t make out their exact distance and didn’t know a word of giant, but the fact that he could hear them at all meant they were too close.

He looked back to the piece, dirtied by grime and dust and even spilled blood, but still bright enough to have caught his eye. He liked to think he wasn’t greedy. This was more a symbol of hope, that civilization and currency could exist after the Herd of Storms and an ancient black dragon razed the town. He looked back to the kobold, signalled for them to continue, and darted out of the alley.

It was stupid and reckless and deeply unlike him, but if he didn’t find joy in something, he’d sooner die in spirit than in body. He arrived at the gutter, plucked up the coin, and was mid-turn when he heard a shout. A large, hulking figure materialized in front of him. Even standing on his toes, Cihro would’ve only reached the bottom of their chest. He gulped and waved at them, depositing the gold piece into a pouch behind his back.

“Afternoon,” he said, crouched like a racer. “Don’t mind me.”

They didn’t deign him a reply. He heard the whistle of air from an axe and instinctively bent backwards. Something cold whipped by his eyebrow, followed by a splash of blood. His hair rustled with the force. He bolted, a second weapon hurtling above him as he ducked and weaved back whence he came. 

When he reached the alley again his left eye had filled with blood and he stumbled into a wall. It took him half a second to wipe it, get his bearings, then continue at a full sprint, his hood flying off his head and javelins clattering at his heels. He knew these alleys better than the herd. They couldn’t keep pace with him as he dashed around corners, scampered up a building, rolled into an open attic window and flattened himself against the floor behind some crates.

He heard them arguing in common a couple blocks away. “Where’d he go?!” “How could you lose him?!” “He’s so tiny, s’like trying to catch a flea, how can you expect me t—”

Eventually their voices faded until nothing but his own breathing and the creak of the house remained. He lay still for a while, pressing the cloth of his glove against his face. Blood had poured over his temple. They’d nicked him good, but only that. He sat up and quickly fashioned a bandage from his scarf to tide him over until he could make it back to the Clasp.

He was lucky. An encounter with the Herd of Storms usually meant more than a scratch.

He pulled the gold piece from his pouch and rubbed it smooth with his thumb. A symbol of hope, and now, a symbol of good fortune and his ability to survive. He smiled, pocketed it, and slipped out the side of the building. 

#cihro #writing tag #writing: cihro #aka how cihro got that scar on his forehead #based on a roll i made from xanathar's #queue #exandria #tal'dorei