#and i admit shadow is unusually talkative here but i swear it has its reasons

[the-heart-of-a-monster]

THoaM Issue 9 PAGE 11

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#thoam #issue 9 #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #yeah this goes in the main tags bc im rly proud of this one #this is such an important scene in the comic... #and for their relationship as a whole as well #it put so much symbolism into everything #and i admit shadow is unusually talkative here but i swear it has its reasons

[bored-storyteller]

uh I love your storys about Uta ^^. You write him so good and in character . Could you maybe write a story about him were him and the reader ( human) meeting at an auction like reader was captured and meets Uta there . But maybe they escape the auction house and meet Uta sometime after this again. I`m sorry I love Uta angst and fluff .

Dear anon. I'll tell you, your request inspired me a lot (that's why I did it right away), but I must confess that I'm not really satisfied with the result and I'm sorry (I rewrote it three times). I have to thank my poor summary skills for this defeat, I don't think I managed to really give you what you asked me. Feel free to send me clarifications or a further request for me to remedy!

43- Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x human!reader

“The bird of ill omen and the broken toy”

You are in front of his eyes, huddled in a corner of the cold and dark container. On your knees, tied up, you are the condemned to death ready to face the gallows, or rather you are a delicious dish wrapped in its most beautiful dress to entice the spectators.

"Oh, look here ... what a delightful creature."

You are not the main article, you are not the rare object, yet your smell has brought him there. Uta is not a glutton, but he couldn't resist the temptation to peek at whoever was carrying such an inviting fragrance.

"This is really a shame ..." his voice is sweet, calm, yet ironic and cruel. Yes, it's a shame that he has to give you to some miserly ghoul.

Uta doesn’t usually prefer a certain type of food, he is not delicate or picky, nor does he have problems eating even his similar ones. But he has to admit that while those bright eyes of yours, shining with tears and desperation, look at him, he really would like to be able to eat them. Yes, it is rare for someone to stimulate his appetite in this way, customers really have to thank him for his self-control.

You are so small in his shadow, and even if you tremble, even if you smell of fear, he sees no hope in your eyes.

You know you have no escape. As little as you may be when it comes to ghouls, you know you can't save yourself. You heard them talk.

You would rather die now than continue that torture.

He feels it, and oh, how tempted he is to grant your wish.

He leans over you, he wants to see you well, he wants to hear you. The demonic beak of his mask brushes against you, rubs against your temple like the muzzle of a mother cuddling his cub, or the muzzle of a lion that is playing with his prey.

Maybe, if he had met you in another situation ... maybe ...

No. He doesn't necessarily have to devour you. Nothing is ever said with Uta, even he knows it, he knows himself. Who knows what would have happened if you had met somewhere else. Who knows who you were, elsewhere.

In conclusion, you were both unlucky: you cannot survive, and he cannot be the one to eat you. You have something in common.

"Uta!"

Roma's voice makes its way, muffled by the metal container in which you are locked up - like a ready meal -

"I'm coming!" It's time for him to go on stage, for you it's time for the final bow.

He doesn't tell you anything anymore, he doesn't need to. He will say goodbye to you that same evening, but he feels a little happy that you are among the last items to be exhibited.

He still gives you a look, you, little shaking puppet, sweet broken toy. Who can fix you anymore?

After that, he leaves you behind, abandoned in the cold darkness of your last hours in solitude, as he plunges into the cold light of demons, ready to entertain his fellow men with his affable ways. What a crazy world you are both in.

. . .

Locked in your cold prison, if you could you would cover your ears in a desperate attempt to get away from the announcements and screams, but it's impossible for you. So you wait, trembling in your shell of panic, not knowing what to do. If only you had at least a vain hope, a false chance. If only you could save yourself, for some reason, any reason then yeah, oh, how dear life would be to you thereafter. But you can't even think now.

And you don't even realize that the noises change. The cries of the victims become the cries of the executioners, and the applause becomes breathless footsteps in search of a safe place. But you don't know it, or at least not until they get closer, more distressed. They are probably running away. But who can save you? Who knows you are there? Who can remember you?

And in fact, no one stops, no one frees you, and the footsteps and the screams brush against you and pass you, without bothering to kill or save you. At least you think so.

But as soon as the silence comes, the creaking of the doors opening makes you lift your face, towards the light.

He is there again, and you wonder if that Bird of ill Omen is not your hallucination. With that bizarre suit, that hateful mask, and those ancient letters around his neck that seem ready to strangle him.

He doesn't talk to you. He is simply looking at you, you feel him looking at you, behind that deadly beak. In the silence that surrounds you, whether it is a real silence or created by mutual presence, he suddenly occupies your every thought in those few seconds of eternity. Maybe it's the touch of death that wanders your mind, but suddenly unusual questions arise in you. Who knows who he is, what he does. What does he like and what not ... does he live in the alleys of the city, or maybe, instead, without that mask he pretends to be someone?

He came to take you and devour you. But it almost seems like a strange barrier is keeping him away from you.

And while you are suspended in this limbo of cold resignation, as he came he disappears, and with his disappearance he takes away from you that sad calm that had enveloped you.

The panic returns as someone approaches.

Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Clean eyes, a clean face, no mask is looking at you agitated. You don't know how to answer, you don't even know if what you are seeing is true.

“I'm a human, I'm a CCG investigator. Don't worry, it's okay, we'll get you out of here. "

Without your being fully aware of it, you find yourself in warm, safe arms that take you away from hell behind you. You didn't even realize you were crying.

. . .

He recognized your smell right away.

Even if it's been some time since his meeting with you, it's hard to forget something that has affected him so much, especially if it is something that has particularly touched his sensitivity over that of others.

And it's not that Uta is then easily surprised, he is ready to expect anything from that crazy world, yet you manage to upset him without even knowing that he is there.

You are smiling. And that's not the fact, but at the same time it is. You are smiling sweetly, sincerely. Your eyes are clear and bright, and you are listening to someone talking to you about their petty problems without batting an eye.

That night, that night he met you, he came back to eat you. He was not a ghoul who got lost in gluttony, but given the situation he had a particular interest in the statement "carpe diem".

He hadn't, in the end. In the end he just looked at you. It would have been easy to swallow you, but he had left you there. He had told himself that he hadn't made it in time, but who knows what was really going through his head at that moment.

It doesn't matter anymore, however. What's a broken toy like you doing so quietly exposed? How can you smile at people like that, when surely the world around you has crumbled into millions of little bits?

You make him angry, you know? Humans like you, whom the world keeps getting back on their feet despite everything, provoke anger in him.

And you are there, a few steps away from him, and you do not realize that the one who had the task of trampling your life is watching you.

And no matter how much anger he may feel inside of him, he can't help but look at you, as you speak comfortable words to someone, while you give your attention as if you have no problem.

"Uta?" Renji's voice, intent on looking at him from behind the coffee shop counter, makes him look away from you.

"Nh? Ah… ”His gaze falls on his now coffee-stained lap. The stain is almost invisible on the black sweater, but it is damp and warm.

"Don't laugh ... can you give me a towel please?"

"I'm not laughing." Yet Uta could swear that in the serious voice of his trusted friend a note of amusement is audible even to those who do not know him.

Carefully he puts the cup back on the saucer, making sure not to do any further damage.

This then. When was he ever so distracted for a human?

But when he instinctively looks for you, after all that nice little theater, you're not there anymore. The table you occupied is empty.

Only one object remained abandoned on the shiny surface. A book lies alone, the bookmark sticking out in the middle.

It is placed on the side where you sat. Did you leave in such a hurry that you left it there?

It is not that he has a real reason to do it, yet, while he is about to leave :Re, with all the tranquility that characterizes him, he picks up that literary volume in his hands, hiding it inside his jacket. Even that printed paper is imbued with your smell by now.

. . .

You talk to books, apparently. The edges of the pages are filled with thoughts written in pencil. They are all yours, it almost seems like you use the books as your diary, but there is nothing so personal about you. They are just… points of view. The world told by you, depending on the inspiration that the phrases in the book give you.

"It must be difficult to live in a world where you can talk to your food about your favorite book."

When Uta's eyes had settled on that particular phrase, he had closed. For someone else it might have been a stupid phrase, probably, but for him it was like a punch in the stomach.

He doesn't know if you wrote it before or after the accident, but in any case that simple sentence arouses a mixture of emotions that he doesn't really know where to place. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't understand what it meant to be a ghoul in that world, but on the other hand, the utopia in which Renji seems so hoping could be made up of people like you. If only he believed it, Uta could like that world, as long as there was a place in that world for someone like him.

“Excuse me, did you happen to find a book yesterday? I'm afraid I left it here by mistake. " Your cordial voice betrays a note of alarmism as you speak to the young girl. Your hands grip the counter as if it were a rock of salvation, but your feet are ready to run elsewhere, to look somewhere else in case it isn't there.

"Oh ... no, I'm sorry, I haven't seen any books." Touka's voice is sorry, an apologetic tone hovers between her words.

"Oh, damn ... sorry, thanks anyway!" Your words are so hasty, so quick that he doesn't have time to interrupt them.

The bell rings and the door closes with a click.

"You have it, don't you?" Renji never misses anything - or almost -.

"Yeah, it’s better that I give it back to them before they run all over Tokyo on foot."

"How long have you been so thoughtful?"

Uta allows himself to take a last look at the silver-haired ghoul from over his sunglasses, as he prepares to leave the cafe: "I'm always thoughtful."

. . .

The snow has just started to fall. It is light and silent, the parks of the metropolis have not yet begun to turn white.

You would gladly stay and watch the show from the heat of your home, if it weren't for that damn book you forgot somewhere. Oh, you love your books, but they're so good at hiding. You were convinced you left it in the coffee shop!

"Excuse me…"

A cordial voice caresses your eardrums. It's so warm and peaceful, yet a chill shiver stops the blood in your veins.

Turning around, you meet a man dressed in black. He is strange, but it doesn't surprise you, there are a lot of strange people in such a big city, even people who wear sunglasses on a snowy day.

You had already seen him in the cafe, but you didn't dwell on him. Not because he doesn't get your attention, just… it was an instinct.

“I think you were looking for this. I found it yesterday by chance. "

Clear and tapered fingers hand you your much-desired book. On fair skin, intertwining dark patterns form inexplicable designs, at least for you, but you're sure they have a lot to say, don't they?

Slowly you reach out your hand, and hesitantly touch the cover, to resume what you were looking for.

The night of the accident did not disappear. You are scared. You are afraid of death, but even more of pain, of imprisonment. You are afraid of fear itself. However, you are also afraid of not living, of wasting, of losing.

You are in a limbo that does not let you escape, and you can not help but continue your life, savoring every second, waiting for the Bird of ill Omen to come and get you.

So you push back the mistrust again, and a grateful and kind smile goes to the one who helped you, without asking for explanations.

"Thank you very much." Your voice reaches his pierced ears with such unexpected sweetness.

"It was a pleasure." His smile, decorated with the piercing, is barely hinted at, but delicate - reassuring? -

And for endless moments you look at each other, in silence, without speaking and without thinking. And then, as if nothing had happened, the dances between prey and predator begin.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

. . .

Your eyes look at him shiny, frightened. You are still in a cage, imprisoned by a body that will soon be ready to consume you.

Uta wonders if you really never anticipated this. All the times you've crossed paths, have you really ever been in doubt? Every time you looked at him, every time you smiled at him or laughed at his words, did you never guess the truth? No, maybe you've always known it from the start, broken toys never work too well.

The mask of that evening, like a macabre mockery - both for him and for you - is leaning on the work table, not far from you, looking at you placidly. It’s a coincidence that he pulled it out just in the morning.

Suddenly the images of that day come back between you two, like a dream. The incomprehensible to you tattoo on his neck has a creepy look overwhelmed by the shadows that the soft lights create on the ghoul.

Fear invades you, like a script. Yet, while the Bird of ill Omen looms over you, trapping you in the corner of the room with his arms, your terror is different from what he had already seen in you. Today it is almost more visible, less controlled, as you tremble beneath him.

Maybe it's the surprise of being caught in a trap by someone who – perhaps- you had slowly begun to love – despite everything-, or maybe, simply, inside you a little hope still survives.

Uta's head bends, and the tip of his nose brushes your neck, smelling the coveted perfume that had so attracted him.

If you're so scared, how did you smile all that time? How did you keep going? How did you keep loving that world?

Beside his mask, as a warning of future torment, your dear book lies silent, ready to say goodbye. You lent it to him last time, he asked you for it.

Your smell is as strong, sweet, delicious as ever - so why is his stomach closing up? -

His jaws open, and as delicate as cruel they enclose your fragile neck. In them, the accelerated beats of your heart, still alive, make him tremble.

One bite and you will be nothing but dead flesh, and he hesitates.

He had to kill you before it was too late, right? Uta should know himself well enough, he had to understand right away what was happening inside him.

A sigh, and then his lips pull away, his saliva stops wetting you. He is not hungry, he has already eaten.

He is still upon you, but now he is only looking at you, with his eyes of blood and darkness. You, like a frightened puppy, remain shaking in a corner for a few moments, lost in his pupils. And then, like a crazy lightning bolt, you run away, as you have always run away. You slip under his arms, and as fast as you can you reach the door of the shop.

Uta watches you go, swallows bitter air, and then bows his head, surrendered.

What will happen now? Will you shut up in fear? Will you tell anyone? Only time will tell.

He slowly gets up, his hands caressing each other's tattooed arms, in a distracted gesture of protection, as he approaches the table. His fingers touch it, and then squeeze it, while he looks at the book that is left alone again, without your eyes on it.

And then, suddenly, as if he had woken up from a dream, he notices something: your smell has not vanished.

Turning his view, he sees you. You are still there, or maybe you are back there.

Now it is you who are on the side of the light, and he is in the corner of the cage. The Bird of ill Omen has become the broken toy, left alone among his masks.

"What's up?" No matter the crack inside, Uta always looks so mature, peaceful, even after he has threatened to kill you.

You take a step towards him, but your outstretched arm continues to secure yourself to the door jamb. If you left he wouldn't follow you, you know that right?

"I ... I think I'm crazy, Uta ..." You too realize how much your behavior is against logic, how foolish it is to remain - to search - in your nightmare. But on the other hand, humans ... no, people, when they are desperate, lose the light of reason, and do wrong things. Things the world says are wrong. That world, which claims to be the only one, when it is nothing more than a facade, a corner of something much larger.

"Yes, I think so too." He really thinks so. You have to be crazy to still be there, at least as crazy as he is. "Why are you still here?"

You shrug your shoulders, hugging yourself more out of shyness than out of fear - yeah, you're no longer afraid, it's as if you've run out of batteries.

"I ... as long as I'm alive I can choose, right?" It came out of your lips so naturally that you didn't even realize it was you who uttered that sentence, yet it's a truth so deep, so intense that it has guided you from that damn night to this day.

"And what are you choosing?"

Your eyes cast a fleeting glance outside, at the glimmer of the city, and without hesitation you gently accompany the door to close, imprisoning you. Imprisoning both of you.

Maybe it's a prison, but this time it's really your choice. You are with that Bird of ill Omen, but you are not tied up, you are not thrown to the ground in a cold corner. You are with him, surrounded by works of art that stare at you impassively, but it was you who decided it.

"I choose not to ignore anymore ..." Your fingers intertwine with each other, you play with them as if you need to keep them busy as you approach him. He is waiting for you. "I want to understand."

"How can you understand?" He would like to tell you, but he doesn't say a word, because not even he can understand you. What kind of mask would suit you? Who knows, yet he has learned enough about you that he should be able to think of at least one. But no, you are always there, hoping for something, believing that after all, living is worthwhile.

So he stays there, even when you lean against him. Not a contact, but a fusion. Stomach against stomach, lungs against lungs, heart against heart. Your hands cling to his arms only to hold him closer, and as he looks at your closed eyes he knows you're listening to him. You're trying to feel his every breath, every twitch of him. You want to get inside him, and he lets you do it - isn't that what he wanted too?

The predator and the prey united in a single entity for an eternal instant.

It's all so against the moral and social rules, but what do you care now? You already know he could kill you. And in that world that goes round and round without stopping, a black writing in an ancient language that also goes around a greedy neck could be your starting point for putting the pieces back together. Maybe it's a disease, maybe it's madness, but deep down, why not? Why not go a little further? Better to die than to be afraid to live, right?

"How much confidence ..."

His voice further softened by his whisper makes your previously closed eyelids lift. His nocturnal eyes look at you slightly narrowed, a slight upward crease caresses his lips without even knowing it. It is difficult for Uta to do something without being aware of it.

He is very beautiful. Beautiful and awful.

"Can't I?"

The world out there, the crazy little world is gone.

"Well, why not ... you are my food, after all."

#tokyo ghoul #uta tokyo ghoul #uta x human reader #uta x reader #tokyo ghoul uta #tokyo ghoul oneshot #tokyo ghoul fanfiction #tokyo ghoul x reader #reqest

[kikyozoldyck]

ENTROPY

PAIRING: senju tobirama x uchiha!reader SUMMARY: the gradual decline into chaos WARNINGS: swearing, degradation, dirty talk, cheating, cunnilingus, mildy dubious consent (just bc verbal consent isnt given), 

"Even a simpleton could see the way that Senju dog looks at you."

Madara's smooth, dry voice stops Tobirama just before he rounds the bend to the corridor hosting your medical ward. His spine locks, jaw clenching with unease.

"Dearest elder brother, I feel it prudent to remind you that he is a married man." A short, meaningful pause, your voice lilting through the torch-lit air. "And that his wife is employed at this very hospital."

Madara scoffs, and Tobirama's gut churns.

"It is how the Senju are," your brother spits, his voice echoing gently throughout the unusually silent halls. "A Senju has no true lover, as a beast has no true mate. Why do you think he and Hashirama differ in appearance so?"

Fists bunched at his sides, Tobirama rounds the corner, his shadow breaking harsh and abrupt against the torchlight.

"Lord Senju." You blink at his entrance, only mildly startled, your dainty hands falling from Madara's newly healed abdomen, your chin rising. "Are you in need of medical aid? I was just finishing with my brother. I shall be with you in a moment."

"It would seem I injured my shoulder in the last battle. Thank you," Tobirama nods, then, not knowing why he feels the need he calls you by your first name.

(Or perhaps knowing why but being unable to admit to it.)

Madara stands, eyeing Tobirama with barely contained fury as he does so. Your fingers twitch in empty air as you turn your gaze toward him. "Elder br—."

"Watch yourself, Tobirama." Madara's voice comes out low and tight. "That is the Lady of Uchiha with whom you assume such audacious familiarity – my sister."

"Of course, Madara." Tobirama inclines his head in deference, but there's an air of boldness to it. "I wouldn't dare presume familiarity with anything of yours."

"Elder Brother," You say again, your voice soft and warning, this time laying a hand on his arm.

Tobirama glances at the motion with a knowing smirk, before his gaze alights on you once more. "Apologies for any transgression, my lady."

Something in the way his mouth forms the words seems strikingly inappropriate — brazen in its fondness. You have to tighten your grip on Madara's arm to keep him from lunging.

"Touch my sister — even look at her again with those foul eyes of yours — and I'll have your head, Senju, do you understand me?"

Tobirama blinks steady, unfazed eyes at him. You suck a sharp breath between your teeth, "Madara, please."

Madara snarls once more, his tenebrous eyes purposely set to Tobirama's, letting the silence speak for him. He takes his leave before any of you can say more.

A steady silence pervades the corridor in his wake, the flicker of torchlight licking heat at your backs.

"Sit, Lord Senju." You finally tell him and gesture to the newly empty cot, "remove your coat as well."

He shrugs out of his coat, folding it over the backs of one of the empty chairs, and takes a seat.

"Thank you for your aid, Lady Uchiha." He says as he does so, "I imagine you have been quite busy as of late and are eager to return home."

"It is no detriment. As I have said before, you are my compatriot, it is my honor and duty to assist you. Though, as your compatriot, may I offer you some advice?"

Tobirama blinks at you, catching the unbidden heat in your eyes, the slight flare of your nostrils, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest.

"I welcome any counsel you may offer, my lady."

"As thrilling as it may be to a brain as small as your own, you must stop goading my brother on." You tell Tobirama, pausing for a moment, hands moving to smooth over imaginary wrinkles in your skirt, "one day, he will strike you down where you stand. He's killed better men for less."

"Lady Uchiha, I must admit I am quite flattered by your concern." Tobirama narrows his eyes, a rare smile finding itself on his lips, "but you may rest assured. I'd sooner fear my own shadow than your elder brother."

"You jest," you frown, stalking off to the side and crossing your arms, "but every morning when he wakes, he lights a candle in hopes for your death."

"And you?" He asks, his voice heavy with something unfamiliar even to himself, "Do you light candles with such morbid intention?"

"No. Why would I?" You huff your incredulity, arms uncrossing as you stalk back to him. "The war is over, our two sides have become one. Battle prowess such as yours would be a shame to lose."

"I killed your brother. That is why Madara despises me so, is it not?"

"It is." You concede, "but I have come to learn the reason Izuna has died while you live, and it has granted me peace."

"And what, may I implore, is this reason?"

"The souls of good men are the finest spoils of war."

He stops, rears back. "Am I not a good man?"

You seem to hesitate a moment, mouth opening and then closing.

"No. Lord Senju, you are not."

"May I inquire what lead you to this conclusion?"

"To begin," You step closer, and gesture towards the space between you, "you are here with me feigning a medical emergency instead of with your wife, in your marriage bed."

"And why," It comes out more like a warning than a question, and he can see how your shoulders straighten at the tone, "do you think that is? "

You look off to the wall. "Honestly, my lord, I am unsure. I do not presume to understand the intricacies of your marriage. "You reply as he stands, your eyes drifting cautiously back to his.

His chest hums with his frustration as he steps even closer, close enough to reach out and grasp you if he so pleased.

(Does he?)

"What does your dearest elder brother say?" he snaps, sneering the familiar phrase with vitriol so acute he can taste it on his tongue.

He can see the muscles in your throat work as you swallow. He's close enough to you to hear it.

Tobirama runs a hand through his hair roughly, his jaw tight with aggravation. "Surely, you have sought his counsel on the matter?"

You seem almost ready to speak it, and then something passes over your face that he doesn't recognize. You're stepping back, out of his proximity, head shaking, and he moves before he can stop himself. He grabs for you, catching you by your arms and dragging you back against him.

He's just so tired of this quiet, violent game between the two of you.

"Tell me," he growls, and the feeling is heady in its fervency.

You stare him down, mouth a harsh frown. You don't resist his hold — though you both know you easily could — you don't ease into it either. “He says that you lust after me."

(Distantly, he understands that it's shame he should be feeling, perhaps regret, maybe even indignation if it weren't true.

And that's the hindrance, though, is it not?

Because it is true.)

Somehow, it's only keen anticipation that fills him. Were he a good man, he'd stop right now — this very instant — and return home to his wife, slip into their bed and never think of this night again.

(But were he a good man he would have never deemed to so fervently crave what he shouldn't in the first place — namely you.)

Tobirama draws a slow breath in through his teeth, glancing down to your plush, parted lips for a single, illuminating moment. He almost curses himself because when he looks back up, there's the imperceptible widening of your eyes and the gentle quickening of your breaths.

He pulls you tighter to him. "What else?" he bites out, because fury is easier, fury is an acceptable smokescreen. And he finds that wrath is an effortless cover for desire.

(He doesn't let himself think too long on why that is.)

"Lord Senju, you are being —"

"What else?" he barks, suddenly aflame, and he isn't sure whether it's ire or desire that truly lights his bones this time.

"What is the matter with you?" You squirm in his grasp, scandalized. "Unhand me right now, you scoundrel."

But you aren't looking him in the eye, and your struggle is half-hearted at best.

(If he looks closely, he'd be able to see the faint dusting of pink coating your cheekbones, the girlish flutter of your eyelashes, and the tight curl of your shaking fists.

But he can't.)

He's too busy watching how torchlight catches along your collar bone above the modest cut of your yukata. "What else?" he rasps out, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He suddenly realizes this was a mistake, a mistake he can't find in himself to undo. He's glancing back to your face, catching the sharp cut of your widened eyes against his own.

"Nothing that is of any importance to you." You arch against his hold.

"Now, Lady Uchiha, we both know that is untrue." Tobirama scoffs, stepping into you. You stumble back with the motion, and he follows. "Tell me what depraved things your elder brother whispers in your ear about me." 

It's a challenge, he knows, and even still, he's alight with anticipation at the prospect of such vulgar words staining your lips. His cock stirs even at the thought, his control wavering dangerously as he holds you, presses into you, guides you slowly back to the cot.

He watches as something steels in your gaze, and you stop your backward tread, mouth firming into a thin line.

"He says it's your Senju blood that gives you such unsanctified cravings."

Tobirama barks a laugh, the fervor high and vibrant in his tone. It overtakes him. "My Senju blood, hm?" His hands flex along your arms, sliding lower, slipping toward your waist with more surety than he's touched even his own wife with. He's delirious with it suddenly – this potent hunger, this violent fury. As he watches you glower up at him, he thinks that perhaps he isn't the only one. He thinks this because you don't voice your protest when his hand settles at your midsection, his fingers gripping at your waist like a threat. "Then what is it, Lady Uchiha, that grants you your own…unsanctified cravings?"

You push at his chest, your outrage splashing along your cheeks. "If you think that I would crave an unprincipled miscreant like yourself, then you are truly twice the fool I thought you were."

"I assure you, I am not stupid." Tobirama's fingers curl into the fabric of your yukata, holding you flush against him. "And though I may not possess the demon eyes of your clansmen, I am far from blind. I've seen the way you look at me. I've felt the way you covet me. Deny it if you please, Lady Uchiha, but the truth is known."

You bare your teeth, your wrathful hiss breaking against the heavy air between you like a deadly promise. "I have never —"

"Never what? Never entertained the idea?" His hands are trembling fiercely at your sides, his lungs struggling under the weight of his own aphrodisia. "Never touched yourself to the thought of me? A married man. The same one who slaughtered poor Izuna."

"You truly are a bastard," your eyes narrow dangerously.

(The snarl that leaves him has your mouth parting, your throat flexing beneath a soft whine, one so sweet he fears he will fall down dead if he never hears it again. He wants to catch the hitch of your breath between his teeth and drag his tongue long and slow against your untouched throat until you're whining low and breathless at his ear.)

He wants it so violently he's shaking with it.

(It's such a pretty little picture. The Senju Lord. The Uchiha Lady. Surely this was his brother's intention when founding Konoha was it not?)

"You needn't be ashamed," he breathes just above your mouth, walking you back until your legs hit the cot, "it is only natural for a whore like yourself to be plagued with such…sordid thoughts."

You stare him down with a heat so intense that it has him hardening instantly.

"That is why your brother frets, isn't it?" he whispers lowly, like a threat, like a promise he's spent too long trying not to break. "Any dutiful brother would, what with a sister who lusts like a bitch in heat."

(And here's the truth of it all:

You never say no.

You never still his hands — though you so easily could. You never do anything but mold into his embrace — even when you're glaring at him so malevolently. Even when you're holding the cut of your words behind a practiced tongue.)

You lick your lips, ignoring the avidity with which he watches your mouth. "Lord Senju." There's still anger lining your tone, still, bite behind your words. But there's something else there too, isn't there?

"Your brother has declared me a beast," he slips a hand boldly up your side. His thumb brushing the edge of your breast so barely it could be called a mistake. His fingers sweep languidly along your collarbone – a thrum of possessiveness to the motion. "So perhaps I shall fuck you like one, hm?"

You gasp against him, your body rocking into his zealously even as your nails dig crescents into his arms with your indignation. He holds his hips to yours, his desire apparent. You don't quite collar the moan that leaves you when you bite down on your lower lip. A beast he may be, but you're the one gripping him to you. You're the one not letting go.

It sets his skin ablaze, his body racked with instant heat, a coil of desire anchoring low and sharp in his gut. "Lady Uchiha," he says on a dangerous exhale, the hand along your chest dragging up your throat to grip your jaw in his haze. His hold is firm and unrelenting, his fingers digging into your skin. He brushes a thumb along your parted lips, eyes trained to the motion. He pants raggedly above your mouth. "You never quite told me what your brother has accused me of – what vile thoughts I must entertain." Another swipe of his thumb.

You drag a heated breath through your lungs, chin tilting high.

(And it really is an easy guilt to bear, he thinks – this desire, this shameful hunger. Easier now that he can see the same sinful need in your eyes.)

Tobirama licks his lips, his thumb pressing harder at your bottom lip, the edge of your teeth grazing his skin and your tongue — your tongue, right there —

"Or will you tell me that a lady of your stature cannot repeat such utter filth?" Tobirama groans, dipping his thumb just past your lips, feeling the wet heat of your breath splashing across his skin. "That this prim and proper little mouth of yours could never speak such blatant obscenities, hm?"

Something darkens in your eyes. A sharp clarity – a single flare in the shadows of the medical ward, and — instantly — Tobirama knows there is no going back now.

Slow and sure, with your eyes never leaving him, you press your tongue to the pad of his thumb at your mouth, your lips parting in invitation. You never blink. The groan that leaves him echos through the empty room, his hips bucking into yours unconsciously as he dips his thumb into the heat of your mouth. You take his thumb between your lips, curling your tongue around his knuckle and sucking long and slow, drawing back until you release him with a dull pop.

He's staring at your spit-shined lips, transfixed, panting, drunk on his own arousal.

"He told me that beasts such as yourself take what they want."

It's all the confirmation he needs.

The hand along your hip moves to the obi of your yukata, tugging impatiently.

Your hands slink deep into his hair as you move your mouth to his cheek, your breath hot and wet at the shell of his ear. "He told me that you'd part my legs without hesitation – that you'd take your fill again and again and again."

Tobirama snatches the loosened material of your yukata from your shoulder. Tearing holes in the diaphanous silk in his hurry to press his mouth to your bared shoulder with a feral bite. You throw your head back, a keening cry breaking from your lips.

"What else?"

"He told me you'd fuck me without restraint."

In a single, furious swipe, he drags the torn fabric from you, leaving you in your hadajuban. You step from the fabric easily, and then your hands are pulling at his breastplate shirt, helping him loosen it, dragging it over his head, and then doing the same with his tunic. His hands still halfway through, unlacing his breeches, his cock straining against the fabric. You grab him by the face, leveling your gaze to his, your flushed chest rising and falling so quickly he's lightheaded at the motion.

"He told me that you'd ruin me for any other man — mark me in ways too vile for me to even fathom."

It overtakes him – this insanity, this desperation so stark and vibrant it lights his tongue with delirium when he kisses you, hard and needy and wrong. So wrong, it's got him crashing into you. His large hands dug into your hair, teeth-gnashing against yours, tongue hot and wet in your mouth as he falls into you. He collapses you to the cot, a fumbling mess of limbs and gasps and yes, please god, yes.

He's already rucking up your hadajuban. Already palming at your thighs, shoving his hips so roughly between yours that the cot creaks beneath the strain.

"Say my name," he pants against your bruised lips, licking at them like a starved wolf.

You arch against him, one hand dug into his hair, the other fisting in the bedding at your head. 

Tobirama snarls into your mouth, biting down on your lip, rutting into you, his cock achingly hard against the slip of your underclothes. "Say it," he demands again. This time harsher – this time with the kind of desperation that has him bracing his forehead to yours, panting at your mouth, gripping at your hips with bruising fingers.

You dart your tongue out to taste him, licking into him, up along the roof of his mouth, and slowly back out. He wraps a hand around your throat, urging you face to the side, his teeth sinking into the skin just below your ear. You keen at the brutal swipe of his tongue along your sweat-soaked skin.

"Say it," he releases your neck with a hiss, fingers scrambling for your underclothes. He drags them down past your knees, and you raise your hips instinctively, letting him claw them off of you.

Your voice catches in your throat, arms sliding around his shoulders to keep him to you. Finally, you whisper: "Tobirama" Then, his fingers are dipping into your cunt so abruptly and unexpectedly that you arch off the bed like a strung bow, mouth parting in a silent cry.

Tobirama groans your name into your neck, fingers sliding out just enough to plunge back in, swift and brutal. Again and again, without mercy. "How wet you are." He hums, appreciatively, "is it all for me?"

"Yes," you whine, tongue flicking out against his ear. Tobirama growls into your skin, fucking you harder with his fingers. You cry out, a broken sob catching, nails digging into his shoulder blades, his scalp.

Tobirama pushes his cock into the mattress for some relief, for any kind of relief, aching and tight and breathless. "Will you — will you allow me to taste you?"

You nod dizzily, and then he's dragging his body down the length of you. His mouth setting kisses over your shoulders, your collarbone, stopping for a moment to bite softly at your nipples before trailing down your stomach. Before you can even breathe his name, before you can also process the pressure of his palms pulling your dampened thighs apart, Tobirama buries his face between your legs and swipes his tongue slowly up your soaking cunt, harsh and firm and greedy. He moans into you with abandon, desperate to be deeper, to have you rutting against his mouth like an animal.

"Fuck!" You shout, one trembling hand latching onto his head instinctively. His hips jerk at the sudden break in your composure, at the breathless grunts leaving you.

He opens his mouth over your dripping cunt, dragging his tongue up and down your slit once more, sucking at your folds, your clit, lavishing in the ambrosial nectar that seeps from between your thighs. He moans into your heat with a hunger that shakes you. Rutting into the bed in time to his licks, eating you out like a man absolutely fucking starved, your slickness coating his lips and cheeks, his chin drenched in your juices.

He tongue fucks you so roughly, so sharp and hard and ravenous that your hips are arching up off the bed. You chase the heat of his mouth, grinding down on his tongue, the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing lost beneath the gush of your slickness. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you into him, keeping your cunt flush against his mouth, his tongue licking you up with a deep-seated groan, drowning in your harsh pants. 

He's completely and utterly lost in you, so absolutely soaked from your sopping cunt, the taste of you, that pungent, slick taste of you and he can't get enough, can't fuck you deep enough with his tongue, and so he dips two fingers into your heat, groaning at the broken sob that drags from your lips, curling his fingers tight and sharp, anchoring you through the violent shudder that racks your entire body, teeth catching on your clit, pushing deeper, eating you out so loudly and obscenely he thinks he may just cum from the sounds as you fuck yourself on his mouth. You twist your fingers in his hair as your thighs tremble at his ears, and he has to look up at you, has to watch you fucking his mouth, wild and shameless and so sinfully wet he's close to drowning in you.

He has to see if you're watching as this Senju beast eats your cunt with hunger so savage he could cum into the bedsheets right there.

Tobirama catches your gaze through the sweat-damp fringe of his hair, your eyes sharp and brilliant and intent on his own, your bare chest rising and falling heavily, your lips bruised from where you've bitten them too harshly, and he watches as your head falls back against the pillow, your hips arching higher, angling off the bed, and the sheets are soaked beneath you, and yet somehow, through the haze of his own mindless moans, and the broken, breathless whines spilling from your mouth, and the slick, loud flush of his tongue along your cunt, over and over – he hears it.

A murmur at first – hesitant, low. And then louder, surer, until he recognizes the sharp edges of your voice, your begging, your fervent commands.

"Fuck me, Tobirama. Please. Oh, Gods. Oh, please." A desperate groan leaves you as you curls your fingers in his hair, grinding against his mouth shamelessly. The sheer vulgarity of the words coming from your mouth makes his cock unbearably harder. "Fuck me like the beast you are. Please."

Tobirama stops abruptly, his breathing ragged, fingers going still where they're buried in your cunt, coated in your slick, arousal. You howl at the interruption, arching impossibly sharp, clawing at his scalp, your gaze whipping down to his. "Why have you—" you pant, eyes gone wild and unfocused, cheeks flushed. "What are you —"

You blink down at him, your face going pale as you realize what you've said, and Tobirama stares at you, still impossibly hard, still ready to finish you off with the brutal swipe of his tongue against your trembling cunt, until he catches the firm press of your lips, the sharp glint in your eye as you keep your heated gaze to his, the way you pant without shame, without regret.

You won't take it back.

And suddenly — blindingly — Tobirama realizes that he doesn't want you to.

Something splinters in him, clawing its way out his throat, thrumming dangerously through his veins. He slips from you, ignoring the way you whimper in his absence. His hands fumble for the half-done laces of his breeches, dragging them down his thighs, his cock springing free, already seeping at the tip, already harder than he's ever been. "Come here," he snarls, one hand hooking around your ankle and dragging you down the rickety cot.

You yelp at the jarring motion, moving to rise but got his mouth is on your breast, smearing your slick over your flushed skin. His teeth scrape a nipple so sharply you cry out before he clamps down on you, sucking eagerly—his other hand palming at your other breast roughly. There is no forgiveness in his touch, no mercy behind his tongue. Your whines only grow louder.

"Tobirama," you pant, tugging at his hair, "please."

He moans long and low along the slope of your breast, his tongue swirling over your nipple once, twice, almost languidly, before releasing you. You have only a moment to catch your breath, reaching for him, but he only shoves your hands away, grabbing at your thighs.

His hands dig into your hips with a savage need as he tugs you, turning you to flip over, one of your calves dragged over by his calloused palm. He's urging you, guiding you, steadying you as you stumble along with your knees, your hands bracing against the sweat-drenched sheets, and it's a graceless claw of limbs as he yanks you back against his throbbing cock, your palms slipping along the bedding, the wet slap of skin jarringly loud in the room, his following groan drowning out the blood rushing in his ears.

(Distantly, he recognizes how pliant you are in his hands, how eager your moans, how you allow him to touch you with all the sinful ferocity he's denied himself these many moons.

He knows now – even if you'll never say it – he knows now he isn't the only one.)

Tobirama winds one hand around your hip, and then further, fingers fumbling for your engorged clit. You bite off a shriek as he pinches the nub, bucking into you from behind. You push back into him seamlessly, tilting your head back so that your sweat-soaked hair catches along the back of your bitten neck, spilling over your other shoulder.

"How could I ever deny a request spoken so earnestly?" he growls along your shaking spine, fingers slick along your folds.  He bends over you with a fierce single-mindedness that blacks out any other thought but heat and wetness and you. Tobirama drags a greedy palm down the length of your back, curving over your ass, kneading the flesh, fingers bruising as he bites down on your shoulder blade. "It would be my pleasure to fuck you, my lady, in fact, I believe I may be honor-bound to do so."

You cry out, arching against him, pushing your sodden cunt into his hand.

"You like that, don't you?" His cock slides against your folds, coated in your slickness, so fucking hard it's near painful. He pushes the tip into the heat of your cunt, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth. And then you release a huff of impatience, reaching between you to wrap your delicate fingers around the rest of him, hurriedly guiding him into your dripping cunt.

Tobirama releases a low, shuddering groan, buried suddenly and deeply inside you, his teeth catching along your spine. "You are so, ngh, warm, so tight." He pulls nearly completely out, a heated hiss breaking through his barred teeth, before plunging back in, slamming into you so hard you rocks with it, a soft gasp clawing its way out of your lungs. He places a hand along your back and pushes you down, one of his knees nudging yours apart until you fall near flat to the thin woolen bedsheet, braced on your elbows, his other hand trapped between your cunt and the cot. He grinds into you, even deeper than before, rubbing at your clit desperately.

You groan his name – a wet exhale breaking against the sheet by your face.

"You like a beast between your legs, don't you?" he growls above you, lowering himself until his chest is pressed flush against your back. "What would your brother say were he to walk in now and find his darling sister being so thoroughly debauched?" he gets out on a choked gasp. His hips crashing into your own, "and by the man who killed Izuna, no less."

"Fuck you," you spit, glaring over your shoulder, gaze heated and dark, "what, ngh, what of your wife? What would she say if she found you reveling in the taste of my cunt? I somehow doubt you fuck her with half as much ferver."

"You would be correct. My wife is no whore. Therefore, she needn't be fucked like one." Tobirama bites down on your shoulder, silencing you but for your moans. "You, however…"

In a pique of indignant fury, you push uselessly back with your weight on your elbows. Even as you arch into him, even as you suck your lip tightly between your teeth and moans.

Tobirama drives into you with a punishing pace, his cock slamming into your slick cunt as he rubs at your clit, his hand still caught between your body and the cot. "You need it. It is truly all you are good for. How long have you wanted this, whore? How long have you wanted me buried so deeply in that tight little cunt of yours, that pretty little Uchiha cunt – it is so full of my cock, so fucking — nggh. Only I can satiate that starving little cunt of yours, you know that, don't you? Only me. Only my Senju cock can make you feel this way." Tobirama winds a hand around your throat, fingers clawing up your jaw, searching for the wet heat of your mouth, again. His weight bears down on you fully, pressing you completely into the cot, into his fingers, the pool of your slickness drenching the sheets and his hand alike, and it's like he can taste you again, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth with his moan. Two of his fingers curl over your lip, your ragged pants hot against his flesh, and you curve your tongue around his fingers instinctively, taking them into your mouth.

He fucks you even harder then, the groan dragging from him. His teeth sink into your shoulder, as he nearly cums right then as he grunts out your name. "Yes, that's it. You would take my cock between those pretty wet lips just as eagerly, would you not?" A breathless grunt escapes him when you suck that much harder on his fingers. He drags a struggling breath through his lungs, dips his tongue to the mark of his bite at your shoulder. "Of course you would. I suppose the only real question is where you would have me cum? Would you beg me to paint those lovely breasts of yours? Your face? Or would you, perhaps, have it down your throat? So that you may swallow it all up? "

You hum around his fingers, your cunt drenching his other hand, and he can feel you tightening around his cock, his pace ruthless. "That's it, whore. Louder for me. Let the whole village hear you. Let them all know how the pious Lady Uchiha so eagerly spread her legs for me. Let them know how you let me cum inside you — like only a beast would. Come on, let them know how that pretty little Uchiha cunt aches for me and me only. How absolutely fucking soaked you are for me. Louder. I want them all to know when I cum inside of you."

You rut against his hand, your tongue sliding between his fingers with every thrust of his cock inside you.

"You're so tight, so wet – so fucking wet – allowing me fuck you this way as you suck my fingers.” The graze of your teeth along his fingers is warning and promise in equal measure, and he can't stop the rush any longer, can't stop it even if he tried. "I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum around my cock. I want to hear you scream when I spill inside you when I fuck you like the beast I am," he snarls at your ear, rubbing out an orgasm from you so hard. So violent, you actually scream around his fingers in your mouth.

You buck back against him viciously, one hand ripping the sheets from the bed with trembling knuckles. At the same time, the other reaches back for him blindly, nails digging into his hip, holding him to you. He's buried inside you so deep, his vision inks black for a terrifyingly delicious moment.

Then he's cumming with a roar. His breathing is hot and choked against your matted hair, panted out in broken grunts as he spills and spills and spills, fucking you even still, feeling the slick, hot gush of his seed seeping from your cunt as his thrusts even out, slowing with his exhaustion, until it becomes a languid, breathless rut against you.

Your moan is long and low, your voice hoarse. You squirm beneath his crushing weight, and Tobirama barely has the sense after such a furious orgasm to slide off of you. His fingers slipping from your mouth beneath a trail of saliva. He feels you jerk and shudder when his other fingers pull away from your overstimulated clit, dragging your wetness over your hip as his hand retreats.

Tobirama's chest heaves, his breathing sharp and ragged as he blinks back to clarity. He glances down at the tattered remains of your yukata. The Uchiha fan the stares back at him from the ultramarine fabric he's now defiled beyond repair. He turns his head to watch you, finds you staring steadily at him, your flushed cheek pressed against the bare cot, your sweat-soaked hair plastered to your neck and back. You're breathing ragged as well, cheeks flushed, fingers curling into the air.

Something startlingly like possession flares in his gut. He reaches for you, fists a hand in your hair as he drags your mouth to his, taking it roughly, licking into your mouth with a selfish sort of need. He breaks away panting, eyes fluttering open to watch you. He keeps his fist in your hair, his mouth close to yours.

You wind a hand up to his jaw, curving your body into his, and there's something covetous about how you splay your hand over his sweat-drenched throat.

"You should return to your wife, Lord Senju." You tell him, the promising flex of your fingers along his neck all he needs to understand.

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Yes, and you to your brother, Lady Uchiha." he agrees, pressing his mouth back to yours. He kisses you hard and slow, shifting over you, trapping you beneath his weight, one hand already hitching your thigh up around his hips.

-- entropy is also a rlly great song by daniel caesar

#anyway this probably sucks im not good at writing maledom #tobirama senju scenario #tobirama senju imagines #tobirama senju x reader

[juliandev0rak]

With You By My Side

Asra x gender neutral apprentice

On the apprentice's first night staying in the palace they find themself unable to sleep. Whether it's due to the weird vibes that seem to permeate the palace, the general unfamiliarity of the room, or the absence of a certain fluffy haired magician... the apprentice couldn't tell you.

words: 2033

warnings: none

this was originally posted on my ao3 account

You’ve always been a light sleeper. You can usually fall asleep in seconds, a life of sleep deprivation making you equally able to sleep on a bed or upright against a wall. Staying asleep however, that’s another question.

You’re used to the shop, being tucked into bed alongside Asra, who sleeps like a log and moves about as much as one. His only fault is that he is an incurable blanket stealer, he likes to cocoon himself in all of the blankets he can reach, leaving you cold in the middle of the night. Any attempts to wrestle a corner back seem futile under his solidly sleeping form and you usually can’t bring yourself to disrupt his sleep when he looks so cute when he sleeps, mouth always slightly agape.

Asra always falls asleep easily and his quiet breathing usually lulls you to sleep, knowing that he’s there next to you makes you feel secure enough to sleep. You can’t remember what it was like before Asra, where or who you might have slept next to. In the last three years since you can remember you’ve slept beside him. He’s always been there to comfort you through nightmares, to offer soothing teas when your headaches were bad, his presence has been the only constant you can remember.

When he’s off travelling you find it very difficult to sleep. You often wear one of his scarves for comfort, the smell of him giving you a sense of peace that allows you to rest. More often than not you don’t sleep when he’s gone and Asra arrives home to find you with dark circles, tending the shop like a zombie and trying to stay coherent through caffeinated teas. When this happens he always declares the shop closed for the rest of the day and settles down for a nice long nap next to you.

Here in the palace though, everything is unfamiliar and cold. Sure, the room you’d been shown to was lovely, the bed is comfortable, the linens finer than what you’re used to. You know that if you need anything you could easily call for a servant, perhaps for Portia the Countess’ handmaiden you’d met earlier that day, but it’s not the same.

You’re sure you’ll fall asleep with no problem after a long day of meeting new people, including not a few rude and unusual courtiers, and beginning a murder investigation. Arriving in the room with sleep-heavy eyes you fall into bed fully clothed, reaching only to pull your shoes off.

Sure, you fall asleep fast- but what feels like seconds later you jerk awake, sitting up stock straight in bed to listen for what had awoken you. The candles in the room are still burning but getting quite low. You don't fancy being in an unfamiliar room in the dark so you hurriedly cast a spell to replenish the candles. Feeling better as all of the shadows in the room disappear, you lay back down to attempt to sleep.

Again, a sound.

Wrenched from sleep again, you huff and decide to try to get more comfortable, removing your travelling clothes in favor of a pile of soft pajamas laid out on a chair at the end of the bed- no doubt a gift from Nadia. They even have your name stitched onto them, you marvel, and in your favorite color too… how had Nadia known? You get under the covers fully this time, tucking the soft sheets around you and plumping the pillows behind your head. At least Asra won’t steal any blankets from you tonight, you think with an endearing smile. Nighttime routine completed for the moment, you resolve to try sleep again. You really are tired.

This time it's not a sound that wakes you up, but a feeling of absence. You roll over in your sleep expecting to find someone else beside you, the empty space you reach for is enough to wake you up. All of the candles in the room are out and for a moment you panic, forgetting where you are. Pulling the bed covers over your head, you try to slow your breathing. You’re fine, you tell yourself. The candles could have gone out on their own, Portia could have come in to put them out, there’s nothing to worry about. But you know that if someone had come into the room you would've heard it.

Seconds pass, you don’t hear anything.

Stolen blankets be damned, you wish Asra was here. Thinking of him reminds you of magic, and you feel silly thinking of the fear that the dark room instills in you when you can so easily produce a light. You do just that, summoning a light into your hands and casting it out to where you know the candles should be. Feeling much better, you push the covers back and sit up immediately rubbing at your eyes which sting in the newly brightened room. You won’t get any sleep at this rate.

Part of you is seriously considering going home for the night and returning in the morning well rested and ready to face whatever surprises this investigation has for you, but you don’t want to be rude when Nadia has been so kind in welcoming you as a guest. And Asra isn’t even at home, off on another trip, so there's no guarantee you’d be able to sleep there either. Something still feels off though, the lights going out like that has you on edge. You don’t see anything wrong in the room, no presence except your own fear which still crawls its way into your throat.

Minutes pass and you wonder if you should get up to investigate, or even just to find someone awake in the palace to talk to. Being alone isn’t something you’re good at, especially at night. You’re startled by a knock at the door. It’s a light knock, just two raps against the wood, but you know who it is.

Asra.

The door opens and the room is flooded with more light from the hall, framing the figure standing there. Fluffy hair alight like a halo in the candlelight he steps into the room. There’s a grin on his face as he sees you, but it fades as he takes in your face and the fear which still sits in your features.

“What’s wrong?” He shuts the door gently behind him as he steps towards you to kneel at the side of your bed. He takes your hands in his and you’re instantly comforted by the warmth you feel emanating from him.

“How, or rather, why are you here?” You ask, wondering at his sudden appearance. “I thought you were on a trip?”

“I was, but I came back. I had a feeling you might need my help.” He smiles as you relax into his touch. “And it seems I was right. What’s got you so scared?”

“It’s the palace, something feels… wrong. I woke up just now and all of the candles in my room were out, and I’m sure nobody’s been in here.” You explain, glancing around the room as if to check to make sure there isn’t someone hiding in a corner.

“That certainly is strange…” Asra wonders, letting go of you to stand up. He walks around the small room, inspecting each of the candles as he goes. “I don’t feel anything in the room and the candles seem untouched.”

“There’s just something off about this place.” You huff. “I don’t like it here.” Asra laughs, turning back around to face you.

“Are you sure you weren’t just scared because you’re here by yourself? I know you don’t like sleeping alone.” He’s still smiling but his eyes are serious, he’s trying not to show his concern. You can’t tell whether it's concern for the situation or just for you and your discomfort at sleeping alone.

“I don’t know, but what I do know is that something else is going on here beyond just me being scared.” You mutter. You see Asra’s eyebrows raise in question, adding defensively, “I just don’t know what it is yet.”

“I believe you, but you’ll have plenty of time to look around tomorrow. I’ll help you look.” He sits on the edge of the bed next to you. After a minute he sighs and brings his eyes back to meet yours. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen Nadia.”

“You know the Countess?” You ask, surprised that he’d never mentioned her before. Then again, there isn’t much he has mentioned, Asra is nothing if not secretive.

“I knew her a long time ago, but that’s a story for another time. Come on, let's get you to sleep.” He lifts the covers off of you and you move over so that he can slide underneath next to you.

“Did you come all this way just to sleep next to me?” You smile, just a hint of teasing in your voice.

“I.. uh… couldn’t sleep either. I was worried about you.” He admits, his cheeks flushing a little at the admission. You can’t help but smile at his bashful expression as he scooches closer to you, an arm snaking out to wrap around your waist. “I know we’ll both sleep better this way, you look tired.” He’s right of course. You settle against his side unable to stop smiling at him as his flush grows brighter against his tanned skin. He walked all the way across town in the middle of the night just to sleep next to you, and for some reason that thought has your heart rate increasing erratically. You’re not sure why you feel so excited, after all you’re used to sharing a bed with him. But you can’t deny that his care for you has you swooning just a bit. You mentally chide yourself to relax as you hear Asra’s breath start to slow, his head coming to rest right next to yours.

“Asra?” You whisper, not knowing if he’s fallen asleep already.

“Yeah?” He murmurs back, eyes opening slowly to glance at you. Your faces are only inches apart and your breath catches in your throat as his eyes rove over your face. You’ve been this close to him a thousand times, slept next to him and woken up in his arms. But for some reason it’s never felt like this. The silence and the space between you feels charged and you swear that Asra leans a little closer. You tell yourself that it must be the sleep deprivation… or the weird vibes of the palace, but you feel yourself lean closer to him too. Asra’s eyes shoot down to glance at your lips and for one breathless second you think he might be about to kiss you when he sighs and pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. You know you need to say something, to break this heavy moment.

“Asra I-” You don’t really know how to voice what you’re feeling right now. “Thank you.” He laughs a little at that, forehead still pressed gently to yours.

“Let’s get some sleep.” He says in response, rolling away from you to rest on the pillow again. You can't help but audibly sigh as you lose physical contact with him but your disappointment doesn’t last long as he reaches out, hand holding yours under the covers. You feel your face grow hot and are glad that he’s closed his eyes and can’t watch the way that his simple gesture has you so worked up.

These feelings are somehow not entirely new, distantly you think you remember blushing and flirting and... wanting. You can’t put a name to it yet but you can’t help but wonder how long you’ve actually known Asra, and what you might’ve been through together. Thoughts swirl through your head begging for attention but then the hand holding yours squeezes tightly and your brain stops its tiring loop all at once. These are thoughts for another day.

“Go to sleep.” Asra murmurs sleepily. So you do, lulled by his calm breathing and comforting hand in yours. Knowing he's there is enough, you can face anything if Asra’s by your side.

#the arcana #the arcana fic #asra the arcana #asra alnazar

[rapunzel-withthegoodhair]

everythingsheclaimed asked you: Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments :)

PUT “TOP 5” ANYTHING IN MY ASK AND I WILL ANSWER OK GO

Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments...according to CJ Wingrave 

                  (listen while reading) // (google doc link for easier viewing)

I.

The air across Portland shifts firmly, as if a warm front just pushed its way in across the frigid morning cold. Not slowly, but all at once. For a moment, the friction crackles in the air. As Daimon glances up from his office desk, a flash of lightning splices through the campus. Roaring thunder soon follows and the rain that he wouldn’t know how to live without begins to splash heavily across the windows. 

Storms in the pacific northwest aren’t unusual. On average, it rains 164 days out of every year in Portland alone. But it wasn’t supposed to today. Just moments ago, the sky was clear. 

Across campus, students are already chattering about how typical it is for Oregon to flip moods on a dime. But Daimon knows the truth. The change in energy across the city is undeniable. 

After seven whole months...CJ is back. 

~~~

The circle of candles in her room flickers to life just as her body appears within it. Rings of salt and iron guard the flames, ensuring nothing crosses over with the young witch. Blonde hair covers her face and for a few long moments, CJ just lays on the hardwood. Every muscle feels like rusted metal. As if her body was burned to ashes and then baked back together all over again. 

It’s never The Fade itself that fucks with her. It’s the process of travelling between dimensions. The process of ripping open the dense fabric of space-time and shoving herself through. It’s gotten a bit easier over the years. But her body is still made of simpler things than magic. Flesh and blood and bone is never meant for a thousand rebirths in one life. 

Everything inside of her wants to get up and stagger towards her phone right this very moment. But there’s simply no way. She needs rest. 

Eleven hours later, she wakes with a start. The candles have burned themselves out. And her mind is narrowed to one thought: Daimon. 

Her legs wobble like jelly beneath her as she leans heavily against her queen-sized bed. All she wants is a shower and some food and him. 

He answers on the first ring (he always does, for her). Sitting in his home office grading papers, he’d been fighting to focus on anything that wasn’t her return home. 

“How long was I gone?” She can never tell. CJ can’t stand to be away from Daimon for longer than a week. But traveling through the fabric of space-time warps everything. The farther she travels between dimensions, the longer she’s gone, even if it only feels like a few days for her. 

Immediately his laptop is closed. Rubbing at his tired eyes, Daimon pushes himself up. His spine screams in protest, neck stiff from staring down at a computer screen all day. Wincing, he pushes stubbornly through the pain. 

“Seven months.” The words are heavy. With relief. With exhaustion. He’d wait the rest of his life to see her again if he had to. But damn if the waiting doesn’t take its toll. After all, abandonment was all he really knew before her. “Can I come see you?” 

The rain that began earlier begins to pound harder outside. Tugging his coat on, he grabs his keys without even looking for an umbrella. Nothing can keep him out of her gravitational pull. Even if she says no he’d be content to sleep in his car in the looming shadow of her apartment building. To feel what tiny seeds of her energy he can soak up now that she’s back in his atmosphere. 

“Yeah…” Gripping the doorframe to her bathroom, CJ barely makes it to the bathtub without injury. Their connection is so intense, she swears she can feel him all over her already. Strong chest pressed to the skin of her back. His delicate fingers tracing her throat. His cold nose along the back of her ear, drinking in the milk and honey scent that lingers strong after a trip to The Fade. “Yeah, I need you.” 

For the first time in seven months, a smile pulls at his stoney features and light flickers back into his stormy blue eyes. 

II.

She appears without warning.

One moment, the classroom desk in the far corner of the back row is empty. Next, CJ is soaking in the beam of sunlight falling through the windows. Sunlight is hard to come by in Portland. But CJ likes to play with the weather to fit her mood. Apparently, she’s feeling bright today. Playful.

Eyes falling on her for just a moment, Daimon doesn’t allow his lecture to skip a beat. Though a tiny smirk tugs at his mouth.

“The Greeks believed that goodness and beauty were interwoven. They were inextricable. And hey, maybe they were right. Isn’t beauty just chaos given order? Isn’t order what allows us to survive?”

“Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves to justify hitting on the same girl every one else is eyeing at the bar.”

The class turns to glance at her. No one has the spine to ask where the hell she came from or what her name is. But they’re all thinking it. Particularly the boys.

Arching an eyebrow, Daimon’s posture straightens slightly. He pushes away from his desk, eyes locked on her own as he responds carefully. Few students have ever dared to interrupt him during lectures. If she were anyone else, they’d be sorry for trying. But CJ’s mischievous side is his greatest weakness.

“It’s interesting...we’re always so arrogant to assume beauty is about us. Isn’t...a neatly pruned orchard beautiful? A well built house?” Glancing casually across the sea of students, he shrugs. “Do we not crave order? Is this not what keeps us alive?”

“Keeps us alive for what? If not to enjoy the chaos of passion. If beauty is the key to passion, how does the argument stand? How can beauty be both order and bring chaos at the same time?” A smirk twitches over her pretty mouth, eyes dancing with his as their mental waltz dizzies the rest of the class.

For a moment, Daimon allows her words to hang in the air. He mulls them over, then ultimately shrugs.

“Clearly Miss Wingrave isn’t Greek.” A low rumble of laughter disperses the tension in the room and the two of them exchange amused smiles.

After class, she waits patiently for the other girls to finish coming up with excuses to talk to him. Stupid questions and cliché compliments, their bouncy curls twisted around manicured fingers as they giggle while he isn’t even trying to be funny. But his eyes have trouble staying away from the long legs CJ has crossed at the knees while perched on a desk in the front row. He can feel her eyes dragging over his skin, as hungry as her teeth when they’re in bed.

With a flick of her wrist, the door locks behind the last girl to leave.

He closes the space between them with purposeful steps, slowly tugging her thighs apart so as to stand between them. Cold hands hooking under her knees, he pulls her closer. Nuzzles over her forehead, into the warmth of her hair.

“You’re a  brat.” His words are a breathy laugh against her skin as a gentle kiss is dropped to hairline. Feeling her this close is to him, the same sort of relief a morphine addict feels as they finally get a needle to the arm. “And you’re so full of shit. I know you don’t believe a word you said.”

“Of course, I do.” Smirking softly, her fingers brush through his short hair, then down his shoulder. “I’m my own best evidence that beautiful doesn’t always mean good.”

“You’re plenty good.” He shakes his head in disbelief, amusement twitching at his lips. Slowly his fingers tug her ponytail undone so he can have the luxury of feeling her long, silky hair fill the spaces between his fingers.

“Only to you.” She has to admit, she’s softer with him. Softer than she even knew she could be. Anyone who only saw the side of her that Daimon brings out would never guess what she gets up to in The Fade. Or how rebelliously outspoken and impatiently abrupt she can be here.  

“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs through a soft mumble over her skin, nuzzling into her neck, searching out the pocket of warmth there. “You can be a little bit of a monster. Like when you apparate into my classroom mid-lecture just to interrupt me.”

His words pull a laugh out of the girl as she drags a hand up and down along his spine. “I just like to watch you teach. It’s what I miss the most when I’m gone.”

Carefully, Daimon untangles himself to pull back. His brows knit together in a disbelieving (and slightly offended) look. He works hard to keep her satisfied in bed. Very hard.

CJ’s head tips back as she gives up a theatrical sigh. “Okay, the second most.”

“Better.” Playfully nipping at her lower lip, he gently curls his fingers into her hair and tugs just firmly enough to fit their mouths together in a deep kiss.

III.

It’s late when he knocks at her door. But CJ feels him the moment he enters her apartment building. His energy is low, dialed down with exhaustion after a night spent fighting and ultimately descending a particularly nasty demon. But the connection between them is like a tethered cord. The slightest tug always ripples through her body.

Reaching up on her toes, she pulls him into a warm hug. His body is colder than usual in her arms as it fights to heal from expending so much energy. She loves Louise, but this bullshit is going to get him killed. Why the woman insists her replacement be a powerless human so completely out of touch with their world of witchcraft and demonology, CJ will never understand. She’d be lying if she said being passed over for the position hadn’t stung. Though in fairness to the older woman, she’d never given Louise much reason to hope that Daimon could always rely on her presence in this realm. A month or two at home and CJ is always back to flitting between worlds.  

Pushing the troubling reminder of Gabriella away, her thoughts narrow to the simple task of making him tea. She turns to head into the kitchen and Daimon trails after her quietly, like a stray puppy in want of a home.

She cups his cheek as they stand by the stove, dragging in a slow deep breath while waiting for the kettle to warm. There are fresh lines on his face, a map of  all the stress he keeps balanced on his shoulders. Guilt tries to knock at her heart. If you wouldn’t leave him to bear the earth alone like Atlas, maybe it wouldn’t weigh so much. But she knows it’s bullshit.

She loves him. But she can’t cure Victoria or bring Ana home or turn back time on what his father did to him. Worse than any of these, she’ll never convince Louise to send Gabriella back to The Vatican. Tracing the pad of her thumb over the dark circles beneath his left eye, her features soften.

“You need sleep, baby.”

A wrinkle finds his nose. He can’t stomach the thought of wasting time sleeping while she’s home. When she may leave again tomorrow and take ten months to return. Or ten years. Or ten centuries.

“I’ll sleep when you’re gone.” His voice is soft and stubborn, but so vulnerable. The cold tip of his nose nudges into her shoulder as he curls against her. CJ’s slender arms wrap around his larger body and she tries so hard to push away the guilt his words dredge up. She tries to just hold him and love him and be here and let that be enough.

IV.

She’s the only one who ever gets his coffee order right. Double brewed, black with cinnamon stirred in. 

When he comes back to his office after class and finds the cup of Starbucks waiting on his desk next to a wax paper bag of fresh apple fritters, he knows she’s gone again. 

Leaving gifts behind like Santa is the only way she knows to stomach a goodbye. She’s never looked him in his eyes and said it. He almost wishes she would, even though he knows it would rip his heart out to hear the words aloud. At least he’d be able to see her eyes and know without a doubt that leaving hurts her too. 

V.

The water around them swirls with CBD oil, hot enough to steam up the windows of her bathroom. Her clawfoot tub easily fits both of them and a smile pulls at his mouth as he rests back against her. No one else ever lets him be the little spoon and it never fails to take the weight off of his shoulders in seconds. 

Slowly, CJ scoops up handfuls of warm water, pouring each one down over his shoulders and chest. She rubs the back of his neck carefully, thumb massaging at the tight muscles there. The candles lighting up the room flicker lightly as she pulses healing magic through his skin and down into his bones. He’s not even injured right now, and even if he were, his demon blood allows him to heal faster than her magic could ever knit muscle tissue. 

But he hasn’t been able to reach Victoria in over a month and he’s broken from the effort. She can feel it hanging heavy in his skin, making each breath feel like he’s trying to kick to the surface with rocks tied to his ankles.  

He’s tired of being alone. He’s tired of shouldering Victoria’s demons alone. He’s tired of fighting demons alone. He’s tired of dealing with family trauma that isn’t his cross to bear alone (since Gabriella seems to think it’s morally abject of him to turn those he’s helped over to her for counseling). And he’s tired of waking up in an empty bed, alone. 

Brushing a hand along her thigh, he tries to find the words. To beg her to stay. To convince her that he needs her more than any Fae or Spirit or Goddess. 

Carefully, he drags in a breath, summoning his courage. 

“I’m going to stay.” Her words are soft but clear. “I want to stay here, with you. If you’ll have me. If you promise you won't grow sick of me.” 

Her arm wraps across his shoulders and she holds him close. 

“Careful...” Slowly, a tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “ I may not let you go again. Ever.” 

He’s trying so hard not to have real hope. He trusts CJ with every fiber of his being. To catch him when he falls. To fight on his side. To hold her ground when hell comes knocking. But the part of him that’s been left behind too many times is never sure if this is the last time she’ll come home. Still, he wants to believe it so badly it aches in his bones. 

“Good…” She smiles into his neck, pressing a soft kiss there, words down to a whisper. “I won’t let you go again either.”

#daimon helstrom #daimon helstrom fic #helstrom #c: cj wingrave #my writing. #my graphics.

[faejilly]

ashes of roses 3/3

because Trials! And Alec being Steadfast and Weirdly Adorable! Because I still Love Magnus! (Because I’m clearly a little punchy here, whoops, sorry.) Because sometimes the consequences of our actions are surprisingly good.

@shadowhunterbingo​ square: Cursed Item (Because Cat & Magnus are not fond of the Soul Sword, even if it is deactivated from its murder!powers.)

Unlike the last mundane trial Magnus had seen, the witnesses at this one were not kept separated from each other or the proceedings, but were all lined up to sit behind the advocate. (He made sure he and Catarina were next to each other, Alec on his other side.) The defendants were in their own balcony with two guards watching over them.

Magnus resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at them, even if it would have helped his nerves.

Patrick Penhallow, as Acting-Inquisitor, was seated in the middle of the large table up against the back wall, five nephilim Magnus didn't recognize sitting on his right, and the five other races’ representatives on his left. Magnus wasn't close to any of them, for obvious reasons, but he could figure out who they all were from meeting them in passing, or hearing other people talk about them; the Shadow World was a surprisingly small and insular society, considering it was world-wide. They were, based on what little he knew of them, all decent choices. Reasonable and pragmatic enough to try and do the job asked of them without losing their tempers or dismissing everything as a nephilim only problem.

The Soul Sword was front and center, hilt-up in its stand, in the same sort of pride of place as Magnus saw at Isabelle's sham of a trial back in New York; he hoped this one would be more authentic.

Not that it would take much.

There was a Silent Brother and a woman in white whom Magnus assumed was an Iron Sister at a small table of their own, clearly there for the Sword more than any of the people.

Magnus wondered if they'd make him and Catarina swear on the damn thing again. It wasn't something he was looking forward to. Not that he'd liked it the first time, but it seemed even worse now, after what Valentine had done with it in New York.

Catarina frowned at it, presumably thinking the same thing.

"Are we going to have to touch the cursed thing?" she muttered at him, quietly enough he was surprised when Alec leaned over to answer her.

"It's voluntary for the witnesses, it's only the defendants who have to testify by the Sword."

"Oh." She blinked past Magnus to look at Alec. "Good."

Alec offered her a crooked smile, and Magnus felt a twist in his gut.

"You're going to submit to the Sword, aren't you," Magnus said.

Alec shrugged. "Of course."

Magnus swallowed a frown. From what he'd heard, that was not a pleasant process.

He understood though, considering what Alec was starting with this trial, with the appointment that was going to be announced afterwards, (assuming he won, of course, but Magnus was trying very hard not to think about all the ways this could go wrong).

"I hate this," Magnus slouched further down into his seat.

Alec settled his hand on Magnus' thigh, offering a comforting squeeze. "It's almost over."

But it wasn't, it was just the beginning. The beginning of something better, Magnus had every faith in Alec's ability to make the nephilim change if they gave him even an inch of power to hold on to, but still...

They were never going to have their old lives back.

Magnus was not fond of change, it was too close to surprises.

But he was fond of Alexander, was looking forward to standing up to the Consul himself, so...

Magnus sighed, and put his hand on top of Alec's. They'd make it through this, and through whatever happened next. He was sure of it.

The advocate called Catarina forward first. He was remarkably polite to her, even when she refrained from touching the Sword, which helped Magnus settle. He asked her about Alec's condition, and recovery, and seemed inclined to accept her expertise.

Magnus would have hated to have caused a scene, but he wouldn’t have let them bully his best friend, either.

Next was the medic at the Gard who'd done the confirmation tests on Alec's blood. He made some point about the concentration of the residue which meant less than nothing to Magnus, but seemed to impress half the nephilim side of the table, so he supposed that was good.

Next were Jace and Isabelle, and the pair of Shadowhunters who'd searched the addresses in LA, then the pair from the Inquisitor's office who'd done the same here in Alicante.

It was remarkably boring, all things considered, but it was nicely thorough, which Magnus appreciated.

Finally they called Magnus, and he walked up front. They repeated the same routine they'd done with everyone else, confirming who he was, that he was a voluntary witness, that he would swear to tell the truth.

He had three choices for that. He could simply swear, out loud, and they would presumably pretend to take his word for it. He could do what he'd done at Isabelle's trial, and swear by the Sword where it was in its stand, and it would flare if he lied, but it wouldn't compel the truth out of him.

The third option was to hold the Sword, to bear the weight of it, but he wasn't entirely sure what that would do to him, Downworlder and son of a Fallen Angel, so he went with option two again.

He sat, and he answered all their questions. (Their advocate was good at his job, still, even after all the questioning, straightforward and polite.) There was an odd whisper of surprise when he started and told them that Alec had been the one to tell him that he'd been poisoned with pixie dust, but no one interrupted him, or tried to counter anything else in his account.

(Well, they didn't like the body swapping portion of the story, either, but when he said it was based on a spell he'd been subjected to by a Greater Demon and he had worked backwards to figure out how to counter it, they didn't ask if he'd told anyone else how to do it, for which he was grateful. No one needed to know that he'd taught Cat.)

He returned to his seat when they were done with him, and leaned his head against Alec's shoulder for the few moments they had before it was Alec's turn.

Alec walked up, and before anyone could ask him anything, he pulled the Soul Sword free. He planted his feet, holding it sideways before him, balanced easily between both hands. He lifted his chin, looking at the advocate, and waited.

The advocate blinked at him, clearly startled.

No one else had picked up the sword; most everyone had sworn by it, as Magnus had, (neither Catarina nor the medic had), but this... this was apparently unusual.

Magnus smiled a little. Trust Alexander to make a statement even when he didn't say a thing.

The advocate cleared his throat, and pulled on his jacket, but before he could begin, one of the nephilim at the table interrupted.

"May I ask a question?"

The advocate frowned, but gestured his acquiescence.

"Mr. Lightwood-Bane, your husband stated that you were the one who identified the poison, is that correct?"

"Yes," Alec answered. "Both in that he said so, and that that's what happened."

"How did you know?"

Alec lifted his eyebrows. "I recognized the taste."

"How?" The nephilim questioning him leaned forward, a frown growing heavier on her face. "You were drinking alcohol, correct? Pixie dust is notoriously easy to disguise in alcohol."

"I'd tasted it before." Alec's voice was steady, as if that was a perfectly normal thing for a Shadowhunter to admit, familiarity with a very potent, potentially fatal, aphrodisiac.

Magnus' throat burned, wondering how, and why, and what was wrong with him that it had never occurred to him to ask... Murmurs broke out throughout the room, and Magnus was relatively sure he heard a vindicated sort of "ha" from Freeman over on her balcony.

"If I may?" Alec continued, calmly, voice strong and firm enough to carry over the noise. "I would like to continue."

The nephilim who'd been questioning him scoffed. "As if we want to hear about your previous exploits."

"Ma'am." Alec looked at her, still calm, now clearly disappointed. "You asked the question, it's rude to refuse to listen to the entirety of the answer."

There was a snort of poorly muffled laughter from somewhere behind Magnus, and he wondered if the woman was the sort who was known for her adherence to an inflexible version of nephilim etiquette.

Judging from the sour look on her face, she was, and Magnus let himself breathe again. Alec wasn't upset or flustered. He'd clearly been prepared for this question, even if Magnus hadn't been.

"Hodge Starkweather included exposure to many known toxins in our training."

Magnus turned to look at Isabelle and Jace, eyes wide and horrified, and yet they both just shrugged at him, as if it hadn't occurred to either of them until now that that wasn't normal.

Even the sour-faced Nephilim who'd started it all looked unsettled. "Your trainer dosed you with pixie dust?"

Alec shrugged. "He did it in as secure a manner as could be managed. It was carefully measured and diluted, and he gave us an emetic afterwards, followed by a dose of charcoal to absorb anything we failed to expel. He always had the necessary antidotes on hand, when they existed, and made sure we stayed in the infirmary overnight as well, to be monitored for any side-effects."

When they existed. Magnus' fingers curled into a fist. Hodge had dosed them with things that didn't have antidotes. What good would it do them to know that? To risk that, for what? For training?

Only he knew exactly what good it would do, to make sure that even if they lost, they'd take everyone else down with them.

The old woman's mouth opened, but she didn't appear to know what to say for a moment. "But." She swallowed. "Why?"

"Are you asking me to speculate, ma'am?"

The woman recovered enough to glare at him, and then the Sword. She sighed. "Yes, please speculate."

"I believe Hodge was aware of exactly what lengths the Circle was capable of going to, the things they would do that most people won't, or like to pretend they won't do, and wanted us to be prepared." He paused, and the entire room was silent. Alec shifted his gaze toward the balcony, looking directly at Revka Freeman. "Was he wrong?"

"Fucking Starkweather," they all heard Freeman mutter.

"If it helps," Alec offered, voice bland and expression still, "Valentine already killed him for you."

Freeman flinched, and Alec turned the weight of his attention back to his questioner. "Was there anything else, ma'am?"

She shook her head.

"Actually." The medic stood up from where he'd been sitting on Catarina's other side. "Do you know what the numbers I found during my exam meant?"

The advocate threw his hands up in the air and sat down with a thud.

Patrick Penhallow's lips twitched, as if amused, but no one seemed inclined to stop the medic from messing with their procedure.

Or perhaps everyone wanted to hear the answer.

"Yes," said Alec.

The medic waited, but Alec didn't say anything else.

"Care to explain it?"

Alec shrugged.

The medic glared at the Sword.

"Mr. Lightwood-Bane," the advocate spoke up. "Please."

"I believe that means I had a much higher dose than is required for efficacy."

There was another awkward silence, comprehensive enough that Magnus was reasonably sure that everyone heard the small pained noise that escaped him, the rattle of Jace's chair as he winced.

The medic rubbed his forehead. "It means I don't understand why you're not dead."

Alec's expression softened, and he glanced at Magnus, at Catarina, at his siblings. "I had very impressive assistance."

The medic made a distressed sort of whine. "But how'd you last long enough for them to help you?"

Alec raised his eyebrows. "I'm not the medic, nor an expert on poisons."

"Speculate?"

Alec tilted his head, and met Magnus’ eyes. "Because Magnus told me to."

The medic sat down with a huff, but the sword didn't light up, and Magnus knew Alec meant it, believed it, every word.

Oh, Alexander. Magnus blew him a kiss, and Alec smiled back at him.

After that, they finally got back on track, and Alec gave his testimony, strong and steady, and never once did the sword have to fight to make him speak.

Magnus could tell, could feel it in the room as Alec finished. They'd won, the rest of the trial was just a formality. They were getting everything they'd hoped for, everything they hadn't thought to hope for, before Jia's offer, and Injala's.

Their world was changing for the better.

Alec was going to be the best damn Inquisitor these bastards had ever seen, and Magnus was going to be at his side every step of the way.

#hmdiscord #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #my sh fic #jilly writes #malec #ashes of roses #weird fantasy politics #whee! #ok I think I'm done now

[timeisacephalopod]

Drunk Buys

Random WinterIron crack AU for reasons lol.

Tony walks into the living room with a large box in his hands and perches in Bucky’s lap. “Babe, we need to have a talk about you drunk buying things because I have no fucking clue why the hell you bought what is in this box,” he says.

Natasha’s head whips up, “what’s in the booooox?” she asks in a surprising imitation of Brad Pitt and Tony resents the fact that she and Bucky made him watch that fucking movie.

“A replica of Gwyneth Paltro’s head,” he says without missing a beat.

Bucky looks surprised and leans over the box’s edge, “really?” he asks, curiosity written on his features.

“No Bucky, why the fuck would you buy something like that?” Though he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. For some reason he bought one thousand communion crackers and he’s Jewish, not Catholic. They still have a good three hundred of them left because they’re fucking tired of eating Jesus. Or at least he thinks that’s how that works, but either way they taste like cardboard and none of them want any more of them.

“He bought a pink kitty fur suit once, why are we shocked?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

“We agreed never to speak of that of the fifteen hundred dildos again,” Bucky says, looking haunted. Like he has the right, all those dildos showing up to Tony’s house brought actual media attention and Natasha made a bunch of memes about it that got really popular. But then that shouldn’t surprise him either considering she’s gotten so good at making memes she got them banned in Russia.

“Did he order some dumb shit online again? Ban him from booze,” Sam says, walking into the living room and shaking his head. 

“But then who would bring us these wonderful gifts?” Bucky asks, wide eyed.

Tony sighs, “honey, do you even remember what you bought?” he asks. Bucky stares at the box for a long few moments.

“I don’t remember getting drunk to be honest,” he says eventually. “But I have a bad memory. I know I know your middle name but I can’t remember that either.” Yeah, Tony thinks that’s for the best now that Edward is attached to sparkly vampires that abuse so he leaves it.

“You should maybe not drink. I mean you once sent your ex a 3D printed model of your ass with a sticky note attached that said ‘suck on this’. That barely even makes sense,” he points out.

Sam laughs, “ah, the rare time he mails things instead of having things mailed to him. Remember when he set up that automatic mailing system to send his fifth grade teacher a copy of his degree every day for the rest of her life because she told him he’d never make it anywhere in life? I remember that because that’s the moment he proved her right,” Sam says, pleased with his insult.

Bucky flips him off but Sam pays no attention to that. “Remember when you bought Sam twelve falcons? Or spent a thousand dollars on a bunch of ant farms for Scott? I still don’t know who that is,” Tony says. “But that time you bought ten parrots and sent them to Hammer with a note that read ‘they’re trained to mock’ is probably one of the funniest I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing,” he says.

“Scott’s the guy that’s got a kid,” Nat says like that helps him any.

“I thought that was May. I am I missing something? I thought the kid’s dad was dead?” Or was it his uncle? Well shit, he can’t just ask Peter which family members of his bit the fucking dust, that’s rude.

“No, Scott has his own kid. Cassie,” Bucky says.

Tony frowns. “Well I know which kid you’re talking about now, but I thought she was Clint’s... The fuck is that new one of his named then?” 

“Nathaniel because the little fucker came out a boy and ruined naming it after me,” Natasha says, obviously bitter about this. Tony thinks the baby has won there though.

He shakes his head. “Whatever, I’ll figure Scott out later. Point is you have a problem and we can’t continue to eat Jesus every time you get sad drunk. We’ve probably eaten like five Jesus’ by now.”

Natasha starts laughing and Sam sighs. “You know when those moments happen and you think ‘if someone heard this out of context they’d think we’re nuts’. Well that’s most of the interactions I have with you people. I’d say its white people but T’Challa and Rhodey do it too. Like come on man, black people aren’t furries,” he says, shaking his head. Tony laughs because he’s ninety percent sure T’Challa has no idea what a furry even is let alone how that relates to being Black Panther but Sam’s inability to get past it is hilarious.

“I think its kind of a fun quirky trait,” Bucky says, grinning a little.

Tony sighs, “honey. Consider this box and your lack of knowledge on what’s in this box. You should probably ban yourself from the computer when drunk.”

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky says in his own defense, giving Tony that sad, puppy dog look that really does make him want to scoop Bucky up and kiss him better. Not that he does because that’s enabling.

“Bucky bee, Buzzfeed has written listicles of weird shit you’ve boughten when drunk. You have a problem with drunk online shopping. Remember the five life sized Daleks you bought because you thought they were cute and you’ve never even heard of the show Doctor Who?” Because he does. Two of them are in his bedroom and he’d rather they leave because they give him nightmares with the creepy shadows they cast.

“Hold up,” Sam says, holding his hand in the air. “Did you just call him ‘Bucky bee’?”

Tony frowns, “yeah?” he asks, unsure why this is unusual when he gives everyone weird nicknames. He called Sam ‘birdman’ for over a year until Clint got annoyed because before Sam he was the only one who was referenced by birds and then he called to Sam’s nicknames too. So now Sam is the annoying little brother and Clint is the boring father. Neither like their reassessments but they both admit that it’s better than Rhodey’s platypus.

“Get the hell out of this house,” Sam says and Tony squints.

“This is my house,” he points out.

“Its my house now if you’re going to call people gay ass shit like that,” Sam says.

He frowns, “that’s homophobic.”

“Doesn’t count when you’re bisexual, die mad about it and out of my newly acquired home thanks to you saying dumb shit.”

“That’s what he’s going to lose his house over? Not that he thought minimum wage was the same as a living wage?” Nat asks.

“Okay in my defense that makes sense! What the hell is the wage minimuming if its not going into poverty? Now its just ‘weird arbitrary number some rando politician shit out’. Its not my fault I’m logical,” Tony says in his own defense.

“Why is there a taxidermy bat in here?” Bucky asks, pulling the bat out of the box on Tony’s lap. “Oh what the fuck, there’s a rat and an alligator too. And what the hell is that?” he asks. Tony looks in the box and sighs.

“Goat skull. This is why I think you have a problem. You think taxidermy is the work of the devil and yet here it is, sitting in my lap.” Bucky pulls out some more tissue paper and frowns for a moment, leaning into the box and letting out a loud shriek before he shoves Tony and the box off his lap.

Tony lets out an undignified squawk and falls to the ground, watching as Bucky’s weird drunk trinkets fall out. When he spots the spider though he jumps back into Bucky’s lap at a speed faster than anything he knew himself to be capable of. “I swear to fucking god if that thing is alive I’m leaving you!” he shrieks, ignoring how high his voice is.

Natasha goes over and scoops up the spider, “nope. Not alive,” she reports not that Tony relaxes. He’s maybe picked up some bug fear from Rhodey, who is genuinely terrified of all things insect and most things reptile. He says if it has too many legs or not enough legs it ain’t right. His threshold if four legs and that’s mostly only because he likes dogs otherwise it’d be two.

“Oh hey, I remember why I bought that stuff,” Bucky says excitedly. “Steve was pissing me off so I bought all the things he feared and planned on sticking them in his bed.”

Sam, who seems to like this idea, starts gathering Bucky’s fallen drunk buys back into the box. “What? He’s been pissing me off lately. He can deal with a bat or two in his pillow.”

“I think you’re evil,” Bucky tells him in a low tone.

“It was your idea, dipshit, you’re the evil one,” Sam points out.

“Gunna take that spider?” Tony asks and Sam snorts.

“Fuck no, those things have no right to look like that. They don’t need that many eyes or that many legs. God made a mistake with them,” he says, giving the spider a disdainful look.

Natasha frowns, “spiders are really good for ecosystems, god made a mistake with humans given how invasive and shitty we are. Spiders are good, you leave them alone,” she says, holding the creepy tarantula to her chest.

“I think god made a mistake with wasps and Sam,” Bucky says.

“Please stop drunk buying things I have heart problems and I can’t handle finding more spiders in boxes,” Tony says.

Something must occur to Bucky then because he turns to Sam wide eyed, “you might want to get home before Steve does,” he says but leaves the ominous warning at that.

#crack fic #winteriron #tony x bucky #fanfiction #alternate universe #writing

[lost-opium-artblog]

Fallout:  The assassin on the roof

Here is a (very) short story about how my little ghoul met Hancock and Fahrenheit for the first time <3 Hope you’ll enjoy :D

"Really, I feel like i'm losing my mind! No matter how hard the boys and I look, it's like we're chasing a ghost! But, I swear there was definitely someone last time! I wasn't the only one who saw that fucking shadow moving along the rooftops!" Fahrenheit exclaimed as she crossed her arms.

For several days now, the mayor's bodyguard felt like she was being followed and watched by someone or something. She didn’t pay it much attention at first, but now this feeling of a mysterious presence was becoming harder and harder to dismiss as something as silly as just a nagging feeling. All members of the Neighborhood Watch were notified about it and watched for the slightest movement in the shadows, but their efforts always proved to be in vain. Most were beginning to wonder if their leader had become paranoid. The constant insistence of something they could never prove was beginning to take a toll on the woman and her credibility.

"Sounds like someone's got herself a secret admirer," offered Hancock, clearly amused at her frustration. The mayor of Goodneighbor was fully aware of this case, however, it was impossible for Fahrenheit to know if he was taking her seriously or not. She scowled at him.

"Are you kidding me?! I give to you my concerns and all you do is watch me investigate all on my own and then laugh in my face?!"

"Naaah, I'm not laughing in your face. I only sai-"

"You're not taking this seriously, Hancock! This is really freaking​ me out! Can you put down the Jet for two seconds and listen to me?!" She was trying, and failing, to hold back her anger.

"But I am listening, Fahrenheit. You said that you let all the Neighborhood Watch in on this and nobody’s found anything, right?" he replied with a shrug. "I don't know what more can be done for the moment other than waiting for whatever it is to show up and leave some kind of clue. And there..."

The mayor didn't get to finish his thought as an unexpected flash of light caught his eye. He turned his head towards the window, ignoring Fahrenheit's impatient rebuttal. There he squinted and gasped. There was no doubt about it. There was an unusual twinkle from the roof of the building facing the Old State House.

The ghoul slowly turned towards the young woman and calmly spoke, "I want you to keep calm and go sit on that chair over there. And, whatever you do, do not go anywhere near that window. I'll be right back." He stood up, his face shifted into a neutral expression, and left the room without giving any other explanation to his bodyguard.

*** The sniper grumbled when they watched their target move out of sight and not return. They didn't have time to dwell on that misfortune as their companion, a dog named Mardi-Gras, started to growl. The assassin left their sniping position, grabbed their revolver, and pointed it at the door behind them as it opened.

"Good eeeevening," greeted Hancock, his double-barrel shotgun in his hands, ready to fire, “am I interrupting anything?”

The assassin certainly hadn't planned to face the mayor in person, at least, not so soon... and certainly not as the one being ambushed. They cursed themselves internally and, with their eyes fixed onto him, they gave an order to the dog to calm down. The animal stayed back but remained on the defensive, her owner still in danger. The dog's owner was surprisingly another ghoul, shorter and also younger than Hancock obviously. They gave a warning to the man facing them.

"Don't come any closer. It would be a shame to paint your nice shirt with your insides..."

"Yeah, and I suggest you give up right now. You're talking to Hancock here. In case you didn't know, I'm the mayor of Goodneighbor, and therefore I am the protector of its inhabitants. If you try to hurt even one of them, believe me, I'll take care of you myself, personally."

“Unless I kill you first.” The assassin lifted their chin, staring him down.

"Oh, I'd love to see that!" Hancock replied sarcastically.

“I don't have much of a choice, do I?”

"That all depends on you, Friend," stated Hancock, his expression calm but calculating. “But the way I see it is that we can both make the choice to kill each other right here and make a nice meal for that skinny mutt of yours… or you can choose to end this and accept the possibility of my giving you a second chance. We all make mistakes. I'll be the first to admit that, thus I'm willing to forgive you. So if you just holster your gun already, perhaps we can discuss things peacefully. What do you say?"

Listening closely, and at a disadvantage, the younger ghoul slowly lowered their weapon with a bewildered look on their face before looking away. They hadn’t expected to be caught off guard in the first place by him, let alone shown such generosity. The assassin opened their mouth to answer but immediately closed it, frowning. Their thoughts were running a mile a minute. They had to make a decision, fast, but which one?

Noticing the double-barrel shotgun was also lowering, the intruder felt a little more at ease and turned around, facing away from the mayor. It put them in a very vulnerable position, having a shotgun still aimed at them, but they were unable to face his look of sincerity any longer. Perhaps the elder could feel that the younger wasn't inherently bad. Either way, the assassin wasn't completely disarmed, and in a worst case scenario that the dark-eyed man betrayed them, Mardi-Gras would jump on him, fangs bared. They considered his offer for a moment while gazing at the residents passing by below. They decided to come clean and get something off if their chest.

"I've been following Fahrenheit for several days... There have been three times I could have easily killed her... Ten, if I add up all the times when I would have faced collateral damage. I was promised a very large sum for this job... so why am I hesitating?"

"Don't tell me that she’d caught your eye! I was just kidding that she'd had a secret admirer all along, haha! That would be a little too cliché, wouldn't it?"

"Huh?! W-what? No!" blurted the assassin, turning towards the mayor, both surprised and flustered. "Non, non! Not my type, not at all! If I had a type at all... No, attraction has nothing to do with it..."

The assassin paused for a moment, refocusing their attention back on the city below before starting again.

"Goodneighbor seems like a nice place. Not perfect, of course, but at least being a ghoul isn't a problem. I admit it's rather appealing. Having a home, a job, the protection of an influential mayor, in addition to have the right to be who we are without being persecuted... And then there's Fahrenheit. I must confess, I wasn't expecting that..."

"What do you mean?" Hancock inquired, approaching slowly. He looked relaxed, at first glance, but the way he was carrying his gun was a good indicator that he didn’t trust the assassin enough just yet. No doubt, if he had to, he would shoot the other before they had the chance to draw.

"I had met with her once before, in order to obtain any helpful information on my target. I'm an assassin, not a two-bit assassin. Anyway, I was quite surprised by her behavior. No scream, no slur, not even looking at me rudely. She treated me as if... I were a person. Rather rare coming from a human, right? She was friendly and from what I heard, she’s that way with most ghouls in addition to being​... well... you're bodyguard. And even more surprising...She... kind of invited me live here. In Goodneighbor."

They turned back to face the mayor again and quickly looked him up and down, rather surprised by his sudden close proximity. Obviously he’d stepped forward while they weren't looking, but they overlooked it for now, as he had no reason to trust the young ghoul just yet. They couldn't really blame him for that. The intruder didn't know why, as this wasn't at all how they had planned out this day, but they felt like the only goal now was to gain Hancock's confidence. Sincerity seemed to be the best option available. They looked upwards to meet the mayor's gaze.

"I have killed a lot of people. You may find this terrible, but I rarely regretted those jobs. I'm quite proud of most of them, even so... with Fahrenheit... I know I'd feel remorse. I have nothing against her, nothing to fuel me to kill her! I don't... want to kill her,” they trailed off, suddenly at a loss for words. Hancock seemed to be waiting​ for something else, so they finally asked, "What are you going to do with me now, mayor of Goodneighbor?"

"That depends on what YOU are going to do."

"If I don't kill her, my employer will not only pay someone else to do the job, but he will also send another after me... I'll also lose the pretty bundle that he promised me, which I really need."

"Oh, is that right? I think we can work this out," replied the other, a smirk tugging at his lips, "I might have a few caps lying around."

"Are you serious? You would pay me to double-cross my employer?" The young ghoul was rather surprised by this offer. They had to, nevertheless, admit that this unexpected turn of events was welcomed. Their employer was an abject and violent human and unfortunately too influential to be touched without any blowback. However, if he planned to take down one of the only cities that welcomed their kind, the assassin was ready to annihilate him, no matter the cost. Moreso if they were going to be paid for it!

“You've seem to have it all figured out, brother...sister…uh...bro...ster?”

“Just call me Cendre.” They shook the hand that was offered to close the deal and left with their dog and their new job.

*** Several days had passed when the Neighborhood Watch was alerted by the barking and howling of a dog. When they opened the gate guarding Goodneighbor, they were astonished to find the unconscious assassin being dragged along the ground by Mardi-Gras. It was nearly impossible to know the condition they were in, since they weren't moving on their own and covered in multiple injuries, but one thing was for sure, the ghoul wouldn't last long if they didn't get help quickly!

Fahrenheit was the first to come to their rescue with a stimpack. Then, without much effort, she carried Cendre to the Old State House, followed of closely by the faithful hound. When she got to the second floor, she placed them down on one of the sofas. She treated the injured ghoul as best she could with Hancock's help, who was equally stunned, impressed and worried at the same time.

Cendre woke up slowly to find that they were comfortably resting in a semi-familiar room, surrounded by the mayor, his bodyguard and Mardi-Gras. The woman helped them to sit up on the sofa and gave them time to come to their senses. They pet their dog who greeted them with plenty of kisses.

"Holy shit! You were severely hurt! Good thing your dog was there!"

"Je... I think I killed them all but I can't be sure. I admit, I didn't have time to check each corridor. I didn't think I would get out of this alive. There might be one or two survivors, but I killed most of them, including their leader. You shouldn’t have any more trouble out of them."

"Wait... You defeated a whole group of Raiders all by yourself?" Fahrenheit inquired, clearly amazed.

"All by myself? Non, Mardi-Gras was with me" they replied, petting their dog again. "I really don't know how we managed... Everything's a blur… I wasn't expecting to make it out alive."

Hancock approached, put off by the heroic yet inconsiderate gesture of the assassin. "You know you gave us a hell of a scare when you got back here barely breathing! Do you got a death wish or something? Why did you throw yourself into the lion's den if you knew you could’ve wound up dead?"

Cendre lowered their eyes, looking at their feet, and shrugged their shoulders. It was true, they could very well have left and abandoned their mission, leaving both groups to their conflicts. Instead, they saw it through, risking their life and Mardi-Gras’ as well.

"I dunno what to say… maybe I was attracted by the shelter that Goodneighbor promised me? It was the only thing driving me... all or nothing..."

The ghoul in the tricorn started to laugh and then leaned on the back of the sofa, looking at their guest with a benevolent expression on his face. 

“The city has attracted you? Good! Because I think you're earning your place here!” Cendre looked at him. No, he didn't seemed to be kidding. The young ghoul mumbled something softly but didn't have any time to finish their thought before the mayor added, "Oh! And I might have another task that's right up your alley, but take your time to settle in, alright? It's not that urgent."

"Wait, wait, wait. A-are you... Are you offering me a job?" asked the assassin, a smile awkwardly drawing on their face.

"I'm offering you a place to stay and find a job, yes. It’s nothing permanent, but I'm sure you'll find someone that'll put your skills to good use at the Third Rail,” he sighed and scratched his head under his hat with indifference, before looking over at Cendre. He smiled and added, "but I hope you'll be willing to come around the next time I need something taken care of?"

The younger ghoul felt their cheeks warm up and their heart race at the sight of the soft smile. Flustered, they blurted out in response without thinking, "No worries, I'll make you my top priority." This gave them a chuckle from Hancock, and another heated blush.

#fanfiction #fallout 4 #hancock #cendre #oc #fallout oc #fallout #fahrenheit #mardi-gras #dog #john hancock #fallout hancock