#he unhinges his jaw like a snake and tries to swallow my whole arm
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Serving the Serpent - 4
Briar owes Lord Isen her life. She works off her debt by serving in his castle. Dealing with the rapidly changing circumstances of her life, she’s not used to anyone paying her much attention. It’s hard when Isen seems set on interacting with her.
Cis female human with selective mutism x male naga (slow burn, co-workers to lovers, power imbalances, eventual smut). 1800 words. Content warnings for this chapter: very brief descriptions of food. Divider from firefly-graphics
Previous - Masterlist
Briar pauses in front of the last door. Her whole stomach is wracked with nerves, but she doesn’t see any way around knocking. Each office had been empty. Even Isen’s quarters had been vacant. And the hum of voices beyond all but confirms it. She’s delivering to this drawing room.
Her trolley is laden with foods. Apparently two of Isen’s associates have returned to the castle for their monthly debriefing. It just means more food to deliver and more dishes to wash. Easy enough if it weren’t for the additional eyes following her and the tension in the air. She suspects that even if she wasn’t worried about the additional scrutiny, it’d still be unbearably tense.
The raised voices on the other side of the door ring in testament.
She wishes she knew the protocol. Was raised with lessons in etiquette. Does a servant interrupt such a meeting? Do they knock and bring in the food regardless? What if they were to discover her, lurking outside. Would they accuse her of eavesdropping?
Briar rubs her face and lets out a sigh. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to knock? If the food wasn’t welcome, they could just say so.
She’s steeling her nerves to knock when there’s a voice at the door, loud and angry.
“Well, I quit!”
Then the doors swing open and Briar comes face to face with Amos.
The pair flinch away from each other. The wood elf recovers first, flushed and panting. He scowls at Briar and storms off.
A silence permeates the air.
Briar’s fear is realised; four sets of eyes rest on her and she quickly scrambles to recover. She finds Isen’s gaze and winces.
‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’
He doesn’t look mad, nor surprised to see her, regarding her instead with faint bemusement. “You don't want what now?”
The smile and the stare would be unnerving if it weren’t for his tone. Even when his grin is only fractional, the corners of his mouth seem to stretch further than a human’s. Growing up she’d been told that snakes could unhinge their jaws to swallow prey. That the Serpent of Riversreach would do so to her if she didn’t go to bed on time, and that he had a maw double that of any human.
She knows now that it’s only in appearance. That the corners of his mouth are lengthened by dimples; pit organs to be precise, able to sense heat in the darkness.
It still makes for an unnerving smile.
‘Your lunch is ready, my lord,’ Briar signs, gesturing to her trolley.
‘Thank you, Briar,’ Isen gestures her forward before turning to Arol. “I don’t suppose you could convince Amos to come back?”
The lizard crosses his arms and sighs. “He’s been forwarding his grievances for weeks. I told you this would happen.”
Briar curtsies and tries to make a silent escape.
“Hey, Legs. Will you pour the wine?”
Briar turns around, incredulous. Isen is indeed looking at her, holding out his glass.
‘Legs?’
“You heard me. What, did you have something better to do?”
Cup bearing is part of her duties. Briar smooths her expression into a pleasant one. Isen knows it well enough by now – it's the wide-eyed smile that hides scathing exasperation. He grins back at her. “Thanks, gorgeous.”
Briar sets her jaw as the exasperation turns into genuine anger. Somehow the smile stays plastered on as she pours Isen his wine.
One of the recently returned nobles looks her up and down, before holding out their glass too. They’re a naga, like Isen, but their scales are a coral pink, and their hair is pulled back into a bun, with the sides of their head shaved.
“The newest member of your harem, Isen?”
Briar doesn’t have time to clam up or react poorly - Isen beats her to it.
The look he gives the pink naga could freeze a hearth. “Too much, Pryden.”
Pryden raises his brows. Glances between Isen and his new charge, before shrugging and looking away. “Whatever. Back to business then?”
Lady Vulsinger picks up the thread, tapping her quill against a book. “You’ve updated us on Lucien. What of the rest of the clutch?”
At the shift in conversation, Isen glances to Briar. Gives her a pained and apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. Go.’
Briar nods. Moves to close the door behind her, but lingers at the last moment. When Isen stares at her in silent question, Briar makes herself meet his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
She shuts the door before he can react.
-
Emillie is sick the next day, and Briar finds herself doing double her usual amount of work. After serving breakfast (Isen’s cabal still including the additional pair), she disappears before she can be asked to serve wine, off to dust and wipe the halls. She manages a quick clean of the offices too before she returns to collect the breakfast remains.
Lunch is late. Her stomach twists into knots as she pushes the serving trolley from room to room, hoping nobody will comment on her tardiness. Thankfully the only uncomfortable situations are the stares that Pryden and the other newcomer give her. Pryden eyes her like a piece of meat. The dark haired female (reptilian of some sort? There are scales peeking out from her collar) fixes her with an icy stare.
Isen is the only one who comments on her lack of punctuality.
“You’re late. Has something happened?”
Briar sets his tray down with a sigh and shakes her head. Before he can ask her to join, she turns and sets about cleaning his room.
“Where is Emillie?”
‘Sick.’
“Unwell?”
Nod.
Isen frowns. “Lockwood has you doing double the work?”
Briar gives him one of those faux smiles before turning back to his bed and making short work of stripping it.
“You could have asked for help?”
She grimaces. ‘How?’
Isen winces. “Touché. Has nobody learned Sign yet?”
She shrugs. ‘Why would they?’
“I could ask Lockwood to learn? He’s the head of staff, he should be able to communicate properly with you.”
Briar cringes. Shakes her head vehemently. The last thing she wants to do is create work for anybody else.
“It’s part of his job, Legs. It wouldn’t be an imposition.”
She sets her jaw and keeps working, trusting Isen to drop the topic if she doesn’t reply. He does thankfully, and Briar continues with her work, dropping the laundry in the hamper outside and bringing in the new bedding. She’s just finishing remaking the bed when her stomach gives an embarrassingly loud grumble.
“Have you eaten yet?”
Briar shakes her head.
“Tsk. Come here.”
She reigns in the despairing expression on her face. She doesn’t have time to stop for lunch. Still, she approaches Isen who shifts his body so that the length of his tail curves around the desk.
He gestures to it. “Sit.”
She frowns. ‘No.’
“Do it.”
Emboldened by the impropriety of his order she scowls at him. ‘I’m not sitting on your tail.’ She gestures at his tail for emphasis, in explanation.
“You don’t want to sit on my tail?”
She gives a jerk of her chin, eyes wide to enunciate her point.
“Pull up a chair then, you’re joining me for lunch. I’ll hear no more protest.”
Briar sighs, sparing a glance out the window. The sun is still high in the sky, thankfully. She’s not running late by a large margin. She does as instructed but hesitates once sitting. She doesn’t have her own lunch with her.
Isen doesn’t seem to notice, pushing his tray forward. “Eat.”
She does, suspecting Isen’s stubbornness over the matter, and while she picks at his fish pottage he puzzles over some parchment.
He spares her a glance but once, to check that she’s eating, before settling into silence while he works, reading over lose sheaths of writing.
After a few mouthfuls she’s able to relax. Her frantic sense of urgency fades and she’s more willing to take a breather. She eyes her boss speculatively; usually he’s much more talkative. Whatever he’s reading is probably important.
She glances at one of the pages. Lines of writing are inked by a fine hand.
“Can you read?”
Briar nearly drops her spoon. She stares down at her food, ashamedly, before shaking her head.
Isen doesn’t appear mad. Only mildly put out. He leans back to stretch and lets out a sigh. “I’ve a ridiculous number of reports to go over. I could use the help.”
Briar cocks her head. Glances to the wall neighbouring Amos’ office.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and Isen catches her meaning. “He used to sort them by priority, but he’s been gone a whole day and they’re already piling up. I’m going to have to appoint a new assistant if Arol can’t get him back.” For a moment Isen appears genuinely concerned. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He banishes the thought with a sigh, straightening and relaxing, before looking at Briar again. “I don’t suppose you’d help until then?”
Briar raises her brows. She’s not sure if he’s joking. ‘I can’t read, remember?’
“You can’t... read?”
She nods.
“Hmm. Well, we’ll just have to teach you then, yes?”
She’s still unable to gauge his seriousness. She sits back in her chair and lets out a breath. Isen turns back to his report.
Briar glances back to the door, where her hamper waits outside with laundry to take away. She still needs to collect everyone's lunch dishes too.
‘I have work, my lord.’
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
She hesitates by the door. He notes her pause.
“Yes?”
She doesn’t want to get her hopes up. But if his offer were serious, she’d be a fool to ignore it.
‘I can’t read. But I’d be happy to learn.’
When she closes the door after her Isen frowns. Pulls the remainder of his food towards him. “I wish she’d stop getting in the last word. Especially when I don’t know what the last word is.”
Next
#apologies for how short this one was#ive been working on the next part and it doesn't really lend itself well to a chapter end#i thought it might be better as a new chapter#Serving the Serpent#vaya writes#monster romance
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if you tried to fight trexel he would first burst into tears, like horrible gross sobbing, and you'd be like "what the fuck" but if you hesitate for even a second you will find out that the tears were meant to catch you off guard, much like the crying of the long-extinct earth animal called the "crocodile," and much like the "crocodile" if his tears surprise you at all he will immediately attempt to attack you with his teeth
GOD SHGNSMGNJMSGJNJGJKSK i come at him in a fighting stance he just starts blubbering and then when i stop in my tracks he comes at me like a little feral animal
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Harry Holland - Polaroids
A/N & WC - I do not know Harry or the other people mentioned in this fic, nor do I claim to; this is a work of fiction. 3.9k.
Warnings - Swearing, mention of food, smut: depictions of oral (m+f rec), penetrative sex, use of toys, bondage & bdsm, photos being taken in the act, mild exhibitionism and definite voyeurism (not Harry or reader) 18+.
Summary - You and Harry have an exciting intimate life to say the least, and he rather enjoys taking photos of the two of you in compromising positions. However, in his sex-addled mind, one vital fact is let slip when he allows Sam into his room unsupervised.
“BUD, WHERE ARE THOSE PHOTOS you took of my food the other day?” Sam asks.
The sizzling of pancakes overlaps the conversation, and you mussing up Harry’s hair distracts him, his attention drawn to more important matters than his brother. Harry barely swallows his giant mouthful of food before speaking.
“By my bed there’s a huge pile, they’ll be somewhere,” he answers flippantly.
Flippantly.
Usually so cautious and so organised Harry lets one thing slip his mind for five seconds, and his life is going to fall through the cracks. His reputation will be utterly destroyed. Just with his brother, but it still stands. Sam is… more innocent than Harry has ever been. And Sam will also tell the others, and likely their friends…
“Remembered something, baby?” you muse sardonically from beside him, your hand halting its movements as you cup his jaw, turning him to face you.
The second his green eyes meet yours, you watch the world crumble in his eyes. You’ve never seen him scramble up from his seat so quickly. His bare feet slap on the tiled floor violently, thudding sounds echoing through the house as he blunders around, swinging around the banister with the force and elegance of an elephant.
“Sam! FUCK— Wait!”
“Don’t look in that pile of photos,” you add in a feeble shout.
It’s not like what Sam’ll find there is any secret. You’ve been together a long time, you and Harry, and everyone knows full well that you’re shagging, but that doesn’t mean you necessarily want them to know exactly what happens in the bedroom, in your most intimate, secret moments together. That’s sacred, even if it seems like sacrilege to so many.
No matter how quickly you hear Harry legging it upstairs, his lean legs carrying him up the stairs perhaps three at a time, his curly hair even more unruly than before from the exertion, you know he won’t be fast enough, and that Sam is an insolent bastard when he wants to be. You’ve lived with them all long enough and have had more than your fair share of near misses: no chance will you not be found out, this time you’ll be caught. Better than the alternative and the other times, you suppose, as you cram one more syrup-drizzled and strawberry-covered pancake into your gob, reluctantly trudging your way upstairs to the hive of fun.
It’s chaos by the time you get there. Dozens of artfully-taken photos spilled out onto your duvet, Harry’s freckled face paler than you’ve ever seen it, his hands tugging at his pyjama shirt convulsively while Sam stands on the other side of the room, his dark eyes wide, his expression agog, his jaw unhinged, staring blankly and pointing at whatever the most incriminating thing is he sees next. You just hope he doesn’t go ferreting through your drawers, because then you’ll really be in trouble.
“What… the fuck.”
You come up to Harry’s side, and wrap an arm around his slim waist, lending a weak, “Surprise?”
It’s their fault if they haven’t guessed, frankly.
You can’t draw your eyes away from the pictures, so many of them, all displaying different aspects of your sex life at varying degrees of explicitness. You can even recount the minutes and hours of pleasure that led to the photos, each occasion etched into your mind. Sure, you and Harry go at it a lot, but you don’t always go the extra mile, hence why these commemorative photos of your special nights are so treasured. And private. Or, were.
The first one… oh boy, that takes you back to the most far-out, extreme experiment you tried—the most recent, as well: just this past weekend. You’re still covered in rope burn from it, though that could’ve been prevented if you hadn’t writhed or wriggled about so much while in those bonds. The amount of attempts it took, the sheer number of YouTube tutorials you had to watch, but it was definitely worth it. The intricate patterns the ropes formed all across your body, creating braids down your back, suspending you prone with little movement in your arms or legs. It was heaven to have Harry tugging on the ropes, contorting you into new and wonderful positions for his own delightful access to all of you. Perhaps it’s not something you’ll gravitate towards again, but it was fun while it lasted, and it’s another thing to tick off your list of fun, kinky bedroom experiments to try. To be fair, even though the swathes of soft, rose-coloured rope, intricately woven around you were a lot, you certainly wouldn’t be averse to trying something else with rope. Less shibari, perhaps just normal levels of bondage. You can feel the skin on your arms prickling with heat: Harry feels it too, winding his fingers into yours, holding on tight as he struggles to suppress a smirk.
The next set is interesting, and rather common. Harry’s freckled, ring-less hand is unmistakable in the dappled light as it grapples with the handle of a leather whip, or a paddle, even his belt, bringing them down harshly onto your ass cheeks, already reddened with hand prints, purple from bruises. In one of them, your skin is even glistening with his release, and another, your hands are suspended behind your back. Harry’s always been one for spanking, and the rest of them know it. Even before you were sleeping together he’d playfully smacked your bum, and he certainly hasn’t stopped even with the sexual connotations it now conveys between the two of you. As though he can read your mind, he snakes a hand down and pats you on the bum; his wink telling you it’s just for good measure. Cheeky shit.
One in the dead centre brings shivers throughout your body. Not because it wasn’t fun or pleasurable, but because of the way it made you feel afterwards. Yes, you’d talked through it in thorough details—as with everything the two of you do—how it made you feel going in, throughout, and you’d got a safe word sorted, but perhaps you hadn’t discussed all the long term risks of it. The pretty pink collar, the satin blindfold… The whole subservient thing is a big turn on for Harry, and you played into it, you always do and you naturally fall into a position of less power in your relationship because of the way you are, but being degraded in such a way isn’t for you. You can’t help but feel a sting of shame ricochet through your heart. Harry must feel it this considering how reactive he is: he leaps towards the bed and snatches it up, shredding it before your eyes, chucking it into the bin, and curling another protective arm around you.
“Look,” you whisper to Harry, turning his attention elsewhere as you point to the bottom few: your favourite photos of all.
Despite the disarray, they’re all together, and they remind you of an incredible night. Your anniversary, and what a special day it was. Butterflies swarm you at the sight of them again, but it feels strange for someone else to be looking at them. Not that you or Harry are exactly in a fit state to be proactive about preventative measures now Sam’s seen them all. His eyes bulge from his face, his mouth going dry as he swallows viciously, suddenly having to shift his already apparently tight shorts. Again.
“You’re so sexy in those, baby,” purrs Harry.
He’s damn right, you do look incredibly sexy. And though the first one in the chronological series is you mostly covered, you can remember how hard his dick was at the sight alone, salivating, clenching his fists to stop from ripping the lingerie from you piece by piece. You wanted to put on a show for him that day: who was he to deny you?
On top of your bra, panties and stockings was a nightgown, and above that, a dressing gown. Each image shows you in a further state of undress. It was a deep burgundy lace set of negligée with soft satin straps that pushed your boobs together, lifting them up, the lace hooked together with a single eyelet on your spine, whereas the panties, though half covering your cheeks with dustings of lace, hid nothing while they sat high on your hips, revealing your entire upper thigh where a matching satin garter sat with tiny lace bows. The entire thing cost a fortune. You forked out a damn arm and a leg for what you got, even with a discount included with a certain toy you bought.
First went the dressing gown, letting it fall from your shoulders, allowing it to pool around your feet as you showed off the skimpiness of the silk slip in a series of flourishing twirls, much to Harry’s delight. Next went the slip, and you honestly wish you’d taken a picture of his face utterly agog—as you stood there in stockings held up by garters, barely there panties and a push up bra. There’s one shot of his rough fingertips playing with the trim of the stockings delightedly, like a kid in a candy shop. Next went the feeble scrap of fabric that you dared to call a bra, barely covering your nipples, allowing your breasts free, spilling into Harry’s awaiting hand. You remember the next part vividly, because he was just about to peel the panties off when you laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, babe.” you cooed.
His twinkling eyes grew as wide as saucers, and you dared to card your fingers through his curls as you settled yourself over his lap, letting him keep his camera in one hand while leading the other down, down, a little further…
He’s never since made a sound quite like it, so visceral and animalistic, so ready to devour you, to come on sight. He’s never been as hard as he was in that instance.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he moaned, a deep groan released from him the second his fingers slipped through your folds to find dripping arousal all ready for him. “Just—wait a minute…”
You followed his every instruction for the next few moments, finding yourself standing up in a good lighting position, Harry strategically beneath you as he snapped a particularly incriminating (yet oh so sexy shot) of your bare pussy in crotchless panties. Harry’s never recovered. He’s already openly admitted that he uses those particular photos more than any others to get himself off whenever you’re away from him. However, the creases and folded corners of one particular photo can’t be blamed on him, since that’s the one you use when you're away, two of his fingers plunged knuckle-deep inside you in those exact panties, from that exact angle, desperately trying to replicate the irreplaceably pleasurable feeling of him within you. He took a good few more than had to be thrown away. Spillages are awfully unfortunate… He fucked you that night with the panties, stockings and garters still on. Twice. Then without the panties, then without the stockings, then nude at last at some ungodly hour of the morning when he took you at last as the sun rose. You didn’t sleep a wink.
There are more of you with lingerie on, nightgowns and matching sets, scraps of silk and strange one pieces that took you hours to get on, but they’re bound to make a sort of book, stowed away neatly (mercifully) beneath his bed.
Sam still hasn’t moved from his state of paralysed shock, and though you should probably clear the photos up from where they’re dumped, you feel a filthy swelling pride within your chest, a glean of risk as you watch Sam rove his eyes over some more, these all involving toys. If only he knew where you hid them. One his eyes focus on is you with a thick purple rubber dildo deep inside you, a rabbit vibrator stuck to your clit. Your body is but a blur, writhing around for Harry, your hands cuffed before you and not released no matter how much you moved. Harry wouldn’t let you stop coming for what felt like hours: it was the first time you squirted for him as a cry tore from your heaving chest, drenching the bed with your fifth orgasm of the night. Harry vowed he’d be the only one to make you squirt after that, no toys involved, and he’s stayed true to his word.
There’s a few more, and Sam seems to be furrowing his thick brows at the sight of the Polaroids. Glass wands, spreader bars, clit suctions (that admittedly look like they’d be used in a spa for a facial). Poor boy is being corrupted...
Good God, you need to get those toys out again.
With his twin's attention diverted, you snake your hand down the front of Baz’s shorts, wrapping your fingers around his already hard member through his boxers: he seems to be enjoying this as much as you are.
You point out one of your favourite pictures, a debauched mess that shouldn’t be viewed by anyone else, frankly. Harry was reluctant about hurting you or pushing you too far, but you begged to be gagged. You meant just by a tie, maybe his bandana—which features in many images in many different manners: as a bind for your hands, tying you to the bed, keeping your ankles together, even wrapped lightly around your neck, but never as a gag—but he went all out. When you got home, he was waiting in his room with a leather-bound ball gag.
“You begged, baby,” he said, and you couldn’t refute. You had begged, but this was above and beyond. You complied with his every wish that night, and though you’d do it again in a heartbeat, Harry wasn’t a fan of not being able to shove his fingers or cock down your throat at any given moment. He liked hearing your whines and moans and hushed curses, prayers of his name. He also liked hearing your bratty, belligerent rebuttals when he took on a dominant role. You enjoyed it more than a little, but only now can you see how much of a mess you were, messy hair and tears spouting from your eyes, drool down your chin...
Given the chance of the slightest spark of stimulation, you’ll be coming on the spot.
There’s a scattered pile of the two of you in just about every position under the sun, every shape in the karma sutra, fucking both inside and out, al fresco sex beneath the big oak in the garden, anyhow, anywhere and everywhere you could fuck safely and privately, you would, and you didn’t even realise Harry had snapped some of these shots after consenting to him taking them at any time. Your eyes squeezed shut as you peaked, Baz’s palm kneading your chest, your skirt hiked up around your stomach while your jaw was agape, your pussy exposed and glistening slick in the mirror, penetrated by Harry’s cock. That was a good day, mirror sex, and definitely something you’ll try again. This time with your own mirror... There are a few snapshots of oral, perfect Polaroids of Harry’s nose nuzzled into your pussy, his tongue deep in your core, his lips on your labia, all of them for your sake whenever he goes away.
“Gonna recreate that one tonight,” Harry husks, pointing towards one image in particular of you sucking him off.
His huge member down your throat, you’d trained yourself to breathe solely through your nose, but the neatly trimmed patch of hair there tickled your nostrils. Harry’s talent for photography reveals your doe eyes were red rimmed, saliva trickling from the corner of your mouth matching the mascara tracks down your cheeks. You’ve never looked so fucked out, and Harry couldn’t believe you remained in that innocent façade, rosy cheeks and a coy expression even with his dick rammed down your throat, making you gag.
However, the one you’d like to recreate is one he picks up on, surreptitiously moving a hand to your chest, his fingers hovering over your peaked nipple.
“Reckon we can go again the second Sam fucks off?”
“Yes,” he eagerly exhales.
You don’t blame him, especially not when both twins are staring at the same image of your tits, pushed together with Harry’s dick between them, fucking your chest despite the fact his come already painted your chest in hot white strips, a beautiful painting you’d always wish to frame. He certainly has an obsession with your boobs so there are a couple like that, his hands all over them, the tip of his member tapping them, but the debauched one is by far your favourite. Similarly, there’s one of you tied to the bed, completely spread eagle, his dick resting on your stomach while your belly is coated in his come once again.
It seems, however, that’s what snagged Sam’s attention and has his face a ghastly shade of grey because it's so pale, is the one photo Harry never wanted anyone to see. You leap and snatch it up in one fell swoop, and Harry draws you into a bear hug within his arms, kissing your temple affectionately in thanks as you stow it away for safekeeping. Though Harry naturally carries the more dominant title in your relationship, you always like to shake things up, hence why this photo (and a series of others he already has hidden) depict Harry as your submissive. You walked around as the picture perfect dominatrix in stilettos, carrying a whip while Harry lay there with his hands bound, a blindfold on in some photos (you took them so they’re not as great, but he still looks damn sexy) with a vibrating cock ring wrapped snugly around his girth. He’s never come so hard or so much after you finally removed it and cuffed his hands to the bedpost and began to ride him. You can still feel the warmth of him climaxing within you if you close your eyes and clench your thighs.
“I promise I’ll touch you later,” boy do you hope he sticks to that promise he whispers while nibbling on your earlobe, “but Sam’s coming out of his daze in 3... 2... 1...”
“OH MY GOD.”
“Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” he remarks breathily, hazel eyes wide as he pivots, met with two incredulous stares. Tom’s cry wakes Sam up right on cue.
“Harry! What the fuck?!” Sam demands, his voice a bellow, horror and disgust and... something unattainable just emanates from him. “Why do you have three porn mags worth of your girlfriend down here? That’s fucked, mate.”
“No it’s not. We just like to have photographic reminders of all our... sexcapades.”
Sam is, unsurprisingly, retching, now finally turning his head away from the pile without even bothering to pick up.
“This was cool until you called them sexcapades,” Tom chimes, smacking Harry upside the head as he swaggers over to the bed, fishing a few photos up before tossing them back down.
Sam's horrified attitude doesn’t seem to be spreading thankfully, but you and Harry are understandably rooted to the spot, stuck to the carpet, just biding your time until this is over. Then again, you can’t really tell, since no one is saying anything. You nor Harry want to be the ones to break the silence, though, and you can tell with the furtive and expressive stares you’re sharing that his anxiety is increasing the more people are seeing this.
Momentarily, you think someone may remark about your silent communication, your fixed glances and speechless conversation, but instead, Harrison comes up to you both, a sly smirk etched onto his pretty model face as he clasps a hand around one shoulder of yours and one of Harry’s.
“Harry Holland, you kinky fucker,” he praises.
You definitely feel a swell of pride at that. And the fact that Tom is trying desperately hard not to look at you while also trying to hide how flustered he is, somehow still abhorred by the sight. Harrison’s intrigue is palpable, gnawing on his lower lip as his lithe fingers trace you on the polaroid's, whereas Sam? He can’t decide whether to cry or scream. Harry huddles in closer and cuddles you, ensuring you feel every part of him, just how much he wants this lot to leave to finally have you at his mercy once more.
“So you two are shagging,” Tom observes.
You and Harry nod between kisses.
“Dangerously.”
You nod again, though this time a little reluctantly.
You expect Harry to nestle down with you again, but instead he detaches himself, unravelling his arms, and shoulders past Tom and Haz. He gives Sam a death glare as he piles up all the Polaroids and shoves them deep in a drawer for him to organise later, away from prying eyes and judgemental comments.
“Really, though?” Sam bursts out, flailing his arms before grasping Harry’s collar. “I thought you’d just handcuff her and give her a smack at most, very vanilla.”
As much as he tries to fight it, Harry’s face flushes bright red, leaving no visible distinction between his forehead and hairline. “I think those photos, erm, tell a different story.”
He rocks on the balls of his feet, tugging himself out of his brother's grasp, only to fall into another, saved by Harrison’s scowl at Tom.
“Can you lot bloody get out? Please? I’d like some alone time with my girlfriend after that sodding invasion.”
“If you’re having alone time, we’re leaving the house for a while,” Tom jokes, “how long?”
You smirk, striding over to meet Harry, eyes fixed on him as you press onto your tiptoes, wrapping your fingers around his shoulder before kissing his earlobe. He wilts into your touch.
“Two hours should be enough time. Scram.”
They do, gladly, and you slam the door shut as their scurrying footsteps down the stairs recede. Harry’s grip increases around your waist, a growl escaping him as he pushes you onto the bed. You gasp when your back hits the mattress, his lips instantly attacking your jaw.
“Which of those polaroid's do you wanna recreate first, baby?”
—
It’s hours later, and you're all around for your weekly dinner at the Holland house. You and Harry, having some ‘business’ to attend to before leaving the house, are the last to arrive, and Paddy, poor unfortunate Paddy, has the delightful job of letting you into the house.
“Sam asked me to give you this,” he says barely before you’ve entered the porch.
Harry’s face pales as he unravels the small piece of paper bundled into his hand by his younger brother, but you could swear all blood drains from him the second the words sink in.
‘You took them, you lost them, you collect them. What would mum and dad say, Harold?’
“Harry, what’s happening?”
“That utter wanker stole the polaroids as revenge for scarring him. He’s hidden them around the house. We have to find them before mum and dad go looking. You in for the ride?”
“Only if Haz can join us tonight,” you tease, and after calling a hello to Harry’s parents, you follow him around the house, detaching all the pinned photos.
Harry's learnt a solid lesson today: hide his damn Polaroids better from now on, away from the prying eyes of his bloody brothers. But, he thinks with a smirk, by no means will the two of you stop taking them.
#harry holland#harry holland imagine#harold holland#baz holland#harry holland fluff#harrison osterfield#harry holland smut#harry holland x reader#harry holland angst#harry holland fanfiction#harry holland blurb#harry holland fic#harry holland x y/n#harry holland one shot#harry holland x female reader#harry holland x fem reader#harry robert holland#h holland
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peculiar prompts: fuck or die, but their dicks get bigger every second
A Mounting Problem
"Don't eat those." Ron came around the bend in the trail. Draco scoffed and picked several more scarlet berries, adding them to the pile in Harry's outstretched shirt.
"They're wild cherries," Harry said.
"This," Ron swept his arm out over the lush valley, "is an old wizarding land preserve." He pointed at the thorny bush. "And those are twiggenberries, not cherries."
Draco stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. "Are, too."
"What would you know about foraging, Malfoy? You hadn't eaten a meal outdoors until this week."
Draco scrunched his face up and mimicked Ron.
"Fine." Ron adjusted his pack and side-stepped around them. "Don't be late to the top of the rise. And don't eat those berries til you're back home. Alone."
"Yes, Father," Draco said snidely to Ron's retreating back.
Harry pretended to gag.
"Heard that!" Came Ron's voice.
--
Harry swatted a mosquito against the inside of the tent and shot Draco a triumphant grin, but Draco's attention was on the bag of berries in his lap.
"Ron said not to eat those here."
"Ron says a lot of things. I'm hungry." He crossed his outstretched legs over his sleeping bag and Harry wondered if he shouldn't hand-feed Draco.
"Someone failed to guard the camp from raccoons." Draco popped a big, glossy berry in his mouth. "And someone cost us what smelled like a wonderful crockpot of chili."
"I said I was hanging back to take a nap, and I did. I didn't know none of you latched the crockpot." Harry rolled onto his side and clicked a small lantern on. "Give me one."
Harry opened his mouth and flicked his gaze back and forth between the berries and Draco's eyes. Draco let him look like a confused fish for a few moments before selecting a berry.
They were large, for wild berries. Almost like small plums, but a bit more pointed at one end, and deep red. Draco traced it over Harry's bottom lip before shoving it in, and then followed with his fingers for good measure.
Harry grunted in surprise, but sucked Draco's fingers clean before biting into the berry. It popped open in a rush of cloyingly-sweet bubblegum, and broke against the roof of his mouth like an overripe grape. He grabbed a bottle of water from the foot of his sleeping back to dilute the overwhelming taste.
Draco smirked and shoved what had to be his fourth or fifth one into his mouth.
"You can have the rest," Harry said, capping his water and laying down.
He clicked off the light, and Draco sealed the bag and laid down next to him. Harry started drifting off almost immediately, but Draco tossed and turned.
Harry cracked an eye and was met with Draco's eyes glinting in the filtered moonlight. "Do you think they're awake?"
"Ron and Hermione?"
"No, the wampus cats. Of course Ron and Hermione."
"Probably not. I think they hiked twelve miles today. Why?"
Draco walked fingers over their sleeping bags toward Harry's chest, and then diverted southward.
"No reason..."
"They're heavy sleepers."
"Mm hm..."
Draco tugged at the drawstring on Harry's pajama bottoms. Harry bit back a smile and let him pick at the knot until Draco started muttering swear words under his breath.
Harry rolled on his back and unceremoniously shucked his pants and pajamas off, and threw his t-shirt on the pile at the foot of his sleeping bag.
He couldn't read Draco's expression, so he clicked the lantern back on. Wonderment. Draco was staring at Harry's dick in absolute wonderment. Harry was flattered, then aroused, but then mildly alarmed, because Draco just kept staring.
Harry glanced down and didn't see anything more interesting than his own erection, and still Draco watched it, and Harry watched him. But... why would he be hard already?
Harry wrapped a hand around his semi-hard dick, but his fingers only just met around it. That wasn't right.
Draco tilted his head to one side. "I think those were psychedelic berries."
"Oh, shit," Harry whispered. He worked his fist over the head of his cock, just in case this turned out to be a really good trip. "Oh... shiiiiit. How many did you eat?"
"Five?" Draco licked his lips. "Your dick looks bigger."
Harry stopped stroking. "I think it is bigger."
Harry's thumb and middle finger couldn't touch, and felt like they were actively being pushed way. The skin of his cock grew achingly tight and over-sensitive.
"Shit. What do we do?"
Draco scooted closer. "I can think of several things to do."
Panic rose a cold sweat over Harry's chest. "What should we do?"
"Again, I can think of-"
"RON!" Harry shouted.
A rustle in the other tent, followed by a groan, and "Wassit?"
Draco leaned down slowly, eyes on Harry, sneaking his mouth closer to Harry's dick and fooling no one.
"What do those berries do?" Harry shouted, then swallowed a whimper as Draco's lips spread over the head of his cock.
"The fuck you think a twiggenberry does?" Ron grumbled. An owl hooted nearby. "You didn't eat one, did you?"
"Uhm." Draco's tongue against the tight-stretched skin was already too much. "Yes."
"Guess it could be worse. You gotta get somebody to help you blow your load before your dick drains your blood supply." The owl hooted again, and it sounded rather concerned. "Doesn't work if you do it on your own."
Draco slurped enthusiastically and winked.
"Sounds like you've got it under control. And I've got ear plugs. Good thing you only ate one. G'night."
"Ron! RON!" Harry tugged Draco up by the hair. "Shit. Now what?"
Draco held Harry's gaze while he slid his tongue out and prodded Harry's dick with the tip. "Mm?"
Harry nodded and tried to relax as Draco's mouth enveloped him. He blew out a long breath and forced himself to not think about anything but the wet heat sliding over his cock. Not about dying with an enormous dick hanging out. Merlin help him if Dumbledore met him on a platform in this condition.
Draco shifted, snuck a hand in his own pajamas, and moaned around Harry's cock.
"Fuck," Harry whispered. Draco's shoulder shook as he stroked himself in time to his mouth on Harry. He moaned again, and tension build at the base of Harry's cock. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."
Draco wrapped both hands around Harry's thick length, and the pressure in his hips broke, spilling into Draco's mouth. Harry's breath shuddered out as Draco slowed, swallowed, and grinned at him.
"I've got something for you." He rose up on his knees and Harry's dick gave a feeble throb at the size of the tent in Draco's pants. "Roll over, size queen."
It wasn't that Draco wasn't well-endowed. He was... fine. But Harry's tastes ran... larger. A lot larger. Like the bludger bat of a cock Draco was wrangling out of his shorts.
Draco reached into a bag, then tossed a tube of lube on Harry's pillow. That dick was so perfect Harry could have cried. And he did.
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Draco straddled Harry's thighs and plopped down, massive erection slapping against Harry's spent cock.
"Uhm... What's wrong?"
"I ate-" Harry sobbed. "-the chili."
"Okaayyyy..." Draco shook his head and waited for Harry to explain, but comprehension bloomed over Draco's face. "There were no raccoons?! Harry James Potter, you ate half a crockpot of chili and blamed raccoons?!"
Harry nodded and hid his face in the crook of his elbow.
"I HAD TO EAT BONER BERRIES FOR DINNER AND NOW YOUR VERY FUCKABLE ARSE IS FULL OF CHILI?!"
Harry nodded again. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, I am not putting my dick in that."
"I'm really, really sorry."
"I'll bet you are." He felt Draco's breath against his ear. "Sorry you're not getting your greedy little hole stretched open by this."
Draco pressed his cock along Harry's abdomen for emphasis. He ran his chin down Harry's jawline and sighed. "Wanker."
Harry moved his arms, sniffled, and snuck a kiss on Draco's nose before he sat back up. "I guess wanking, it is. I don't think I can fit it in my mouth."
Draco walked his knees up to Harry's waist and sat on his flaccid dick. Hard.
"I always had a theory that Parseltongues could unhinge their jaws like snakes."
Harry only half-heard Draco, because the dick sitting on his chest was fucking amazing. It was still Draco's, but huge. He would have gladly impaled himself on this beast of a dong, but no. The chili had smelled too damn good.
Draco flipped the cap on the lube open and emptied it out on what was rapidly becoming a third leg. Harry wrapped both hands around it, and the overlap of his fingers shrank as he watched.
He stroked, slow and steady, trying to keep a familiar routine in a very new situation. Draco's head lolled to the side, and his lips pressed against his own shoulder. Harry smiled softly and tightened his grip. Even full of dick-enhancing berries, Draco couldn't come without his lips against bare skin, even if it was his own.
Draco tilted forward, but caught himself. He wavered above Harry.
"I'm dizzy."
Harry looked up and met glassy, vacant eyes. His fingers barely met around the dick in his hands.
"Oh, shit." His mind raced. "Lay down. Lay down on me right now."
Draco fell forward, chest on Harry's face. Harry grabbed Draco's hips and pushed him down until their lips met. "Shit. Draco, stay awake."
Draco hummed against Harry's lips, and Harry stroked dick like Draco's life depended on it. Up and over the swelling head, thumbs working the underside of Draco's cock until Draco's back stiffened.
Cool lips found Harry's, and Draco whimpered, hitched, and the dick in Harry's hands throbbed. Hot rivulets flowed through his fingers, and he absently thought a cock that big should put out a whole lot more come than this.
Draco sighed into Harry's neck. "That was good."
Harry slid his hands out from between them and wiped them on Draco's arse. "That was close, is what that was."
"Mm hm."
"Are you just going to fall asleep on top of me?"
"Mm hm."
--
Harry woke at dawn to a startled owl hoot, a scuffle outside his tent, and then the walls of the tent shaking violently. He popped up on his knees to look through the mesh window.
The sun was just peeking over the treetops, and Hermione stood outside, hands on their tent, hair in a tight braid, dressed for a hike already.
"Get up, losers! We're going berry-picking!"
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do loftwings like,, eat the punkin whole or do they kinda smash it with the lil hook on their beak??? also have you ever stuck your head in your birds beak just out of mild curiosity because EVERY TIME I see a loftwing im like "i could stick my head in that beak" and I feel like that a very dangerous impulse skjdfhjksd
aepon is an absolute menace he will clamp down on a whole pumpkin stem and all and send chunks flying everywhere. presumably to get more pumpkin in his mouth faster. i've seen some who prefer to just tear that shit apart, some who just like to eat the seeds. also not every loftwing likes punkin but boy oh boy is it fun keeping them away from the crop when they do.
i feel like itd be sick as hell to see a loftwing unhinge its jaw like a snake and swallow a punkin whole. i feel like aepon could if he tried really hard but i probably wouldn't let him. probably.
smaller punkin tho....
they mostly stick their beaks on me. zelda's loftwing really hates my bedhead and he tries to preen both me and aepon constantly. OH i do that thing though when aepon yawns where i just stick my whole arm in his mouth sometimes. i havent died yet
#kin ramblings#frogswampert#wendy answers#loftwings are honestly very docile creatures they only use force to protect their humans#even a particularly fiery/energetic one like mine is very Gentle with most things#except food i guess. rip if youre a pumpkin or like. a rupee guay
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George + Jerry, “The art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”
I've been hoarding this ask in my inbox for God knows how long I'm so sorry anon. Then I wrote like three quarters of it and posted about that and was immediately hit with writer's block. Here's my attempt at trying to write more seinfeld content for you <3
[Ao3 Link] [Full Series]
It’s early on a Saturday and Monk’s diner bustles with its usual crowd of regulars. George and Jerry are sitting across from each other in a booth by the window; George with a strawberry pastry and hot coffee and Jerry working on his third consecutive double espresso.
Sun pours in and blankets their table with warm early morning light. It’s intimate; in the way that drinking coffee every day with your oldest friend is intimate once it's a routine.
“So do you think that’s funny?” Jerry is asking, doting over a notebook of incomprehensible scribbles, “Are people allowed to laugh at that sort of thing these days or would it be considered a mood killer?”
Jerry is pretty sure that the audience wouldn’t throw tomatoes at him like he’s in a bad Shakespearian play, but stranger things have happened.
George half shrugs, “I don’t know. How would I know?”
“Well, I assumed as a fellow human being you’d have an opinion.”
“Comedy is subjective.” George says waving him off, “Just improvise or something.”
“Surprisingly harder than you think.”
The last time Jerry tried to improvise on stage the only person in the audience laughing was Elaine. And technically she was laughing more at his expense than she was at the joke. Cue the metaphorical tomato throwing. Jerry stares at his notepad and pouts. Why is it so difficult to figure out if his joke is funny or not? Kramer laughed, but perhaps that’s a bad sign.
A moment passes and when he looks back up from his notepad George is about five shades paler. Jerry recognizes the look immediately. It’s the ghostly expression of a man doomed to come face to face with the consequences of his own actions. Never a good sign for George.
“What’s wrong?” Jerry asks. Despite the courtesy of asking the question, he doesn’t seem too concerned by George’s sudden change in demeanor. He’s used to George’s sudden waves of panic. It’s like his default.
“Does that look like Lindsay to you?” George’s voice cracks.
“Psycho sadist Lindsay?” Jerry looks around the diner theatrically, “The one who thinks you got wacked by the mob? Where?”
“In our booth by the door.”
From where they’re sitting, Jerry can only see the side of her head, but it’s definitely Lindsay. She seems a lot happier than he remembers. Back when she was with George, she always had the face of someone who’s just accidently bitten into a lemon. Kramer even called her lemon face once, which was an awful moment for everyone involved.
“That’s her alright.” Jerry confirms, “What do you think she’s doing here?”
“I have absolutely no idea!” George shrinks down in the booth to hide from her, “She knows I get the diner in the breakup. It’s part of our pre-breakup agreement!”
“Ah, the pre-breakup agreement. The prenup of the dating world.” Jerry nods understandingly, “While I’d usually agree with you on that, I think faking your own death gives her a loophole.”
“I died while we were together!” George counters, whisper yelling. He looks awfully frazzled and generally insane, “She’s basically my widow. How does she think you feel having to see my widow at your favorite diner? It’s outrageous!”
Jerry considers this. Ever since the infamous incident with the fancy plates, he’s instinctively crossed to the other side of the street when he’s seen her in public. He’s not sure he’d be able to hold it together if she asked him about his best friend and said best friend’s terrible fate at the hands of the mob. Cracking a grin would probably not be an acceptable response.
And George is technically right. If he was actually dead, Jerry wouldn’t want to see Lindsay at the diner. It would undoubtedly cause a chain of events starting with him thinking about George and moping around about it (Jerry’s not sure he’s capable of moping, but he’s too afraid to find out) and ending with him being all sad and ruining his comedy routine. How are you supposed to be funny when you’re busy thinking about your dead friend?
Jerry relents, “Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”
“What do I do?” George panics, shrinking further down in the booth, “She’s going to kill me, Jerry!”
“I think you’re overreacting. So what if psycho Lindsay sees you? It’s the nineties. Is a dead man not allowed to have a strawberry pastry without persecution?”
George deflates, “You’re not taking this seriously. Lindsay is going to kill me and you’re making your little jokes about it. Great. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, it’s not like you didn’t bring this on yourself. Even Elaine said she knew this would come back to haunt you eventually. It’s about time you face the music.”
George doesn’t think that sounds appealing at all. He’s gone his whole life avoiding the music. Why should he face it now! In fact, only people who have given up in life subject themselves to the music. If you’re still alive and breathing then it’s your God given right to avoid the music.
“How does Elaine know about the fancy plates?”
“Kramer told her.”
“How did Kramer know?!”
“I told Kramer.”
And of course. Of course, everyone in filled in and up to date on George’s suffering. He shoots Jerry a scathing look and Jerry returns it with a lopsided teasing grin.
Jerry glances down at his empty cup of espresso and frowns. The whole lemon faced Lindsay debacle has distracted him from what’s most important. Caffeine. He’s sure that the waitress is avoiding him because George is causing a scene. Or maybe Jerry is being cut off like he’s a drunk at a bar. Are they allowed to cut you off from caffeine? Is there an unspoken caffeine limit that only waitresses and baristas know about? He decides to investigate further.
Just as he's about to signal for the waitress, Jerry makes eye contact with Lindsay. Her face drops and suddenly she has that lemon faced expression about her again. Uh oh. Lindsay says something to her friend and gets up from her seat, making her way across the diner and towards them.
Jerry gives an enthusiastic wave, the type of wave that you’d give an old friend you’re seeing for the first time in a while. After all, Lindsay was always friendly to him. And she was one of George's most humor-inclined girlfriends! Maybe she'd be able to tell him if the joke was funny or not.
George stares at him in horror, “What? What’s happening?”
“Buck up, buddy, looks like she’s coming over.”
George makes a face like he’s been hit by a bus, but he defeatedly slides back up in his seat. Suddenly Lindsay is beside their booth, arms crossed.
“So, I’m guessing this is a Weekend at Bernie’s situation?” She asks. Jerry appreciates her humor. She seems pretty chill for someone who just found out that her boyfriend has risen from the dead.
“Good guess.” Jerry says conversationally, “Actually, George was getting too cramped in his coffin. He doesn’t do well in small spaces and decided to call the whole death thing off. Good idea if you ask me, the whole funeral thing is always a bit too theatric in my opinion. Like we get it. You're dead. Move on."
“Real classy.” Lindsay shoots back, but Jerry can tell that she liked the joke, “By the way George, I knew it wasn’t real when I called your parents to offer my condolences and your dad laughed at me. Anything to say about that?”
George shrugs, the gig is up as they say, “Admittedly, the art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”
Lindsay rolls her eyes, "You know what, I don't care." She heads back over to her friend and doesn't look back.
“Huh. She took that pretty well.” Jerry says when Lindsay is out of ear shot, “The way you talk about her I assumed her reaction would’ve been far more deranged.”
“Trust me,” George says seriously, “If you weren’t here she would’ve unhinged her jaw and swallowed me whole like a snake.”
“Too bad. I would’ve liked to see that.”
Finally, the waitress comes back over and Jerry orders another espresso. He considers his joke again.
“Should I ask Lindsay if she thinks the joke’s funny?” Jerry asks seriously. Lindsay is still sitting across the diner with her friend, “I need a woman’s perspective.”
George shrugs, “Jerry, I’m telling you right now, just improvise. Or do the lifeguard bit again. It’s your best.”
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Chapter 4
Masterlist/Warnings
@pansexualwho imthedoctorlove
The Trouble With Love Is...
You were so incredibly tired, the hum of the TARDIS around you relaxed you into such a state that you could feel your eyes growing heavy, your body sinking into the hard cushions of the couch. A small smile graced your face as you watched The Master sitting at the small table, piles upon piles of folders stacked upon each other in front of him. You watched as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration before he looked up and met your eyes, his body immediately relaxing and a small smile crossing his face.
“Sleep,” He said simply, “I can feel how tired you are,”
A lazy smile crossed your face as you rolled on your side, your hand tucked under your head, “We should go somewhere nice,”
He rose an eyebrow in response, “Given up on Earth have you?”
“Maybe I want to stay,” You offered, “But I’m just saying. All I really do is hang around the TARDIS and watch you brood all day,"
The Master stood up from his table, making his way over to you and crouching down in front of your face, his arms resting under his chin, “There’s a resort planet not to far from here we could go too,” He reached forward and brushed some hair from your face, “Or if you want something more adventurous we could go to the deep forests of Helmink, the grass is aquamarine,"
"What about something normal?" You offered, slowly sitting up and looking at The Master who had now placed his hands on your knees.
Somewhere between the afternoon in his bedroom and now, you had realized that he had become somewhat more affectionate with you and you allowed it.
It would only be small touches, his hand brushing against yours or you gripping his hand tight, but it was enough to feel him relax in the bond. He showed you how grateful he was through the bond even though he would never outwardly show it.
"I know the perfect place," He stated, a large grin growing on his face.
"This is brilliant," You said, looking around at the bustling marketplace. Different scents of food flooded your nostrils making your stomach rumble in protest. Stall holders were shouting over the chatter of customers, the ground below your feet were dusty, covering your black boots and the bottoms of your jeans. You placed your hands in your leather jacket and grinned up at The Master who was watching you, waiting for your approval, "I love markets,"
"Just stay close," He said simply as you both walked side by side down the large pathway. You stopped and looked at stalls filled with books and jewelry, your eyes widening at the kaleidoscope coloring's of some of the gems.
Letting out a loud laugh, you picked up a large deep red cotton-like sheet and held it up, "This is beautiful," You swung it over your shoulders, "Do I look like an old Victorian time widow?" You smirked.
The Master gave a smile at you and reached over, grabbing it and putting it back on the table, "You look lovely,"
A loud reow came from your feet and you looked down, watching as what looked like a cream colored cat curled itself around your feet.
"Hello you," You smiled, bending down and scratching it behind it's ear, "Aren't you a darling?"
A loud purr made you raise your eyebrows, not expecting a creature this small to make a sound so loud. A few patrons looked at you before turning back to whatever it was they were doing.
"What's a cat doing on this planet?" You asked The Master who was looking at the offending creature with disgust.
"Its not a cat,” He stated simply, looking down at you patting the furry creature with disdain, “Its a Jerkinite. They’re kind of like cats, if cats could unhinged their bottom jaw like a snake and eat up to thirty times their body size,”
You smiled as the creature purred and crawled around your feet, “Aw look, it likes me,”
“Or it could be sizing you up to eat you,”
“Can we keep him? He’s a stray. Look at him he's hungry,” You looked up at The Master who was shaking his head at your antics.
The Master rolled his eyes, “No, we have no room for a pet. Besides, that would mean you're getting too comfortable”.
"And what's wrong with that? I thought you wanted me to stay," You argued back.
"Of course I want you to stay. Without a pet. Besides, we don't have the resources on board to look after a stupid mangy animal," He continued, turning on his heel to walk away from you and the creature.
"Sorry dude," You murmured to the still purring creature.
You pouted and stood up to your full height, “Fine. But I’m going to sook about it the whole time,”
“Fine with me,” He called back.
You both made your way through the marketplace, “This is amazing. Thank you,” You stated, moving closer to him and lacing your hand into his own. He could feel your elation, your happiness, through the bond. It was also spread across your face, making his own smile arise.
You wrapped your arm around his and pulled yourself close, “What is that smell?” You asked, smelling a delicious sweet tang in the air.
He pulled you towards a stall where a large piece of green meat was sitting in a drum, smoke gathering around it. He began speaking to the stall holder, leaving to you look at the stall next to it, gently touching the small pieces of jewelry laying on the satin cloths.
“Jewelry for your lover perhaps?” The elderly lady said simply, showing you an array of intricately designed men’s rings.
You looked over at The Master who was still waiting for the food he had ordered and turned back to the lady, “I don’t think he’s the jewelry wearing type,”
“Something to remember you by perhaps?” She tried again, your eyes narrowed at her grinning face.
You felt the tightening in your chest for a moment before again shaking your head, “Nah, I think he’ll be sick of me leaving remnants around his ship. Turning it too feminine he says,” You rolled your eyes and picked up a necklace, your thumb tracing over the feathers.
The elderly lady laughed, “Perhaps you’re going to need something to remember him by,” She picked up a small round dome and held it out for you, “Take this with my regards,”
She placed it in your hand, and a type of warmth ran up your arm making you flinch away from her, “Its okay. Just keep this on you. Fill it with all the memories you can,"Her face darkened, "Because you’re going to need it,”
You swallowed deeply and eyed the ball in your hand, a sense of uneasiness coming over you.
You felt his presence behind you, his hand going to rest on your lower back, “Problem?” He asked simply, his eyes narrowing at the woman.
“None at all,” The woman stated, “Just showing the lovely pieces I got from Galaxy 12,”
He looked down at you, noticing you were still holding the ball and grabbed it from your hand, “Where did you get this?”
“The lady gave it to me. Something about memories,”
He nodded, twirling the ball between his fingers, “A type of memory ball. Different types come from different cultures. Some dangerous, some not,”
“This one?” You nodded, eyeing the purple smoke that was glowing inside it.
“A child's toy,” He handed it back to you and you placed it in your pocket, the warmth still seeping in your skin.
He grabbed your hand and continued to make your way through the marketplace, “You need to be careful with places like this. Very dangerous to wander off on your own if you don’t know what you’re doing,”
You shrugged your shoulders, “You forget that I traveled with The Doctor. Pretty sure dangerous is her middle name. Not to mention travelling with you,”
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” He turned to you, his brown eyes meeting yours. His fingers were still laced with your own, making a small smile cross your face.
“Who'd have thought. The big bad Master falling in love with the human,” You joked.
He gave a tight smile, “You’re not just any human though are you?”
You opened your mouth to say something, but were abruptly cut off by The Master dragging you back towards the TARDIS.
"Come on, it's getting late,"
On the porch, there sat the creature you were patting earlier, “Oh this is fate,” You laughed as you jogged up to the door, kneeling down to pat the creature, the Jerkinite moving to you and purring as it once again began to wrap around your hands and climb into your lap, “Please? Can we keep him? He’s so sweet,”
The Master walked up to you with a roll of his eyes, “No,”
“Please?”
“No,”
You picked it up and it began to purr louder, “Oh come on. He’s a sweetheart,”
The Master placed his hands in his pockets and watched you, feeling the joy through the bond. He let out a sigh and moved past you, unlocking the front door, “Do you even know what they eat?”
“Cat food?” You offered, picking it up and following The Master into the TARDIS. You noticed that The Master had realized that you had taken the creature in but didn't say anything to deter you. A grin overcame your face at the realization that he was only allowing this because it made you happy. Your heart fluttered at the thought of him putting aside his own annoyances for you.
The Master watched as you sat on the couch, the creature curling up into a ball on your lap, “Something much larger than cat food. Think whole creatures,”
You scratched behind it’s floppy ears, “Well then, I suppose we should find it some food then,” You looked up at your soulmate, “What should we name him?”
“No. What should you name him. I’m completely opposed to it being here,” The Master flicked a few switches before the TARDIS was back in flight.
“He looks like a Jeremy,” You stated simply.
The Master turned to you, a dry look on his face, “Jeremy?” He moved closer to you, “You want to name one of the most dangerous creatures in the universe Jeremy,”
“Yes,”.
He fell into the couch next to you, “Its a stupid name,”
“So is The Master but somehow you’ve made that work for ya,” You countered, ignoring the surge of annoyance through the bond.
With a roll of his eyes, The Master stood up and made his way out of the console room, leaving you and Jeremy on the couch together.
You sat calmly across from him, your legs crossed with your elbows resting on your knees. In all the years that you had known The Master, never once had you seen him look so lost, so dejected. His hair had fallen in front of his face, his eyes downtrodden, his jaw clenching. Through the bond, you could feel the raw pain and anguish. You could feel the sheer need to scream and yell and throw things, but for your sake, he was sitting seemingly calm across from you.
It had started hours earlier, while you were sitting on the couch petting the new member of your group feeding it small pieces of Earth meat from your hand, you had felt an indescribable pain in your chest. It made you knees buckle and the breath leave your chest.
You rushed down the corridor to The Master’s room to see him throwing things around, his voice going hoarse from yelling. It wasn’t until you called his name and wrapped your arms around him did he finally stop. Falling to his knees in anguish.
He told you that everything he knew about his life was a lie, everything he once believed in was a lie.
That you were the only thing that he believed in anymore.
“You were the only thing that kept me going,” He began, making your heart clench in pain; “There were times when I couldn’t do it anymore, I didn’t want to feel like this anymore; but sometimes I would feel you trickle through the bond. I don’t know how, but sometimes I would feel such a pure happiness come from you that it made me keep going. It was enough to keep me hanging on,”
Cautiously, you reached forward and gently grabbed his hand, turning it upwards and lacing your fingers through his lager ones; “Sometimes,” You began carefully, swallowing deeply, “Growing up. Sometimes I’d feel such a profound sadness, an unnatural sadness. It was like this-this hollowness that I couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard I tried,” Your eyes met his brown eyes, unshed tears filling the dark orbs; “Was that you?” You whispered, looking back down at your entwined hand.
“I’m sorry,” He croaked out, two stray tears falling down his cheeks, “I never wanted-” He looked away, moving his hand to quickly remove the tears, “In this whole universe, you were the one person I didn’t want to hurt. Not ever,”
Biting your lip, you wondered how you could phrase this next part. How to make him see that somewhere, deep inside, that there was something good there; “The incarnations of you I met, even when I first met you, you put me through some horrible things,” You watched as he clenched his eyes shut, as if he was trying to ignore what you were saying, “But you never once harmed me. You never once allowed me to be harmed. He loved me in a way like he already knew me even though it was my first time meeting him,” You moved your face so his eyes would meet yours, “He knew me before I knew him,” You reached up and caressed his face, watching as his face relaxed and moved into your hand, “He knew me from you,” A small smile crossed your lips, “He loved me because you loved me,” You watched as he moved his face further into your hand, like a child needing his mother’s comfort.
He gave a nod and another tear fell down his cheeks, he pressed his lips against the inside of your palm, cautiously, as if he was expecting you to be horrified by the thought. Horrified to know that this heartless and soulless monster was in love with the human.
“Look at me,” You whispered, moving your thumb to wipe away his tears. His brown eyes met yours, “You’re my soulmate. Two sides of the same coin,” You rested your head against his, “I love you. My Master,” You whispered.
He let out a small whimper before moving forward and roughly pressing his lips against yours. You felt him grip your cheeks before running his hands to your neck and gripping on to the back of your hair, like he needed something to ground him, something to remind him that you were there.
You pushed forward and deepened the kiss, moaning slightly when he followed suit. Your hands ran down his dark blue dress shirt, fingers lightly touching his buttons before resting on the bottom one and unbuttoning it.
He let out a small growl before pushing you on to your back, his hair falling into his face and his brown eyes watching you carefully, "Do you mean it?" He asked quietly.
"I love you," You replied equally soft, but just as reassuring.
He pressed his lips to yours once again, gentle hands removing the layers between you until you both had become a single soul.
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myth
im really good at titles, can you tell?
hear it is, the cursed naga au oum.asai vor.e fic. contains soft, non-fatal vor.e (with some sexual language but overall very fluffy) so if this makes you uncomfortable please disregard this post! thank you!
also idk of any dr vor.e tag so this is going in stuffed ronpa, sorry if i don’t tag this properly!
“Saihara-chaaaaan!”
A series of knocks on his door broke Saihara’s concentration. Which was fine, since he needed a break from this tedious research paper. The detective carefully got up and opened the door to see his boyfriend in an exceptionally playful mood. Ouma wasted no time in latching onto his beloved’s arm, staring up at him with eyes Saihara never failed to get lost in.
“Oh, it’s just terrible! My heater broke and now I’m gonna freeze to death… If only I had a strong, handsome naga to keep me warm!” the smaller boy giggled.
Ah yes, Saihara’s other self. The other students in their class knew of Saihara and Ouma’s relationship, but they were all oblivious to the detective’s massive secret. He wasn’t actually… human. At will, he could change his legs into a long, serpentine tail that could make him tower over most. While he tried to keep it a secret, Ouma had his ways of getting whatever information he desired. Even after the big reveal, they still had crushes on each other. Which led to nights like these.
Knowing full-well what Ouma’s intentions were, Saihara decided to play along. “And what should I do about that?”
Ouma placed a hand on the detective’s belly, leaning towards his ear with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know what I want, Saihara-chan~” he purred. His boyfriend’s sultry voice never failed to make Saihara shiver. He gulped and nodded wordlessly, taking Ouma’s hand and leading him to the bed. He also made sure to lock the door; because if someone were to witness what was about to go down, well... it would be disastrous, to say the least.
Closing his eyes, the detective began to concentrate on his transformation. A dim light enveloped his legs, taking on the shape of a lengthy snake tail. His scales were a vibrant black with shades of dark blue. Such a tail was often used by Ouma as a large pillow, as Saihara would wrap it around him to keep them warm.
The smaller boy wasted no time in stripping himself to merely his flashy boxers, a gesture that never failed to make Saihara blush. The detective often took umbrage with how skinny and frail his boyfriend was. Perhaps he could let these sessions happen more often if the boy had just a little more meat on him. Speaking of meat, Ouma’s lavender scent reached Saihara, making him all the more hungry, punctuated by a small growl emitting from his stomach.
“Nishishishi! Go ahead, dirty boy, you can have a taste,” he giggled, his cheek now in front of the taller boy’s face. Without further hesitation, Saihara began to lick. Though his boyfriend had smelled of lavender, his taste was more akin to grapes. Drool began to form around the naga’s mouth as Ouma flinched slightly, keeping his eyes shut. Curiously, he kept his wide grin. Saihara didn’t think a human would enjoy being licked (or, well, being eaten), but it certainly worked in their favor.
Growing somewhat impatient, Saihara unhinged his jaws and began to take the smaller boy’s head into his mouth. Being part snake gave him sharper teeth, so he took utmost care in easing the boy down his throat without biting too hard. Thankfully, Ouma had learned to trust his partner and not struggle, instead relaxing his body to enjoy the strange sensation. A powerful gulp brought in Ouma up to his shoulders, and Saihara slowly brought the tip of his tail to wrap around the boy, preparing to lift him up.
The detective took another large bite until his mouth hit Ouma’s boxers. Saihara wasn’t particularly fond of clothing, but he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to taste his boyfriend’s… private parts. His face heated up just thinking about it. The naga lifted his tail to let Ouma’s lower half slide down his gullet, leaving only the smaller boy’s spindly legs left. Without hesitation, Saihara quickly swallowed the remainder of his boyfriend, feeling the boy squirm around in his stuffed belly. He panted as he watched the large bulge in his snake body create indents from Ouma’s shuffling.
“Ewww, now I’m all covered in your icky slobber Shumai,” the boy whined sarcastically, his voice muffled by the stomach walls surrounding him.
“Am I warm enough, at least?” Saihara asked playfully. Ouma’s movements to get comfortable caused a pocket of air to escape, making the detective release a small burp. Something he knew Ouma loved to do in order to get a reaction.
“No one’s more comfy than Saihara-chan,” he mumbled. “And I was lying earlier, my heater isn’t broken.” He could hear the smile in his voice. The little leader began to knead and rub at his slimy surroundings, giving Saihara the ultimate massage. The action was making him even more drowsy, along with the intense feeling of fullness. He could tell Ouma was getting tired as well with his slower movements.
“I take it you want to spend the night?”
“Mmm.”
Nagas were blessed with the ability to control their digestion, allowing for this whole ordeal to even be possible. Saihara couldn’t be happier he found someone who accepted his true self, and even indulged him in this more… intimate activity. He leaned over to give his belly a small rub before settling for a restful night.
The morning announcement rose both of the boys from their slumber. Both went to stretch, but Saihara felt his stomach strained by Ouma’s attempts. Feeling somewhat sympathetic, Saihara opted to let his boyfriend out now and unceremoniously hacked him out onto the bed. The smaller boy, almost naked and drenched in saliva, had an unamused look while the detective tried to keep in a snicker.
“Did you have a good sleep?” the taller boy asked, as if he didn’t just throw up the boy into the cold air after eating him. It seemed Ouma got over that pretty quickly as he put on another happy mask, with a chipper smile.
“Yup! Now let’s get a shower in before breakfast. Can’t have everyone seeing Saihara-chan’s hot fluids all over me!” he chuckled, leaving the red-faced detective as he went to prepare in the bathroom. Saihara changed back into his human form and gathered the wet blankets, mentally apologizing to Tojo-san for having to clean them.
After the totally-not-awkward shower the two boys shared, Saihara and Ouma made their way to the dining hall, hand-in-hand with soft smiles.
#stuffed ronpa#sorry if this is kinda lackluster#i havent written vor.e in a long time#but please let me know what you think!#pora's fix
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30, Alucard and Viv!
(A quick note: hi, everyone!!! This is my first ever Hellsing fanfic, and naturally it’s smut, so please be gentle with me, pun intended ❤)
30: “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” | Alucard x OC
His shadows have her bound. Wrists above her head, ankles spread apart on either side of his hips, and he can feel it on his skin whenever she pulls and strains against them.
Genevieve is flushed such a pretty shade of pink from temple to tit, but Alucard prefers red. He lifts his head from her abdomen with one last graze of his fangs across her skin, propping himself upright with his arms to grin sadistically into her blushing face, wondering just how crimson he can make her.
She shifts uncomfortably underneath him, reaching to caress his hipbone with her foot, but his prehensile shadow yanks her ankle back into place, and she hisses in frustration.
“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, almost to himself, staring with his still-darkening eyes at her folds, so slick and flushed and swollen that he’s sure it must be almost painful, but he wants her to ache for it even more. Genevieve sneers in his face at his words, more out of habit than any real contempt, but he’ll take it as an opportunity to force her even closer to the edge, and he knows exactly how to drive her there.
He has washed her bed in darkness, and from it three shadows snake out: two to wrench her knees apart and one to plunge into her mouth, and he hardens further when she chokes on it, coughing and spluttering, a few stray tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Yes, this is how he likes her: helpless, restrained, gagged, spread open for him… he loves to have her entirely at his mercy and, more than that, he knows that despite herself Genevieve rather enjoys being there as well.
Alucard sits back, and Genevieve watches him suspiciously with narrowed eyes, jaw flexing and rippling around the shadow expanding and contracting minutely in her mouth. She swallows reflexively when the tip touches the back of her throat, and he drops his head and growls when the sensation echoes in his cock. She’s absolutely right that he’s planning something, and he tries not to be amused–and somewhat unnerved–by how well she’s come to know him.
He drags his fingertips lightly up her body, brushing the side of her breast and her nipple with this thumb before he arrives at his destination. He palms her tender, naked throat with the wide expanse of his hand, settling his fingers over her artery, jumping and leaping erratically under his surprisingly gentle touch, and squeezes.
But, ever true to form, it’s a feint. While he has her distracted, yet another smoky tendril creeps out to slip between her legs, and the combination of her noise–somewhere between a high-pitched whine and a low groan–the way she writhes to grind herself against it, and the feeling of phantom wetness on his erection all cause him to bite his lip until it bleeds, and briefly entertain the idea of abandoning his torment in favor of brutally fucking her until she comes completely unhinged, until she has to beg him to be done with it.
Genevieve is flushed so prettily now, though… stopping would be a waste. Alucard allows the shadow to move as it pleases: it pulls back and forth between her folds, never allowing Genevieve to find a rhythm to grind against it; the tip flicks against her clit intermittently, and Alucard thinks he can hear her curse heavily around the tendril that gags her.
However, he has another trick up his sleeve, one that he’s sure will cause her no small amount of frustration: at his thought, the shadow penetrating her with purposefully shallow, unsatisfying thrusts splits into two–one remains thrusting into her while the other comes to urgently caress her clit.
Genevieve reacts exactly as he expected, hips eagerly canting off the bed, trapped legs thrashing against the shadows that bind them, moaning brokenly as she meets the coiled darkness thrust for thrust. Alucard has ignored his rock-hard cock in favor of playing games with her, but the sight of her so shamelessly fucking away on what is essentially nothingness inflames him more than he thought possible. He slips one hand over his hardness before thinking that it should really be Genevieve’s job to jack him off, but then he realizes it would require freeing her hands, and he likes having her disadvantaged far too much to let her go. Alucard resigns himself to waiting, but knows it won’t be long now–
–and it isn’t long at all. It takes only a few heartbeats of Genevieve’s hips bucking higher and higher off the bed, until she’s arching in the frenetic way he knows is a precursor to her climax. The forked tendril works her cunt faster and faster, the folds flushed as red and angry as the skin on her breasts and neck, and her cries around the shadow-gag get louder and louder until…
… until the tendril dissolves entirely, right before she topples over the edge. Genevieve thrashes angrily, kicking at him as best she can despite her restraints, and he finds such a perverse joy at her helplessness and rage that he’s almost tempted to repeat the whole ordeal. But he’s hard, almost harder than he gets shooting others to pieces and getting shot himself in return, and while he’s not the least bit afraid of her, he doesn’t exactly relish the thought of her remaining irritated with him once the night is over.
The shadows holding her knees and ankles withdraw back into the darkness, and true to life Genevieve aims a swift kick at his head, one which ends up landing softly near his ribs. He quirks an eyebrow at her, and the tendril in her mouth pulls back some so he can hear her sloppily, vehemently cursing him as much as she possibly can.
“Do you want me to take that gag out of your mouth? Unbind your hands?” he asks, and Genevieve sneers again in response, hissing at him through her teeth like a snake, refusing to give him a yes or no answer. “Maybe I’ll leave your wrists,” he murmurs, stroking her swollen lower lip with his thumb. “I have something else in mind for keeping you quiet.”
As much as she can around the withdrawing tendril, Genevieve bares her teeth in a snarl, and Alucard grins.
[want to send me a smutty ask? find the list here!]
#hellsing fanfiction#alucard hellsing#hellsing alucard#alucard x oc#hellsing#please validate me!!!#also if you wanna know more about genevieve come check out my blog because she is my girl and i love her so much
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“You fell off my plane.”
“I-oh. Oh!” Peter grapples with the brick wall behind him and tries to haul himself upright. “Wait -Okay. Don’t- Just- No, no. No, you’ve got to-“
Somehow, and Peter isn’t sure how, but the Iron Man suit seems to radiate disapproval. Without moving. Is that why the faceplate was designed like that? Because wow. That is super duper effective. Like 10/10. Well done. High roll for intimidation. Peter’s existence feels heavily disapproved of. It’s a lot to take in at that moment.
“It’s being taken care of.” Iron Man bends over and for a horrifying second Peter imagines the jaw plate unhinging anaconda style ready to swallow him whole when it registers what he’s been told. “What?”
”Yeah.” The faceplate flips up and Peter flinches back. Giant snake. Don’t eat me. “You know most people who want my attention harass me on Twitter.”
“I did-“
“You hijacked a plane full of weapons,” Stark interrupts. “It’s flight path wasn’t registered with the FAA. It’s completely off the grid. Retroreflectors in place. Nobody knew about that plane taking off.”
Peter cringes. “I didn’t-“
“Nope. Try again.”
“You weren’t there!” Peter shouts, fighting his way onto unsteady legs. A wave of vertigo sweeps over him and almost sends him straight back to the ground, and would if he wasn’t hanging tight to the wall with all his might.
Stark’s face blanks and his voice goes alarmingly quiet. “Excuse me?”
“They were selling those weapons on the streets,” Peter snaps. His head pounds as he focuses on Mr. Stark’s face. “People were dying and nobody noticed!” Dizziness makes him wobble as he takes a step away from the wall. “Nobody ever notices! The police can’t handle it, the FBI only knows about the big deals, and the Avengers-” Peter snorts and it’s wet and gross and he’s pretty sure he started crying though he can’t remember when. “They don’t ever look out for the little people. That plane? Your plane? It was rigged to blow and you didn’t even know, did you? You never notice until it’s end of the world level stuff and you think that’s enough?”
“Kid-“ Stark takes a step toward him.
“No.” Peter shoves at him before he could get closer but the armor doesn’t even sway. It doesn’t even move and Peter’s fingers leave bloody smears across the pristine metal. “I fell. Off your plane, Mr. Stark. That is full of alien-tech that you guys just left on the streets, and it had a bomb strapped to it. A bomb I just disabled, and you didn’t notice. You didn’t notice and I tried.” Peter’s wheezing, his chest tightening as he struggles to breathe through the tears clogging his throat. He wipes angrily at his face, ripping back his hood because what was the point? If Tony Stark found him once he’d find him again. And again. And again. And Peter doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he was followed this time when he’s been running this beat for months now, trying to keep his neighborhood safe. All of New York safe and it’s just being thrown right in his face. “Why? Why now? Why do you care now?”
“Who do you think contacted the FBI?”
“What can the FBI do against people firing weapons that can vaporize you? They nearly sunk a ferry! Have you even- I can’t-“ Peter sags, back hitting the wall and head tipped back toward the blackened sky. Raindrops hit his upturned face and streak down his cheeks, mingling with tears before dripping to the ground. “I can’t do this alone,” he mumbles, “I’m just a kid. I can’t do this alone and nobody is helping me!”
He tries to shove past Stark but the man grabs him by the arm and it’s then he remembers the talons ripping through his suit into his chest and his knees buckle as a strangled yelp echoes up and out of the alley. For a wild moment, he thinks someone else is being hurt. It takes him a second to realize the noise had come from him.
“Easy. You’re bleeding.”
“No thanks to you.”
Stark rolled his eyes and just kept staring at the sky like it might hold some answers, but Peter already knows it doesn’t. It never does. This is clearly the timeline God abandoned, literally even, Thor hasn’t been seen on Earth in years. So it’s hardly a surprise when the man’s heavy gaze comes back down and lands on Peter as if he’s a complicated problem to solve.
“Yeah. No. This isn’t working. You’re coming back with me.”
Peter yanks his arm away. Too fast. Too fast. And gapes. “What?!”
“You’re injured,” Stark points out. “Probably a concussion and don’t think I didn’t notice the way you’re favoring your ribs, bud.” Peter squirms under his knowing look. It’s not fair he can do that. Read him like that. They don’t even know each other. Stark literally knows nothing about him. “Unless you want to go to a hospital?” Peter sullenly shakes his head. “Thought not. So let’s take a look at your options, hm? One. I leave you here. You try to do your swinging thing home and end up dead on a rooftop. Two. You get your ass to a hospital and get outed to the government. Or Three. You let me take you back to the Tower. Patch you up and then have a fun little chat about how we ended up in this position.”
“Can I vote none of the above?” Peter asks.
“Not up for debate.” Stark crosses his arms and stares him down. “I’m a very busy person. Clock’s ticking. What’s it going to be, kid?”
Peter bows his head and clenches his hands. “I’ll go with you.”
#irondad#peter parker#tony stark#bamf peter parker#he's just a kid. he's got asthma.#nanowrimo#i really need to title this thing#super au canon divergence#i can't even describe how very canon-diverged this story is#not the meeting we wanted or needed but probably one we deserved#peter is not here for the avengers bs
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this one's a doozy :))) commission for a cannibal lover. thank you so much for letting me take my time with this one
inside: cannibalism, dismemberment, implied death threats, knotting, fearplay, bloodplay, licking, pain, biting, too many teeth, and a some body horror
..
Work must be done.
Silas drives through the quiet, dark night. No stars – full dark. It brings a familiar thought loop to the forefront of his mind, occupying him through the same tired route he drives all too often now, cruising through the quaint neighborhoods of Derry. It’s so white-picket-fence, so stuck in a period long gone. Frozen in time. It feels slower inside the city limits, like the place is oozing along out of some strange spite. Refusing to die, refusing to acclimate to… what? To time, to reality?
[[MORE]]
And this is Silas’ reality. He glances furtively in the corn fields, knowing he won’t see anything worse than where he’s headed – namely, who he’s off to meet. Something kind of like him, something rotten, a thing that makes its way furtively into the night to hunt, to eat. It’s a lonely business, the feeding; Silas tightens his grip on the steering wheel and swallows past the throbbing lump in his throat, exhilarated and scared absolutely shitless.
The turn on to Neibolt Street is like looking down the barrel of a gun. He pulls up to the old house, the eyesore of the town, and kills the engine. He lingers suspended between two worlds, like he won’t be able to budge from the front seat; it feels impossible, tethered between his hunger and his fear. Garbage bags wait quietly in the backseat, promising him everything he wants the most. Hunger always wins.
It takes three trips, but each run gets a little easier, a little more natural to traverse the decaying structure, to be a little less startled by things hiding in the corners. Sometimes he does that. Does it to test him, he assumes – strange faces behind doorways, running shadows. Garbled languages that make his ears burn. He avoids two Things this time, a slimy, creeping thing in the hallway that he has to steel himself for, staring straight ahead. It won’t hurt me. Just an extension of it. Just him, just a trick. The thing cackles at him in clicks, slithering around his ankles before bounding off in the opposite direction, limbs crackling.
“Pennywise?”
Silas’ voice echoes down by the mouth of the well. Peering down there offers nothing in the way of the clown’s location, and after a few moments of shifty waiting, he decides to begin opening the bags. The smell is strong. It hits him and he weathers the initial recoil, patient as his noses adjusts and his stomach aches for it. His heart beats a little faster, blood rushing through his veins hot as the twitch between his legs. It’s the headiest scent of all, the smell of somebody once they’ve been opened up. That deep, dark scent, the wildest game. Not so wild in several pieces. Not so wild at all.
Silas pulls limbs, innards, a torso. A badly damaged head and a head he’s been storing in a freezer, the body already used up and done away with. It still feels cold. Silas strokes the ratty, blood-crusted hair, the frozen lips. It almost feels sad to set it down, to complete the cycle of that relationship, knowing exactly what Pennywise is going to do to it. Fingers trembling, he removes his hands from the head, forces himself to pay special attention to the damaged one. The jawbone hangs by threads of mangled meat, fine chunks of bone stark in their whiteness. It was an accident. He doesn’t like to damage the heads too much; it feels… disrespectful. Not a true form. He runs the pad of his finger along the teeth, poking into several of the gaps.
He spreads things out in piles – things to be worked on, things that are easiest to prep for consumption. Things he keeps special for himself. There are parts he saves specifically for Pennywise, now, things he largely considers inconsumable – bones, gristle, parts with lots of fat or cartilage. Nothing he feels like wrapping up for home.
He rises up from the floor, already feeling those strong stirrings in his gut. The sensation of all that dull, chilled flesh under his hands makes him throb, and he steadies himself against the edge of the well on the way to grab his tools. They rest in their new home, in the relative safety of this cursed house, knives, cleavers, a hacksaw, clips. Scissors. Butcher paper, twine. A bevy of instruments dedicated to his desire, just as important as the people they part open for him. One big, warm, blissfully wet cycle. Ouroboros. He drags tools back to the parts arranged lovingly around the well, the thrill of his busy night flushing his cheeks.
It boils down to pure, naked effort and routine. There’s an art to it, a beauty in order, in realizing the big picture as well as the tiny parts that make it all up. There are sinews and curves and angles, tricks in which to properly trim the meat. Slowly, he builds stacks of cuts. There’s a pile of offal for the creature. He arranges it closest to the well, next to various other undesirable parts. It takes the better part of hours, takes diligence and every last nerve to survive the dimness, the anxiety of waiting, wondering.
When Pennywise shows up, he peeks from over the edge. It startles Silas, rips a gasp from his lips as he locks eyes with it.
“Scared the fucking shit out of me,” he mutters. He stays silent, stays behind the lip of the well where he watches intently. Every single move Silas makes, he feels the weight of Pennywise’s gaze, the sheer focus laced with hunger. At least he’s not alone in this hellhole. At least the wait is over, the growing panic like fire licking up through his guts. The clown sits (floats. It floats) in the well and hums occasionally, as if in approval, in excitement. It awakens that spark again in Silas, heat prickling just under his skin. The combination of the heads, the loving way he handles each parcel of cold flesh, the blinkless gaze of a monster who allows him sanctuary, who wants to watch… it’s intoxicating. He draws a shaky breath and continues his task.
Out from the well, one long, long arm reaches out. Fingers sprawl like a spider, huge, five pale legs skittering around until they close over a jawbone, the jawbone, barely attached to the rest of the head. The newest head. A pang of anger makes his throat close up – but not before a single, stern syllable leaves his lips.
“No.”
Silas licks his own fingers off and rolls that flavor around his tongue as Pennywise rises up like some demented god from the well. The glow of his eyes lights up the room, orange as a sunset in hell. Isn’t that where he is, anyway? Those eyes ground him as the creature towers, hulks over Silas’ seated form on the filthy ground. He snatches the head up, fingers hooked through the jaw, and unhinges his face until the flesh pulls back, tight and shiny and white as clay, and sinks his sharkteeth into the parietal and occipital lobes. Skull fragments shoot from his mouth like shrapnel and soft, pink, gelatinous meat dribbles down his face.
Pennywise grunts as he sends the remainder of the skull sailing to the ground, where it explodes. Flecks of gray-pink meat spray over Silas’ shirt, over the other cuts of meat, limbs ready to be stripped and treated with care. He bows low, nostrils flaring, nose crinkling into a snarl, and those teeth multiply by the second. They jut out of his face as he licks his lips, swallows.
The clown smiles, eyebrows lifting. He gives Silas a jaunty little shake, tiny bells jingling in the ruffles.
“Sorry, Silas, I don’t think I heard ya! Go on… say it again.”
Silas falters, mustering all his focus on keeping still as the creature looming over him comes close enough to rub noses, and he does. He nuzzles slowly into it like they’re lovers, and he clucks his tongue as Silas chokes on his own voice. No words come, and again the clown laughs.
“Oooohhh, sweet Silas, are you jealous?” It chuckles and Silas tastes the thing’s breath, rancid, spoilt over centuries. It’s intoxicating, it feels like tasting death itself, and Silas almost leans into it, curious about a flavor of death and decay he hasn’t tasted yet. “Don’t like me playing with your toys?”
“They’re not toys, they’re people.”
“Food.” He comes away from Silas with a grin. “Not people. Just meat. Do you like to fuck the meat, Silas? Do you love the meat?”
Silas reels, anger black as the night racing up the column of his spine, indignant, mingling with his fear like acid in the back of his throat. Cheeks burning, he takes a breath, tries to contain it before it gets him killed. Pennywise snatches the other head and Silas reaches out, tries to snatch it back.
Pennywise howls, keeping the body part easily out of his reach, like a child’s game. He runs his tongue over the face and sips Silas’ shaking rage like a cocktail.
“It’s not just meat, it’s – I don’t fucking know, just please… can you just –”
“– be nice?”
Silas huffs, up on his feet. Nothing can save him if Pennywise decides he’s being disobedient or meddlesome. He stands in the face of that knowledge, limbs seized by his immediate sense of danger, and he wonders faintly if this is it, if this is really fucking it, and buried underneath absolute existential dread is the disappointment that he didn’t get to truly taste his last victim.
Pennywise opens his mouth and his face comes apart. Bones crackle as they rearrange and grow new paths, marrow knitting itself over and over, teeth chittering into being, and he sends the entire head down into his glowing gullet. It’s like snakes eating eggs. The morbid lump travels down the throat, distending his flesh and bulging it through with veins, until it’s absorbed and crushed inside his ribcage, and finally those awful jaws come back together. It crunches, grinds against itself until he’s wearing that familiar, dripping sneer, face unbearably whole again. He comes so close, but this time he doesn’t bow. He’s solid, radiating heat and frothing pink-red at the mouth.
“Do you want me to be nice, Silas?” His voice comes, like the whisper of dry leaves on asphalt, like creaking hinges. His lips remain still. “Do you want me to be so nice?”
“Yeah…”
“Yeah? Want me to be as nice as you are with these… things?”
“They’re not things –”
“Do you like the feeling of them inside you?”
Silas can’t remember how to breathe. His lungs simply quit, too stunned, stomach lurching like he’s been punched. The clown giggles, dropping to its haunches and rocking on his feet. He clutches a fillet knife like it could ever harm the creature in front of him. His mouth works up and down several times before his brain sends the correct signals, misfire after misfire, and, finally, Silas utters a pained yes.
Pennywise pushes a long, gloved finger between Silas’ lips. The whine that surrounds that finger is enough to set his guts on fire, and there’s a shift in the light deep in those endless pits. The light back there dances. It’s calming, it makes his eyeballs tingle the longer he tries to find it in there, to see it a little more, see if it changes.
“You like them?”
“Yes…”
The fabric of the glove presses down on Silas’ tongue. Pennywise grasps him there, fingertip digging into the fleshy center, thumb up under the shelf of his jaw, and he tips Silas’ head back until his throat is vulnerable, a landscape waiting to be explored by teeth. No teeth come; instead, Pennywise leans in, nose tickling over his pulse, and inhales. He sniffs at Silas like an animal, like Silas is a meal, and the prospect is not only horrifying but irresistible. He all but leans into it.
“I like you, pretty boy. Like your scent. Like the stink of you here.”
The clown’s other hand cups Silas between the thighs, engorged cock trapped under his palm. The pressure is sharp, it makes Silas jump and whine.
“Oh, you like it? You want me inside of you, sweet boy? Are you hungry for me, too?”
Oh my god. That’s what he says, but it comes out garbled, clipped off, caught around Pennywise’s fingers. The clown titters and there’s a sound that makes Silas’ stomach clench and roil, a sound not unlike ripping meat. It’s wet and violent, and then there are teeth on his throat. They sink slowly, so slowly that he can hear the little pops as they break skin and razor under his flesh. They settle for barely a moment before there’s a sickening squelch and Pennywise rears back, licking the blood off his lips, and his brow knits together. He cocks his head and pouts, smiles, pouts again.
“Poor creature. I know it hurts, hurts so much. Heeere…”
Impossibly long, slithering over his throat until it wraps all the way around, Pennywise’s tongue drags over the wounds. It’s like a worm, like a writhing pink leech. It pulses and squeezes and soaks in his blood, the creature behind it moaning, eyes rolling wetly up into its skull. There are veins there, too, tiny spiderlike trails that thread his eyeballs as well as his thick tongue. It contracts around his neck until Silas is wheezing for air. The constriction sends a wave of electricity down between his legs, and he rocks into Pennywise’s outstretched palm like he’s offering himself, offering everything up, anything, just to keep feeling this.
His tongue slides back behind his teeth and Silas keeps rocking, burying his hands into the ruffles at the neck of the alien’s costume.
“I know what you need, Silas. I know you’re hungry.” He smooths his gloved hands away from where Silas is burning hot, digs his fingers into the fabric of his pants and RIPS. The force of it pushes him back, makes him prone below the towering clown. “So wet already. Messy, messy boy. Does it feel so good, taking apart your little friends, your meals? You want me to take you apart, S i l a s? Nice and slow, turn you inside out.”
“Fuck.” Silas allows the clown to spread his legs, push his thighs apart til they burn with effort, til he’s shaking, whimpering, arching up to try to catch Pennywise’s lips against his. He wants to taste his own blood, taste the fatal chasm of the monster’s mouth. “Please. I… I want that, all of that, anything…”
“Mmh, eager, aren’t you? Wanna be touched so bad. Wanna be fucked. Tell me. Tell me, brave little thing, tell me what you need.”
Silas begins to speak, but the words falter and tremble into more of those little, pitiful whines, watching Pennywise shift and change and buck his hips forward with an unmistakable bulge inside the pleats of his outfit. It throbs like a heartbeat, like Silas can somehow feel it inside his body, intimate as his own blood pressure. His body works overtime to get the blood anywhere but that engorged place between his legs, screaming for attention, slick and parted and exposing how swollen he is. Pennywise nudges with his fingers, teases. Nothing is enough.
“I didn’t hear that. Try again.”
Pennywise is less clown and more creature. He shreds his own costume, sheds it like a skin that’s grown too tight, too restrictive, and the scarred flesh around his ribcage ripples. It grows lumps, disgusting masses of flesh that squirm between muscle and bone until the structure is different. They split his skin and blood like tar pours from the open wounds, black and viscous, bones shredding through stark-white until there’s meat wrapping around them, lengthening, whipping mindlessly around until their form becomes clear. Rubbery flesh chases up the newly formed limbs, extra arms, fingers sprouting from the stumps of raw sinew until there are more hands to use, more fingers to dig into Silas’ yielding flesh. They go to work immediately, sliding up his shirt to touch his belly, his chest, between his thighs where he’s so painfully ready.
“Please be inside me, l-like the others, please… let me… taste you.”
No sooner does he admit his need does Pennywise comply. Freshly formed fingers shove past his lips and teeth and near the back of his tongue, ready to make him gag. Silas holds out til his eyes water, til his throat itches to swallow and sputter, but if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s handling things in his mouth that shouldn’t be.
“Oh, I will be. I’ll be inside you, big boy. You’ll thank me, oh, you’ll SING for it. You’ll SCREAM and BEG for me to leave you empty again, yes you will!”
Incoherent curses drip around Pennywise’s new fingers, stuffed so neatly in that obedient mouth, and his prehensile dick comes free. It wriggles against Silas, nudges at his own wet cock and the secret, tight place underneath. Pennywise watches Silas drool around his fingers and he matches him, jaw hanging open a little too wide, a little too toothy, like his entire face might split in a mess of bleeding gum and teeth, and Silas wriggles down. He pushes against a cock too big, too molten hot to ever be able to actually fit inside of him, and yet, with each soft rut of Pennywise’s hips, it seems a little more tangible. The alien cock writhes just like Silas does. It’s textured, lined and grooved and covered in tiny bumps that don’t seem to stay fixed to any one area. Everything changes as it pleases. It curves up over where Silas wants him without actually pushing inside – until he does.
Searing. His eyes fly wide open and they’re almost as wide as the clown’s, glowing like dying embers back in his massive skull, and Silas wonders if he can’t just burst into flames like those dancing lights. Might just fly with them, might float into Pennywise and become weightless, become eternal. There’s a continuation there, a loop of thought as the monster traces the places behind Silas’ teeth and thrusts between his thighs, that he wants to be the one inside of somebody else, wants to sink into Pennywise much the same way as Pennywise sinks into him, but more. The call of the void screeches through his head like tinnitus.
“Look at you. Look at you spread open, like a treat, a treat just for me.” Claws slash at him, into his belly, across his thighs, and Pennywise makes a sound deep in his frame that awakens a fear previously dormant in Silas’ blood. It courses through him like a warning through time as Pennywise makes those sounds, like clicking, like broken radio transmission and scuttling leaves, like snapping mandibles. It sounds like it’ll burst out of the beast’s body and then it’s everywhere, in the walls, vibrating up through the ground, leaking out of each pore. The clown moans, he drags that nasty tongue up Silas’ belly and seeks out all those shiny new gashes. “Let me take care of that – oh, you hurtin’ for me? Good boys hurt. Good boys let me fill them aalll the way UP!”
Pennywise bottoms out into Silas. His squirming, shifting cock practically spills out of him, there’s just nowhere else to go. Silas’ body aches, it clenches down on the monstrous thing inside of him until he can feel the butterfly pulse of his own climax creeping toward the surface. Above him, jaws come apart, snap together inches from his face, and he shudders with boiling heat. Everything is wet. Each little jerk and throb strikes an exquisitely primal fear in Silas that maybe he’s serious this time; maybe he’ll finally take what’s his and then consume him. Maybe he’ll slide into the tight, hot squeeze of the thing’s gullet, feel all that trembling flesh and meat closing in around him, like he’s done so many times himself with others’ bodies. The mental image is made all the more vivid by Pennywise’s gaping maw, studded far too full of teeth. They jut out from his bleeding ridges of gum and the back of his throat seems to stretch forever, to some unseen point where there’s a glow not unlike his eyes. This one’s a little prettier, though. This one makes his guts squeeze down, and for a moment, it feels like the cock inside of him is a little thicker.
“Feeling a little afraid? Been so good at taking it that you’ve forgotten what I can REALLY do to you.” Fingers crawl all over Silas, crawl over his ribs and at his waist and at the apex of his thighs, right above where he’s slowly, agonizingly fucked apart. Fingers stroke. He’s so slippery already that it’s barely begun and he can feel the wringing of pressure in every single nerve, the last, final tensing before he feels like he might lift weightlessly off the floor. “Doing so well, sweet boy. Show me just how much you need it, come on. Show me you can take it all.”
“I am,” Silas grunts. He’s panting, delirious with it, bouncing down mindlessly against the clown til he’s flush. The pain seems like an idea, existing and not existing at all. “I am, I can, I am… can – fuck! – can feel all of you.”
“Oh! Can you?”
Under Pennywise’s cruel laughter, under the dripping, toxic drool, the teeth crowding his sneer, Silas bucks against him and against his talented hands, stroking even after the waves are coursing outward from his belly all the way to his toes, the backs of his eyelids gone a horrible shade of bright orange before they’re white. It’s like being washed in stars. His muscles ebb and flow, constrict and contract, and through it all, Pennywise feels painful.
Each second lends to the explosion of his climax, dick pulsing with each aftershock. Underneath that, the clown grows. He barely moves, content to grab at Silas and tease him well past the peak of his orgasm, as deep as he can safely go, but… he inflates.
The base of his cock grows, stretching Silas out until it aches. It swells up against a particularly sensitive patch of flesh and forces a new, miserable kind of pleasure into him. It’s too much too soon. It hurts, it feels like fucking fire, it feels like he’s in a (sunset)
“Guess you can take it all, big boy.”
He rocks his body only slightly and then his eyes roll up to the threaded whites, blood welling in his lids and leaking down over his cheeks like the very vessels in his face can’t stand to hold it in, either. He erupts inside of Silas, fills him, pumps his cum into him with his cock knotted nice and tight inside. Trapped. Every single nail digs into Silas as Pennywise cums, growling, gasping, grunting like an animal. He leans down to nuzzle his bleeding face into his captive’s throat, tucked in the nape of his neck, and he breathes a giggle and smells him, licks him.
“Gunna keep coming back? Come a’callin?”
He nips at him, licks the soft little wounds like candy. He jerks his hips back and mocks the pitiful sounds coming from Silas.
“Poor thing. Pooooooor thing. Here. Let me make it better.”
Pennywise tugs against the lock of their bodies, pulling until Silas is nearly sobbing and incomprehensible before he opens his jaws and that tongue pours out of him like some monstrous new organ, slimy and dripping and hot as it slides around his captive’s dick. It feels far too soon. It feels like an impossibility, even with the delicious feeling of all that seed seeping out of him, coating him, body covered in a sticky film of saliva and blood and cum. That tongue brings him off again so quickly it leaves his head spinning, ears plugging up and voiding out until it feels like there are thick wads of cotton in them. It comes back slowly, returning on the edge of a high-pitched whine.
Finally, there’s a sense of relief, of deflation, and the eventual removal. The satisfaction of being so empty again is almost as good as the act itself. He lay spent on the floor, sprawled out and enjoying the near-doze of recuperation. Distantly, he knows there’s a job to finish. Things to take apart, to package. Things to feed the monster above him, whose limbs crack and snap and twitch as they’re absorbed back into his body. He looks like a spider, some psychotic arachnoid going through a reverse molt.
“Was it nice, Silas?” Pennywise smirks, lapping blood from his mouth, from his fingers. “Nice and full?”
“Yes.”
He laughs low, under unsteady breath like winds through the gallows, and the room gets a little colder, a little darker. The clown nods at the piles of meat, the spare parts. He winks, taking a bow, and perches on the edge of the well. Waiting. Watching. Expectant and free of distraction, free of the growing tension. Silas squirms where he sits, perversely happy to feel it there, feel the parts of him painted thick with its seed. Those parts tingle, they warm him and make his skin crawl in the most pleasant way.
Back to work.
#:)#hoooooope it's good#i love silas honestly i took some liberties maybe but thank you overall for letting me play with him#pennywise x reader#but not really#pennywise/silas#commission#body horror#n sfw#gore mentions#just i mean this one was a big messy party guys i really played in here#bless
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Unknown Fate - Part Four
Kristanna Canon Divergence
Kristanna Week 2019 - Prompt: The Unknown
Rated: M (swear word)
WC: 4265
Previous Chapters
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It was utterly amazing how such a simple thing as a warm bath could feel so good. Yet another thing that Anna had taken for granted as the princess of Arendelle.
It felt amazing to get some soap on her grimy skin. Even better was washing her hair. She used to hate it when her hair got too greasy, but that was before her hair got so grimy that it turned the bathwater a rather unpleasant shade of grey.
Still, that did not bother Anna. She soaped her whole body two more times until the bathwater was getting too cold to stand. When she got out, she toweled herself dry while she stared at the beautiful dress hanging on the back of the door. She could not wait to put it on.
She made sure her hair was fairly dry before she finally slipped the dress over her head. She was thankful that the tie for the bodice was in the front, eliminating her need to have someone help her put it on. How such a simple thing like that could make all the difference in the world, amazed Anna all over again.
With her hair combed and put back into her braids, she tossed all her old garments in the trash and exited the small room to find Kristoff.
She did not have to look for him long. He was just outside of the bathhouse in the little alley between it and the inn with his back leaning against the wall. He gave her a lopsided smirk when he noticed her coming his way.
“How do you feel…” The last word died on his lips as his eyes widened, his gaze focused on her hair.
Anna suddenly realized that he had never seen the light streak in her hair. It had been covered by so much filth and she usually wore her braids under a handkerchief to hide the dirt.
He blinked and swallowed like his throat was dry. There was surely no way he knew who she was, was there? She had spent her entire life in the castle with the gates closed. Barely anyone knew what she looked like and he was most certainly not at the coronation ball. Perhaps he just thought that the streak in her hair was odd looking.
Yet his eyes said something different. They burned with recognition and Anna was suddenly very afraid. She knew Hans’s men still searched for her. She had seen them scouring through town every once in a while. What if…
No. There was no way in hell that Kristoff was one of those men. Still, how could he know her?
He clamped his jaw shut tightly and reached out for her hand. He began to drag her back towards the Inn. Anna suddenly felt an urge to stop and run. She didn’t know him after all. Not really. She couldn’t take her assumptions as the truth. Every spike of adrenaline through her body was telling her to run, yet deep down, her instinct told her to go with him.
She followed without a word.
He all but shoved her into the room and turned to shut the door. She watched as he braced his palms against it, arms straight and hanging his head between his shoulders. She understood in an instant that he knew exactly who she was and her heart started to beat even quicker in her chest.
Anna waited, nerves shaking her body. He finally pulled himself away from the door and turned around and spoke two words, his face an expression disbelief, disappointment, and something else Anna could not put her finger on.
“What happened?”
Anna broke down. Her knees unhinged and she fell, but she didn’t not hit the ground. Kristoff was there to grab her, like he had been since the day they met.
He picked her up gently and carried her over to the bed. He placed her upon it then took a seat on the edge. She needed more, however. She needed to be held. She needed comfort. She held her arms out to him, not expecting him to comply.
But he did. He laid beside her on the small bed and pulled her into his chest. Anna wept against him until she fell into a fitful sleep.
*****
She drifted in and out of consciousness. Never once did the warm comfort of Kristoff leave her. It wasn’t until she woke for good that he finally stirred, adjusting himself to lay flat on his back. Anna went with him, unable to let go of their closeness for the moment.
He was silent, waiting for her to talk. The problem was she had no idea what to say. She had no idea what was going to happen. She had no way of knowing how far Kristoff’s generosity was going to stretch. There would be a point in time when he was done helping her, wouldn’t there? It’s not like he was going to take her with him.
Anna sighed and got up, unable to meet him in the eyes just yet. She wandered over to where the basket of food sat on the table and lifted the handkerchief to see what was left inside. She took the first thing her eyes stumbled on. She bit into the bright red apple as she wandered over to the little window in the room.
It was dusk. She hadn’t been asleep all that long.
“What happened?”
Anna paused, apple mid-way to her mouth. She had planned to never tell another living soul what had happened for fear of what would become of her sister if she did. But the fact that now King Hans was in charge, didn’t seem to bode well for Elsa. Perhaps her sister was already dead.
Anna fought back the tears at the thought. No, she wasn’t dead. Anna could feel it in her heart. Forced to live a lie maybe, but not dead. Anna had to wonder what Hans had in store for her to keep her alive after he had taken the throne. There had to be a reason.
Anna thought back to the last time she had laid eyes on her sister when she had discovered just how much a treacherous snake Hans truly was. She was led to the courtyard by Kai, bundled up in cold weather clothing but nothing else. Despite how many times she pleaded with Kai to tell her what was going on, the broken looking man remained silent as he led her to what Anna could only assume was her demise.
She was surprised to find Elsa and Hans standing together in the courtyard with a group of a half a dozen scary looking men huddled in one corner, watching everything through the sides of their eyes.
“Elsa, what is going on? Wait, where are the guards?”
“Relieved of their duty,” Hans said coolly. “My men are in charge of the security now, since I am soon to be King.”
“W-why are you doing this Elsa? Why are you giving him everything he wants?”
“I have to keep the Kingdome safe,” Elsa pulled in a shuddering breath. “And you.”
“What do you mean? Elsa, you have powers! I saw them! Please, do something!”
“I… I can’t,” Elsa looked utterly defeated.
“What? Elsa, come on! Hurt him before he can hurt us! Get these men to leave! You are the Queen!”
“And if I hurt you in the process?” Elsa shouted. The temperature in the air dropped immediately as tiny shards of Ice started to fall to the ground from Elsa’s clenched fists. “I won’t risk it, Anna. Not after what happened when we were kids. I can barely hold on most of the time. I fear for everyone if I should ever let go!”
Anna’s eyes widened as everything clicked into place. The fragmented memories, the sudden closed doors, the silent treatment… Everything that had changed after that one night that left Anna questioning everything, day after day. Now she knew. There had been an accident. Strange that she did not remember it. What had they done to her?
That was why Elsa wasn’t using her powers to protect them. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to control it. Why else would she always lock herself away in her room? Why would she cut her own coronation ball early? She was starting to crack and she didn’t want anything to show.
Then Anna suddenly realized it was her sounding the alarm that must have tipped Hans off that guards were on their way. The balcony doors were open, she was sure now that he had heard her screaming for help. What did he threaten Elsa with to get her to take whatever control she had on her powers and clear the air of snow in her room? Was it her life? No, not only hers at least. He must have threatened Anna’s life as well. That was why Elsa said she had to keep her safe…
“Elsa,” Anna whispered, shoulders dropping in despair, wishing she would have simply tried to take Hans down herself instead if accidentally letting him know she had seen him.
Her sister looked at her with eyes that confirmed all of Anna’s suspicions. She was bargaining herself for the entire kingdom and Anna’s life.
What a downright dirty trick. What a despicable human being this Hans was. Anna felt sick to her stomach that she had ever thought he was handsome. Truly naive she was. No, never again. She was going to make a stand and do what was right, regardless of what it meant for her.
She was about to charge him when he spoke, most likely seeing her intent.
“Think about your next move carefully, Princess. I am getting tired of entertaining the both of you. You either leave now in this period of grace I am feeling, or I will kill the both of you.”
The men that were huddled in the corner were now closing in on all of them, creating a circle around them. Anna had no choice. She was going to have to go along with this then figure out what to do on her own. She held her head high and started her lonely walk towards the outside world.
Anna was just about through the gates when she heard two words, a death sentence carried to her through the cold night air.
“Kill her.”
Elsa started to scream and Anna ran. She didn’t know what else to do. She could hear several men take off after her. Her only chance was going to be in the forest. She just wasn’t sure if she was going to make it there in time.
She ran with everything she had as she heard the shouts behind her. She was suddenly thankful for the moonless night, even though she tripped and fell several times, cutting her knees and shins on the cold, hard ground. She made it to the treeline with enough space between them to gain an advantage. She knew these woods. She had played in them many times when she was young, the only place her parents would allow that was outside of the castle gates. As long as she stayed out of the town, they always warned her. She had obeyed, even though she thought often about sneaking away just once so that she could see anything other than what she knew.
She went to a small grove of wild roses and crawled through an opening she knew well. She was a lot bigger than when she crawled in as a child however, and the thorns tore painfully at her skin and clothes. She forced herself onward until she was tucked safely in the hollow middle, hoping that no animal had made this their den since she’d been here last.
She was in luck to have it all to herself and she tucked herself into a ball as she heard footsteps approaching. She held her breath, almost impossible with her lungs still burning for air from the run, until the footfalls fell away into the night. She let out a shuddering breath as quietly as she could, unable to hold it in any longer, hoping that none of the men lingered.
She sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until the sun was well in the sky the next day that Anna emerged, knowing she needed to get as far away from Arendelle as possible. She was on her own now and she needed to survive until she found a way to get back to her sister to help her.
“What happened?” Kristoff repeated, his tone noticeably gentler.
Anna still had the apple a breath away from her lips. She lowered it and slowly turned around. He was sitting on the bed, looking at her expectantly.
Despite what she promised herself she would never do, she told him everything.
*****
“You were too scared to tell anyone who you were for fear Hans’s men would find you.”
Anna nodded. Kristoff had shifted to the head of the bed and sat with his back leaning against the wall, his long legs out in front of him crossed at the ankles. Anna sat at his feet, legs crossed under her as she told Kristoff what happened. He had put the distance between them and Anna had to wonder exactly what that meant. Perhaps he had decided to be done with the trouble that she carried with her now that he knew.
Kristoff remained quiet for a long time, eyes looking at her but out of focus. “You have to do something.”
“What?” Anna said, exasperated. “What can I do? If I go back to Arendelle I have no doubt they will kill me. I can’t ask people to help me either. Who would care? We locked ourselves away for so long, what are we to them? Nothing.”
“The people are unhappy, Anna. I am sure they would revolt to find that the Queen had no choice when she married him.”
“We have no idea how strong Han’s protection is. Not to mention that he has the advantage of being locked in the castle. It would probably take a thousand men to infiltrate his defenses. Tell me, do you know how we can get that many people on our side? On my side? The Princess who spent her entire life hidden behind closed castle gates…” Anna shook her head. “What’s done is done. I can’t change anything.”
Kristoff remained silent while Anna told him more reasons why she couldn’t go back, that she felt her sister was alive and feared that harm might come to her should she return, that even if they could garner some support, Anna would never forgive herself should harm come upon her people in trying to aid her, and last but not least, that had her sister had given up her entire future to keep Anna alive. If she went back and was killed because of it, everything would have been for naught.
When she finished talking, a silence stretched on between them while Kristoff ran his fingers up and down his jaw in silent contemplation, his eyes focused on the toes of his feet.
Anna just about didn’t think he was going to continue talking on the matter until he finally looked at her.
“What do you want to do then?”
Anna blinked at him. Was he not listening?
“There’s nothing I can do. All I can do is try and survive and figure out a way to keep myself alive.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” he said quietly, shifting on the bed so that he was sitting with he legs off the sides, facing his body to the wall. He turned his head to look at her as Anna followed his movements and sat beside him. “I asked what you want to do, not what you thought you needed to do.”
“What I want?” Anna asked, looking forward in thought. What did she want? She wanted to go back to the castle and kick Hans’s ass, that’s what she wanted to do. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to pay.
But that was impossible. There was no way she could accomplish that. Then what was there? Surviving as a commoner. That was the only thing she had left.
She shrugged, almost embarrassed to tell him. “I want… I want to get a job. I want to work. I just don’t have any skills that would garner me employment. But that’s what I want to do. I want to earn a living and get myself somewhere to live. A simple room is all I need. Work and have a place to sleep at night and to buy myself food. That’s what I want. That’s… that’s all I want.”
Anna dropped her gaze to her folded hands in her lap. Funny, she used to want more. She used to want it all. She had wanted to find a husband who loved her and to have children to take care of. She used to want the life of a wife and a mother more than anything. A faithful and caring woman to her man and a provider and teacher to her children. They would be so happy… they would have a wonderful life in the castle. Anna was even sure that given her having children, Elsa would eventually come around and be her sister again. The gates would be open, they could spend warm days out in the gardens and the courtyard, they could stay in the library on cold and rainy days. They could even travel the world if they wanted to…
Now all she could think about was want for the most basic things. Work, food and shelter. That was all. She had no idea how hard it was when everything in life wasn’t handed to you on a silver platter. What must Kristoff think of her now, knowing where she came from, knowing that she had a title and a crown. Or at least, she used to. This wonderful man who had supported her when she was begging in the streets was probably coming to regret helping a spoiled brat whose only family left had been torn away from her by Royalty just like them.
Anna sighed. She wished Kristoff would say something. Anything. But he remained silent and Anna couldn’t stand it anymore. She got up and started to pace the small room, muttering that she was going to have to figure something out soon or she was going to end up dying on the streets. Winter was fast approaching and she honestly didn’t know if she could survive another one. The last one had been bad enough. She truly didn’t think she was going to make it some nights, so cold she thought she was going to lose some toes and fingers.
“Work with me then.”
Anna stopped in her tracks, her back to him. He didn’t just say that, did he?
“I mean it,” he continued in a quiet tone, perhaps understanding what was running through her mind. “I could teach you the trade, kind of like an apprentice. I would pay you accordingly and I have lots of tools. There’s a harvester I know whose teenage son has just grown out of all last season’s clothing. I’m sure I could get them for a decent price. My tent is big enough to sleep two. I sleep on the ground, but I can get you a bed roll so it’s not too uncomfortable. I have a cabin, for the off days. Whenever we’re between harvests. It’s not much, at all, but there’s enough room for me to build another bed….”
His voice trailed off, like he felt his words were falling on deaf ears since Anna still had her back to him. She couldn’t move a muscle. Tear after tear coursed down her cheeks and face, gathering under her chin before they dripped to the floor. She was too shocked to move, too scared that if she was to look him in the eyes that he might take it all back.
All he had done for her and he was willing to do this as well. He was opening up his entire life to help her, allowing her a way out of her predicament completely at his time and expense. Anna didn’t think she would ever be able to understand his reasons. She had come to know that every one of his intentions were pure. He didn’t ask her for anything and yet his was willing to give her everything. There was only one thing she could say to him.
“Why?” she said to the wall in front of her as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I told you why.”
“No,” Anna shook her head, turning around slowly and forcing gaze to meet his eyes. “Tell me the real reason.”
His gaze flicked ever so quickly to her hair before he stared back at her blankly. Anna suddenly understood why he was being so tight lipped. He was simply being kind to her before, but now there was something else behind his intentions. She could see it in his eyes. At least, that’s what she thought she saw in his eyes. Regardless, he was going to tell her and he was going to tell her now.
“I have told you everything,” she continued at his silence, “Now you will tell me how you know me.”
His tongue darted out and licked his dry lips. “It’s not my story to tell,” he said carefully.
“Whose then? The parents I had to bury? The sister who no doubt remains a prisoner to an evil man? If not from you, then who?”
“Anna, it’s complicated-“
“No. No, you listen to me,” Anna growled, striding towards where he sat on the bed and looking down at him. “I am tired of people lying to me, of people keeping secrets from me! I will not put up with it any longer! I-“
“Okay,” he shouted. Anna looked down at him for a moment, breathing hard. “Okay,” he said more softly as he looked up into her eyes.
Anna gave him a curt nod and waited.
He inhaled deeply and let out a slow breath as he looked to the floor. “I saw you, when you were a young child, as I was. You had a streak in your hair and your parents and sister were rushing you to see…” He swallowed quickly, “My family.”
“What does your family have to do with this?” Anna asked, still angry but genuinely curious.
“They are, how shall I put this… um, healers.” He sighed, “Among other things,” he added under his breath.
“What?”
“Look, they healed you when your sister accidentally struck you with her powers. Then you were made to… not remember what happened.”
“How is that possible?”
He finally looked up. “I can honestly say I don’t really know.”
“So, you’re not a healer like them.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean? Actually, you know what, never mind. What happened to me after that?”
Kristoff shrugged. “I have no idea. Your family took you home and I never saw you again. Well, until a week ago. But I didn’t know until today… until I saw your hair.”
Anna searched his eyes as he held her gaze. He was telling the truth but it felt like he was holding something back. Either way Anna was honestly too exhausted to get into it. She didn’t want to think about the past anymore. She didn’t want to think about how fucked up her life had been. She didn’t want to think about the pain and the hardship and the hard and lonely years.
In truth she wanted to think about Kristoff’s offer. About working for a living. About having a roof over her head even if it was a tent, and food in her belly and maybe living like an actual human being again, not having to beg and steal or worry about finding a place to sleep or how she was going to survive the winter.
She sighed and sat beside him on the bed, staring into the floor. “I’m sorry. When it comes to my past, I feel so…. Lost.”
“It’s okay, Anna. I understand.”
Anna chuckled softly to herself. There was no way he could understand, but his sentiment was nice. She let out a long sigh. She didn’t want to talk about the past anymore.
“So, you are serious? About teaching me the trade?”
He waited until she looked up and over at him. “I am.”
“Well, okay then. I would love to become your apprentice. And…. Thank you.”
Kristoff was still for a moment before he responded. “Just do me a favour?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t keep thanking me. Please.”
Anna smiled at him and nodded. She understood. He had all his cards on the table – he was going to help her get her life back and he was not doing it for any other reason than he was trying to pay forward the kindness that had once been paid to him. Perhaps it was a way to ease his soul.
“Well,” Kristoff said as he stood up when it seemed like he couldn’t stand the sudden silence between them. “Let’s go grab a meal in the tavern downstairs and get some sleep. We’ll head up the mountain tomorrow and it’s going to be a long day.”
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mære // 1.2k, horror, t, sophia-centric // ao3
written for halloween terrorfest day 2: never sleep again
It’s dark.
Outside, the sky is clotted with clouds. Nary a sliver of sun manages to rupture the grey mass; it seems closer to evening than mid-morning.
Sophia reclines on the sofa, nearly boneless, neck as wobbly as a newborn babe’s. She rests her head on its back and watches the room whirl like a cyclone around her.
It is difficult to concentrate; her head is swimming, and things keep skittering in and out of the corner of her eye, dark shapes which vanish like smoke when she turns to look at them. Unease crawls up her spine. She tries to focus on the rain streaming down the thick glass window, to clear her mind and tether herself to wakefulness.
Black spots bloom like spores in her field of vision.
In the corner of the room, Lady Jane is scribbling away at her desk. Her pen scratches against the paper in a rapid, grating cadence.
Sophia does not know to whom she might still write; the whole of London is surely drowning in letters by now. She wonders how many years will pass before Lady Jane accepts the truth: that they have lost the men they love.
Or could have loved, had they given themselves the chance.
“—Sophy.”
She blinks. Lady Jane has twisted around in her chair, her sharp gaze hooked into Sophia’s temple.
On the mantle, the clock ticks away the seconds with thick, dull clicks.
She has a sudden, dizzying sense of déjà vu.
Hands clenched tightly in her lap, Sophia digs her nails into the meat of her palm. She pictures her skin splitting with a soft pop, like that of a plum, her fingers touching upon the cool, wet flesh beneath.
She compels herself to hum in acknowledgement, gaze sliding sloppily over to her aunt.
“You look quite poorly, my dear; I do wish you would tell me what it is that ails you.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
Lady Jane’s hands are perched on the back of her chair. Her fingertips are mottled black with ink.
“It’s nothing, Auntie.” It takes all her willpower not to peek at the clock and number the hours left until nightfall descends upon her. She stares instead at the dark stains marring her aunt’s hands. Beneath her dress, Sophia’s chemise is sticking to her skin with sweat. “I’ve not been sleeping well—that’s all.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
“Well,” Lady Jane says, the smile on her face as brittle as spun sugar, “perhaps we ought to see about getting you some laudanum.”
She turns back to her desk.
Sophia looks out the window and tries to watch the rain.
---
When night comes—for it always does—Sophia leaves her aunt hunched over the writing desk and glides up to her room. While the sconces along the stairway and second-floor hall are perpetually lit, as she has impressed upon the servants her dire need for light, it is an eerie sort of illumination. They cast quivering shadows upon the walls, and the entire house seems to undulate under their weight. Carpets roll beneath her feet like ocean waves, walls tilt inward and outward again, their middles swelling as though drawing breath. It seems the building comes alive; Sophia watches the wallpaper shimmer and ripple and struggles to keep her breathing even.
In her room, it is all the worse. She draws the scattered lamps and candles closer to her bed, collecting them in a discordant array on her bedside table, like a mismatched army of melted wax and soot-stained glass. They cluster there, a horde of gold bases gleaming in the light. Barely an inch of polished mahogany is visible beneath them.
Sophia draws her pillow to the edge of the bed and curls up beside them, so close she can feel the slow pulse of their heat. It tightens the skin of her forehead and spreads hot and dry over her face, as though turning her flesh to leather. She stares at the flames until cyan after-images of their shapes dance with the red and yellow light.
Yet with all the light concentrated in this one spot, shielding her head and torso in a blister of warmth, there is nothing left to disperse the shadows past the foot of the bed. Beyond it lies an impenetrable expanse of darkness, vague charcoal shapes and silhouettes assuming sinister postures in their ambiguity. Beneath her, the bed rocks gently, stirred into motion by the soft sway of exhaustion.
I am not afraid, Sophia thinks desperately, eyes bleary and unfocused. Want of sleep lies heavy over her, and beneath it, the pungent scent of her own terror.
I am not—
---
Against a monochromatic backdrop of jagged grey, like clusters of coal whose edges are ridged and feral, Francis stands alone. He is smothered by a starless night—Sophia feels it around them like a thick velvet blanket, although there is no warmth to be taken from it. The wind seems to moan, and beneath their feet, the ice grunts and rumbles.
Francis is clad not in his naval uniform but in shirtsleeves, his mauve waistcoat—the one dappled with blue flowers—and freshly pressed trousers. His polished dress shoes glint green with the light of the Aurora Borealis. It writhes above them, emerald threads casting shadows that shift and crawl over Francis’s face.
Sophia’s heart stutters in her chest.
Fear forces cold hands beneath her ribs.
This is not Francis. It is some other creature, some monster in human form—it must be.
He stands unnaturally still, gaze fixed unflinchingly upon her—she feels it spread throughout her body like pitch, thickening her blood and turning her limbs to lead.
There is no warmth in him.
His eyes are so dark they swallow all the light from his face, drinking in the green glow of the Northern Lights so completely that they give back no reflection, no shine.
Sophia cannot breathe.
She feels terror tighten like a vice around her chest; Francis seems to be on the verge of saying something, of doing something. It’s as though she is leaning further and further over the edge of a cliff, her heart crawling up into her throat, waiting to fall.
But Francis is still as ever, the only movement the slow undulation of green across his face, his clothes.
Wake up, she thinks desperately, squeezing her eyes shut. You’ve got to wake up.
Francis’s maw cracks slowly open, growing impossibly wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw. Panic pierces Sophia’s breast. She hears a hitching sob—her own, she realizes, quivering its way free of her throat. Her hands fly up to shield her eyes, palms pressing them inward to the point of pain, but she can still see him, as though her own flesh has turned transparent.
Francis takes a step closer, and then another. Suddenly, he is upon her, arms outstretched. His icy fingers, sharp like talons, graze her biceps, his eyes and mouth three gaping holes in his skull, and—
Sophia wakes, weeping.
The candles on the table beside her have withered into cold stubs. She lurches for them, fumbling with the matchbox, but her hands are shaking, fright making her hasty and uncoordinated.
Let it be over, she begs silently, burying her face in her shoulder as though she might find solace there.
The dawn does not listen.
---
When she enters the sitting room the next morning, Lady Jane is already seated at the desk.
Her pen scratches against paper, fingers smudged black with ink.
The clock on the mantle is ticking.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Sophia rests her head against the back of the sofa and tries to stay awake.
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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 79
All the way at the end of the platform, Killian was on a slow approach, starting to burn brightly. For one reason or another it set your own new glow off, and you felt the heat in your veins. Tony turned just a little. “That’s new.”
“Wasn’t my choice.” Keeping your anger hot and fresh, knowing you were not only going to need it, but that you just couldn’t rid yourself of it. Not yet. Not now. Not until this was finished.
“Ready, honey?” Tony raised a hand in the air, summoning down one of those suits flying by. “Where’s your Reactor?” Voice changing into that slight metallic tang as the helmet slid over his head.
“Killian destroyed it.”
“You don’t say.”
“Let’s finish this.”
The rest of the noise around you died as the three of you met each other head on in a sprint after that. Tony flipped up and over, trying to give you coverage in the back as you went toe to toe with Killian yourself. It ended up in a one-two punch, from your end back into Tony, and then forward to deliver a knee to his gut. Once he was down you grabbed him by the neck and threw him forward, putting a well placed heel to his back.
Both you and Tony on him again ended poorly the second time, as he swiped Tony back with a heated hand, reaching into his chest with that burned up hand to rip at circuitry and metal. Tony quickly ejected out of the suit pushed a few feet away on his back, leaving Killian’s confusion open for you to take hold of. One jab and then another in quick succession-
And then he surprised you with another spurt of fire, seeming like he unhinged his jaw to do so. As you threw your hands up to take cover, he spun around to knock your heel out from under you, sending you tumbling dangerously close to the edge of that catwalk. And while you tried to snake your way back up, he flourished with another kick that had you spiraling over the edge, reaching up to grab a thin piece of metal to keep from falling hundreds of feet below.
Fear touched over you then, too soon you thought. Tony came forward in yet another suit, stealing Killian’s attention away for just long enough for you to find leverage and climb your way back up and roll forward back onto the platform. Realizing you’d taken too long as Tony ejected out of yet another suit, back first, and you heard the crunch of his body against a closer walkway below.
Finding your feet beneath you and letting full adrenaline rush through your veins, you charged forward, slamming Killian face first into the wall and beating your fists against his back. When he shunted himself into you, you lost your balance, enough time for him to twist and grab you, throwing you where he’d just been momentarily pinned, heavy hands on your shoulder, and then rammed your head back against it next.
“You know…” He hissed, putting a hot hand to your neck. You started to feel your skin sizzle. His eyes were alight as he leaned in. “You two are really starting to piss me off.”
You thrust your arm underneath the crook of his elbow, trying to knock him back. Almost feeling a little feral as you bared your teeth at him in a growl. “I said I was going to kill you. I meant it.”
While you only got him back for a second, he had surer and stronger footing and as you turned around to face him, he slammed you hard against the wall a second time, knocking some sense out of you. His voice was too close. “Funny. You know- he said the same thing- when we both watched you explode.” His hand at your throat caused a gag that started a panic as breath became shorter. “Think he’ll say it again?”
Bringing a quick knee up, you got him in the gut, and as he lurched forward, you rammed your forehead into his and then shoved him back. “No need!” Choking this out as you ran at him full force. Anger consuming you, bringing you into literal white hot fury. That’s why Tony had looked at you that way. That’s why he’d been carrying around such an intense shadow.
But perhaps letting anger consume you was not the best idea. As the next time you ran at him, he twisted underneath you, catching you by your side and lifting you up. The sky greeted your vision, and just at the corner, so did Tony climbing back up. Hand outstretched for you. Killian barked out a laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong!”
Tony’s cry was earth shattering. Heart breaking. “NO!!”
The sight of his horrified face, hand still trying to reach you, the last thing you saw aside the sky growing further and further away as Killian hefted you off the platform and down, down. Into a pit of fire that swallowed you up whole and hard, concrete at your back, knocking the wind from you yet again. Lungs collapsing. The lights went out. For a moment, the world was even quieter than it was before.
But a thought was building brightly inside you.
I will not die.
I will not die.
You would not. You could not.
You would not die here.
The burning in your core was intense, pulling you from that whisper of unconsciousness, sitting up inside a vortex of whirling flames with a cry that disappeared in that fiery roar. Crawling first on your hands and knees, you pulled yourself from metal and wood and debris that was digging into your flesh. But you were burning hotter and glowing harder than the fire surrounding you. And you would not die. Digging yourself free, you finally moved to push yourself up. Up.
Finally standing, and pushing yourself out of the flames, taking a breath of fresh air once you were free. Seeing a similarly burned crisp of a man, standing over Tony who was bloodied and bruised, sitting on the ground with his hand up. Killian threw his arms wide. “I AM THE MANDARIN!”
Running forward you reached out, securing your hand around the back of his neck, and then upended him, bending your knees and using a backwards momentum to lift him up and then slam him into the ground. Your muscles felt brand new. As he struggled, like you had struggled, gasping for any breath, you fell in a crouch over him, and then did exactly what you’d promised.
“You are nothing.” Making sure you leveled your gaze with him as you reached your arm up and then swooped it forward, fingers stretched out, sinking through his chest as every inch of you blazed white hot. You sunk into that newly bright space, doubly moving in both realities as you broke through bone and muscle and felt the pulse of his heart hot in your palm.
Then you squeezed.
And squeezed.
And squeezed.
This man. Right here. Underneath you. He had tried to hurt Rhodey.
He had hurt Happy.
He’d destroyed your home.
He’d nearly killed JARVIS and Tony.
So you squeezed.
Until you felt it pop, and you watched the light driving him die.
In that space, water at your feet, you leaned into him and whispered the last words he’d ever hear. This life or the next. Or wherever he went. You hoped it was hell. “I told you I’d kill you.”
Then you waited. You waited until you were sure he wasn’t breathing anymore. And after that a fuller sense returned. You’d been in war. In battle. You’d put down countless things at this point. Seen death. But like this…?
Standing your vision returned and you saw Tony still half sitting there. Staring at you. “I… I’ve got nothing.”
Killian was bad. And he had been aiming to kill Tony. You had to. You’d had no choice. And you’d promised. All those people he hurt- but your family especially. You had to. “Tony…” Yet still you were burning, weren’t you?
“Honey-” Cut off suddenly as his eyes lifted towards the sky. Yours did too. And saw a suit coming in, swooping low- towards you- “JARVIS the subject to my twelve o’clock is not a target- disengage!” You watched as he tapped his ear- and realized- just as he did- that his earpiece had been knocked loose.
The suit came down in, lower, and held a hand up to you, repulsor charging. So you did the same. “JARVIS.” Calling to him. Gently.
Your patience was rewarded, as the suit stood down, literally, dropping to a stand on the ground. JARVIS’ voice echoed out from the helmet. “Ah, my apologies, Ms. INY. I mistook you for an enemy. Your current heat signature is remarkably similar. It is good to see you.”
Relief flooded you. It had been far longer than you would have liked, going without hearing his voice. Especially after being told by LUNA that he’d been deactivated. So, even though it felt a little silly, you couldn’t help yourself from going forward, and wrapping your arms around an empty suit. It made no sense. JARVIS was just a program. An AI. But… for one reason or another… “You, too, JARVIS.”
“Ma’am…”
You stood there just a couple more seconds before letting him go, just about the time you heard Tony grunt as he lifted himself into standing. Turning to look at him, that shadow was heavier than ever surrounding him. Dark and present. Indescribable sadness penetrating his heart. “You just scared the devil out of me. I thought you were-”
Dead.
He didn’t have to say it. The both of you heard it. But you cut him off. Because you didn’t want for him to have to finish the thought. “I’m not. I’m okay.”
His lips drew thin and he gave an off kilter shrug. “Debatable. But we’ll get you there.” Coming closer, he held a hand out to you. “Come here-”
And you shirked back immediately. “No- don’t touch me-” Much as you wanted to. All this talk about heat signatures- the earlier explosion- the fact that he was no longer the one carrying a soft glow about him- “I’ll burn you-”
“You’re fine- you’re fine, honey, see…” Connecting his hand on your arm, soothing it up and down. Such a simple contact threatened to break you. “Not hot- well. Temperature wise, anyway.” Soft grin playing at his lips.
And that- truly- was what broke you. Practically throwing yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him. Tight as the tears fell. “Tony…” Weak and watery. Begging him for something- you had no idea what. Just holding on to him as the last tether that was keeping your sanity in check at this point.
“I know, honey. I know…” Squeezing you back just as hard. The both of you clinging to one another.
But he didn’t know. So you let it all out, because you just couldn’t hold it in anymore. “He destroyed the house- and I thought you were dead- and then he crushed my Arc Reactor- and pumped me full of this- this stuff and it burns and I think I melted LUNA when I exploded and-” Hyperventilating just a little as it all rushed out of you. Weeping openly. In the middle of all this destruction. “And I killed him…” Somehow not the worst of it, yet even after all that and after all he’d put you through it felt… weird. Vicious.
His hands reached up, cupping the sides of your face, pressing his forehead to yours. “It’s okay, honey… I know- and- look- I’m not gonna be the one to tell you he didn’t deserve it. That he wasn’t gonna stop until either or the both of us were dead. But all the other stuff… we’ll get through it.”
You hiccuped, trying to draw any tiny breath you could. “He said you saw- you watched-”
His eyes closed tight. “In one day I thought I lost you twice. And both times were my fault.” Tears escaped past his lashes, and he struggled to get in a full breath. More for him than you, he pulled you close again, hand at the back of your head as he settled your face at his shoulder. Your hands reached up, clutching to him. “I meant what I said- about all of it. We’ll deal with this. Therapy. Whatever it takes. Just don’t…”
Don’t leave.
Don’t scare me like that again.
“Can you fix me? This- whatever it is inside me?” You wanted it gone. This was not you. And you didn’t want what it brought. No matter the positives. It just wasn’t worth it.
He huffed out a watery laugh. “I think I can figure this out, yeah. I almost had this twenty years ago when I was drunk. I think I can get you better. That's what I do. I fix stuff.”
Scared to ask, but knowing now was the moment, “And no more building an army of suits?”
“No more. I think I got it out of my system. In fact. Let me just… shave them down a little. Don’t even have space to store all of ‘em anymore, do we?” He laughed again, but you didn’t, still hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “JARVIS, hey-”
The suit behind you spoke. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“You know what to do.” Tony squeezed you again, extra tight this time.
“The Clean Slate Protocol, sir?”
“Screw it, it's Christmas. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
You laid your head on his shoulder then, watching as that army of suits that he’d labored over for months, ignored you over for months, been lost in for months, rose up to the sky and blew themselves apart, unleashing colorful bursts and sparks into the night air, not unlike fireworks. He started rocking you back and forth. There was really only one thing on your mind. “I love you, Tony…”
“I love you too, honey.” His voice was small. Quiet. Quivering. Practically squeezing the life out of you at this point, but in a much needed way. “More than anything. We’ll be okay… we’ll get through this.”
You weren’t sure who he was trying to convince. But chances were, the both of you needed a very good convincing after all the shit you’d just been through. “We will.” Murmuring back to him. Trying to make it sound like you believed it.
But somehow you would, right? Somehow you’d make it through this together and to the other side. Like you always did. “Dvahli make it out okay?”
It was strange, the giggles that escaped you, and you nodded. “Yeah… yeah, actually we owe Steve a favor…”
“Rogers showed up??”
“With SHIELD. They might still be on the property.”
You practically felt his eye roll while he sighed. “Figures. Out of one mess and into another.”
A small sense of normal finally found you. Your life was messy and complicated, but this was a relatively okay normal, you thought. Finally your shoulders came down, and you felt a little more relaxed. And tired. Wiped out. “They were trying to help, I think.”
“Isn’t that what they always say? Doesn’t always make it true.” His hand rubbed across your back.
“You’re right…”
“I always am.” Your giggles encouraged him, and you felt his smile. Felt him find a sense of peace he’d been missing for a while. A very small one. But suddenly there nonetheless. “Come on… time to get back to New York, I think. And work on you… and then me.”
Finally shifting back just a little, you cast a gaze up his way. “You?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he held your face in his hands again. “Yeah. Me. I think it’s time. Don’t you?”
There was a severe gravity to what he was asking. If he was already thinking about it- and you knew he was, from that terrible encounter in your office a while back- your decision wouldn’t really sway him too much. But… “What about what that doctor said?”
“Doctor Weird? He can take a hike. I think I know someone better.” Leaning up, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “It’s time.”
The thought was scary. Terribly frightening. The Arc Reactor sitting in his chest was what had been keeping him alive. And… coincidentally, from the tragedy of him needing it in the first place… that’s what had brought the two of you together. It wasn’t that you were scared not having it would somehow ruin the both of you- you were more scared that… if something went wrong… “I think so, too.” It couldn’t have been easy, living with it. Knowing that if someone destroyed it- yanked it out of his chest- who knew what… it could be the very easy end of him. “As long as you’re sure they can do the job.”
He smiled lightly. “No betting here. You wanna make me promise?”
You found yourself shaking your head, before leaning in to him again, terribly tired. Just clinging to him. “I trust you.”
His strength held you up then, as yours fled. “I love you.” Warm and strong in your ear.
“I love you, too.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Tony.”
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War Circle 2
Michael followed Caline into her apartment.
“Thanks for letting me stay until I’ve found a place of my own.” Said Michael, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I’ll be gone before you know it.”
“It’s fine.” Said Caline, going to her computer, her eyes elsewhere.
Michael looked at her and frowned.
“Is everything alright?” Michael asked, walking over to Caline.
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Said Caline, unconvincingly.
Michael gave her a look that made her groan and turn to face him, “You know that Principle Damocles gave you a list of students that can’t be punished?”
“Yeah, some kid whose parents are bankers, the mayor’s daughter and the child of a diplomat, why?” Michael cocked his head.
“Two of them are in my class,” Said Caline, “and in order to punish them, I have to punish the whole class, it doesn’t help that Boaa and I have a mental link and he’s telling me to kill them every time I start to get angry at them.”
“So, you remain passive to prevent yourself from killing them.” Said Michael, Wynnter resting on his shoulder.
Wynnter looked at the Snake Kwami, “Boaa, you know that our main objective is to remain hidden, no matter what.”
The snake only said, “Meh.” Before he shoves three whole grapes into his tiny mouth.
“That will always scare me, no matter what.” Said Michael, watching Boaa’s jaw unhinge.
“It’s not the worst thing he eaten.” Said Caline, turning to face Michael, “I have some spare blankets in the closet, you can have the couch.”
Michael nodded, quietly walking over to the closet. Caline had the sinking feeling that Michael wasn’t telling her something.
WC
Marinette quietly growled in frustration. Her dad and Michael did not last part on the best terms five years ago, Marinette didn’t remember what the argument was but she knew that it had caused the relationship between her father and brother to become very strained, to the point where Michael had ceased all contact with them until he reappeared a couple of days ago and even then, he avoided actually stepping foot into the bakery.
Marinette considered contact Toby and Skye, but Toby was on tour and Skye was in the middle of a case. Marinette huffed, thinking back to when she found out that Michael was now working at her school.
Marinette went stiff, Michael was close to Ms. Bustier, he was fond of her, Marinette had seen the type fondness once before and that was between her parents.
Marinette swallowed as she started to pull up a plan on getting her dad and brother on good terms again.
A floor below, Tom was quietly cleaning the kitchen of the bakery. Ever since that nasty girl from Marinette’s class returned, Marinette had started to become more stressed, from school, from being the class president, from her designs, from her duties as Ladybug. Tom frowned, he and Sabine had known Marinette was Ladybug for a while now, having caught Tikki as she was raiding the cookie jar in the kitchen. The little God had tried to pass herself off as a cat, that could float and was bright red covered in spots.
Tom was vaguely aware of the television reporting the day’s Akuma attack.
“An attempt to gain Ladybug’s Miraculous was foiled by two unseen before heroes who departed the scene shortly after the Akuma was dealt with.”
“Remove your hands from my kin.” Came a recording of the incident, Tom poked his head out from the Bakery and looked at the TV screen. The owner of the voice looked around Michael’s age and wore what looked like a casual suit under his trench coat, Tom squinted, noting that the amount of weaponry gave him a rather heavy-set appearance.
Chat Noir then appeared on the screen.
“At first, we all thought they were more Akumas,” Said Chat, “Given how they appeared out of nowhere.”
“What did he mean when he said kin?” Nadja asked.
“He said he was Ladybug’s older brother,” Said Chat, “from what he said, he and his friend have been in this for a while and came out of retirement.”
“Did they give a name?”
“He said his name was Timber Wolf and his friend was called Constrictor.”
Sabine turned the television off, before looking at Tom, “Michael’s come home.”
Tom nodded quietly.
WC
Michael glared down at the computer on his desk, quietly grumbling as he looked at the data cache and the number of viruses he’d found.
“You’d think the guy before me would’ve taken precautions, but nooo, they just opened everything and didn’t bother to do updates, virus checks or even turn the bloody thing off.” Michael muttered, before his door opened, “If you have a problem with a computer, please mark the room and computer number on the board and I’ll get back to you.”
When Michael received no response, he raised his head, coming face to face with an Italian Brunette.
“Can I help you?” Michael asked, shortly.
“Hi, I’m having trouble logging onto the computer in the library.” Said the girl, making Michael frown.
“The only computer is the one the librarian uses.” Said Michael, leaning back in his chair.
“She said I could use it.” The girl quickly said, “I need it so I can print off my homework.” The girl had her hand over her heart.
Michael folded his arms and looked at the girl.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked, getting the girls eyes to light up, ‘Great, one of those.’
“I’m Lila Rossi.” Said the girl, making Michael close his eyes.
“Lila, do you know what a tell is?” Michael asked, opening his eyes and glaring at the girl.
Lila looked worried, making Michael think that she did know and was thinking she was screwed or that she didn’t know and thinking she was screwed.
“It’s a poker term, it’s often used to tell when someone is bluffing.” Said Michael, slowly getting to his feet, “It’s also used to tell when someone is lying. Now, I’m only going to ask once, what is the real reason you want to get onto a Staff member’s computer?”
Lila looked to the side, making Michael glance over at the list of students.
“You want to lock someone out of their account.” Said Michael, matter-of-factly.
“N-no, why would you say that?” Lila demanded, trying to act offended.
“You lied by saying that Librarian gave you permission to use her computer, you have a terrible poker face, coupled with an obvious tell, you then looked at the student roster, which has the students names as well as their learner IDs, so you could easily locate the account, you need a Staff members PC to access the files and, this is the best part, you tried to get sympathy because you couldn’t print off you ‘homework’ from someone used to yell at cadets for lying to them.”
Lila gave him a blank look.
“I was a soldier and besides, you wouldn’t’ve been able to change any passwords anyway, only members of staff can do that, which is why you came here, probably hoping that I’d just hand you control of my computer.” Michael stopped and looked down at the screen, “Why, in the name of fuck, have you not even started up yet?!”
Michael punched the computer, sending it off the desk and onto the floor.
“Well fuck.” Said Michael, as he looked down at the shattered screen, “Another thing, Ms. Rossi-”
Michael looked up at Lila, only to find that she’d vanished.
“Well, I should expect a visit from the Principle later.” Michael muttered, going back to his, now destroyed, computer.
True to form, Damocles came storming into the IT office.
“YOU’RE FIRED!” Yelled Damocles, making several students stop by the door.
“May I ask why?” Michael asked, casually leaning back in his chair, using his broken computer as a foot stool.
“Attacking a student.” Said Damocles, making Michael raise his eyebrows.
“Do you have proof of such an occurrence?” Michael asked, a small smirk falling onto his face.
“The student’s word is all I require.” Said Damocles, stiffly.
“Well, I have visual and audio recordings that will say the student is lying and that you fired me under false pretences and that you are inept at your job.” Michael responded, making Damocles fume.
“What recordings?” Damocles asked, a small crowed of student now hanging around the IT office, including Caline and her class.
“The security camera up in the corner and the tape recorders over by the cabinet.” Said Michael, “And before you say the camera’s broken, it was, I fixed it and the recorders needed testing and I know that at least seven of them work.” Michael’s expression then went cold, “And before you decide to ‘fire me’, I should probably remind you that no one wants to work at this school due to the Akumas running around and, that I can literally knock the school off the network for a good month, give or take.”
Damocles silently fumed, before turning on his heel and stomping out.
“Dickhead.” Michael muttered, turning back to the computer he was setting up.
The crowed slowly dispersed, leaving Caline and her class.
“Who’s that?” Alix asked, looking at Michael.
“That is the new IT specialist.” Said Caline, looking at the class, “Any questions?”
“Yeah, but who is he?” Kim asked.
“That’s my older brother.” Said Marinette, getting a double take from the class.
“You have a brother?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!”
“How fast is he?”
“He’s kinda cute.”
Everyone looked at Juleka, who turned red.
“He can hear you.” Said Michael, not looking away from his computer, “Unless you have a question, I’d like to be left in peace before I lose it and destroy the computer.”
Caline quickly ushered her students back to their classroom, completely forgetting about the calming exercises that she had her class do. Michael quietly grumbled, as he continued to set up the new computer.
A couple of hours later, Michael heard a quiet knock on his office door. Looking up, Michael spotted his sister and a couple of her friends.
“Little one,” Said Michael, getting to his feet, “I’m going to assume that this isn’t a social call.”
“We need you to pull up Lila’s records.” Said Marinette’s friend, Alya, if Michael wasn’t mistaken.
“I’m not allowed to do that.” Said Michael, “Besides, what do you need them for?”
“Lila said that, um,” Alya stammered, struggling coming up with an excuse.
“Lila claimed to be Rena Rouge and Alya had the wake-up call that made her realise that Lila is lying.” Said Marinette, making Alya gape at her.
“Ah, so you want to debunk all her lies.” Said Michael, looking at them, “Unfortunately, her school records won’t be of much use, but I hear Google is a good alternative.”
A look of realisation dawned on Alya’s face, before she said “Oh.”
“Due to a line in my employment contract, I can’t punish her, even if I was a teacher.” Said Michael, leaning back, “So, I can’t help you directly.”
Marinette grinned, before dragging Alya and her other friend away from the office.
Michael could’ve sworn he heard Alya ask Marinette why she didn’t use a cover story. Michael smiled and shook his head, before turning a look at the computer, which had finally booted up. Michael’s face fell and immediately got on the phone.
“Barbra,” Said Michael, his tone grave, “could you send Damocles down here, please?”
A/N: Slow chapter, but the story will expand, but it will mainly follow Michael, Bustier and Marinette, other Characters will be part of the narrative but I’m just putting it out there, I have no idea what I’m planning with this.
#miraculous ladybug#marinette dupain cheng#alya cesaire#nino lahiffe#caline bustier#ladybug#chat noir#tom dupain#sabine cheng#principle damocles#lila rossi#Delta writes#the war circle#war circle au
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Accommodation (Pacific Part 3)
During breakfast, the whole crew is reminded of Sonny being inhuman because of the way his teeth sink into the fish, tearing it savagely like the predator he must be beneath the waves. Mike can’t help watching him- not with horror, of course, but rather with interest and curiosity. It can be hard to observe the way predators eat up close, but now he can see the way the design of Sonny’s teeth lend well to raw meat like the fish. He eats like a land animal, however, or perhaps a shark. As opposed to swallowing his fish whole, he takes bites as large as his jaw will allow. Olivia quietly points out that his jaw appears to unhinge for bigger bites, something to examine later on.
Once the meal is over, Sonny is happy to wash his face of the blood in one of the sinks for the comfort of the crew. Not without complaining about the freshwater, of course. He clearly prefers the salinity of the ocean over what normal people can hydrate themselves with. But Sonny is still a gentle addition to the crew, and seems to adore answering any questions the researchers have about his body and his home. More than once, Mike finds himself running gentle fingertips up and down a strip of Sonny’s iridescent scales. Unlike a fish’s, they’re smooth, but unlike a snake’s, they’re perpetually cool. Mike isn’t sure if he’s cold blooded. Most marine life is, but Sonny’s different. He’s special.
“Are there others like you?” Olivia asks at one point, pen poised over her notepad with Alex’s doodles in the margins.
At her question, Sonny ducks his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t- I haven’t met any like me. But my friends are all over, and they’re probably wondering why I didn’t come home. Peter especially. They’re um, I don’t know the human word, they have human bodies on top. But on the bottom, they’re like- they’re not squid. But they’re…”
“Octopus?” Mike fills in, already flipping through his sketches. “Eight tentacles, very smart.”
He finds a drawing of one they encountered off the Australian coast months ago and shows it to Sonny, who nods and strokes the drawing with his fingertips.
“Peter found me when I was a hatchling. I was alone. But he took care of me, and my friends helped. They’re a family, all of them.”
A wistful expression overtakes Sonny’s features, as if remembering the way it felt to be cared for and loved and part of a real family. Mike has never really had that. He doesn’t think about it, though, it’s much easier to just pretend none of it ever happened and everything is just as it should be. Out here, on the vast sea, the problems back home can’t come close to touching him. Here, it’s just himself, his friends, and an entire world of underwater creatures who have yet to be discovered by mankind.
“He’s looking for me, I’ll bet. He gets worried. Like in New York, he was scared, and he’s the one who helped- he found me. And we came home. Then everything was okay, and I didn’t have to be scared because he was there.”
“Do you want to go home?” Mike asks.
“No. Home always finds me,” Sonny replies sagely, and begins playing with the spool of fishing line attached to the deck. It looks wrong, wrapping around his webbed fingers, but he makes a point of shredding into little pieces too short to cause any harm. It must be part of his hatred for fishing gear, which gives Mike the idea that the men in New York who hurt him were probably fishermen. “Probably soon. I wanna stay here.”
“You’re always welcome to,” Olivia says, “just know that when we dock, you’ll probably have to stay in the water.”
Sonny nods and entertains himself further with the spool, entertaining himself with it between questions and gentle examinations until it gets too dark to see well. They could go inside, but it’s late anyhow. Mike and the crew have their dinner while Sonny catches and eats his in the water before asking to be brought back up.
He has a scrape along the side of the side of one arm, looking deep and jagged as it drips blood gone liquidy from the water. Melinda rushes to get a bandage while Nick starts trying to wipe up the mess with his shirt, only to hiss and jump back. His skin is already starting to blister from the contact. No one knows quite what to do, and they’re all worried, but Sonny is just standing there as Melinda carefully winds the bandage around his wound, careful not to touch it.
“Didn’t you draw blood?” Nick asks incredulously, cradling his hand close to his chest. “How did this not happen?”
“Mike and I didn’t come into direct contact with it, and my analysis has only been studying the cells, so far. It was a small sample. I can try to learn what I can about the chemical composition. But from now on, as a general rule, don’t touch his blood until we know more.”
Sonny shifts back uneasily, watching them all with a mixture of confusion and fright.
“And be careful of his spit, too, he’s venomous,” Mike adds in a soft tone.
“We didn’t collect a saliva sample.”
He shrugs. “I know, but he brought his fish on board this morning, and when he dropped it at first, the bite on that thing was not normal. I’m willing to bet he has venom.”
While the researchers all ponder this, Sonny runs his tongue over his sharp teeth self-consciously and seems to wilt as he avoids looking at them now. Mike feels bad, but he knows he had to say it. There are no words to provide comfort; at least, not ones he can think of off the top of his head right now. But Nick is still gritting his teeth in clear pain as Olivia guides him back to the cabins to run the chemical burn under cool water in hopes of soothing him.
“Would it be okay to take a sample, Sonny?”
For a moment, Sonny just stares at Melinda and nods. He’s very clearly unhappy with all of this. Mike tries to approach him, but Sonny turns away and watches the ocean. When Mike looks too, he sees a flash of something large beneath the water, moving too fast for him to identify.
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