#sweat tears or the sea au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cottonlemonade · 1 month

Text

Six And A Half Minutes [part 2]

word count: 1758 || avg. reading time: 7 mins.

pairing: University!AU Suna x chubby!Reader

genre: Smut. Dunno what else y’all were expecting. Smut. Like. Smut smut. Lowkey also works as porn without plot.

warnings: mdni, nsfw, swearing, loving degradation(?) - Any coherent, non-horny thoughts have left the building. You have been warned.

here is part 1 for context

______________________________

You were blushing looking at his cock and because you didn’t know what else to do you just said a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“Yeah.”

“But ya didn’t cum, did ya?“

“Well… no but … A for effort?“

He scoffed but there was a careful edge to his voice now.

“I told ya six and a half minutes weren‘t enough.“

Your head was still swimming and quite frankly, you still hadn‘t been able to take your eyes off of the bulge in his gray sweats.

You really really wanted to touch him but you couldn‘t just reach out and… take him, could you? Gosh, you imagined he‘d feel so warm in your hand. You wondered if he was hard because he had just been holding some breasts or because they were yours… Your eyes focused on his outline again and you all but licked your lips. Mmh, what would his cock taste like?

“Six and a half minutes is plenty.“, you suddenly hear yourself say, finally tearing your eyes away and meeting his gaze, “I‘ll show you.“

You saw the twitch in his sweats.

Rintarou didn‘t move, probably scared to break the spell. His eyes widened when, with pink dusted cheeks, you scooted closer and began raising his shirt. Another throb went through his dick.

You swallowed at seeing the lean muscles of his torso. Of course you‘d seen him without his shirt plenty of times. At the sea or after a game but this was definitely not the same. You never… looked until now. And you scolded yourself for what colossal a waste of time that had been.

You were about to run your fingers along the ridges of his muscles when you snapped out of it.

“Uhm, timer.“, you said and tapped around on his phone to set it again.

Then you reached for the blindfold and held it out to him.

But he shook his head, still staring at you.

“A-alright. Uhm, let‘s go.“

You felt the wetness pooling in your panties when you leaned in and kissed his chest. How had he kept his thoughts straight, this was absolutely insane!

Flicking your tongue and fingers over his nipples made him hold his breath.

You couldn‘t help but keep throwing glances downward to his sweats. In all fairness the twitching was a great indicator if you were on the right track - like the world‘s most bizarre metronome. You giggled at the absurdity of the thought and felt his hand gently settling on the back of your head, stroking your hair. After a few pats, his fingers slipped lower to caress the back of your neck and you shuddered, clenching your pussy around nothing. You were sure you had soaked through your pajama shorts at this point and would not be surprised if you felt your juices drip down your thighs. He smelled so good having just come out of the shower…

A glance at the timer told you you only had four minutes left. But you were having so much fun! Letting your teeth gently tug at his nipples, you ran your hand over his stomach, delighted to see another twitch.

And then his free hand slid into his sweats and your eyes widened when you saw him pushing the waistband further and further down.

“What are you…“, you trailed off, too mesmerized to look away or to stop letting your tongue wander over his chest.

“I don’t wanna nut in my sweats.“, he groaned.

Oh God, his cock looked so good. Thick but not too thick it lay hard against his stomach. You wanted to touch it so badly, but that might be pushing it, you thought. Instead you tried to focus on his nipples again, but watching him twitch like that… you were actually starting to drool a little. Maybe you could suggest it somehow, but how on earth would you make it sound casual that you wanted to milk him dry?

Another minute down.

Rintarou felt drunk watching your every move as you licked his chest. He wanted to touch you, wanted to see how wet you were, feel you, taste you. His cock had never been this hard. He needed to cum right this second. Preferably inside of you but he would settle for whatever you would offer. But as sure as he was that you could make him cum untouched if he waited a little longer, he couldn‘t take it anymore and wrapped his free hand around his cock.

“Rin-“

“Just helping you…“, he said, closing his eyes for a second to focus, putting his head back and letting out a needy pant before focusing on you again, slowly pumping his shaft.

Maybe you could … if you… hm. With a clear goal in mind you ran your hand again over his chest and stomach. But further this time, brushing your fingertips against his lower abdomen in the process.

And then did it again.

This time your hand stayed there, massaging the new territory you just reached.

You heard him swallow and etched closer to his hand going up and down on his cock.

He knew what you were doing. His movements slowed and as if by accident he let his fingers brush yours, then lifted his hand to his tip so that the base of his shaft was now touching your hand. You gave the cutest little gasp but didn‘t move. You stopped paying attention to his chest and just watched him jerk his cock over your chubby little hand.

“Go on.“, he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You didn‘t need to ask what he meant and you didn‘t hesitate.

“Fuck, y/n.“, he moaned when your fingers closed around him. He let go off his cock, only to tenderly cover your small hand with his.

Directing your motions he guided you up to the tip, wetting your palm with his precum.

“Just like that…“, he breathed, stroking your hair again with his other hand.

You moved closer, fascinated. Of course you had given handjobs to your ex but this was definitely not the same.

“Can I suck your tits again?“ The almost desperate question caught you off guard. You looked at him for the first time since the timer started.

You nodded and as if in a trance straightened up a little. The position was rather awkward, he would have to strain his neck to the side too much.

When you moved to straddle his thigh, Rintarou was about to give up. You could have him - body and soul. He was yours. Fuck. With his help you lifted your shirt again.

His hands were pretty full now so he had to use his teeth this time to pull down the cups of your bra.

“Hold this for me.“ He brought the hem of your shirt up to your mouth where you obediently took it between your lips. This allowed him to snake his arm around your back and hold you close while also groping your other breast. You were so fucking soft.

The marks he left behind before on your skin shone brightly. He took your nipple into his mouth again, barely holding back a moan - like the one you would let out when a long day’s craving was finally met - he bucked his hips when your hand twisted a little around his cock.

In the process his thigh forced its way up between your legs and you surprised him with a downright filthy gasp.

He cursed with a chuckle, lips attached to your flesh and made sure to keep his thigh where it now very clearly belonged, pressing rhythmically against you.

A wet patch quickly formed on his sweats when you started to ride him.

The timer chimed.

“Don’t stop.”, he begged immediately, pulling you even closer to him and taking your other nipple between his lips.

“A-ah… mmmh…!“

The ignored timer got a little louder.

“Cum for me. Cum on my thigh, baby.“

And you did.

He was ready to burst when you rode out your high. Letting your shirt hem drop out of your mouth, you slumped over, your forehead resting on his shoulder, panting cutely, your hand still on his cock. He turned off the timer, flexing his thigh a little once again. Rintarou kept his hands under your shirt, gently playing with your nipple, “Usin’ my thigh like that and now yer hiding yer face… yer just the most adorable little slut, aren’t ya?”

You looked up and he panicked, “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

You squeezed his cock.

“Say that again.”

You felt him twitch in your hand.

Then he smirked. “My sweet“, he set a gentle kiss on your neck, “gorgeous“, brushing up your shirt for the third time tonight, a kiss landed between your breasts, “delicious“, he sucked on your nipple, “perfect“, finally he set a kiss on your collarbone and brushed his lips up to your ear, running his tongue along the shell, “little slut.”

You ground your clothed sensitive pussy against his leg again for a moment before climbing off, your hand not leaving his cock, the tip of which was the most angry red by now. He was about to throw you on your back and pump you so full of cum it would leak down your plush thighs for a week, when you knelt on the couch and, brushing your hair behind your ear, lowered your head.

“Oh my fuckin’ god…”

You kissed his stomach a few times, then started gently suckling at the bulbous head in your hand, tasting the salty precum and pushing the tip of your tongue to his cock slit.

“Ahhh, y/n the fuck … don’t stop, shit.”

You took him deeper. He soon hit the back of your throat but you had only taken maybe a third of him. So you gripped the base of his shaft tighter and twisted your chubby hand again.

“Wait, nngh, ahh, wait… I’m gonna cum.”

You didn‘t stop, pressing your tongue flat against him, rubbing the vein running along the underside.

At the first sound of gagging around his cock, you felt Rintarou‘s cum spurt down your throat.

You swallowed it all. With a wet plop you released him and met his eyes, a small satisfied smile on your lips.

He looked completely dazed.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.”, he managed to croak, after a few endless moments, voice raspy and breathless.

“Wha- why?”

“Cause I want ya to be comfortable when I make ya cum on my tongue.”

_____________________________

a/n: part 3

✨ @priv-rose @nyctophilicroses ✨

#suna x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #haikyuu smut #suna rintaro smut #suna rintaro x you #haikyuu suna #suna smut #suna rintaro x reader #hq suna #suna x reader #suna rintarou #hq smut #suna x you #suna x y/n

291 notes · View notes

boxofbonesfic · 7 months

Text

Title: Brave [6 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: The pass takes its toll on the pack.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: i’m having a ridiculous amount of fun with this story, can you tell? as usual, reblogs and feedback are appreciated and always welcome.

The storm rages at your backs as the pack travels west. Wind rips at the furs you have wrapped around yourself, a makeshift shield for the freezing rain. The water stings your hands and face like little needles, and you hunch down over your horse. The rolling hills of the grass sea crest higher and higher until they are hills no longer, but great cliffs that begin to rise darkly in the distance. You swallow a nervous lungful of air, and taste ozone and horse-sweat on your tongue.

The Orcs ride close together now, forming a tight shape as they move through the grass sea. What did Carol call it? The zikaegina. Lightning cracks overhead, and for a moment, your eye is drawn to movement—but darkness crashes down too quickly for you to make sense of it.

A bird? Above the storm? You grip the reins tight, remembering the stag. It’s wild yellow eyes, slavering jaws.

“The sea is where chaos reigns free, where Halith’s light cannot reach.” That was what they had told you in the chapel. “The further you go, the more godless it becomes.” You shiver. You know only the falsehoods you have been taught by king and country—and the land has been savage, yes, but also beautiful. Halith’s light had never reached you in your father’s house, when you had prayed and begged for it, so why should you care if her indifference cannot reach you here? You look up at the sky, riven into pieces again with a burning bolt—

There are different Gods here, you can feel it.

The cliffs jut up before you like jagged teeth, spearing the clouds above them. Fog rolls out of the mouth of the pass, so thick you fear you might choke on it. Carol rides up beside you, her back ramrod straight. With one hand she tightly grasps the reins, while the other rests on the pommel of the great-sword at her hip. At the front, Steve silently holds up his hand, forming a tight fist as he slows his horse. The tension is as thick as the fog. You know the horses feel it too as they shift, their ears flicking about nervously.

I wonder if they hear something we do not.

“Eyes up, little human. Eyes up.” Carol whispers, her voice barely audible. Though the rain stings your eyes, you do as she says, staring upward into the dark fog. The sounds of wind and rain echo off of the slick rocks, but the air feels eerily still as the storm rages far above you.

We are not alone here.

You are reminded of Carol’s warning—other things used it too—and you hunch lower. One of the horses whinnies, the sound echoing up the quiet cliffside. The rider silences it as Steve turns, his hand held up as a sign to stop, to wait.

The screech echoes all around you, the horrible, piercing noise of it making you clap your hands against our ears to block it out. Trembling, you cast a terrified look at Carol. Slowly, she raises a finger to her lips. Quiet. Above you, somethingskims low through the fog, something dark.

Something big.

No one moves. The horses stand stock still, and when you look down at your own, his eyes are bright with fear, rolling back and forth in his head. An answering cry pierces the storm, and this time when lightning illuminates the sky, you see it. It clings to an outcropping of rock, crawling silently down the slick stones. It is covered in, dark, wiry fur, with leathery wings that tremble excitedly as it reaches a horrible talon down toward Steve—

Quicker than you’d thought he could move, Steve grabs for his axe, swinging it upward in a clean, bright arc. There is an awful wet, tearing sound as he cleaves the screaming creature in two, black blood spraying his face. His horse whinnies, rearing up as Steve rips the axe clean of the thing’s body. Its carcass falls to the ground, steaming in the cool night air, and for a moment there is silence.

“Zhut! Ride!” Steve’s bellow trembles in your bones. “Make for the city!”

Chaos erupts around you, but it is as though time has slowed to a crawl. You watch, horrified as more dark shapes drop from the sky above you, descending on the scrambling pack in a flurry of hungry claws and teeth. The rider in front of you loses his head in an instant, the bat-thing slamming into him as its jaws open unnaturally wide. You blink, feeling his warm blood on your own face as it bites down with a sickening crunch, its snout and chest covered in sticky red. It turns those big, hollow eyes to you, a long tongue darting out to lick at the blood staining its face. You have no time to reach for the bow at your back as it lunges for you, talons outstretched—

The beast’s black blood joins that of the Orc rider’s on your skin, stinking and acrid as Carol’s blade lands with a dull thunk. One of its claws lands in your lap, and you scream as it twitches. You sweep it to the ground, and Carol grabs you by the shoulder, shoving a short, curved blade into your shaking, bloody hands.

“Ride!” She screams the word into your face, pointing forward into the mist. You snap the reins, holding on for dear life as the horse rears back, hooves fiercely pawing at the air. You and Carol take off, with her swinging the sword around your heads, trying to fend off the screaming, hungry swarm. The blade in your hands would be little more than a dagger for Carol, but for you, it is a short sword, light enough for you to wield with a single hand as you cling desperately to the reins.

Claws clip your cheek, your shoulder, your horse screams—you don’t realize you’re airborne until you hit the ground, the breath knocked out of you. You scramble up to your feet as your head spins. There are three of them, attached to the writhing body of your horse not twenty feet away. Your ears ring with the sounds of battle around you, and the sour tang of blood burns in your nostrils. Others, your own.

“Run! You must run!” Carol beckons you forward, and your thighs burn as you run toward her horse. You can hear another of the creatures behind you, its wings beating against the wind as its claws narrowly miss the skin of your back—it crashes into you, sending you sprawling into the mud for the second time. It lands on top of you, it’s bloody jaws frothing as it snaps at your face. You grab for the sword, straining as its rotting breath rolls across your cheeks—

The creature squawks in pain and then goes still and limp on top of you. Its blood leaks down onto your hands from the hilt, your sword buried in its chest. Numb and dizzy, you stare up at the seething sky above you.

“Up, my brave warrior,” Steve replies, rolling the body off of you. He swings you up into his arms, seating you firmly on his horse in front of him. “Eyes forward.” He hands you the reins, brandishing his axe. “I will do the rest.” You do as he says, keeping your eyes focused straight ahead. You don’t stray, not when the axe whistles through the air above your head, or when the narrow pass widens out back out into the grass sea, the creatures screams echoing behind you.

to be continued…

#cevans fandom #cevans fanfiction #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fic #steve rogers #steve rogers fandom #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers au #Orc!Steve Rogers #Orc AU #dark fantasy #steve rogers smut #boxofbonesfic #bones drabbles #drabble series

242 notes · View notes

heich0e · 7 months

Text

THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

245 notes · View notes

whaddayadothatfor · 1 year

Text

An Overwhelming Hunger

“You’ve had a stressful day, my love. What can I do for you?”

“I am hungry,” Namor replied, staring at you through his brow. “But not for food.”

—————————

Pairing: Reader x Namor

Summary: BP:WF complete AU (T’Challa isn’t dead and Namor didn’t kill the Queen) Namor has decided to attend peace talks with Wakanda to avoid war with the powerful nation. However, when frustrations towards his diplomatic mission grow, you decide to help him destress in the best way you know how. Namor, however, has other plans.

Warnings, content: fluff, smut, bondage, overstim, committed relationship, unedited

AN: Hey y’all! Just trying to get into the flow of things and see what works and what doesn’t. I hope y’all like it.

————————————————————————-

You had been here for hours. A pillow tucked underneath the small of your back, your hands tied to one of the posts on your headboard, and your panties stuffed in your mouth. The sheets underneath you were warm to the touch and soaked with your sweat. Your hair tussled from writhing against the sheets and makeup smudged from the tears streaming down your face, and you were sure you looked a mess. But you knew Namor only the saw your state of undress as the result of his handiwork.

You knew this because he had told you as much when you expressed discontent at how ridiculous you must’ve looked earlier. He reassured you that you were the most lovely woman in his Kingdom and any other. He made it clear that he wouldn’t stand to be challenged on his opinion by anyone, including you. Then he shoved your panties in your mouth and went back to working on your third orgasm on the night. That was two orgasms ago. You struggled to remember how you ended up in this predicament in the first place.

Four hours ago

It all started because of politics. The root of all evil, in your opinion. Namor, in an effort to sustain peace and maintain security for his people, decided to meet with the royals of Wakanda to work on an alliance while you stayed home to guide and protect the Talokans in his stead. He did not expect that building an alliance would keep him away from you for days at a time. The Wakandan elders had been particularly headstrong and full of opinions, which slowed progress from time to time.

Namor, communicating through the advanced technology Shuri lent him that allowed him to video call you even miles under the sea, lamented at just how slow the progress was. He simply wasn’t used to being so far away from his people, from you. Not for so long. Unaccustomed to seeing your husband so stressed, you decided to spoil him when he returned. After all, the distance between you hadn’t only been hard on him. You missed your husband, in more ways than one.

You didn’t have to wait long to set your plan into action. Namor had sent word that there would be a seven day recess, so he’d be home by evening. You took the time to doll yourself up and wear the night gown he likes the most. It’s blue and adorned with Jade, a testament to how he loves to spoil you. You cover yourself with a long, flowy robe, the same blue color as your night gown, and tie the robe together with the matching belt with a neat little bow. Like a present to unwrap on Christmas morning.

While you wait for your lover to return home, you also prepare one of Namor’s favorite dishes to eat. It’s a simple dish — fish and rice, but you prepare it in the way his mother did and it reminds him of her. Namor strolls into the room, shoulders tense and his eyes tinged with annoyance. His eyes light up into appreciation at the sight of you.

He trails his eyes down your body, coming back up to stop at the necklace that rests just in between your breasts. It’s a small intricate gold and silver necklace that ties into a knot where the two metals meet. He gifted that necklace to you when you got engaged. For many, it’s a symbol of your union. For the two of you, it symbolizes his deep need to possess even the smallest part of you and to have others acknowledge that you belong to him. That your fate is tied to his for as long as you both live. You shudder at his lingering gaze and try to ignore the tingle that spreads from your core.

Today is not about you, you scold yourself. You should at least feed the man before you jump his bones. You were so busy chastising yourself that you missed the way his gaze darkened, his eyes full of desire and want. You did however notice the tenseness in his shoulders, and the way his mouth was set into a thin straight line.

“You’ve had a stressful day, my love. What can I do for you? I made your favorite in case you’d like to eat.”

“I am hungry,” Namor replied, staring at you through his brow. “But not for food.”

In a flash, he covered the distance between the both of you and covered his mouth with yours. He was an all-consuming force, like a whirpool, and you were a tiny sailboat adrift at sea. You had no way of overpowering him, but you didn’t want to. He picked you up and threw you on the bed. He took the soft satin belt from your robe and tied your hands to the one of the wooden posts of the headboard.

“The only thing I want is for my sweet, pretty wife to come from my tongue as many times as she can stand it. Do you think you can do that?”

Present

Namor moaned into your pussy, only taking a moment to lick up the remnants of the last orgasm you had that had dripped down your thighs. He sat up for a moment and massaged your thighs. You felt delirious.

“You’ve been so good for me, my Queen. Taking each and every thing I’ve offered,” he said. He rubbed his clothed dick all over your slick pussy.

“I bet you could take one more.”

#marvel x reader #black panther #wakanda forever #namor of talokan #mcu namor #namor x reader #namor x black reader #namor x fem!reader #namor x y/n #namor smut

277 notes · View notes

lavendersartistry · 2 months

Text

Devil Nightmares

Space Riders AU - @onyxonline Eve Ewe, Bolt - @lavendersartistry

(CW/TW: nightmares, panic attack)

This is an angst/comfort fic for onyxonline's Space Riders AU! This is mainly centered my OCs Eve Ewe and Bolt! Please check Oynx out, their work is super cool!

Although the skies of the galaxies were forever a sunset to nightfall, it was no later than 9 in the planet of the Lilim.

Its princess, Eve, resigned to her chambers in the west palace, the planet's natural flora greeting her as she entered the room. She took a moment to touch the lotuses in the lily pond close to her balcony, enjoying their fresh and sweet scent.

She looked out to the windows and glanced at the stars and the faraway planets. She took a moment to remember how she and her sister tried counting how many planets there were and how many would soon come to their world in the following years. Now, that time had stopped.

Now, Eve would become a queen and her sister to be general their planet's military.

Eve quickly shook the thought and began to settle for the night. Her favorite book was at the edge of the other side, the portraits of her parents and grandmother looking back at how she had grown. She couldn't help but smile at how proud they could be while they watch over her with their goddess.

With a quick, soft clap of her hands, her lights dimmed as she hurried into bed. Then, to dream.

...........

The unnerving void of nothingness felt like eyes were on Eve that watched her every move. She felt cold, yet she couldn't shiver nor try to exhale the coldness.

Red smoke clouded her view and it felt potent to her senses to even try to breathe in, so she kept her mouth closed. Eve kept walking on, to at least find a exit to this strange place.

Then.

A hand. Then another. Then more. All, so many, grabbed at her as whispers echoed in her ears.

"Join him." "He will bring us salvation." "He is our God."

And Eve ran. Ran far away from whatever was trying to lead her astray. She couldn't look back, not when she could feel those creatures, those voices, right behind her.

It felt like a loop, a never-ending hall to nowhere, no escape. Eve was starting to feel hopeless, like there was no one to come for her. She was vulnerable, easy to take and to indoctrinate. She couldn't even bear to look as the voices captured her and a long, lanky hand reached out for her as the sufferable red smoke corrupted her mind and her soul.

...........

Eve never thought she could scream so loudly. She was in brink of sweat as tears rolled down her face and her hands shook violently.

Her chamber doors opened immediately as the dark wolf critter, her guard Bolt, looked at her with concern.

"Princess? You screamed. Are you-"

Bolt took a moment to realize how she was clutching onto her evening blouse tightly and her breathing rapid. He rushed to her side and kneeled.

"Can you hold my hands?"

Eve turned to him and quickly grabbed his hands as she looked down to her lap.

Bolt didn't clutch her hands nor fully held them. He knew she needed room as he did what he could to get her back calm. He spoke softly, never looking away.

"Good, princesa. Now breathe with me."

The dark wolf critter demonstrated first as his paws rubbed her hands to soothe her shakiness a little. Eve listened to him and started to take deep breaths, the shakiness in her voice slowly soothing away.

"Good, good. Now, tell me what do you see."

Eve's eyes glanced around her chambers before opening her mouth to speak despite her screaming earlier created a painful sensation to her throat.

"I... I see the lotuses.."

"What else do you see?"

"I see you.."

Bolt nodded softly as he sat up and guided her to the lily pond, his eyes on her. The two sat down at the edge, the lotuses gliding in the water.

He kept his eyes on the princess and held her close, his paw and her hand intertwined. With a small exhale, he softly sang a old song.

Seas invite in the evening sun,

To light the somber abyss.

Clouds dance up with the heavens stars,

Chanting an air of joyous bliss.

Water fades back from blue to jade,

Guiding young rainbows high.

Flowers bloom in to reds and whites,

Quenching our hearts as they run dry.

Angels chained,

By a beast locked in slumber.

Sin washed away,

By the swift flow of time.

I may know the answers,

Journey over snow and sand.

What twist of fate has brought us,

To tread upon this land?

Bolt looked down at Eve, noticing how she had gotten calmer after his song. He rest his chin on top of her head as his paws gently went through her hair.

Whatever her dream was, whatever had frightened her like this, was now a priority to discover.

The dark wolf critter looked down at her with a soft, small smile.

"Don't worry, my princess. Nothing will happen to you or our home as long as I am here and our friends."

#pineapple drink | writing #Space Riders AU - onyxonline au #smiling critters #smiling critters au #eve ewe - space riders au #bolt - space riders au #the prototype - space riders au #the voices/followers of the prototype - space riders au #smiling critters - space riders au #aggressively sips tea in angst #woe angst be upon ye #but also comfort #so the dream may have been a vision #who knows #anyways go check out onyx #their au is awesome

52 notes · View notes

yuujispinkhair · 2 years

Text

Comfort from the King

When you catch the flu, your Yakuza husband is there to take care of you.

Pairing: Yakuza!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort Word Count: 1.7k Warnings: Mentions of flu symptoms, crime-related themes, Yakuza, there is some blood on Sukuna's clothes. All characters are of age. My blog is 18+. Minors don't interact.

This story is set in my Yakuza AU, but you can read it without reading the main story. All you need to know is that reader is married to Yakuza King Sukuna.

I wrote this for a request I got for Yakuza!Sukuna taking care of his wife when she is sick. I hope it can offer you some comfort! Get well soon!

It happens pretty fast. Suddenly you feel dizzy and too hot, and an hour later a dull headache makes your head pound uncomfortably. The short nap you take on the couch doesn't help. You feel even more drowsy afterwards. You barely make it to the kitchen to get some aspirin and water.

A temperature check tells you that you have a fever. Great. Just great. You caught the flu, apparently. You slowly walk to the master bedroom, falling onto the luxurious bed with a pained sigh. All you want to do is sleep.

For a moment, you contemplate texting someone. Your first thought is Sukuna, of course. But you know that your husband has a lot of work today. He told you this morning that he has some important business in the casino.

You could also ask your bodyguard Nobara to come over. Or maybe Yuuji, your brother-in-law. But on the other hand, they have other things to do too. Nobara was happy about the free day and wanted to go on a shopping spree. And Yuuji has a lot of work with his arcades and pachinkos and the pizza delivery service too. You would feel bad about bothering them.

So you put your phone back down and tell yourself that you'll be fine. Sleep will have to do!

Several hours later, you wake up from a restless sleep filled with fever dreams. Your pulse is racing, you feel dizzy, and the headache is back, even worse than before. But you feel too weak to get up and get more painkillers.

You groan as you roll onto your left side and press your burning face onto your pillow, hoping that the silk bedding will provide some comfort.

It's already dark outside. The city lights sparkle in the near distance, a million little lights in countless skyscrapers, joined by neon signs and the busy Tokyo traffic.

Usually, you love this time of day, when the city turns into this colorful sea of lights. But tonight, you can't see the beauty in it. Instead, the lights hurt your eyes, and you turn back onto your right side, facing away from the large floor-to-ceiling windows.

The penthouse lies in darkness, except for the dim lights in the hallway, which buzzed to life when the light sensors noticed the growing darkness. It's completely quiet in here. How late is it?

Your hand pats weakly at the pillow in search of your phone. You find it and lift it with a shaky hand. Almost 8:00 pm. You slept so long, yet you feel like you ran a marathon. Your whole body aches, and you feel cold sweat on your temples. The fever must have gotten higher. You are so cold, your body is trembling slightly and your teeth chatter as you pull the blanket tighter around yourself.

A sudden longing hits you, making tears gather in your eyes. You want Sukuna here with you. You feel so sick, so weak, and all you want is for your big and strong husband to pull you into his arms and hold you.

Just as you finish that thought, you hear the faint sound of the elevator door opening. Sukuna is home! Almost as if he sensed that you were thinking of him. Sometimes you think he has some secret superpower like that. He always seems to know when you need him.

His velvety voice calls out:

"Darling, I'm home! Where are you?"

"H...here...in the bedroom."

Your voice comes out hoarsely, followed by an immediate cough. You press a hand to your chest as your whole body shakes from coughing so hard when your husband's familiar tall and muscular figure appears in the dimly lit doorframe.

"What's wrong? Why are you in bed?"

Even in the almost dark room, you can see his eyes sparkle as he fixes you with an intense, searching gaze.

A second later, he crosses the small distance between the door and the bed with several long strides. The mattress dips lightly when he sits down and leans over you.

A large hand lands on your arm, warm and comforting. And then Sukuna's low voice speaks soothingly to you,

"Are you sick?"

You nod slightly as Sukuna's hand wanders to your forehead, pressing gently against it. He makes a soft sound, a light gasp, before taking his hand off your forehead and wrapping his strong arms around you, to pull you into his comforting embrace.

"Poor thing, come here! You have a fever, hm?"

You can't stop a sob from escaping your lips as you snuggle bonelessly into your husband's arms and press your face against his buff chest. He feels so warm and solid, so comforting.

You inhale his scent. Expensive perfume and traces of cigarette smoke on his suit. He probably had to meet a business partner in one of the backrooms of the casino. There's also a faint iron smell indicating that your husband had some rather tough business to deal with today.

It should be terrifying to smell traces of blood on your husband's clothes. But it isn't. Not to you. Not when it comes to Sukuna. You know his job. You know everything about it and about him. The King can be ruthless and deadly with the ones who threaten him and his loved ones. But here with you, he is the most caring and loving man you have ever met.

"Kuna...I'm so glad you're home."

It feels so good to be in his arms and snuggle against his broad chest. One of his hands comes up to pet your hair soothingly.

"If I had known you were sick, I would have come home sooner. Why didn't you call me?"

"I didn't want to bother you at work. It's just a fever, Kuna. I thought a bit of sleep would be enough. It's not like you could have done anything anyway."

At that Sukuna pulls slightly away to look at you. His large hand cups your chin and gently tilts your face upwards, making you look at him.

You're still feeling dizzy, and everything looks a bit blurry to you at the moment. But you still admire the handsome face in front of you.

Sukuna is beautiful. A face that would be far too pretty for a Yakuza boss if it weren't for the black filigree lines showing everyone how powerful this stunning man is. But he looks at you with nothing but love in his gaze. His pretty maroon eyes glitter in the dimly lit bedroom as his thumb rubs over your bottom lip in a tender caress.

"I am the King of Tokyo. I can do anything."

The comment could be arrogant, said to a business partner. Or threatening, said to an enemy. But here in your bedroom, it is said with an amused tone. The typical boyish smirk spreads over Sukuna's handsome face, and he adds:

"You know you are always more important to me than anything else. So for the future, keep it in mind: You call me or text me when you aren't feeling well, ok? And I will find a way to help you. Either I come home to you and look after you myself. Or if that isn't possible, I send someone over. Nobara is literally always on stand-by. And Yuuji would be very willing to take care of you too, you know that. Please get it into your pretty head: You never bother me. I will always take care of you, no matter what. Even if it just means bringing you soup and aspirin."

You feel the corners of your lips lift in a soft smile, despite your exhaustion. Your heart feels so full.

"You're the best husband."

Sukuna blesses you with one of his genuine smiles, so dazzling and pretty that it still makes you stare in rapt fascination anytime it happens.

He leans closer again and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek as his strong arms envelop you once again in his comforting embrace.

"Get some more rest, darling. And I'll make you something to eat."

You can only nod as your husband's strong hands gently make you lie back down on the bed. You mumble a soft thanks before drifting off to another round of sleep as the exhaustion wins again.

The next time you wake up is when Sukuna walks back into the bedroom, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of freshly cooked soup and a large glass of water, and some more aspirin.

He must have taken a shower because his pink hair is slightly damp, and he changed into comfy grey cashmere sweatpants that ride low on his hips. He doesn't wear a shirt. Even in your current drowsy state, you can't help but admire the sharp v-line and the defined abs and pecs. A strong body full of gorgeous muscles and filigree tattoos.

A body that is very warm and comforting when you are snuggled against it twenty minutes later after you finished eating your soup and your husband carried you bridal style to the bathroom and back to bed before handing you the pills and the glass of water, watching you with a stern but loving gaze to make sure you drank everything.

And now he is hugging you from behind, keeping you warm and making you feel loved. You sigh happily and close your tired eyes.

Sukuna is so big and strong. His hugs always make you feel safe. But tonight, it feels even more comforting than usual. The fever makes you feel weak and over-emotional, tears welling up all too easily because of the exhaustion, pain, and overall feeling of helplessness. But here in Sukuna's arms, everything is ok again.

He is warm and comforting. He is your home, just like you are his. Even his voice is soothing to you, a low and tender whisper:

"How are you feeling, my love?"

"Hmmm, still lousy, but your soup and your hugs help... maybe I should have really called you."

"Yes, you should have. Don't hesitate to do it next time. You're my Queen and my wife. You're my everything. I love you. I want to take care of you, darling. Always."

And you know that it is true. Because Itadori Sukuna is a man of his word.

"I love you too, baby. Thank you for taking care of me."

You can feel him smile against your neck upon hearing the pet name, and his muscular arms tighten around you even more as he pulls you against his firm body.

"No need to thank me, sweetheart. This is part of the package. See it as my all-inclusive deal. And you are the only one who gets all the benefits."

His words make you chuckle, but it turns into a loud yawn. You put a hand on top of Sukuna's, where it's resting lovingly beneath your breasts.

"So tired... 'm gonna sleep again... g'night, Kuna..."

"Good night, my love. Get well soon."

And this time, you fall asleep in your husband's strong arms. His muscular, firm body is pressed tightly against your back, strong arms holding you safely in his embrace while soft lips trail gentle kisses over your neck, and his low velvety voice whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

Words of love and affection that are even more precious somehow because they come from a man who is feared by everyone else in this city. But not by you. Because to you, Sukuna is your lovingly devoted husband.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope this little story can give you some comfort! Yakuza!Sukuna always makes me feel better. There's just something about a powerful and dangerous man like him going all sweet and caring for the ones he loves that makes me weak! It was nice to write for Daddy Kuna again :)

Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs make me happy!

#sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna x reader

1K notes · View notes

ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years

Note

prompts! werewolves + arranged marriage + truth/lie revealed + on a cruise :D

Here's a Geraskier modern with magic AU! Warnings for mentions of past character injury and child abuse:

The cruise was Jaskier’s idea.

“We need a honeymoon, Geralt!” Geralt’s new husband told him barely five minutes after they’d exchanged their stilted, awkward wedding vows, and barely twenty minutes after they’d clapped eyes on each other for the first time. “This marriage may not have been what either of us wanted, but we still deserve a proper celebration.”

In retrospect, that should have been the first indication that something was off. No werewolf with a working nose would subject themselves to all the smells—never mind all the sounds—of thousands of people trapped together on a boat.

“You’re not a werewolf,” he says slowly, letting the words sink in. He and Jaskier are sitting by the pool on the top level of the cruise ship, surrounded by the scents of chlorine, sweat, and sunscreen as children shriek and parents shout around them.

“No.” His husband looks the picture of decadent ease, wearing indecently tiny, bright yellow swim trunks with a neon pink, flowered shirt that’s unbuttoned nearly to his navel, with a colorful, frozen drink replete with an umbrella clutched in his hand. Only the faint, sour scent of nervousness gives him away.

“But you’re a Pankratz.” That’s the whole point of this damn marriage, to seal a peace treaty between the Lettenhove and Kaer Morhen packs. The union between Geralt, the second son of Vesemir Morhen, and Jaskier, the fourth son of Alfred Pankratz, is supposed to symbolize the new union between their packs after decades of tension.

“In name only, I’m afraid.” Jaskier flashes a smile that’s only slightly strained at the corners. “I bear a startling resemblance to a human journalist who visited Lettenhove to do a piece on the pack about nine months before I was born. It seems I take after him in more ways than one.”

At the wedding last week, Geralt noticed that Jaskier looked nothing like his burly, fair-haired father and brothers with their humorless mouths and beady hazel eyes, but he thought nothing of it, assuming that Jaskier resembled his late mother. But if Jaskier isn’t even a Pankratz…

“This renders the treaty moot,” Geralt says. “Your father realizes that, doesn’t he? If you hadn’t told me, I would have found out in two weeks, when you didn’t shift at the full moon, and the treaty would be as good as over.”

“I imagine he fully realizes that, yes.” Jaskier looks away, smiling at a pack of children wrestling over an inflatable orca in the pool. “My father is many things, but he’s not a fool. “

“If he had tried this with Calanthe or Vizimir’s pack, he would be signing your death warrant,” Geralt says, then goes cold when not a single flicker of surprise crosses Jaskier’s face. Instead, the nervous scent grows stronger.

“Yes, Geralt,” Jaskier says lightly, taking a sip of his drink. “I assume that was the point. He marries me off to you, you rip me apart on the full moon when you realize that you were deceived, and then he has legitimate reason to declare full-out war on the Kaer Morhen pack. Plus, he gets rid of his wife’s inconvenient human bastard.”

Geralt closes his eyes. Suddenly, a lot about this past week makes a horrible kind of sense. “That’s why you wanted to go on this damn cruise, so you could tell me somewhere we’d be surrounded by human witnesses, far from my pack.”

“I do apologize for that,” Jaskier says. “I knew all the sounds and smells would leave you off-kilter, which I thought might give me a chance if I needed to defend myself. By the time I realized you weren’t the kind of man to tear my still-beating heart out, it was too late to turn back. Plus, after I booked the tickets, I learned that a truly alarming amount of people vanish from cruise ships every year. Apparently, it’s much easier to make people disappear at sea than I counted on.”

Geralt grunts. “I’m not going to make you disappear.”

“I know that now.” A gentle hand touches his wrist and Geralt opens his eyes to see his own reflection mirrored in Jaskier’s oversized sunglasses. It’s the first time Jaskier has looked at him since they started this conversation and suddenly, Geralt wishes his husband weren’t wearing those sunglasses, so he could see his eyes.

“Then why are you still afraid?” Geralt asks, because that nervous scent is only growing stronger, nearly overpowering the scent of Jaskier’s sunscreen and the strawberry-and-rum scent of his drink.

Jaskier grimaces. “Well, you have other options, if tearing me apart and dumping my mangled corpse overboard isn’t your style. My father married me off to you under false pretenses, after all.”

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You’re afraid I’m going to send you back to Lettenhove.”

“I doubt anyone could blame you if you did,” Jaskier says. “You wanted a proper werewolf mate and instead, you got a defective halfbreed who will never do your pack a damn bit of good.”

He says those last words in a cadence that isn’t his own, like they’re something someone else has said to him many times.

“What will happen to you if you go back to Lettenhove?” Geralt already knows the answer.

He can practically feel Jaskier’s gaze on him, even through the sunglasses. “He’ll find another way to get rid of me, I imagine. Or he’ll try to turn me again and see if it sticks this time.”

Something hot and furious rises in Geralt, not so much at the words, but at the matter-of-fact way Jaskier says them. He schools the rage from his expression, so Jaskier won’t think it’s directed at him. “Again?”

He remembers the scars he’s gotten glimpses of at various points in the past week—a slash across Jaskier’s thigh, a bite mark on his shoulder, the curve of claw marks on his side. He’s thought nothing of them. All werewolves have scars, but Jaskier isn’t a werewolf. He’s a human.

“My mother died when I was sixteen,” Jaskier says. “My grandfather passed away not long after. Once they were gone, there wasn’t anyone to stop my father and brothers from doing what they’d been threatening to do since I hit puberty and they realized I couldn’t shift.”

“They tried to turn you.” Geralt swallows back the bitter taste the words leave. There’s a reason turning humans is banned by all the major wolfpacks in the Northern Kingdoms, except in extreme circumstances. It’s a brutal process, one that requires bringing humans to the brink of death before biting them. Most of the time, it’s unsuccessful. Geralt only knows of one werewolf that was successfully turned: his younger brother, Lambert.

A woman walks by them, carrying a wailing toddler in her arms while another young boy trails behind, loudly protesting his innocence. “He said I smelled like cheese!” the younger child blubbers.

Jaskier chuckles and catches the mother’s eye. “Brothers,” he says and the mother smiles and looks up at the sky in exasperation before hurrying away to soothe her younger son’s hurt feelings.

Geralt can see the edge of the scar on Jaskier’s thigh peeking out from underneath his shorts. He wonders which of Jaskier’s brothers put it there, or if they just watched while his father did it. He thinks of a sixteen-year-old Jaskier, wide-eyed and baby-faced as he was hunted down and savaged by people he should have been able to trust.

“A friend of my mother’s helped me get away,” Jaskier says. “My birth father mysteriously vanished not long after my father realized who I looked like, but his sister lives in Oxenfurt. She knows someone who knows someone who was able to help me create a new identity. So I stopped being Julian Pankratz and lived for fifteen years as Jaskier. I finished high school, went to Oxenfurt, eventually got a job teaching at Oxenfurt, all as Jaskier. I thought my father had forgotten about me, right until my brothers showed up and shoved me into the back of a car to bring me back to Lettenhove and get married.”

“You should have said something at the wedding,” Geralt says. “My pack would have helped you. I would have helped you.”

“I know that now, but you were a stranger then, and a werewolf to boot. Before I met you, this—” Jaskier pulls aside the neckline of his shirt. “Had largely been my experience with werewolves.”

Geralt stares at the ridge of pale scars across Jaskier’s shoulder, a line of teeth marks in the shape of a wolf’s jaws. He can imagine it clearly: a werewolf pinning Jaskier to the ground and sinking their teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder, tearing soft flesh and crushing bone. He’s been on the receiving end of such wounds many times, but he’s a werewolf, not a breakable human. Jaskier is lucky he didn’t bleed to death. Geralt reaches out to trace one finger along the line of scars. Jaskier shivers at the touch, despite the heat of the day.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s inadequate, but it’s all he can offer Jaskier. “This shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Jaskier smiles a little sadly. “What now, Geralt?”

Geralt never wanted this marriage, was furious when Vesemir told him what the treaty with the Lettenhove pack would entail. A week ago, he would have jumped at the chance to declare the marriage void and to get back to his simple, quiet life. But what would that mean for Jaskier? He could return to his life at Oxenfurt, but how long will it take for Alfred Pankratz to target him again? How long before Jaskier is dragged away to be used as a political pawn again, or slaughtered outright? Without protection, Jaskier will never be safe from the Lettenhove pack.

“We’re going to spend the next week on this fucking ship,” Geralt says. “We’re going to go to the couples ballroom dancing class you signed us up for tonight.” His lips twitch at Jaskier’s snort of laughter. “I’m going to teach you how to play Gwent tomorrow, because we’re going to win the Gwent tournament on Sunday, so something will come out of this cruise. And then we’re going to go back to Kaer Morhen and tell Vesemir what your old pack is up to. And then we’re going to kill your fucking father.”

Jaskier stares at him, seemingly shocked silent for the first time since Geralt met him.

“Unless you don’t want me to kill him?” From what Geralt has heard, Alfred Pankratz deserves a violent death, but he did raise Jaskier. Perhaps there’s still some affection there.

“The treaty—” Jaskier croaks.

“The treaty was entered into under false pretenses,” Geralt says. “It’s void. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t give a fuck about the treaty or pack politics or any of that bullshit. Are you safe, as long as your father is alive?”

Jaskier swallows. “No.”

“Then he has to die.” Geralt realizes that he’s still touching Jaskier’s shoulder and quickly withdraws his hand. “Werewolf, human, it doesn’t matter. You’re my husband. I’m not going to let your father hurt you again.”

“And your pack?”

“They’ll help.” It’s a testament to what a clusterfuck the Lettenhove pack is that Jaskier doesn’t realize that, Geralt thinks. Of course Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and the rest of the Kaer Morhen pack will come to Jaskier’s defense. He’s one of them now for as long as he wants to be.

Jaskier stares at him for another long moment. Just when Geralt starts to wonder what he said wrong, Jaskier surges forward. Most of his frozen drink sloshes down Geralt’s front, but Geralt hardly notices, because Jaskier is kissing him. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared since the single kiss they exchanged to seal their wedding vows and it’s nothing like that quick, chaste peck on the lips. Jaskier kisses Geralt almost desperately, one hand fisting in the front of his t-shirt, lips warm and insistent against Geralt’s. When he finally pulls away, they’re both breathing hard.

“He made a mistake when he married me to you, didn’t he?” Jaskier laughs, sounding almost disbelieving. “He thought you’d be like him, that you’d do what he would do to a human he didn’t want.”

Emboldened, Geralt slides his hand up Jaskier’s face to take his sunglasses off, revealing those blue eyes, which are watching him with hope. He doesn’t smell nervous anymore, Geralt realizes.

Water splashes over their legs as a kid cannonballs into the pool and a lifeguard blows their whistle, the sound sharp and shrill. Neither Geralt nor Jaskier notice; they’re watching each other. For the first time, Geralt feels like they’re in this together. Maybe this won’t be a sham of a political marriage. Maybe Jaskier won’t just be a husband foisted upon him, but his mate.

“Well,” Jaskier says with genuine levity instead of the terrible, false brightness he’s carried with him for the past week. “I suppose if you’re going to suffer through ballroom dancing lessons tonight, I owe you a drink, don’t I?”

“Do they serve anything that isn’t pink and frozen?”

“Oh, please, don’t pretend you’re above pina coladas and strawberry daiquiris, just because you’re big and broody.” At Geralt’s flat look, Jaskier flashes a shit-eating grin. This is the Jaskier that Geralt has only caught glimpses of for the past week, someone full of mischief and life, someone that Jaskier has been keeping carefully hidden behind a veneer of false good cheer, probably in an effort not to piss off his new husband.

Geralt likes this Jaskier far better.

“Fine, I’ll get you a boring beer,” Jaskier says, rising to his feet with a sigh.

“Maybe some paper towels too.” Geralt pointedly looks at the strawberry daiquiri sloshed down his arm.

“But it looks good on you! Adds some color to your palette.” Jaskier’s smile gets wider when Geralt rolls his eyes. “Fine, a boring beer and some paper towels. I’ll be right back.”

Geralt watches him walk away, trying and failing not to notice how tiny those shorts are. He’s going to need to contact Vesemir as soon as they get back to the cabin, to tell him that Alfred Pankratz is up to something. And then when they dock in Novigrad at the end of the week, he’ll have to start planning how to deal with Pankratz once and for all.

But for now, he thinks he’s going to let himself enjoy his honeymoon, ballroom dancing and all.

Trope Mashup Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills #barely managed to resist the urge not to make this a 30K fic

779 notes · View notes

thewolvesof1998 · 3 months

Text

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

Tagged by @giddyupbuck @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @disasterbuckdiaz @jesuisici33 @smilingbuckley

HOLY SHIT I haven't posted anything since last year (yes I had to make the joke, sorry not sorry) but really it has been a while, I took an unplanned writing break, I was struggling so much with chapter four of They don’t know (your name is already mine) that I just had to step away for a moment but that turned into uh a month...Anyways I'm back here's some of my pirate AU and some from Chpt. 4 just for shits and giggles:

Pirate AU:

The salt spray coats his face, the wooden deck beneath his boot rolls with the waves and with the taste of salt on his lips he’s never felt more at home. He can feel the presence of his crewmates at his back, unhurriedly going about their tasks but he can’t turn to face them. His eyes are stuck staring at the horizon, watching as the yellow sun dips beyond the edge, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. As the stars show he can smell gunpowder and the metallic taste of blood lingers in the air. The shouts of fighting are muted as the sounds of crashing waves rise until it’s all he can hear. He knows what comes next, he tries to move but his feet are rooted in place as if the wood has grown vines and trapped him there. Agonising pain flares in his right thigh, then his left shoulder, as a blade is run through him from behind. He feels the blood run from his body, soaking his uniform and the deck below him. He just stands there as the life drains out of him, helpless to do anything but watch as the moon rises and makes its arch across the sky until he’s as cold as death, until whatever is holding him there releases and he drops to the deck like he’s puppet with cut strings. But instead of wood, there’s a straw mattress and instead of the constant sway of a ship he’s on solid ground. The pain’s still there but rather than the sharp burning pain of new wounds they ache and seize like they have for the past six months since they fullied healed and will probably ache for the rest of his life. Eddie takes in a gasping breath, tastes the bitter salt of sweat on his lips and rubs the sleep and lasting images of the sea from his eyes.

They don’t know (your name is already mine) Chapter Four:

“I’ve ruined Christmas,” He knows he’s pouting but he can’t help it, their first Christmas together as a married couple, as an official family and he’s ruined it. “Buck no-” Eddie tries to protest but Buck knows he has, not only are all his presents probably ruined but he’s going to have to spend Christmas in the Hospital without his boys because he will be damned if he ruins their Christmas even more than he already has. “-I’m tired, and in pain, please can you call the nurse,” He knows he’s shutting down and leaving Eddie out in the cold but he feels a tightness in his chest and tears burning in his eyes and all he wants to do is fall back into oblivion for a bit and he knows he’s running away from his feelings but he thinks it would be okay to do that until after Christmas. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” Eddie kisses the back of Buck’s hand before getting up, when he’s at the door he looks back briefly, shooting a look of concern at him before stepping out of the room.

tagging: @wildlife4life @try-set-me-on-fire @bekkachaos @buddierights @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @malewifediaz @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @fortheloveofbuddie @mangacat201 @hoodie-buck @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @sammysouffle @jamespearce9-1-1 @carrierofthepaperclips @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @thosetwofirefighters @monsterrae1 @princehattric @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @singlethread @your-catfish-friend @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @eddiebabygirldiaz

#9-1-1 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #thewolvesof1998 writes #buddie fic #fic: they don't know (your name is already mine)#pirates au

65 notes · View notes

aconflagrationofmyown · 7 months

Note

You’ve definitely become one of my favorite Elvis writers on here, Marina.

And I wanted to ask you, are you planning to do more Elvis series? Like a series of Hollywood!Elvis, where he fights to be a serious actor and falls in love with one his co-stars. Or more Elvis AU, since we already have Pirate!Elvis. For example Cowboy!Elvis. Spy!Elvis like a James Bond or Agent Elvis. Mafia!Elvis. Even a Superhero!Elvis.

I think you’d do such a good job bringing all those concepts to life 🤭

My sweet anon, thank you so much, what a kind thing to say, I’m so glad my writing has brought you joy. 💋🌸💋 As for AU’s I did start a series about Hollywood E, yet never finished it. And for now I’ve got riverboat Captain E and father figure E to chew and that’s a lot on its own…but never say never. I think this would be something I’d have to have pitched to me and see if it resonates? So far I’ve not fully cooked up anything else original that hasn’t been done better by others. I’m always happy to dish out recs, fyi.

BUT THAT SAID…I’m messing around with little snippets, a filthy fairytale in collaboration with @elvisabutler and this demented Regency Elvis headcanon below that “my sexy secretary” @ab4eva took down from a chat. Enjoy…

I Bet on Losing Dogs -🥀 A Regency Elvis Blurb

18+ blurb, warning sexual content ahead, arranged marriage, romance novella style stuff

Imagine this: Regency Elvis whose wife has recently left him for a foreigner, taking with her his only child -a daughter who cannot inherit. He needs an heir.

Zero promises of love or fidelity or even bare respect for his new wife but…there’ll be position and status and jewels so long as you perform your wifely duties without complaint.

Jaded and lonely, I need freshly betrayed Elvis buying off a nobleman for his daughter, a Baron who’s mortgaged his estate for debts, Mr. Presley gets the association with your family’s nobility and you get the much needed wealth that new money brings.

And so your new husband comes in nightly in an embroidered robe and a solitary lit candle to consummate your union. He’s got all that chest hair displayed and a lil ponch of a belly showing out his robe as he slowly undoes the tie every night, never rushed, and you can feel the jitters down to your toes every time as you hug the sheet to your chin.

*Let go, Darlin,* he’s always murmuring as he pulls the sheet from your grip, *must do what needs done*

He fucks you hard and fast for such a delicate woman and then tosses you spending money to make up for it.

Reminds you after each visit to yoru chambers that you have a job to do. One single job.

*Gimme that son and maybe you’ll get that sea bathin’ ya been hankerin’ for*

(Elvis is from Yorkshire if he was ever transported to an English Setting AU, ok? No question, unless the question is Irish versus Yorkish)

Each time, when he finishes and pants into the humid crook of your neck, his hand blindly strokes away your tears and he whispers in gravelly apology, *I’ll leave ya alone, moment ya start to swell, I swear it, I’ll leave ya alone lil girl*

But that’s not why you’re crying, you wish he’d stay, he doesn’t know how cold you get when he leaves you and his sweat and spend cools on your skin and leaves you shivering.

You could curse the woman who laid here before you, who broke his heart and still haunts this place, like the wall opposite the bed with its outline of a portrait missing on the sun-bleached wall.

You wonder what she looked like, this missing wife.

You wonder if she secretly craved the burning stretch of him like you do, possibly not if she left for someone more…continental. Was he too voracious for her? Or was it the loneliness that finally ate her through like the moths who try the same with the bed canopy.

One night, Mr. Presley’s hand slips from your shoulder down to your breast, very rarely does he maul you there except in his direst paroxysms of pleasure, but tonight he slips and grabs and it’s so sore you nearly cry aloud from the ache.

*I swear I’ll leave ya be* he had said and you bite your lip savagely, cinch your corsets cruelly and wonder how to make him love you, tolerate you even. Anything so that you’re not left alone like he promises.

Are your breasts sore from being with child? You worry so.

So the next night you scheme, and when he shakes atop you and catches his breath and makes to roll away, you grab hold of him and keep him close.

*Six months* you murmur, and he seems confused by your meaning, *six month’s you’ve visited me nightly save for menses and Lent, and no child to show for it. Won’t you stay? Nurse says if the man remains…after…the chances are greater.*

Ensuing cockwarming between two people who’ve barely spoken outside of bed…little chats…because neither can sleep and in fact, he doesn’t really sleep that much at all, he admits.

*what do you do then? At nights?* you ask.

He reads a lot, he tells you and he’s got a telescope, and you tentatively ask if he’ll read to you.

He agrees with a shy *i-if ya want that, I will*

About the books. You asks if he will tonight instead of leaving and he says yes.

Then he hesitates and asks lowly, *can we…once more?…before?*

He asks if he can do it again, before he grabs the books, because he firmed up again while acting as a stopper in your warm cunt.

You’re already a wet mess down there and perhaps he moves you around, spoons you.

Puts himself back in and you’re so wet from what he gave you before and your excitement at the intimacy you feel in this movement.

And due to the difference in angle, for the first time, you actually come from the feeling of your husband inside you. His flaming hot body behind you, his thick arms wrapped around your body, the delicious rub of him in your womb.

And you’re quite sure you’ve already made a child but he doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

Anything to keep him coming back.

#elvis presley #regency Elvis #elvis fanfiction #Elvis blurb #elvis fanfic #Elvis smut #regency #bridgerton #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis #mine

75 notes · View notes

angelrider13 · 1 year

Note

Question. How does Cor react to hearing that his king and Clarus are alive but have been turned into mermaids by leviathan.

@vinny13unlucky

Well. At first he’d be elated. His brothers are alive. Different, sure, but alive.

After the initial reaction, though, we’d probably run into some mess. Because Regis sent him away. He and Clarus knew what was coming - or had a strong suspicion at least. They knew what they were risking, knew that they might die, that Niflheim wasn’t going to play fair and that the treaty was just a trap in pretty trappings.

And they sent Cor away.

Cor can likely see the logic to it - having someone make it out, someone to guide Noctis and try to keep Lucis together at the same time. He can see the logic in it. Can understand it.

But they sent him away.

And it’s probably going to take him a while to reconcile that.

#cor is going to have a lot of feelings #and not all of them will be good #regis and clarus might get punch upon reuniting #elri answers #vinny13unlucky #sweat tears or the sea au #seaborne verse #ask #tumblr why do you refuse tell me when i have asks

5 notes · View notes

wkemeup · 2 years

Text

Sky Full of Song (7)

series summary: Despite the bitter resentment of the crew, you found a home on Captain Barnes’ ship. But when course is plotted for a legendary island, the secret that has kept you alive for years is threatened to be revealed. Pirate/Siren AU

pairings: pirate!bucky x pirate/siren!reader

chapter word count: 7k

warnings: canon level violence, a moment of confrontation, shit goes down

🏴‍☠️ series masterlist // series playlist

You woke with a crick in your neck.

Sleep took you swiftly after Dugan retreated up the stairs, your body depleted from rush of ocean currents over sore muscles and the use of the siren’s song. You wouldn’t regain its power again for at least another week – and that was assuming your recovery time was the same as it was as a child when you’d used it without understanding its consequences on your muddied mortal blood.

It was an awful feeling to strip someone of their free will. Your father had warned you once that it would entice you, that it would draw you in like the shiny gems you chased across the seas, that it would ravage your mind like a disease. It was an addiction, he’d told you. An addiction to the power it would give you over another – to bend their will to your own making.

There was no piece of you that did not feel unnerved and shamed for the use of the siren’s song. No shred of satisfaction in the power it lent you – power that sought to destroy you as easily as it would its victim. You’d broken the will of the one man who risked everything to give you a chance aboard his ship, who had sought to save your life despite knowing his own path would lead him to the depths of the water.

There was no coming back from that betrayal.

The siren’s song never held an appeal for you before. It had only been something you coexisted with, learned to ignore within yourself. Now, it felt like a plague. A weapon you could not shake from your body. A shameful burden you would carry with you for the rest of your life. No matter how short that may be.

You groaned as you pushed yourself upright, leaning against the outer bars of the cell. Hay stuck into your still dampened hair, clinging to the sweat on your skin. Fragments of the straws caught within the barbed necklace laced around your throat – prickles of fresh blood bubbling over the dried bits around the barbs. Your shoulders ached from where your arms were constricted at the base of your spine, bindings still wrapped at your wrists. Raw and bloodied skin rubbed against the ropes.

Slowly, your eyes began to adjust to the dim light of the brig. A single candle was hung in the far distance beyond the cell, offering only a glimpse of light. The darkness it carried seemed to leave behind something under your skin – an uneasiness, an awful sense of loneliness despite the dozens of men stomping their boots about the deck.

You’d never once felt lonely on this ship. Not even under the knowledge that most of the crew resented your place amongst their ranks. No – you had the ocean, you had the small group of friends you’d made of good, decent men. You had your captain.

Had.

You swallowed back a lump burning in your throat, tears threatening your eyes. The sharp edges of the barbed collar pierced your skin with every strangled inhale. It hurt no less than the splintering in your chest.

A slight shift of movement within the brig stilled you to stone. You held your breath, wondering whether Lawrence had snuck into the cellar to be rid of you before the captain could carry out his own justice.

Would that be better, you wondered. Easier, perhaps? To never have to see the look of disgust in your captain’s eyes?

A figure was sitting on the barrels of rum, just outside the cell. You weren’t sure how you’d missed it before – shadows covering his face, his hands busy cleaning a trusted revolver. Blending into the darkness as if he were made for it. As if it welcomed him home. As if he’d been there for hours, waiting patiently in the solitude.

“My men are intent on throwing you overboard,” came the voice of your captain.

Your heart stumbled on its beat.

Slowly, Bucky leaned into the soft reflection of light from the nearby window. It coated over the lines on his face, the sharp clench of his jaw, sinking into the startling blue of his eyes. Still – he gave you no read on whether he was among those same men readying to end your life for your betrayal.

“I know what the crew believe you to be,” he continued, standing as he pulled the keys to the cell from his pocket, twisting them among nimble fingertips, “but I also know what they thought of you before we crossed paths with this damned island. I’m not particularly inclined to trust their judgement.”

You watched his every movement as Bucky slid the key into the lock and unlatched the door. He paused for a minute on the threshold of the cage and you wondered if he was carrying lingering hesitancy for his innate compassion towards you, if he chastised that part of himself that may still care for the monster locked away in the cell. Still, he opened the door, the hinges crying as they parted.

“I know I what I saw, Y/n,” Bucky said sternly.

Your stomach dropped as he admitted to your worst fears. Of course, he remembered. That foolish inclination towards hope would be the end of you far before the men above deck anchored you and threw you to the seas.

“My memories are not clear, but I know enough,” Bucky continued. Though, there was a sliver of uncertainty in his voice, a slight shift of a question at the end of every word – as if he was looking to you to confirm what he already knew to be true.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair as he paced through the cell. “I remember jumping ship. I remember being... stripped apart – like that siren had burrowed a hole into me and tore away everything that ever made me who I was. It made me forget my men, my life on this ship... you. I was going to die at that siren’s hand.”

His gaze met yours, blue eyes searching for answers. “I know Lawrence took the wax from your ears and I... I panicked. I don’t– I’ve never felt like that before. The thought of losing you to the sirens...” Bucky shook his head, as if to rid the possibility from his mind. He exhaled a slow, steady breath to calm his racing heart. “But you didn't fall prey to the song, did you? Too many seconds passed by without it claiming your mind.”

Tears blurred your eyes as you watched him riddle out his own disbelief, trying to make sense of what you had done. He paced over the creaking floors, wringing his hands. You wondered how long he waited in the darkness, wrestling with the vague pieces he remembered of his time under the water and the woman he thought he knew. Wrestling with the godawful sting of betrayal that came with it.

Your father hadn’t had glimpses into his time with the siren like this. He had barely been able to retain a faded memory of what happened to him. Your captain should not remember as much as he did. You could blame it on your dirty blood or a connection shared between you that held beyond even the power of the siren. It didn’t matter, you supposed. He knew enough to condemn you.

Bucky ceased in his pacing, his back to you. Slowly he turned over his shoulder, truly looking at you for the first time since he opened the door to the cell. The slight flicker of his gaze to the bloodied marks on your neck did not slip your notice, nor did the flex in his fist as he squeezed it tight. He appeared to force himself to look away, pulling his focus to your eyes.

“But somehow, still in control of your own will, you followed me into siren infested waters. You killed the creature intent on taking my life,” Bucky went on, softer this time. He swallowed then, as though the coming words were heavy upon his tongue – drying as sandpaper. Still, he continued.

“But then, you started singing and that same feeling pushed into my soul again – like it had burrowed into my basic instincts, shifting them to a will I didn’t recognize,” Bucky said, surely condemning you. Lead solidified in your stomach, in your chest, in your lungs, until you could hardly breathe.

“Only,” Bucky continued, a startling tenderness in his voice that nearly shattered you, “I didn’t feel unmade like I had before. It didn’t feel like an invasion. It... it just felt like you.”

Slowly, Bucky sank to his knees at the barrel where you sat. His gaze carefully looked over you, taking in the new bruising and cuts he hadn’t seen above deck amongst the chaos, and his jaw clenched. A darkness clouded over the blue in his eyes but it wasn’t anything like how the siren’s song laid claim to the striking color. Instead of it closing him off from you, they offered a glimpse of vulnerability, a crack in his armor.

He looked away, the stone fading from his features.

“You kissed me,” Bucky said simply and your heart nearly shattered on impact.

He shouldn’t have remembered that. He couldn’t. Because that would be your undoing. It would spell your end. If he hadn’t been convinced of the monster in your blood, then the siren’s kiss was all the proof he needed.

But he didn’t flinch away from you in disgust. When he looked at you again, a strange weight clung to his features – a heaviness, an aching, you couldn’t quite place.

“Much of it is a blur to me, but I...” Bucky sighed, brushing his fingertips over his bottom lip, as if to touch the memory itself, “I remember the kiss.”

His lips parted and swiftly closed, making you wonder whether there was more he left unsaid. If he remembered the taste of your lips, how they molded so perfectly against his own. If he remembered how your body felt pressed against his – his hands snaking around your waist to brush the skin of your lower back. Because you remembered. You remembered every second of that kiss.

His eyes flickered back to the collar around your neck and his jawline flexed. He took in a steady breath and then, carefully, began to reach a hand to you – familiar, and still, you could not trust it. Not after every warning your father had instilled in you of the men who would sooner slit your throat and dissect your remains should they learn of your truth. Your breath hitched as Bucky’s hand drew near to your neck, your body tensing, and he froze.

His brow pinched at the center and what appeared to be a deep, unsettling sadness crossed the blue of his eyes. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. It had never once crossed your mind before these Isles that he might try to hurt you, to silence you himself with his own bare hands, but still your body reacted as if he might.

He’d promised to interrogate you, hadn’t he? You’d seen how the darkness crept into the captain you knew when he crossed the threshold into this cell – how he’d beat his knuckles raw in search of information more times than you were able to count. It was an effective method; well proven in his many years leading this crew.

And yet—

Bucky held up his hands apprehensively, giving you a moment to recognize the lack of malice in his eyes, the ginger nature of his touch. You could not find a trace of the darkness you prepared yourself to find. Instead, Bucky dipped his head in a reassuring nod as he carefully reached for your neck again – slower this time, allowing you to watch his every movement.

His fingertips grazed your skin and you nearly whimpered at the touch – the gentleness of it. Holding your gaze, Bucky unlatched the barbed collar from around your neck, carefully prying the sharp edges from your skin and granting you the levity of the stale air in the brig. You drew in a shallow, shaken breath.

Bucky exhaled tensely as he settled his thumb to the cuts on your neck, the deep scratches where the pronged edges of the necklace had jabbed to your skin. He touched you as if he might be able to wipe the wounds away as easily as he did the blood, as if he could heal you himself. He tossed the collar to the other side of the cell with force. It clung against the metal of the bars.

“You saved my life, Y/n,” Bucky admitted to the silence of the cell. His hand remained along your neck, examining the marks there. You were certain he could feel the pounding race of your heartbeat through his fingertips.

Slowly, he allowed himself to meet your gaze again. “None of it makes any sense to me. These things I remember... What the men insist happened... What we know to be true about the sirens... I need you to tell me the truth. I need you to trust me with this, to help me understand.”

You stared helplessly back at him. You’d never trusted anyone the way you had Bucky, but you’d sworn to keep this secret your entire life. Men would kill you out of fear or ignorance or sport if they learned what you were; might try to use you to evade the sirens or tear you apart in search of what made you born of the ocean. You father had made you promise to never tell a living soul of the siren’s blood in your veins – not even those you believed you could trust.

Because no one trusted a siren.

No one.

“Y/n,” Bucky tried again, a strain etching into his voice. Desperation, maybe. “Talk to me. It’s only us down here. Only me. You know that I would never...”

He forced out a tense breath as if he could hardly say the words aloud: the very possibility that he would hurt you.

“Please...” he whispered, begged, “just say something.”

You parted your lips, trying to force out the words your captain wanted from you – to confirm what he already knew, to give name to the monster you were. But it lodged in your throat, muffled as if you still wore the barbed wire around your vocal cords. You’d spent too many years suffocated by this secret, by the paralyzing fears of what it meant to trust someone with it, and now—you were drowning in it.

Tears slipped over your cheeks. Burdened in shame, you looked away.

Bucky exhaled, his head dipping. Defeat drew lines along his face.

He didn’t say anything as he rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his knees. Disappointment weighed on his shoulders as he left through the open cell door. He closed it behind him and locked the bars, lingering just beyond the barrier in hopes you might change your mind. But the silence was crippling and he turned away from you.

Perhaps it was too painful to look at the monster he once trusted, to see betrayal personified in the women who would have done anything for him.

Or—

Or maybe, he was as lost as you felt. Confused. Uncertain. Greiving the loss of what he thought he knew and desperate to understand what fell in its place. Maybe he wasn’t like the men your father warned you about. Maybe... your father was wrong.

Because even if you knew little else, you knew Bucky was a good man. You knew his compassion outweighed the rumors of his ruthlessness. You knew he trusted you with things he would not dare show the rest of the crew. Perhaps, he would not see you as the monster his crew argued you to be.

He’d always been different, hadn’t he? You'd known that from the first moment you saw him on that pier, smirking at the little girl who’d chased down her bully with a hairbrush in hand. If anyone was to be worthy of this truth, of this secret that would surely spell your death to any other man, it would be your captain.

And you let him walk away.

He neared the stairs, almost out of view, and fear lurched inside you.

It was crippling, agonizing – the panic that you might lose him not to the sirens or the muddied blood in your veins, but to your own volition, to your own cowardice.

“Wait,” you called after him, but your voice was too shattered, too broken by the song to be heard above the creaking of the ship. He continued his ascent up the stairs, each step cleaving a fracture through your heart.

Your hands began to shake.

“Wait... stop...” you tried again, your voice slowly gaining back strength. But it wasn’t enough. You could see the weight pressing into Bucky’s shoulders, the heaviness of each step. He was nearly to the top.

You sat up straighter, determination drowning away the burning ache in your chest, demanding strength to your voice.

“Bucky—”

He stilled dead in his tracks.

It wasn’t that you’d spoken, or that your voice was tarnished from the song and the collar. No – he stilled so suddenly because it was the first time his name had come from your lips. Not ‘Captain.’ Not ‘Barnes.’

Bucky.

Slowly, he turned. His lips parted; breath heavy in his chest as he studied you. Something in him softened under the weight of his own name in your voice, a shiver in his bones. His hands clenched at his side though he made no movement toward you.

“Wait.” You swallowed back tears; the distance between you physically aching. “Please... don’t go. I’ll tell you everything. Anything. Just... don’t... don’t go.”

A sob cut through and before you could wipe your eyes on the shoulder of your damp blouse, Bucky had rushed the remaining distance and reopened the cell door, his strong frame kneeling in front of you. Your hands began to tremble violently against the ropes and he set a comforting hand upon your knee, urging you to speak.

“It’s true,” you whispered, your words still broken and raspy in the effort. “It’s all true. I’m... I’m so sorry.”

There was no flicker of surprise on his face. If anything, there was a level of relief you couldn’t quite understand. His hand rubbed tenderly along your thigh, drawing the trembling from your muscles and the shakiness from your hands.

“How is this possible?” he asked steadily, softly.

“I'm only half blood.” You drew back the taste of bitterness on your tongue. “My mother was a siren. So little of me is made of her, but it’s enough for others to fear me. I only used the song once before when I was a child, when I didn’t know any better. I never intended to use it again. You have to believe me. I never wanted to use it again.” A rock burned at your throat, threatening to choke you, to suffocate you. “But you... you jumped and I had to do something. You kept swimming after the siren, even after I killed her. You would have drowned if I hadn’t used the song on you and I couldn’t let you—”

"You hid this from me,” Bucky said, his voice laced thick with remorse as the words died upon your lips, “all these years. Why?”

You stilled, stunned by his question until you absorbed the sincerity in his words. His thumb brushed gentle strokes along your knee, a tenderness you’d hardly been able to grasp before he knew what you were and now... He did not flinch from you, did not revolt in disgust. He still showed you the same kindness, the same trust and care.

But you had needed to protect yourself and your secret – even from him. It was the only way your survived.

“Look where I am,” you exhaled, gesturing to the bars encasing you in the brig and the ropes tied at your wrists. “Can you blame me? The crew already distrusts me as a woman. If they knew what my mother was... it wouldn’t just be taunts and dirty looks. They would have killed me.” You looked out to the window where a glimpse of ocean water crashed against the foggy glass. “They still might.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Bucky retorted sharply, his words coated in a stern determination that made your heart clench. He squeezed your knee. “Do you hear me? I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He flinched as his gaze dropped to the dried blood on your neck.

“I won’t... I won’t let them hurt you beyond what I have already shamefully allowed,” Bucky carefully amended, guilt pressed heavy on his features. “I have failed you. You saved me and I... I failed you. I will never deserve your forgiveness, but know that I will do everything in my power to ensure you are safe from those men. To my last breath, I swear that to you.”

Your lips parted, trying to find the right words – to understand how he could possibly still look at you the way he was now, how he could so easily rush to your defense despite the years you spent lying to him of your true nature, of the monster you were under the surface. All this and still – he found a way to carry the blame himself.

All you could force beyond your lips was a disbelieving “...what?”

Bucky stroked his hands down your arms and gingerly took his pocket knife to the ropes binding your hands. As they slid from your wrists and the cool touch of air coaxed over the burns, you shivered, hissing at the burning sensation left in its wake. He helped to ease your hands to your lap, careful of the soreness in your shoulders from keeping your hands locked at the small of your back for so long. You winced at the tenderness, the dull ache, though it was long forgotten as Bucky drew your hands to his mouth and tenderly kissed the wounds.

Your breath soon left you entirely.

“I have always cared for you, Y/n. More than I should,” he admitted, the warmth of his lips lingering over your skin. “You risked everything when you jumped in the water after me. You saved my life. Whatever blood runs through your veins does not usurp the woman I know, does not take her from me and morph her into a creature I can easily despise.”

You watched him as he held your hands in his own, how easily he touched you. It felt like a dream, one where you were not the monster your mother made you to be.

“You’re... You’re not afraid of me?”

Something sank in Bucky’s eyes at your question. The ocean blue currents cracking as his gaze flicker to your swollen wrists. A lingering guilt rose to the surface, painting into the lines on his face.

“My fear is not for the siren in you,” he said simply, with such sincerity it nearly broke you. “It is for the blade of our enemy that comes too close to your neck, for the recklessness you are so often prone to, for the overwhelming pull I feel towards you that renders me helpless beyond what I can take. That is what I fear, my love. Not you. Never you.”

“But I— I lied to you,” you argued though your own tears, unwilling to accept his easy forgiveness, unable to understand how he could so blindly trust you when you’d spent years hiding from him. “I betrayed you. You should be lining up to throw me to the sea with the rest of the crew.”

“You think so little of me?” Bucky questioned, pained as his lips curved to a frown. “You truly believe me capable of laying harm to you? That I would disregard your years upon this ship and every time you have saved my life and the lives of these men? Why? Because you carry siren’s blood? Because you have an incredible – albeit, terrifying – power? You were protecting yourself with this secret. I know that. As much as I wish you had trusted me with this, I know why you couldn’t. I’ll admit that I don’t quite understand it all, but I don’t need to. I know you. I trust you. That is enough for me.”

Bucky’s fingertips ghosted along your cheek, brushing away the tears as they slid over your jawline. “I swore once that I would protect you. I meant that.”

It shattered whatever remained of your doubts, of the guilt and shame you carried for hiding the truth from your captain. This impossible man who had granted you far more than he could ever know. He saved you – in more ways than one – the day he agreed to take you aboard his ship. You’d never known loyalty and quiet affection until you met him.

“This is why you sought to keep us from these waters, isn’t it?” Bucky said quietly, the realization heavy. “All this time, you knew what we would find here. That it might expose you. You knew it could end like this, even as I pleaded for your blessing to travel to this island. You agreed to train the same men who would turn against you in a moment if they knew your truth. You did this... because I asked it of you.”

The guilt weighing in his voice bottomed in your stomach. And still, you nodded, unwilling to lie to him a moment longer. “I only wished to keep you safe.”

A sad smile lifted the edges of his lips. Beautiful, even amongst the dim lighting of the single candle and the faded sunlight marked by clouds and stained glass. Always beautiful.

"Then we have that in common, don’t we?” There was a breath of laughter in his voice.

His right hand gently pushed the dampened hair from your face, tucking it safely behind your ear. His smile began to fade the longer he looked at you – sinking not into a frown, but into something else entirely. Something that resembled awe. Longing.

“Bucky...” you exhaled his name and you watched as a shiver trembled over him.

Your gaze flickered to his lips – the full pink restored in color from his time under the water. His hand cupped at the side of your face, holding you steady, gently, as he drew you closer, as you neared him. Heart pounding, skin thrumming in anticipation. His lips were but a breath from yours.

“Captain!” a voice shouted from the stairs.

You pulled apart as footsteps bounded down from the deck. You turned to find Morita and Jones rushing into the brig with wide, panicked looks in their eyes. They did not seem surprised by the lack of the collar and bindings, nor the captain’s close proximity to you.

Bucky jumped to his feet, his body quickly shielding yours. “What is it?”

“The crew,” Morita replied, panting as his worried gaze shot in your direction. “They’re growing restless. They’re gathering chains.”

Your stomach dropped as Bucky reached for you. His arm darted across your chest, acting as a barrier. You both knew what the chains meant – weights to carry you to the bottom of the ocean, to rob you of the air in your lungs and force you to the home you never truly belonged in.

“I’m still the captain here,” Bucky snarled. “They can’t do a damn thing against her without my say.”

“I don’t believe the crew recognizes that anymore, sir,” said Jones. “Dugan is trying to keep them at ease, but they will come for her. Soon.”

Bucky held the steel in his bones for only a moment longer, contemplating his options. A war seemed to rage inside his mind; his frequent glances to the light seeping in through the open stairway lingered before he turned to you. The hardened lines of his muscles began to soften as his gaze filtered over the raw wounds on your wrists, the speckles of blood on your neck, the reflection of tears on your cheeks. He took one final look to the stairs before his shoulders sank, a tired determination rising to the surface.

“Ready the rowboat,” he ordered. “We shouldn’t be more than a few days journey from land. We’ll need enough supplies to get safely to shore.”

“What?” you gaped. “No, you— you can’t do that! I won’t let you give up this ship for me. Your legacy is everything to you and I’m not worth—”

“Don’t you dare.” Bucky grabbed a firm hold of your forearm, still cautious of the bruising, and pulled you close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “Don’t insinuate for a second that this ship means more to me than your life. We’ll find a new vessel. A new crew. Take one if we have to. I don’t want this one if they’re out for your blood.”

Despite the hardened stone on his features, Bucky’s touch to the edge of your cheek carried such tenderness it drew a breathy gasp from your lips. His thumb eased away the lingering tears on your skin, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your lips. Your argument died on your tongue.

Bucky let a weakened smile curve at the ends of his mouth. It wasn’t enough to reach his eyes – not with the chaos brewing above deck, but it eased the burden from his features. He pressed his lips against your temple, lingering a few seconds longer than needed before he turned back to Jones.

“Let’s get out of here. Now. Before they—”

Heavy footsteps pounded on the old, wooden stairs. One after another. Slow in succession. Determined. Confident. Each stormed like thunder inside your chest, rattling every nerve in your body.

Lawrence was the first to emerge from the shadows, several of the crew behind him carrying weapons in hand. All of which were pointed directly at you. There was no mistaking the malice upon their faces nor the certainty with which they aimed their weapons. They were here to kill the monster in the brig.

“Step out of the way, Captain,” Lawrence growled, though his stare remained on you as if it could burrow a hole between your eyes. Disgust was not a strong enough word to contain the glare he carried.

You longed for the dagger and revolver that had once held home on your hips.

Bucky inched himself in front of you; his body acting a shield. The flash of surprise on his crew’s faces did not go unnoticed.

“Don’t do this, Lawrence,” Bucky warned, his stance steady.

But Lawrence did not tear his gaze from yours. His teeth bared as if he were foamed at the mouth; rabid in his fury. “Do you have any idea the havoc she could wreak upon us? You allowed this creature to be unmuzzled when she could lure every last one of us to our deaths!”

“She is not what you think she is,” Bucky said slowly – the contrast to Lawrence’s crazed anger stark.

“She is exactly what we always believed her to be! A curse!” Lawrence roared, spit flailing from his lips. “We must put an end to the monster before it has a chance to do the same to us!”

Bucky unlatched the safety on his revolver. Stunned gasps echoed through the crew as Lawrence straightened his back. The men behind him held their weapons higher; a stand-off in the middle of the brig. Some of the crew’s weapons were trembling in their hands, fear of their own captain drawing hesitancy to their convictions.

"She is not your enemy,” Bucky growled as he adjusted the leverage of his gun, “but if you don’t step aside, I’m about to be.”

Lawrence licked at his lips; a deadly silence masked only by the crash of waves against the rim of the ship coating the brig. “So be it.”

Gunfire rang in your ears and you were thrown to the ground. Deafening ringing numbed the rest of your senses as you struggled under the weight of Bucky’s body, your forearms scraping against the exposed nails between the wooden boards.

Chaos surrounded you. Once, you would have thrived upon it. You would have breathed in the rush of adrenaline and smiled – but your body was still weakened from the aftermath of the siren’s song. Your energy was drained; your precision with a blade and a bullet hazy, even if you could manage to get your hands on a weapon. There was little fight left in your body as Bucky, Jones, and Morita desperately tried to defend you from the rest of the crew.

Someone managed to wrangle Bucky to his knees and it was only then that you saw the blood dripping down the front of his face. Someone had struck him – enough to break his nose – and your stomach lurched at the sight. Morita and Jones followed, various cuts on his arms and snags in the fabric of their clothing from the blade of their own crewmen. A blade darted out across Bucky’s throat and your heart plummeted far beyond the wood of the ship, deep into the sinking abyss of the waters below.

“Stop!” you shrieked, though your voice broke in the effort. You held your bloodied wrists out for the crew, panicked. Surrendering. Desperate for someone to restrain you instead. “Do what you must with me. Just leave them out of this. Please.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. Panic lacing deep through his veins as he struggled to free himself to no avail. Lawrence stepped forward, a sickening grin curling at the edges of his mouth, and Bucky’s gaze narrowed to deadly precision.

“You lay another fucking hand on her and I swear you to Lawrence, I’ll cut it off!” Bucky roared, caring little for the blade at his throat as it dug into his skin. Tiny speckles of blood dripped from the cuts as he fought his restraints.

Lawrence wrapped his grimy fingers around your wrists despite the captain’s warning, his thumbs digging painfully into your wounds as he wrapped heavy metal chains where rope had once been. You winced at the friction, which only seemed to delight him.

He turned to Bucky. “I’m doing you a favor, Captain. I’m doing all of us a favor. You'll see.”

But Bucky only bared his teeth, his body seething with rage. Blood dripped down to his collarbone.

With your wrists crossed in front of you, Lawrence grabbed hold of the remaining links and dragged you viciously towards the steps. The momentum forced you to follow as you stumbled over your own feet. You nearly lost your balance on the first step, but the chains dragged you along, even as you bruised your shins against the wood.

“Get her to the plank! Quickly!” one of the unnamed crew shouted from the deck as you stepped out into the blinding heat of sunlight. You blinked through the startling brightness, trying to adjust after nearly a full day of being kept below deck.

When you were finally able to see again, you found Dugan tied to the mast at the center of the ship. Jim and Gabe soon followed as ropes were secured around their wrists. But it was Bucky they kept restrained by his arms as they led you to the edge of the ship. They forced him to his knees with a heavy thud, resistance etched to stone in every ounce of his muscle. It took four of his men to hold him down and a blade against his throat before he finally stilled.

You stood silently at the edge of the ship as Lawrence tied weights to your ankles. Amongst his roughened hands and the latch of metal pinching at your skin, your gaze fixed on Bucky’s. There was nothing left to be done. You’d sealed your fate the moment you dove into the water after him, exposing your song and the siren in your history to the men who were so easily threatened by your presence.

It was foolish to believe even for a moment that you could have escaped this ending. That your life had not always been meant to end in this way.

Your heart pounded miserably inside your chest as you held his gaze. His lips were parted, breaths heavy in his chest – he looked as though his heart might have been ripped straight through his ribs for the panic and devastation on his features had all but consumed him. You offered him a small smile, one that barely touched your eyes to simply have this one moment left with your captain – one moment of peace to hold within the kind ocean blue of his gaze.

But Bucky would not let you go quietly.

“You would murder one of your own?!” Bucky demanded of the crew, the effort drawing the blade over his throat. Drops of crimson bubbled from the cut on his skin. “She has been a part of this crew for years and never once laid harm to a single one of you! She was the one who sought to protect you from the sirens in the waters of the Aglaope Isles! She warned you of this coast! Does that not give you pause?”

Several of the crew blinked, some taken back. Others, snarled their teeth – unbothered.

“Look at her!” Bucky ordered as blood slipped down his collar. “She’s without the collar and yet she does not use the song against you! Not even to save her own life! She is not the monster you claim she is! Stop this!”

It didn’t matter that you were depleted far beyond your ability to use the song again so soon. It should have been enough that it never once crossed your mind to do so in the years spent aboard this ship – fighting alongside this crew, eating with them, sailing with them. Even among their constant harassment and taunting. It should have been enough.

“Our captain has been blinded by the siren’s charms!” Lawrence announced to the crew, stomping upon their doubts as if he could crumble it under the sole of his boot. “She is every bit the demons that stole our brothers from us! We will condemn this creature to an eternity in chains at the bottom of the ocean for her crimes!”

Many still cheered.

But not all.

“You’ll kill her!” Bucky warned, his voice growing hoarse in his desperation. His anger quickly evolved to panic. “She’s not full blood, Lawrence! She won’t survive under the water!”

Lawrence paused, a sinister smirk curving up at the corners of his lips. “Then it is a fitting death for a half-breed.” He turned back to the crew; one hand grasped at the chains around your wrist, the other pushed up above his head in a rallying cry. “I say we let her drown!”

Applause broke out, sinking a dead weight in your stomach, sealing your fate. Bucky looked out to his crew and something shattered on his face – his eyes wide, his breaths coming in shallow and trembling.

“Don’t do this,” Bucky’s strangled voice carried through the cheers. “Lawrence... please. You don't have to do this.”

Lawrence paused, but only long enough spit at the deck. “She’s made you weak. Pathetic. I will free you of her spell and soon, Captain, you will thank me.”

But Bucky only shook his head, an awful mixture of disbelief and agony warping its way through his features. His knees trembled, nearly giving out under him, and still, he fought against the men securing him with every ounce of strength he had left.

You met Bucky’s frantic gaze from across the deck – his own eyes brimmed red and reflective with unshed tears under the setting sun – and in an impossible moment, you tried to convey the years of unspoken words you never had a chance to tell him.

Your appreciation for the day he offered you a place amongst his crew.

The pride you felt sailing under his flag – the legend of a ruthless pirate who displayed more honor than men of the crown who wore colorful pins upon the breast of their uniforms.

The aching need to be close to him, to feel the steady pulse of his heart under your fingertips and ease the pain lingering from his wounds.

Feelings beyond what you had ever been able to put name to; stronger that the rush of panic as Lawrence dragged you to the ledge, deeper than the ocean’s floor you’d soon find a home in. Feelings that ripped through your chest and begged for every inch of him. Feelings that rendered you foolish and reckless enough to expose your nature to the very men who would soon take your life for it.

But there wasn’t enough time to confess any of it.

Lawrence shoved a heavy hand to your chest and you began to stumble.

Bucky kicked out the knee of one of the men holding him restrained in a terrible crack, creating a small opening that let him break free of their hold. They lunged for him as he dove from their reach. Sprinting. Your name a terrible, frantic plea his lips.

Your feet left the ground, the railing digging into your spine.

Bucky lunged for you, but a sword swung down in his path. Lawrence.

Freefall.

You hit the water. Enclosing around you. Cold. Ice Cold.

And then – silence.

You held your last breath of air deep into your lungs. It would last you longer than you should have been allowed as a human; a few extra minutes at most. For what, you weren’t sure. There was no freeing yourself of the chains as you sank deeper into the water.

This was it. The end. The icy embrace of the waters you had called home your entire life.

Perhaps it had always known you would return to its clutches. Even in death.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #pirate au #pirate!bucky #pirate x siren

1K notes · View notes

boxofbonesfic · 9 months

Text

Title: Brave [4 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You earn your water for the journey to Tarrath—and more importantly, a place in the pack.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse

“You know what this is?” Carol’s displeasure with your distinct lack of tracking skill is evident as she squats down, poking a finger hard into the dust. You squint as you reach for an answer, knowing you won’t find one. She sighs heavily.

“This is deer-sign,” she says, motioning for you to squat down like her. You do, the ragged remains of your skirt pooling around you. It’s riddled with holes now, long tears spreading up from the filthy hem that go almost to your knees. The pack isn’t scandalized by the sight of your ankles, however, and your concern for modesty in the face of your very survival is surprisingly low, so you haven’t bothered trying to repair them.

Carol fingers the snapped shafts of grass, their feathered tips bowed low. “You see the way it’s broken? With the prints, you can tell it’s gone this way. If you can’t smell it.” She adds, and you sigh.

“You know I cannot.” She shakes her head at your unsatisfactory response, furrowing her brows.

“How do your people even hunt?” She complains exasperatedly, standing up to her full height.

“Skill.” You answer dryly. “And no small amount of luck, in my case,” you mutter, wiping your hands on your skirts as you stand. “This way?”

“Yes.”

You’re practically swallowed by the grass, barely able to see over the top of it standing on your toes—so it takes you longer to see it than Carol. Her eyes narrow, ivory white fangs hanging down over her lips as she scents the air and grins.

“We’re close.” You can’t smell anything but the dry, hot wind pushing your sweat-laden hair back from your face. What you see, though, are the three-pronged hoof prints in the dirt that tell of the animal that came this way, the tufts of downy coat left snagged on the brush. You pinch the soft hair between your fingers, and sniff it as Carol nods encouragingly. It’s musky, with a distinct animal smell that makes you grimace.

“Get your bow ready.” You do, pulling it from the strap on your back. It’s heavy; the buckle is almost as big as your head, but Carol had cut the leather down to size for you, slicing off a piece almost the length of your arm with the hunting knife at her side.

“Show me how you draw. No, not like that. Here.” You feel like a child, the way she scolds the position of your hands when you draw back the string. “Were you an orc wean, you’d have been born with a bow in hand. But I suppose it isn’t abysmal for someone who first held one a day ago.”

She leads you through the shifting grass-sea, crawling through the dust towards a stunted copse of dry trees. You stay low, mirroring Carol’s low-squat as she makes her way through. She is careful not to break any branches, taking her time to pick her way through the brush as quietly as possible. And therefore, so are you. There is water here—a little. You can taste the way it saturates the air, and a thrill passes through you. Water, here, means prey.

The two of you stay low, approaching the muddy little pool with baited breath. The air is still, liable to shift at any moment, but Carol doesn’t seem nervous. You are, though, your palms moist and your heart beating so hard you fear everything within a mile can hear it.

There, on the other side of the pool, is the deer. It’s a fully grown stag, his long, spiraling horns at least twice the length of your arms. There is nothing soft in the grasslands, your father had said, the words scented sour with ale. Everything eats, and is eaten. The stag has short, thick, wiry fur, with a tail that was long, like a lizard’s. You watch as it leans down toward the muddy puddle, snuffling through it with a long, pointed snout.

You draw back on the string as he stands up, nostrils flaring. It digs into the meat of your fingers as you pull back with all your strength and let go, the arrow whistling through the air to strike the stag through the fore-shank. It’s mouth opens too wide as it shrieks, the sound echoing out into the wilderness.

“Move!” Carol yells as the stag paws the ground with its good leg, bloody foam frothing around its nostrils. It charges only a moment later, turning the dry, hollowed out trees you’d been using for cover into splinters and kindling. You roll away, the metallic stench of its blood strong in your nostrils and your own heart thundering in you ears. You push yourself up to your feet, your hand going to the quiver at your back.

The stag’s tail whips excitedly behind it as it snaps its jaws, circling you. You can smell it, the hot copper of its blood, the sweat gleaming on its flanks and the sour tang of your own fear. The stag lowers its head, its horns pointed straight at your chest as it charges. You barely have time to aim, bringing the bow up and loosing the arrow.

It thuds wetly into the stag’s chest, and with another horrible scream it collapses into the dust, skidding to a stop just inches from you. Your own chest is heaving as you stare at its body, wide eyed. It feels like you aren’t getting any air as you gulp down breaths that taste of hot dust and fresh blood. You watch as the stag twitches in the dust, its chest heaving once, twice, before its amber eyes go dark. Your legs give out, dropping you to your knees in the dirt.

Carol emerges from the brush on the other side of the stag’s body, but you do not see her, not really, your eyes locked on the thick arrows protruding from its hide like misbegotten horns. She smooths a hand over its eyes, closing them, before she squats over the carcass. Silently, she jabs a thumb into one of its sluggishly bleeding wounds, before crouching in front of you. She grabs your chin, before swiping her bloody fingers down over your cheeks.

She gives you a pleased look as she stands away, and you lightly touch the streaky marks of sticky red she’s left on your skin, your brows furrowing with confusion.

“You earned them.” She says proudly, painting another few stripes on your forehead for good measure. Carol helps you drag your kill back to camp, a murmur passing through the pack at the sight of you. Steve es sat by the water, his broadsword laid across his thighs as he cleans it. He stands as you approach, and you duck your head as he inspects the stag. Your breath hitches in your throat as he reaches for you, one massive finger sliding beneath your chin as he tilts it up.

“Let them see your honor, little hunter,” he says, smoothing his thumb gently over one of Carol’s marks. “Let them see.”

to be continued…

251 notes · View notes

skydoesthings · 4 days

Text

hiii @starinthegarden my amazing mutual <3 i got you for the @mcythorrorgiftexchange , heres your pirates au shinyduo horrors

It's all your fault

Gem sighed, and yelled at Etho. “Come on, Etho! Sweep the hull faster, it’s almost time for lunch!”

She didn’t want to yell at him, at all, he was her amazing but sometimes pathetic older brother, but she’s been…touchy, lately. Dealing with some problems. Etho screamed back quickly.

“Jeez, Gem, I’m done, I’m done! Let’s eat.”

“Finally.” Gem shot back, still upset. She hopped down from the crow’s nest on her beautiful ship, named Glamour. She was named by someone very special. And, yeah, Gem was a pirate. The captain of the seven seas. And she had a crew. An amazing one, but they were missing a member. The one closest to Gem. The one Gem had killed…

Etho walked up to Gem. “You okay?” He asked her, worried. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Come on, we need to round up the rest of the crew.” She said quickly, avoiding eye contact. As they walked, Gem felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and heard a familiar voice whisper in her ear.

“Oh Gem~”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The whole crew was together for lunch. Well…most of the crew. Gem and Etho were there, and so were Grian, Scar, Impulse, Joel, False, Mumbo and Cleo. There was a person missing though…someone who couldn’t come back again. Her loss had hit Grian and Gem the hardest, and Grian couldn’t look Gem in the eyes anymore. They ate and talked, and as usual, the random creak of a floorboard and a sudden chilled breeze could be heard and felt only by Gem. She was the first to leave again, as usual. Scar tried to make her stay for longer, but everyone else had given up on her already. She went back to her cabin, sparring with the practise dummy. Suddenly, she heard soft footsteps, even though there was no one else in the room. She looked around, but no one else was there. Then, she heard the whispers again.

“Gem~”

“Y-you’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real.” The familiar voice sent Gem spiralling, as she fell to her knees. “Aren’t I?”

And then she materialised in front of her.

“It’s just me, Gem!” The woman smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “It’s just Pearl.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crew had hit rough patches. They were under attack by other pirates. Gem and Pearl were furiously fighting, and they were in a position where Pearl was behind Gem. Both of them had been pushed to the edge of the ship, and Gem was currently parrying the captain of the other ship. The enemy captain was an amazing fighter, and he was getting closer and closer.

“No, no, stay back, stay BACK!” Gem slashed furiously with her sword, killing the captain. She was going to turn to Pearl and help her, but then she heard a whisper from behind.

“Gem…”

Pearl couldn’t see Gem’s fight. No, she didn’t even know that Gem was fighting. From Pearl’s point of view, Gem slashed her on purpose. Gem immediately turned around, panicked.

“Oh my gods, Pearl I’m so sorry, I-“

She stopped. There was a huge slice through Pearl’s stomach, which had been done by Gem’s sword. Pearl’s organs were falling out of her stomach, and tears fell from her eyes. “I…I trusted you, Gem…” Her eyes went glossy, and she fell overboard. Gem snapped, tears streaming down her face. “PEARL!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gem shot awake, gasping for breath, sweat streaming down her forehead, tear marks on her face. “Pearl…”

Scar came in. “Gem? Are-are you okay?”

She sighed. “I’m fine, Scar, just a nightmare.”

He got a sympathetic look on his face. “Do you maybe want to talk about it?”

She nodded. “Yeah, that would help…it was that day again. It was like I was reliving that day again. I KILLED her, Scar. I did. I’m the worst captain.”

Scar looked sad. “Pearl…” He then hugged Gem tightly. “It wasn’t your fault, Gem, it was an accident.”

Gem started to cry. “She’s dead because of me! She trusted me, and I killed her!”

Scar looked at her, but his face began to change. “Are you thinking about how much of a monster you are?~ Poor Gem, killed her crewmate, and now feeling sorry for herself.”

He wasn’t Scar anymore. He was someone else. Gem couldn’t speak, as this person went on. “You’re right, you know. You are a monster. And, your whole crew hates you~”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…Gem! GEM!” False was yelling, shaking her. Gem was on her knees on the floor, face white, unable to speak, but she managed to mutter out a word.

“F-False…” Gem didn’t trust herself to speak any more. She wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore.

“Gem, are you okay? You weren’t responding to me at all.” False said, worried.

Gem sighed. “Do-don’t worry about me, False, I’m fine…”

“You don’t look fine.” False said flatly.

Gem changed the topic quickly. “So, what did you need me for?” She asked, getting up.

“Well, uh, Grian pushed Scar off of the poop deck-“ “HE DID WHAT?!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gem fished Scar out of the water. “Seriously, Grian?”

“It was an accident!” He squawked indignantly.

An accident. The words echoed in Gem’s mind, but she suppressed it, and turned around to yell at Mumbo. “And you couldn’t do anything except stand there and laugh?!”

“I can’t swim!” He protested.

“My god…” Gem groaned, putting her head in her hands. “You three are actually impossible. Scar, don’t get pushed into the water again. Grian, please stop pushing Scar into the water. Mumbo, at least try to stop Grian from pushing Scar into the water. I’m going to go talk to more sensible people.” She said, reeling Scar in. “Thank you Gem…” Scar muttered, getting back on the poop deck.

Gem just sighed again, and left to talk to Impulse. “Why are those three such idiots?”

Impulse chuckled. “I don’t know, Gem!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gem sat on the side of her bed, and sighed deeply. Like, really deeply. She was just so tired…the nightmares didn’t help either. She heard the strange creak of a floorboard again, but she just gave up, slumping onto her bed.

“Whatever’s there, go away. I’m not in the mood for dealing with you right now.” She groaned, burying her face in a pillow. She rolled over, exhausted with everything.

A breeze flew past again. It was always cold and creepy, but it seemed just a tad softer than usual. Then, it felt like the breeze had realized what it was doing and immediately got harsher. Okay then, the weird creepy breeze hates Gem too, apparently.

“Wallowing in self-pity again, Gem?~ Pathetic…” The familiar voice rang in her ears, and as Gem tried to cover them, trying not to have a panic attack, the voice whispered again, louder more than anything. “That won’t work~”

The lights flickered slowly, and then shut off. The boat began rocking harshly, and lightning strikes were visible outside. The vague cries of the crew yelling “Storm!” seemed extremely loud to Gem’s ears. She hugged herself in fear, wide-eyed, and realized she was trembling. With shaky hands, she got up and lit a candle. She saw a black blob on the ground darting its way towards her, and then rising, forming the shape of a woman, a very tall woman, but a woman nonetheless. The candle blew out, and a heartbeat started ringing in Gem’s ears. Something really bad would’ve probably happened to her, but she chose that moment to pass out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The same scene played out again. The same nightmare-flashback, where Gem killed Pearl, but this time, it was different. At first, Gem couldn’t tell what was happening, but then she realised. Oh god, she was in Pearl’s body. She was witnessing Pearl’s point of view.

Pearl really couldn’t see that Gem was fighting. Pearl was fighting furiously on her own. Then, the world exploded with pain. The crew shouted with joy, but quickly turned silent. Even the enemy ship stopped fighting. Pearl looked down, and she saw a huge gash across her stomach, her guts falling out slowly. Pressed to the edge of the ship, she tried to clutch it for support, her arms, flailing wildly. Pearl couldn’t tell much, but she knew that Gem caused this. Why? Gem was her best friend, they cared so much about each other, Pearl trusted her with everything, why had she done this?! Did Gem actually hate her?! …Was Gem saying something? Pearl couldn’t hear her, everything was turning black, all she could do was say something hoarsely.

“I…I trusted you, Gem…”

Then, she fell overboard.

…

Why was Gem still in this dream?

But then, Gem understood. She saw a wispy shape come towards her, one that heavily resembled Pearl.

“Everything that happened, it was all your fault. You did this to me. You killed me. I’ll never forgive you. This will be your eternal punishment, Gem~ You will never wake up. I’ll never let you leave. I’ll never let you rest. You shouldn’t have killed me. Now, you’ll suffer.”

Pearl’s voice came out raspy, and vengeful. She opened her mouth, or a torn gash of what used to be a mouth, revealing inky blackness inside…and then she lunged at Gem. “It’s all your fault.”

20 notes · View notes

meowzfordayz · 1 year

Text

if i am to be lost at sea, then let your heart be the lighthouse that guides me home

Author’s Note: this contains major angst… w/ a 100% happy ending !! 👀🥰 Pulled inspo from my own fanfic i wish you would for the latter half. 🌊

if i am to be lost at sea, then let your heart be the lighthouse that guides me home

Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader

Word Count: ~900

CW: canonical violence, dark humor, explicit Character death, explicit Reader death, explicit language, mild sexual content, traumatic references

Request Fulfilled: can you do like a Sanemi x Fem! Reader about likeee after final battle they yk yk d*e together?

Oh wait, I forgot to add this to my request about the Sanemi x reader oke. maybe can show like a reincarnation au? When they met again idk🥲

~faqs~

“Hey,” Sanemi murmurs, arms trembling from the weight of your body cradled into his, “Y’know I love you, right?” as his abdomen clenches.

He can’t tell whether it’s his stitches or his heart coming undone, but he can feel the weight of years of fighting catching up to him. The weight of too many bloodied, nameless faces easing him toward oblivion. The weight of losing his little brother — of keeping his name Shinazugawa Genya in his chest, even as his face disintegrated in his hands. Sanemi can feel himself dying. In the end, though, it’s the clarity in your eyes and your pain streaked, adoring expression that makes him shudder.

“Course I know,” you rasp, the loss of both your arms preventing you from cupping his cheek, from gently, tenderly smearing his tears, “Wish I could’ve touched you one last time,” you smile weakly, unable to chuckle as your lungs heave.

“S’okay,” Sanemi can’t even shrug, spine curving, slowly collapsing, over your wrecked figure as darkness grips the edges of his vision, “You’re here, I’m here.”

“On a scale from one to ten,” you suck in a ragged, quiet breath, “How much pain are you in?”

He smirks at that, precious images of sparring sessions encased in moonlight, your playful grin, and the consequent bruises and soreness flitting vivid and bittersweet through his memory.

“Not even a one,” he whispers, repeating the same words he’d said the first night he’d kissed you.

“Not even a one?” you huff dramatically, staff held defensively, your eyes narrowing, “I know I hit harder than that.”

“You could never hurt me,” Sanemi snorts, unimpressed, “Between the two of us, who’s panting?”

Scowling, your eyes close, breaths evening after a few moments of focus. Reopening your eyes, you gasp.

“S-shinazugawa?”

“Is there a problem?” he hums, fingers nearly brushing your neck, “Don’t close your eyes in front of the enemy, dumbass,” heat emanating from his proximity, lavender eyes tracing goosebumps into your skin, “You’re practically begging to have your neck snapped.”

“How kind,” you mutter, willing your heartbeat to steady, all too aware of his finely tuned senses, “Fortunately, you aren’t my enemy.”

“I’m not?” he asks, voice tantalizingly soft, mouth so close you could, “Then what am I?”

Not even a one your retort fizzles in your throat as he kisses you, tasting of sweat, urgency, and a tinge of blood.

“You’re the Wind Hashira,” you whisper, as stunned as he is breathless, suffocating in your sweetness.

“Who am I?” he demands gruffly, staff falling to the ground, pulling you in by your waist.

“Shinazugawa Sanemi?”

“Not quite,” he drawls, squeezing your hips.

“Sanemi?” you whimper, melting into the warmth of his embrace.

“Yours,” he declares, eager to taste you again, “I’m yours.”

“Who’s panting now?” you tease, nipping at his bottom lip, “My Sanemi.”

“Good,” you sigh quietly, “I couldn’t bear it if I finally managed to hurt you.”

“At least I have my arms,” he quips grimly.

“Don’t leave me, okay?” you sound so small, “I love you.”

They sound so distant.

“We’ll go together,” he growls, swell of fear dissipating when you nod, trusting him fully and completely, “I promise.”

“Don’t be afraid either, okay?”

He can barely hear you, you’re so… far… away…

“I can’t be afraid,” he murmurs, confident even as the color of your eyes bleeds to black, the sensation of drowning surprisingly calm, mercifully empty, I’m too busy being yours… always too busy...

“It only took a few lifetimes,” the man before you remarks wryly, sand sticking to his wet feet, lavender gaze wild yet familiar.

“Who knew you’d be a surfer?” you grin shyly, masking the shock radiating through your limbs, tote bag heavy on your shoulder, stare flitting from his face to his surfboard to his face.

He snorts, shaking out his hair, droplets of the ocean glistening on your skin, “Took you long enough to visit the beach.”

“On the contrary, I visit the beach often,” you sniff, feigning offense Something told me I’d meet someone special.

And even as your heart sunk with every false alarm, you’d continued to visit the beach, a deep tug in your gut guaranteeing only one inevitability.

At thirteen, always begging for beach vacations, yet unable to express precisely why, “I don’t know? I just love the sun? I guess. I’ll wear sunscreen! I promise! Pleeease?”

At eighteen, choosing a university based solely on its proximity to the beach, incorporating daily sunrise strolls and sunset meanderings, Where are you? at the forefront of your mind as the tide washed cold and frothy over your toes, despite not knowing who you could possibly be.

At twenty three, moving to yet another beach, hoping, dreaming, swearing, that Maybe this will be the one?

“Oh really?” he smirks, “Well I surf pretty much daily. Did you just happen to move here?”

“Last week, actually.”

“Why?” he dares to ask, heart beating on his tongue, ready to swallow if this wasn’t you.

“Because you’re mine,” you whisper.

He steps closer, mesmerized by the wind caressing your flushed cheeks, “What am I?”

“I don’t know,” you respond We have a lot of catching up to do.

“Who am I?” because he has to know for sure before he fastens his heart to your sleeve.

“Sanemi?”

This time, you kiss him, tears darkening the sand beneath you, damp arms trembling and desperate as he molds himself to your body. You smell different, you feel different, but the quiver in your voice as you utter his name again, again, and again... there isn’t a doubt in his bones, not a hesitation in his soul — you are the one he loves.

#sanemi shinazugawa #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #shinazugawa x reader #wind hashira #one shot #modern au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

124 notes · View notes

tetsupeach · 2 years

Text

all must descend

prince bakugou x f!reader

summary - you never thought the first time you'd leave your tiny fishing village would be on the back of a princes horse.

cws - game of thrones au, same tone as the show. murder, violence, political intrigue, smut, magic, old gods, new gods, choking, true love, lore, allusions to torture, prophecy, reader has brown eyes. dom!bakugou. sub!reader.

chapter 1 - updates on fridays

please have an age in your bio and be 18+ before interacting with this fic. reblogs/comments appreciated, and encouraged.

With your fishing village burning behind you, you kneel with the rest of the women. When you look around, their eyes are downcast, ashamed. Some of them cry. You, do not. Your hair is loose around your shoulders, your jaw set hard as the smoke from your childhood home blows in your face. You don’t flinch, just stare out at the horizon and the rolling green hills of your homeland, the ocean lying past them, you wonder if that will be the last thing that you ever see.

You don’t recognize the raiders, the huge men who demolished your tiny militia, their armor gleaming in the grey light of a cloudy day. In a town of less than one hundred, your little band of men had been quickly disposed of. You try not to remember the sound your father made as he died, the way your mothers skirt fluttered in the wind as she ran for her life. You wonder if she had gotten away, and if she had, would she return?

You take another breath, watching the patterns of movement in front of you carefully. The soldiers seem almost nervous, one of them is struggling to put out the fire they’d started in your tiny chapel to Nahelenia. The stained glass window of the beautiful sea goddess that you’d all once been so proud of has melted into a puddle of green glinting glass on the dirty street. One of the soldiers shrieks as he steps in the molten liquid, hopping around as it burns the the sole of his shoe.

You hear a sharp sob from the girl next to you, and watch as big childish tears roll down her cheeks. You feel the urge to rebuke her, to calm her, somehow, it feels embarrassing, to show even more weakness to these men as you wait on your knees for near certain death. They’ve gathered about twenty young women, in the town square. There’s a cloud of dust as four knights, in varying levels of armor, and no helmets move around your burning village. They’re young men, you’re sure they’re some kind of nobility, but they’re no one you recognize. Their banner colors are unfamiliar, and you wrack your brain, knowing you were only a full days ride from where your country of Avenia ended, and Yuuei began.

“Oi,” One of the men, you recognize him as the leader, he’d pointed the directions for his men to ride in when you’d seen him through the window of your home as they thundered into town. He’s tall, broad and blonde, and his armor is the cleanest out of all of his men. His eyes are dark and narrow, his nose is delicate and haughty and his voice, his voice is deep and masculine. You’d shunned fear thus far, for shock, for sadness, but when you hear his low rasp again, your heart quickens, and your palms break into a sweat. You see him jerk his head towards the girl next to you, and one of the men, somehow even larger than the leader with bright red hair, reaches for her.

You clutch the small dagger you’ve got hidden in your palm, feeling it bite into your skin and watch carefully as the redhead lifts her to her feet. You only have a second. You know you only have a second, no time to think, or weigh options, or consider the cost. You reach down, grab a fistful of dirt from behind you and spring to your feet.

You throw the dirt in the huge man's eyes, he drops the younger girl, stumbling backwards, you dart around him, sliding on the dry ground, and leap up on top of him, pressing the blade of your knife to his throat.

“Run!” You cry desperately. She takes off, dodging huge hands and large men, the redhead moves to follow her but you press the knife to his neck, blood racing through your veins, roaring in your ears. Your feet are planted on the dirt road of your village, the only home youve ever known, with a blade pressed against the raider's jugular that you can feel him swallow.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” You hear, in that deep, terrifying growl. The blonde knight scowls as he takes in the situation, but no one moves. You peek around the redheads shoulder and make eye contact with the leader.

“L-let them go.” You say, your voice stronger than your conviction. “Let the rest of them go or I’ll kill him, I-I’ll do it.” You look into his eyes, and see the fear there. You press a little harder, blood beads around the blade you’d hidden. “Let them go.” You say again, standing on your tiptoes to reach him. There’s movement behind you and the soldiers in your peripheral vision sheath their swords.

“Get out of here.” The blonde snarls waving a thick arm at the remaining women, and you’re nearly overcome with euphoria as they scatter, see the dust their footprints kicks up, as they carry their children and disappear over the moors. You take a deep breath as the adrenaline fades from your body, wondering what kind of death you’ve doomed yourself to. You feel something cold and metal on the back of your neck.

“Drop it.” The blonde says from behind you. He’s so close to you that you can feel his breath on your skin.

“Not until I can’t see them.’ This time your voice comes out as a whisper, and the metal thing pressing against the back of your neck is withdrawn.

“You’re surrounded.” He snaps, as if you were being unreasonable, a nuisance. “Drop it now, or we’ll kill you and leave this village to burn as your pyre. We got what we came for.” You see the redhead's eyes flick to his leader when he says this, and you know he’s lying. Your teeth graze your lower lip, the quick burst of pain centers you. You inhale and withdraw your knife, whirling around, and leaping for the blonde, determined to kill as many of them as you can before they kill you. But before your blade can even graze his skin, the blonde catches your wrist and uses your own momentum to throw you chest first onto the dry earth. You cough, gasping for breath as you feel his boot on your back, the knife is wrenched from your hands.

“That’s one tough bitch,” Another man, with long, warmer blonde hair and a warm smile says, hopping off of the porch of a half burnt home. “We got the gold but shit,” He says, glancing around, “What happened to the women?” The pressure on your back grows and you rest the side of your face on the dirt, screwing your eyes shut, unwilling to witness your own end.

“She happened to them.” The leader snarls. You don’t speak, just stare blankly ahead, refusing to give them the satisfaction of your tears. “Not gonna say shit? Done talking now that you’ve fucked everything up for me?” He says, crouching down to get a better look at you. “The fuck do you get off pullin’ that kinda shit? Are you a noble?”

“I’m nothing.” You breathe, hoping your genuine insignificance will spare you. “I’m nothing.” You hear him scoff, and he takes his boot off of your back, swearing violently.

“The hell is Mitsuki gonna say?” One of the other men asks. “The gold is nice, but we were here to round up the possible heirs for the prophecy?”

“That’s my fuckin’ problem,” The leader snaps, “Isn’t it,” he takes your foot off your back, you can hear the metal of his armor clinking as he paces, and when the sound comes near you, you brace for pain. It doesn’t come. Instead you’re hoisted to your feet and shoved at the redhead, who keeps a tight grip on your upper arms. The men observe you, with varying degrees of interest as they load the harvest, the food and cloth and riches that had been carefully stored into the back of a horse-drawn wagon.

“Alright,” The redhead grunts, spinning you around to face him like you’re a ragdoll, “C’mere.” He ties your hands in front of you with a short length of rope. You avoid his gaze.

“She can walk behind my horse.” The blonde growls, and for the first time you see the redhead pause, looking concerned.

“Bakugou, can she?” He asks, glancing over at you nervously, but his leader just narrows his eyes,

“I’ll drag her fuckin’ corpse back to the city,” he roars, “It’s what my mother would do.”

“You are not your mother.” The redhead counters and the leader, Bakugou apparently, rakes his hands through his straw hair. You swallow some bile from your throat. Could you have been so unlucky, to have gotten on Prince Bakugou Katsuki of Yuuei’s bad side? You’d assumed this was some group of roguish nobles, not actual royalty. Yuuei was a neighboring nation, and the relationship had always been tense, peace talks failing for generations. The last time your countries met the negotiation tent had gone up in flames, and the famous Warrior Queen Mistuki had murdered your King Amathar’s eldest son in an impromptu duel.

“And I’m about to get a stern fuckin’ reminder of that,” He says, eyes narrow, lifting his clean blade from it’s sheath. “And you assholes,” He calls to the group of soldiers, “The fuck did I say?” There’s a pause as the redhead tightens the rope around your wrists. “I said don’t fucking kill anyone?” He roars, and the soldiers look sheepish. You study the ground, counting pebbles embedded in the road.

“No one’s going to say anything?” The redhead’s voice cuts through the silence. “You disobeyed a direct order from the Prince? And no one’s got shit to say?” Your surprise and fear at the confirmation that Bakugou was royalty must show on your face because the raven haired knight snorts when you look up.

“I told you you have to stop swearing so much Bakugou,” He snickers, “No one’s gonna believe you’re royalty.”

“Sero, I’ll stop swearin’ when one of these shitheads tells me what the fuck happened here?” Bakugou whirls around, looking at each of the men one by one, who mostly shrug or stare out at the sea.

“Got carried away.” One of them mumbles eventually and Bakugou kicks his legs out from under him, eyes blazing.

“People are dead.” He snarls. “What happened to leave no fucking trace?”

“Isn’t a bigger problem that the women escaped?” The soldier on the other side of him says quickly, “Since they’ll tell other villages that we’re coming?” Bakugou mashes his palms into his eyesockets.

“Of course that’s a fucking problem. One you’re all going to pay for.” He turns to you, and you bite down on your lip again, hoping to stave the fear off from your face, distracting yourself with the burst of self inflicted pain. Prince Bakugou stalks off in a huff, mounting his horse and tugging you along behind him by the rope at the end of your wrists. He ties it to the end of his saddle and the rest of his men get on their horses and start to leave your village.

You stumble forward, following him to the best of your ability, but the princes dappled grey mare is already at a trot, and your foot catches a hole in the dirt. You trip, falling hard, kicking up a cloud of dust. You brace yourself for the drag of the road against your body but it doesn’t come. You see that despite the other horses moving towards the exit of the town that the Prince has stopped, allowing you time to stand again. You swallow, and push yourself to your feet. He goes to start moving again before smacking himself in the forehead, cursing his own weakness.

“Kirishima,” He barks, “Hold.” He leaps off his horse and walks to you. “Normally,” He grunts, “I’d throw you in with the cargo, but you’re fuckin’ trouble.” He undoes the knot around your wrists quickly and for only a moment you're free, before his huge hands lift you by the waist onto the saddle of his horse, hiking up your long skirts so that you can ride straddling it like a man.

A second later, he joins you, sitting in front and grabbing your flailing hands as you attempt to steady yourself. He ties them together again, with the same rope, but this time, around his waist, forcing you to cling to him for stability, your chest pressed up against his back. “Let's go!” He yells, and the horses take off, pulling the wagons off towards the horizon.

“Hold on.” He says to you lowly, as if you have any choice, shamefully pressing your body and face up against his leather clothed back as his horse pulls to the front of the group, hooves kicking up a large cloud of dust in the heavy summer air. You’ve been riding for almost half an hour when he speaks, well out of earshot of the rest of his soldiers. “And the fuck am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“I don’t know.” You breathe, and the quality of your voice takes him by surprise. He’s expecting something harsh, or sad, or angry, but there's so much air in your tone. “Will you make it quick, if I ask you to?” He turns around to look at you quickly, keeping a tight grip on the reins.

“I’m not gonna kill you.” He says incredulous. “I wasn’t gonna kill any of the people in your stupid fucking town.” This doesn’t have the effect he’s hoping for, you don’t betray any emotion, he can feel you sigh against him.

“So you would rather we starve? Since you took all of the food we’d stored?” You say coldly, and his horse leaps over a small brook, forcing you to hold onto him tightly, pressing your face between his shoulder blades.

“Better you than us.” He says gruffly. He waits for you to respond, but you don’t, just holding onto him tightly, shivering even in the heat of summer. He tries again, reaching for words. “There are more important things than one fucking village, alright, we, we’re following orders, but this is bigger than just you.” You don’t respond, and his words leave a bitter taste on his own tongue.

As the sun begins to sink below the horizon you come to a huge stone wall, the largest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s made of a grey stone that glitters in the low light, and it’s as tall as the chapel in your village stacked over itself three times. drawbridge extends with a loud groan for them. The horses thunder over it, their hooves loud on the hollow wood.

You hide your face as best you can, trying not to think of your family, if they’d escaped, if they were alive, focusing only on your immediate surroundings. Bakugou can feel the contours of your face pressing against his back though his leather armor when a cheer erupts from the people at his return. You keep your eyes screwed shut, unsure of what kind of people would cheer for such bloodshed. He keeps one hand on the reins, but you feel his right hand close over yours, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb across your tight fists. You don’t open your eyes until you hear the crowd quiet, as you move into another part of the city.

You look around, you’re in a stable, other men getting off their horses and handing them to squires. You feel your wrists being freed, and the Prince roughly pulls you off the saddle and onto your feet. A few squires run over, taking the reins of his horse and leading it away. Two of the men stride over, chests puffed out. One of them reaches for you, running his wet pink tongue over his lower lip.

“Shall we attend to the prisoner, your grace?” Bakugou catches the lascivious spark in their eye, but his decision is made final when you cower a little, flattening your back against his chest.

“I’ve got her.” Bakugou says plainly. “I’m keeping this one.” The two men exchange a quick glance.

“We could see to her gettin’ cleaned up?” The other one says. You avoid his watery blue gaze, studying their dirty boots. He takes your arm and attempts to draw you away from the Prince, who yanks you back and snarls,

“Are you fuckin’ touchin’ what I’ve said is mine?” They blanch, and immediately both men are flapping their hands in apology, and backing away.

“No, no sire, of course not we would never-”

“Then fuck off.” The prince snaps, rolling his eyes as he turns to face the other knights, who are gathering behind him. The redhead, Kirishima, speaks first.

“That’s a good call.” He says quietly, glancing at the soldiers who are now rushing to put Bakugou’s horse away, and then he looks down at you. “So,” he shoots you a weary smile, rubbing the little scratch on his neck from your handiwork. “Do I get to know the name of the girl who held me at knifepoint?”

“No.” You don’t even look at him, eyes on your warped reflection in his breastplate. Unlike the Prince, the rest of the knights were in full metal armor. Kirishima’s eyes widen with incredulity.

“She’s fucking wild!” Kirishima turns to Prince Bakugou, “What the hell are you going to do with a woman who won’t even tell you her name?” Bakugou scowls, tying the rope around your waist and then pulling your arms behind you, looping the rope around them and holding the end of the rope tightly.

“We’ll have to wear her down.” Bakugou says in his low threatening rasp, speaking as if you can’t hear him. “You’re gonna take her on a little walk, through the dungeon, and she’s gonna behave after she’s seen that shit.” Kirishima shudders and nods.

“Yeah, actually, I bet she will.” He watches you struggle against the ropes butYou struggle against the ropes but Bakugou leads you forward, you step out of the stable and into the cobble stoned streets. It’s busy, people coming to and from the market, carrying sorry looking vegetables, some coughing in the dusty air. The prince causes quite a stir, people part for him and his knights, staring at you, obviously foreign in your tattered dress, obviously a prisoner.

“Heretic!” Someone yells, and you artfully dodge some rotten fruit.

“How fucking dare you!” Bakugou yells, whirling on the drunken man holding more rotting food, and the street quiets. He looks around, eyes dark and wild. You stare dead ahead, not speaking. He draws you closer to him, you feel his hand on your hip. “C’mon.” He says lowly, and pulls you deeper inside the city walls, moving more quickly. You step eventually, into a huge stone gate, the dirty residential landscape changing into a lush garden, a huge palace built into the side of a mountain in front of you. Most of the men have fallen away, it’s just Kirishima, the darker blonde, Sero and a knight you barely recognize with long lilac hair.

“Should we get our stories straight?” He says, and you notice the bags under his eyes match the violet hue of his locks, “Since we have her, and no one else?” Bakugou sighs, absentmindedly rubbing your hip in a way that sends your stomach somersaulting towards nausea.

“I’ll take care of it.” He rubs his eyes. “I’ll take the fall for the other women escapin’ but not for the deaths at the village. That’s bullshit,” he turns to the purple haired knight, “Shinsou I’m gonna lean on you and your network to figure out what the fuck happened there.” He nods.

“I’ll see what’s being said but,” you hold his gaze for a moment before he drops it, and goes back to looking at the Prince, “But you and I both know where the trail leads.” He looks ahead and you follow his eyes to the spire of a huge cathedral, made from a dark stone, with black wrought iron and bronze accents. It’s one of the largest buildings you’ve ever seen. You shrink a little in it’s shadow.

“We told them,” Kirishima pipes up, coming to walk next to the Prince, “Denki, Sero, you were there, we told them, no harm comes to the villagers.” You’re having trouble focusing your vision, dehydration creeping in, your stomach is aching and empty.

“I know,” The prince grumbles, as you come to a heavy iron gate, that opens to reveal lush gardens, green grass and well kept pathways. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting the courtyard with a golden light. The difference between life outside this gate and here is so jarring you blink a couple times, wondering if you’re finally going into shock. “S’not good though.” He presses his lips together and you stumble, bracing yourself to hit the ground hard. The prince moves with catlike agility, wrapping one muscular arm around your waist and righting you. He stands you back up, the hint of an apology in his face. “Speakin’ of uh,” he swallows, “You uh, how are you holdin’ up?” You balk, narrowing your eyes at him.

“My family may be dead.” You say quietly, interrupting their conversation. “If this performance is helping you sleep at night, I would ask that it be conducted outside of my presence.” All five of them stare at you, dumbfounded but you refuse to look at anyone but the princes. Bakugou’s jaw drops open.

“Performance?” He growls.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re sorry,” you shake your head, “I”m no spy or noble, there’s nothing to be gained from my favor. I have little doubt that when you want something from me you’ll take it, like you took our food and our gold.” Your words hang heavy in the summer air.

“And what the fuck do you think I want from you?” He says, voice so quiet his words are nearly swept away by the breeze. Your mouth gets even dryer now. “Besides for you to keep your fucking mouth shut while I’m talkin’?” He grabs your jaw so hard that your cheeks squish around his calloused hands. He tips your face up to his. “Maybe I shoulda introduced myself I’m Prince Bakugou Katsuki, your royal-’ “You’re not my royal anything,” you barely get the words out around his fingers. “You don’t rule in my country.” There are a couple of nervous chuckles from the nights as the princes eyes blaze.

“Prince Bakugou!” Someone rushes out of the big stone building across the courtyard before he can respond, “You must dress to see your parents.” He reluctantly releases your face and shoves you toward Kirishima who catches you and stands you up again.

“See if you can do something about her attitude before I have to explain her existence to my parents.” Bakugou hisses, before jogging towards the castle.

“We’ll getcha cleaned up!” Kirishima says cheerfully, “Come on.”

“You can’t be serious,” Denki says, as Kirishima pulls you along the pathway beside the castle. “You’re gonna take her into the mens baths?”

“She’s filthy!” Kirishima protests, “Bakugou stepped on her!”

“That was a touch dramatic,” The raven haired man, Sero, muses. “But I suppose it was necessary, given the resistance she’s been showing.” You lift your head and turn to the men, unwilling to let them slip out of this easily.

“What did you kill for?” You ask, voice barely audible, having not eaten or drank since that morning. “What is the reason your armor is bloodied?” Kirishima looks uncomfortable, walking a little faster.

“I can’t discuss the finer points of holy war with you.”

“Holy war?” You repeat, “Our countries are not at war we-”

“This is not about Avenia and Yuuei.” Shinsou says softly. “This is about Yuuei and Aed.” You reach into the back of your memory, to the one room schoolhouse you’d attended with five other children in your village.

“The sun god?”

“He’s a lot more than a sun god,” the honey blonde says, flipping some hair out of his face. “He’s the god who consecrated our royal lineage. Prince Bakugou’s great, great grandfather.”

“He doesn’t behave like a god.” You mutter and Kirishima chuckles but Shinsou looks troubled.

“Question,” he says, his voice utterly emotionless. “Up until this point you seemed rather determined to live through this ordeal, correct?” You open your mouth to respond but he cuts you off, rubbing his chin as he muses, “I’m wondering at what point you acquired your desire to become intimately acquainted with the hangmans noose?” You whirl on him.

“Maybe it was when I had to listen to you discuss the deaths of my family like they were a mere inconvenience for you?” You snap and he seems genuinely taken aback. There’s an awkward silence.

“Are you,” Shinsou says, crossing his arms and walking in front of you, “Are you determined to die, or do you want to live?” You take a deep breath, wondering if it’s worth it to hold onto hope that anyone you know truly escaped, whether even the women you freed would be hunted down like rats in a kitchen. “It’s a simple question.” He drawls, “I know you’re likely undereducated, but-”

“I want to live.” You lift your head to his. “And I can read. And write.”

“Just your name or-” You take a step forward and Kirishima yanks you back against his chest.

“I think Shinsou’s point,” Kirishima says, giving the man a stern look, “Is that if literally any other person heard you disparage Aed or the Prince you’d already be dead.” You turn, looking up at him, the first sign of genuine concern in your eyes. “And it wouldn't be a quick death, either." He pauses, and impulsively spins you around, inspecting you.

“You’re right,” Sero says, speaking the group of mens thoughts into being, “It’s weird that you’re not crying.”

“Like I’d grant you the satisfaction.” You say, but there’s no venom left in your voice, only exhaustion.” Shinsou rubs his eyes.

“I give her until sunrise.”

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt her!” Kirishima protests, “If that means I have to gag her, I will.”

“I don’t think I’ll live long past sunrise.” You argue, “And I'd like to be able to tell my parents why they’re dead when I join them so whatever you can tell me about the holy war and Aed would be appreciated.”

“You’re going to be fine.” He says and you scoff. “Fine. Fine.” He says. “There’s a rumor, that has become deeply substantiated, that King Amathar of Avenia sired a bastard daughter among the women in your part of the country while on vacation there at his summer castle.” They start walking again, towards a white building with dark brown accents, built right up against the side of the mountain. Behind it is the face of a huge cliff, made of unfinished glittering grey rock, speckled with light green.

“He’s got dark eyes, like you, dark ones.” Sero explains. “And they’re a rival nation, so we’ve been ordered to round up all the dark eyed women from those villages and bring them back here. We’ve got a tower full of em.”

“Bakugou doesn't want her in the tower.” Denki sneers. “He wants her tied to his head board. Maybe gagged, though.” You whirl on him, fear in your eyes.

“What?”

“Don’t scare the maiden!” Kirishima snaps, his warm voice almost unkind but Denki rolls his eyes. The purple haired knight massages his temples. “We just calmed her down.”

“We’ve been raiding for weeks,” Denki shrugs, “How many women rode on his horse?”

“None.” Sero pipes up helpfully. “But no one else freed the other captives and made themselves a threat either. So-”

“Prince Bakugou,” Kirishima says, through his teeth, “Was doing his due diligence as an heir to the throne of Yuuei.” he sighs and turns to you. “It was prophesied that the daughter of King Amathar would bring peace to our warring nations with her power. As the great grandaughter of Nahelenia.” You test the ropes around your wrists again, they hold fast. You remember the pool of melted stained glass, the smoking chapel.

“My father was a tailor.” You say quietly.

“You only think your father was a tailor,” Denki says with a smile and a teasing tone, “You don’t know what your mother was doing, maybe gallivanting around castles, meeting strange men-”

“My father bled out on the floor of my childhood home this morning.” You snap, tears almost welling in your eyes but you’re just too dehydrated to make them spill, your voice cracks under the weight of your emotion. “At the hands of your men.” You yank on the rope in Kirishima’s hands but he’s too fast, holding it tightly all you can do is snarl at the blonde, “So I’ll thank you to keep his memory out of your fucking mouth.” There’s an awkward silence, Denki stalks off without another word. You feel hands on your waist and Kirishima steers you away, forward towards the bathhouse.

“You have to be careful.” Shinsou says lowly, dismissing the other men with a wave of his hand. “About what you say, and how you say it, and particularly, who you say it to,” He looks behind him at the other knights, who look mostly entertained by your outburst, if not a little shocked. “They’re not trouble, alright, they’d die for Bakugou.” You swallow. “Not everyone feels that way at court. It’s dangerous.” He touches your arm softly. “And I’m so sorry about your father, if I’d seen them, I would have stopped it.”You feel Kirishima’s hand on your arm, Shinsou reaches out and brushes some dirt from your cheek. They wait, for the vulnerability they’re accustomed to, from the women they’ve shepherded back to do the paternity test on, wait for you to burst into tears, to cling to one of them, but you don’t move. You just stare angrily off into the distance. He speaks again, feeling a little awkward. “Do you need anything?”

“Water.” You say, and Shinsou nods, uncapping his skein and bringing it to your lips. It’s sweet, if a touch stale, cold and clean and you gulp it down so quickly that it dribbles down your chin. Kirishima wipes it away with his thumb.

“I’ll get you some clothes.” He says, ``Since Bakugou asked me to attend to you.” He looks a little sheepish. “I uh, We can’t be alone, really,” he gestures to the other knights, “With you, since uh, you know we need to make sure you don’t have children with anyone but the prince.” You gape at him, dumbfounded.

“I’m not a virgin.” You say, and he blanches.

“Really?”

“Really.” You say dryly, wondering if you’ve signed your death warrant.

“Have you bled since-”

“Yes.” you cut him off. “I’m a widow. He passed a year ago.” Kirishima looks relieved.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But uh, I can’t be alone with you either way, so two of us at least will watch you bathe, so that we can be sure you are, ah, untouched, at least while you're here.” He looks intensely uncomfortable, and you decide to let him stew in that feeling for a while.

They guide you through the doors of their quarters, tossing their armor and dirty clothes on animal skin couches. Shinsou leaves them, pulled away by some servant nervously rambling about tomorrows ceremony. You stand awkwardly, still bound in the corner. You study the rafters, avoiding their varying degrees of nakedness.

“Alright,” Kirishima grunts, and he knocks you off your feet, carrying you down a flight of stairs, followed by the other men. The basement of the building is a hot spring, the walls are white plaster, the floors are stone. It’s lit with torches, and there’s a small stone bank before it gives way to a pool of crystal water. There are bars of soap and jars of oil beside it, and the other two knights bypass you, jumping into what must be warm water by the look on their faces. Kirishima hesitates, turning to you.

“You’ll be provided new clothes.” He says. “But if you do not wish to bathe with them on, you have my word that no one will touch you.” You swallow.

“I’ll leave them on.” You mumble, and he nods, carefully loosing the rope around your waist and wrists, guiding you into the water slowly. It is warm. In your shoes, petticoat and full skirt, your movement is limited, but you can't help the deep sigh that escapes from your lips as you sink beneath the water, only to have Kirishima yank you out of it by the waist

“I can’t let you drown yourself!” He says, dark eyes full of worry. You shake your head at him indignantly.

“I can swim, I come from a fishing village!” You retort, and his face colors, and then he looks pensive in a way you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Oh.” He swallows, looking sheepish. “Just uh, okay, fine. Stick by me.” Denki and Sero strip completely, luxuriating in the water. Kirishima watches you clean yourself, fully clothed, your hair soaking, tendrils of it sticking to your face. You take the soap they left and wash your face and hair, the mud leaching from your clothes. You’re a little ashamed of how the water darkens around you, but you don’t let it show on your face, locking your jaw and holding your chin straight. After some time, you are led out of the water, standing in your sopping wet dress, long skirts dripping on the floor of the bath cavern. Kirishima runs up the stairs and leaves you alone with the two other men. The dark haired one, Sero, you remember, speaks.

“Sorry, again. About your family.” You don’t even spare him against a glance. “In all seriousness,” he says lifting himself out of the water, “Prince Bakugou is upset. That’s not how we conduct ourselves normally.”

“We are alone, correct?”

“We are.” He says, cocking his head in confusion. You sigh deeply, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth in your drenched clothes.

“Then know that I don’t mean this combatively, genuinely, is it supposed to make me feel better,” you say, voice barely audible, “that their deaths meant nothing to you?” Neither man speaks again, and when Kirishima returns to eerie silence, he hands you some clothing.

“We’ll avert our eyes.” He says, and you scoff, but it seems like they do, even Denki seems at least to fear Bakugou enough not to look. The clothing is different than anything you’ve experienced, a pale pink gown, tight at the waist, long and flowing down to the floor. It pushes your cleavage up, framing it high on your chest. You are not, however, given new shoes and Kirishima winces when you look at him, confused.

“They don’t want you walking much.” You swallow. “Alright, but I’ll take you to where you’ll be staying and we’ll getcha comfy, hopefully this can be over soon.” You let him lead you up the steps, rope back tied around your waist, but your hands free. The two men dress quickly and follow.

“Can you hold onto my clothes?” You ask, and he looks at you, seeing the genuine sadness in your eyes.

“I will see them returned to you.” He says, very seriously. “And the paternity test is ah, a bit of a spectacle, but something tells me you’ll be alright.”

“Any luck so far?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not a drop of royal blood among the women we’ve taken. But we hold onto them for now because if they ran free they could spread the word about the prophecy.” You exit what must be the knight's quarters and cross the courtyard under cover of darkness, the bugs singing in the wet grass.

He opens a heavy wooden door on the side of the palace and you descend several flights of stairs. It becomes cooler, and darker, but as you move through the stone hallways you realize with a shiver where you are.

“A dungeon cell?” You ask, incredulous, “For a tailor's daughter? I’m, I’m nothing, I’m nobody.” For the millionth time, Kirishima looks contrite, avoiding your gaze.

“You should ah, I should have said, but you’ll need to call us, uh because we’re Knights, you’ll need to call us Sir. I’m Sir Kirishima.” You roll your eyes and he takes the ring of keys off of his hip and opens a side door, yanking you inside quickly. You find yourself alone with the huge man, the last thing you see outside is Denki and Sero moving to guard the doors, in a dark closet, and you feel his fist close around your throat.

“If you’re a spy, tell me now, and I’ll spare you a traitor's death.” He says, an honest desperation in his tone.

“A spy?” You wheeze, clawing at his fist.

“A traitors death in Yuuei horrible,” he says, inspecting you carefully, like he doesn’t even feel you fighting him, “Sometimes women are boiled alive, or thrown to the masses, so if you’re a spy, I’ll spare you, it will come out. Tell me now,” You claw at his fist,

“I’m simply,” you choke out, “A tailor's daughter, please Kirishima,” your eyes water, and he tightens his grip before dropping it, letting you fall to your knees coughing.

“There are things at work,” he breathes, eyes darting towards the door, “And we could, we could use allies. I’ll let uh, I’ll let Bakugou talk to you, but I’d like your proof, right now, that you’re not from Avenia to spy on us, that you weren’t a plant in that village.”

“I can swim. That’s-That’s rare.” You say gasp, desperately peering into his eyes for a hint of mercy. “And,” you gulp air, you’re exhausted, “And you’ve got my families blood in the tread of your fucking boots, so if you think I’d goddamn help you you’re insane.” He looks a little relieved.

“I see.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond to that, kicking open the door and dragging you into the hallway - right in front of a very confused looking guard. Denki and Sero had been flanking the door, listening intently it seems. Kirishima wastes no time conjuring an excuse, groping your ass through the cushion of your dress, hands lingering on your waist.

“Ahh,” the guard says, a sly smile on his lips, “Carry on.” You feel Kirishima’s lips on your ear.

“Think about it. You’re not going to have a lot of offers of allyship.” He says gruffly, before silently taking the lead on the rope and dragging you down the hallway. The cell is dark and cool, you swallow nervously at the lack of windows, a wet spot on the wall glistening in the flickering torchlight. He pulls you inside the heavy barred door and picks up a chain from the floor, loosing your wrists and then chaining them in front of you. He stops, taking a step back from you, looking at you one last time.

“Trust us.” He says quietly, “If you can stomach it. And maybe you’ll survive” And just like that he’s gone, leaving you alone in the bowels of a palace with only your thoughts and the soft snores of other prisoners down the hall for company. You curl up in a corner, close your eyes, head throbbing. You think about your father, the man who raised you, of the fear in his eyes when he’d dove for the man kicking your door down, the pain in his voice when he told you to run. You let out a single, dry sob, holding your face in your hands, and the sound echoes down the hallway, following Kirishima out of the dungeon, and into the cool night air.

please have an age in your bio and be 18+ before interacting with this fic. reblogs/comments appreciated, and encouraged.

#bakugou katsuki #mha smut #bnha smut #bakugou smut #bakugo smut #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader smut #test tag tag

497 notes · View notes