#the crackling sound of magic au

[rauchendesgnu]

I wrote another thing.

#the crackling sound of magic au #the magnus archives #tma fanfiction #jonmartin #eventually #this is a slow burn #or at least i think it is #my writing #ao3

[thegnomelord]

CH:2 You Were Made For This At Least You're Good For Something

CW: NSFW, blood, gore, scars, cannon typical violence, dissociating, Mage reader, Monster cod AU, poly141, eventual poly141 X reader, reader isn't a good person, survivor's guilt, military inaccuracies. Heavy description of reader having scars, reader gets called 'sir' once but overall GN.

AO3: 13.7k words. Big thanks for @rodolfoparras and @princeguri66 for betaing for me, love you guys!

Magic is often described as a loaded gun, a double edged sword, a grenade with a missing pin, an unmarked minefield — and a thousand more little comparisons parents have come up with to frighten their children, to drill the dangers of magic into their heads. And, should their spawn unfortunately present with said aptitude, to teach them how to spend the rest of their lives vigilantly holding the leash on their emotions tight, lest the magic consume them the next time they throw a tantrum.

Your own parents spoke about magic like it was a beast sent by a vengeful God; a venomous insect hiding in your boots, a beautiful creature luring you to touch it's deadly skin, glowing eyes peering at you from the darkness, a handsome wolf stalking your red hood from the tree line. Something so desperate for a single chance to devour you. Famished. Ravenous.

What a load of shit.

—Ethereal mana rushes through your veins like water through a busted dam, your fingers forcing it to form into skin chafing ash. Large dark clouds swirl around you like a shield, stray cinders brush your feverish skin in a distorted attempt to mimic a lover's touch, smog curls around your head like blinders to focus your eyes forward so you don't need to notice if it's a combatant or a civilian your ash consumes—

If magic was half as unpredictable as people made it out to be, you would have never reached the heights you did.

—The thick disgusting scent of gas and burning human flesh tenderly presses down on your chest, sharp claws persuading you to breathe out by gently caressing the spaces between your ribs. Your breath fogs over the darkened lenses, steam rising from your chest as the generator inside churns out more mana—

What does that make you?

—Sparks nip at your heel when your body thinks of faltering, sharp needles pricking half dead nerves and commanding your limbs to move in order to evade obstacles and falling debris and whatever else is thrown at you, magic strengthening your muscles so you can rush through the streets like a forest fire—

A weapon? A fellow beast?

—Silent black flames devour the corpses your magic creates, leaving nothing behind. Stifling heat straddles your brainstem and burns away the weeds of empathy before they can spread the seeds of hesitation in your mind, isolating your heart so it remains too hot to harbor any mercy, regardless of how many lives you cut short—

Yeah, sounds about right.

—The roar of fire deafens the screams and sirens, the soft crackle of flames is indistinguishable to the crack! of breaking buildings and snapping bones. It makes it so easy to retain the single minded focus you were praised and cursed for. To remind yourself of what you are; a mage, a soldier, an Ifrit, a Red Right Hand—

What else are you good for?

You—

Breathe.

You need to breathe.

You need to think.

While you still can.

Your brain is a jumbled mess of puzzle pieces a frustrated child threw into the fireplace. Burnt edges and missing corners prevent your mind from its natural configuration and forces your thoughts into obtuse positions. It takes time and effort to open your eyes, needles of stagnated mana stabbing your irises and making what should be a pitch black room feel like you're staring into the sun. Your body feels light like you're falling, your vision swims with spots of blurriness and sharpness, the back of your throat tight in an attempt to get you to puke up your empty stomach. You only manage to cough, but the vestigial impulse gets some other thoughts to trickle from your mind.

You focus your eyes to one point and stare until the blurriness retreats to the edges of your vision and the tripling shapes solidify into one. It takes more time for your brain to understand what your eyes are seeing through the steam, but you manage to make out. . . your glowing hands. . . your knees. . . dark ash, muddied water, bathroom tiles.

Your vision improves the longer you keep your eyes open, the room steadily darkening and becoming more bearable as the stagnated mana is forced to recede.

You concentrate on what you feel; water pelts your naked body, only to sizzle and turn into steam after rolling an inch down your skin. Cool ceramic tiles brush against your spine every time you shift, rapidly warming up to your body temperature. A drizzle of discomfort nibbles on your nerves when the hot air you breathe out burns the corners of your dry lips. Your fingers feel like rusted pistons as you intertwine them and numbly watch your 'skin' bubble, and those bubbles 'pop', giving you a grim glimpse of your blackened muscle and sinew and bone before the surrounding lava covers them up.

You don't even notice the ringing in your ears until your slowly sharpening mind forces it to go away, replacing it with the sound of running water, of the ventilation fan uselessly trying to suck up the steam, of your own heart beating like a hummingbird against your ribs, woodpeckers drilling into your skull from all angles as the world becomes so fucking—

—Loud. The world is Loud. Nothing like the calm and quiet brought to you by the battlefield, nothing like the sense of safety that comes from familiarity. No. Now the world feels like a swarm of angry wasps are burrowing into your ears to build a nest in your skull, sharp pincers gnawing on your bones and flesh and nerves and—

No.

You got this far.

You're not allowed to fall back into panic.

You force your chest to expand and take in a deep, unfiltered, unrestricted, breath. Ash with the disgusting undertone of rotten eggs curls inside your nose and doesn't let anything else pass. But a small hint of you manages to register in your brain, light and calming; your body’s lackluster attempt at incense to cover up the stench of rot.

And you taste. . . a lot. Too much; morning breath, ash, smoke, blood, the peppery battery acid quality of your blood — all blended together into a disgusting cocktail tailor made for you by what's left of the butchered angel sitting on your shoulder.

You don't think when you reach out to grab the glass of whatever shit liquor past you had bought. 'Glass' is far too kind a word for the tin can you're using, but metal doesn't shatter in your burning hands like ceramic or glass.

Your head thunks against the wall as you throw it back to gulp down the alcohol before it can boil, swallowing in big gulps like it's water. Your stomach cramps, the devil's finest piss would taste better going down your throat than the booze, but it's as effective as it is disgusting and bleaches your mouth until it's the only thing you can taste — sweet relief wrapped in thorns.

You don't revel in it.

The tin can bends like playdoh as you squeeze your burning hand, quickly reddening metal molding to your palm before you crumple it into a small ball. You flick it into the corner where it becomes another piece of the small pile that's been steadily growing there over the months.

Breathing in deep makes your ribs creak and groan like rusted hinges, your lungs burn and complain as you keep the air trapped in them until they're forced to function properly and a shuddered breath escapes your parted lips. The water feels nice and a part of you wants to stay under the stream forever, a part of you would be content growing moss and listening to the soft apologies your mana murmurs as it nibbles on your blood vessels.

You would hit that part of yourself if you could.

The thinning steam urges you to move. Shifting to your knees is difficult with Atlas's burden weighing on your shoulders, forcing your fingers to find purchase in the scorched grooves previously melted in the wall. Pulling yourself to your feet causes them to grow a few inches deeper, your burning hands leaving singed handprints on the ceramic walls.

The weakness in your knees forces you to spend a few seconds just standing, watching your magic slowly start to slumber. The once runny lava consistency of your 'skin' shifts to that of cooling magma, the vast excess of loose mana still in your blood slowly coagulating atop your 'skin' in the form of large chunks of volcanic rock, little cracks remaining between them to simulate blood vessels.

Washing yourself isn't a relaxing affair in general, but it's made worse by the heavy duty soap and rough sponge you have to use in order to scrub away the grime and ash stubbornly clinging to your skin. You try not to look at your body more than you have to, your eyes transfixed on the way the dirty water carries the signs of your violence down the drain. You never get any blood on you, your fires burn too hot for that, and you don’t know if seeing the water turn red instead of black would make you feel better or worse.

The most painful place to wash is the sharp transition between mage marks and living tissue at your shoulders; magic cares little for appearances, volcanic rock abruptly transitioning to soft skin that boasts spiderweb cracks — a tell tale sign of your mana intending to spread further. The nerves there are partially eaten away too, turning your skin into a minefield of zero sensation and absolute hell when one of those nerves is prodded.

You get out when the water runs clear, the residual droplets turning to steam the second you turn off the shower. You stumble as take a few steps, bracing against the small sink next to the shower, staring at the tap to keep your gaze from doubling again.

Something gnaws on your heart as you recognize that you're standing naked in your small safehouse. You should have recovered by now, gotten your shit together and went off to carry out whatever other massacre your employer wanted to commit. Your mind, ever the problematic thing, chimes in: How improper.

Your eyes skirt to the dog tags sitting on the sink, those little plates of steel chastising you "Fuck's sake firebug, this isn't a nudist beach!" like their owners did before. . . before.

Just thinking about it gives you the phantom taste of blood and something acidic, makes you feel a ghostly ache in your bones as if your chest had been ripped open one rib at a time. Invisible glass digs into your throat as you swallow, fish hooks tug on your skin. The mirror hanging above the sink calls for you, mocks you, dares you, orders you to look at the horrid thing that replaced a sweet young child.

Burning flames greet your gaze, swallowing up every last bit of natural color in your eyes just as the hungering beast devours those stupid enough to enter its woods. And you were that fool. The raised bumps of veins and arteries snaking across your chest and throat like creeping ivy attest to that, each inch of your blood vessels meticulously, painfully, pulled from the safe depths of skin and bone to heal on the surface of your skin (or bleed and rot. You could never tell when torture turned into intended murder.)

Your body tells a tale of your survival (for whatever that's good for), most of your scars old and healed, created at a time when you didn't know how to heal yourself. Dimly glowing lines of hardened mana occasionally stretch across your skin, spiderwebs of deep cyan peek beneath your hair on one side of your head and pulse across your throat, glittering amber swirls across your side — small and pretty testaments of wounds so horrendous only magic could keep you in one piece.

An eternal flame burns in your chest, its steady unfaltering glow outlining your sternum and each rib in such clarity it's like you're a cadaver in a morgue, a textbook example of a person slowly spiraling towards lichdom. The light emanating from within you makes the jagged dark ink curving along the space of your ribs stand out like a sore thumb, D.O.D. 2016.01.01. Your fingers ache to trace the little shaky messages of not Today, Guess again, yuo wish, NO, just one more day that circle it, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

You can't sully the last few things you have left of them, you can't, you can't you can't—

Crack!

You realize you've broken the mirror when you pull your hand back and see large shards stick out between your knuckles. Little reflections of yourself continue to mock you as you pull the pieces out. It doesn't hurt, it hasn't hurt since the mage marks first cracked the pads of your fingers, though you're still unsure if it's a gift or a curse —"leave it for the scholars to bicker about" as your Commander loved to say.

A shadow flickers in the corner of your eye, almost like a silhouette of someone you think you knew. Glowing lines of a magic circle burst into the air before you can physically react, mana simmering beneath your skin as magic comes to you easier than breathing.

The hallway lights up to reveal nothing. The thing you saw was just the shadow of a tree branch moving in the wind. You unsummon your magic before it can burn anything, the dwindling sparks nipping your fingers before they’re snuffed out as a way to show your mana is not pleased by the false alarm.

There is nothing there.

You are alone.

Again.

Your phone rings, the factory setting music grating on your ears. The phone is a piece of shit Nokia brick that belongs in a museum, but it works fine as far as burner phones go. Archaic technology like this plays better with magic than the flashy electronics people use nowadays, and the fact it doesn't connect to wifi helps make you harder to track.

You use the back of your knuckle to answer the phone, luckily not needing to pick it up as your mana enhanced hearing is a lot better than human. You manage to force a rough "Yes?" out of your throat.

"Nicely done my friend." Khaled sounds pleased with the death you brought, "You put on a very nice show." The eloquent Arabic he speaks makes the praise sound even nicer to your ears, like a balm of milk and honey to soothe your mind after what you went through. You can see how he's amassed as many men as he has, you could see yourself joining him full time if you were younger and dumber.

Your thoughts sit on your tongue like hot coals, but you swallow them down. "Thank you sir." You say instead, politely. Respect for your superiors was beaten into you years ago, yet exhaustion makes your words sound far rougher than his. Thankfully you're able to keep the accent of your mother tongue from deforming the fragile vowels.

"Ever the modest one." Khaled's chuckle is deep and just at the edge of mean, the subtle change in tone making the fine hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. "I need to pick up some more toys." And by 'I' he means you.

Toys — guns, bombs, other weapons intended for mass destruction; you're not surprised he's using slang instead of saying it outright. Your employer may be an overgrown murderous warlord, but he's not dumb, there's no doubt heavy surveillance has been put on both of you and Al-Qatala as a whole after your stunt.

It makes sense why he'd want to send you for the weapon's deal instead of going himself, there's no telling when some military group or pmc will try to bushwhack them in hopes of body bagging Khaled. Hell, you'd be disappointed if the CIA wasn't already in the final stages of planning a counter terrorism measure. Nosy fucks.

"Understood sir. Send me the shopping list." You feel your brow twitch with irritation when Khaled abruptly cuts the call. A sigh escapes you; your stomach feels like a witch is using it for a cauldron, all sorts of nastiness bubbling into a disgusting brew — your body's trying to warn you of something you can't see.

Not like you listen.

Dropping the last of the mirror shards into the sink you reach over to grab the dog tags and slip the cold chain around your neck. The metal warms up quickly, becoming indistinguishable from your skin. You rest your hand over them. If you try hard enough, you can just about sense the last remaining dregs of their magic— cool water, nibbling ice, soft soil — but the rest blend together into senseless mana, nothing but whispers of the past.

16 other tags rest against your skin, your own nestled somewhere between the dead.

You should have died instead.

You tear your hand away with a scoff, shaking those thoughts off and go get dressed. You slip on your helmet last, the tension in your shoulders evaporating when your face is hidden. Your lungs stutter for a second before adapting to breathe normally. You throw a glance at the shattered mirror and this time it's the helmet that greets you; just another soldier, just a mage.

Yeah. . . that's you alright.

Your phone vibrates, telling you you've received a message.

Right. You have a job to do. Here's to hoping this one isn't your last.

You're not holding your beath.

. . .

The briefing room is silent as Laswell goes over the census: 200 confirmed dead, hundreds in serious condition, thousands more who will be affected in the coming weeks and months when the seasonal storms wash the toxins into water sources and pollute the earth. And that's not talking about the long term effects, who knows how many will be lost in the coming years trying to neutralize the poisonous magic and rebuild.

Toxic gas itself is problematic when they don't know what specific kind it is, but when it binds with loose particle magic like ash or sand it can linger for decades, eroding concrete and skin alike. A whole generation will be born in hazmat suits.

Kate finishes speaking. A minute of silence follows.

Soap takes the time to try and visualize the dead as people rather than just a statistic, but his mind falls short. His tail twitches with irritation, fists clenching by his sides; he just can't understand how one person could do all of that without rockets or explosives.

His brain births a grim thought — fire hot enough to burn through concrete wouldn't leave behind any bodies, so he can tack on several more hundred deaths to the census, ones that have no way of being confirmed, leaving families without a body to grieve over.

"As far as we know." Kate begins again, her face grim, deep dark shadows stretching beneath her eyes. Only caffeine and determination have helped chase away her exhaustion. "This was a terrorist attack organized by Khaled Al-Asad," She pulls up two pictures on the interactive board, one of Khaled, the other — the same featureless helmet they'd seen on the news. "And carried out by a mage mercenary called Ifrit. True identity unknown."

Soap's ear twitches and he tilts his head at Ghost. "Bet yeh he's an ugly focker."

Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him. "Didn't think that 'bout me did you?" He mutters, eyes returning to the screen, staring at your picture as if it'll reveal some deeper meaning; an insight into a murderer's mind. Soap holds off on doing the same, he doesn't want any of the sludge on him.

“Could also be a ‘her’.”

Their gazes turn to the two women sitting at the front, the captain and lieutenant of another pmc the US has contracted to help them deal with this problem.

The one who spoke is a woman in her late 30's, brown hair pulled in a tight bun, green eyes occasionally flickering with whisps of unnatural blue; Captain Roberts – if Johnny remembered her name correctly from orientation – continues. “Women are better at using magic, and control it with the finesse required for more complex spells.” She explains with a dismissive look, absentmindedly waving her gloved hand like they’re just insects buzzing around her head.

Yeah, Johnny doesn't like her. And it's not because she smells like sweet lotus mixed with the stench of rancid fish rotting under the sun. It's because she's as hoity-toity as every other mage he's met (thankfully he's only met a few).

The shorter woman sitting next to Captain Roberts shrugs, black hair pulled into a similarly tight bun. "A little biased there captain." Lieutenant Martinez says, her black eyes flickering to look at the monsters. "Though, I can't say it's unwarranted." He hears her mutter.

Johnny notices striped patches velcroed to their arms, 2 icy blue ones on Martinez, 3 deep blue on Roberts. Distantly he remembers them to signal the power level of a mage on the international power scale, though he's blurry on the finer details.

Johnny’s ears twitch as he hears Ghost mutter a “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” under his breath before the wraith gruffly speaks up loud enough for all to hear. “Nail Ifrit and you’ll get the chance to check for bollocks.”

Roberts turns her head to look at Ghost. Her eyes look him over and the initial scowl (which Johnny's sure she was born with) turns into something that makes Johnny's fur stand on end and gums itch with the need to bare his teeth. She opens her mouth to speak—

A low rumble wafts through the air as Price blows out a puff of cigar smoke, the soft cloud escaping through the open window but the strong scent remains. "Hush." Price's pupils are thin like needles, shutting up Roberts with one look before he looks at Kate. "What do we know about 'em?"

Kate frowns, "Not enough." She pulls up a map of the world, a red dot placed somewhere in Libya. “Ifrit first appeared on our radars 2 years ago under the employment of a Libyan warlord called Ahmed Saleh.” Next she pulls up a video, playing it. The camera work is shaky, but Soap's able to make out said warlord speaking in a language he doesn't know, Ifrit standing by his side like some freaky statue. The camera shifts to focus on the row of men behind them, all bound on their knees with bags over their heads.

Johnny knows immediately what this is.

He still flinches when glowing circles spring beneath the mens knees, violent flames shooting high up into the sky as if Ifrit just used their personal key to open Satan's backyard. The camera flickers like an old TV, catching the last few seconds of glitched dying screams and magic burning away skin and muscle before the the video ends.

"Jesus." Kyle mutters next to Soap, his clawed fingers carding through the black feathers on his other forearm in a self soothing motion. "Just. . . Jesus."

"Ah dinnae think he’ll help." Soap mutters back, nose wrinkling as if he can already smell the burning bodies.

"A few weeks after this video was taken, Ifrit went into hiding before resurfacing again under a different employer." If Kate's bothered by the public execution, she doesn't show it. "Cross referencing the attack in Uzrikstan we’ve found over 50 arson attacks with the same M.O.” More red dots spread across the world map haphazardly, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. “As well as indication of Ifrit's involvement in numerous organized crime groups. Khaled is just their latest employer.”

Ghost lets out a low whistle. "Our arsonist's been busy."

"So what?" Soap's fur bristles even more, "The torcher just pop oot like a weed aw o'a sudden an' immediately jump intae terrorism?"

"Maybe?" Kyle scratches the back of his neck. "If they're a late bloomer and unbound then it makes sense why some crime rings would want them," He turns his head to look at Captain Roberts, "Right?"

She doesn't spare him a look, chewing on her words like Kyle had put something foul in her mouth. "I suppose developing strong magic after adolescence is possible." She begrudgingly says, "And unbound magic is stronger than bound, making Ifrit look like an appealing attack dog." She crosses her arms over her chest, stroking her chin in thought.

"But unbound magic also damages to the body." Lieutenant Martinez pipes up. "And that type of mage marks would take more than just 2 years to develop even if they used magic 24/7."

"You're correct." Captain Roberts finally glances at Kyle, giving him a look as if he had asked the difference between a pug and a werewolf. "It's more likely they had magic for a while. Not to mention received training for it."

Another low rumble escapes Price's chest, the sound reminiscent of construction machinery. "How come we didn't know about the firebug earlier?" His voice is calm, making the sharp edge underneath it cut deeper.

Kate sighs, "I hate to say it, but Ifrit is good." She says solemnly. "Their magic destroys electronics, they never show their face or leave witnesses, and they manage to cover their tracks up so well that we can't find even a partial mana-cule signature on the arson attacks, the most recent one included."

Her words make little sense to him, entering Johnny's ear and exiting through the other. He remembers taking a few classes on the types of magic that can mimic explosive materials when he was doing his demolition course, but all the jargons had made his head hurt and wasn't needed in the end. His tail tucks closer to his leg. "A what?"

Captain Roberts scoffs, but her Lieutenant speaks up. "A mana-cule detector picks up the way magic that's left in a victim's body refracts light. It's specific to every mage, so, like a magical fingerprint." She holds up her gloved hand to give visual to her comparison.

Soap feels Gaz's feathers brush against him as the man folds his wings closer to his body, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at the screen. Kyle's eyes wander back to the starting image of the video where you're standing behind the warlord, mentally comparing it with the brief glimpse of you he got on the news. Something about you screams 'professional' to him, like you've done this so many times you got used to it the same way he got used to pulling the trigger of his gun.

"Ifrit doesn't look like some gang banger Khaled or some warlord picked off the street." Kyle finally says, and though he knows Laswell probably had the same thought, he still asks. "Could they be ex military or part of some pmc?"

"We're operating under this assumption, but we can't confirm anything." Kate frowns. "We're still trying to find any personal information about them."

"Getting to the important information." Captain Roberts says, giving them a pointed look. "What even is Ifrit’s level? With destruction like that I can’t imagine anything beneath L3. L4 if they’re 3 seconds away from becoming a lich or just high on Magnus dust."

"Fuck what dust?" Soap asks, but Captain Roberts just waves him off like his question is too stupid for her to answer.

"Magical crack." Ghost shrugs. "Makes the magic stronger, but also turns the mage into a firecracker."

Kate rubs her brows, a headache starting to pound behind her eyes. "By our calculations Ifrit falls into the L5 category." Her words make the rest of them go silent, but Soap just looks around confused.

"Preposterous." Captain Roberts huffs, "I can count on my fingers how many L5's there have been since Christ was born. Ifrit being one is just impossible." A deep scowl etches across her face. "At best, Ifrit is just an L3 high on Magnus dust with no regard for their body. They'll be a lich in a couple months."

"Regardless of what Ifrit is," Price speaks up, stubbing the cigar butt on the window sill and throwing it out the window. "What do we do about them?" A small bit of smoke escapes the corner of his lip, dragon fire burning hot in his chest in response to his well masked anger.

"An insider in Al-Qatala claims a weapon deal will be going down in a day." Kate swipes away the previous pictures, putting on a bird’s eye-view map of a shipping dock. 5 large warehouses circle an empty concrete space bordering the ocean, clearly long abandoned. "From what we know, Khaled has Ifrit secure most of his weapons because they’re careful. If a buyer’s even a minute late they call it all off."

"So punctual and paranoid?" Gaz sumarrises.

Ghost hums to himself. "Quite the work ethic." He side-eyes Johnny. "You could lean som'thin' from 'em."

Soap just huffs, his tail bumping against Ghost's leg in retaliation, his snagglefang showing as his lip quirks up into a small smirk when Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him.

"You’ll need to be tight, there's no telling when this opportunity will present itself again." Kate continues, ignoring them. "Team Alfa," A dot pops up on one side of the docks, Price's and Lieutenant Martinez's faces beneath it. "you'll be going in from the north. Bravo—" Another dot appears on the opposite side with Ghost's and Captain Robert's faces. "—the south."

The dots move to indicate how they're supposed to approach the position, ending up with them completely surrounding the docks. "We don't know Ifrit's full battle capabilities, so you'll need to be careful. Isolate and tire them out before attempting capture, but kill if you must." Laswell looks at them all. "We can only assume ifrit's magic is short ranged so under no circumstances do you get close to them, understood?"

"Crystal ma'am." Captain Roberts shrugs, throwing a look at the monsters at Taskforce 141. "Just let us take care of the mage and keep out of the way so you don't become collateral. I would hate to waste my time healing you." Her eyes linger on Ghost, bits of bright blue mana flickering in her eyes. "Well, most of you." Soap feels Ghost subtly stiffen next to him.

That woman's charming as a train wreck; Soap can feel himself prickle with irritation, more and more strands of fur rising to stand straight on his tail the longer he has to stay near Roberts.

Luckily they're let go early to go rest up and prepare while the two mages stay with Price and Kate to iron out the finer details of which mages which team is taking and what spells to use. Apparently everyone but Price and Kate are too stupid to understand the 'complexity' of their spells.

Soap would be insulted, but he takes the opportunity offered to him. He glues himself to Ghost's side as much as he can 'professionally', his tail curling around his leg as Johnny throws a smug look over his shoulder at Captain Roberts.

Johnny catches her looking back at him like he’s a flea ridden mutt and that just makes his tail wag. He forgets about her the moment the door of the briefing room closes, busying himself by subtly rubbing his arm against Ghost's, spreading a bit of his scent on the wraith's jacket. It's one of the few times he's glad wraith's don't have a scent — makes it easy to smell himself on Ghost.

"Someone's territorial." Gaz chirps as he joins them on Ghost's other side, feathers brushing against their backs to throw his own scent into the mix.

Ghost just looks at Soap bemused, his thick paw of a hand coming up to cradle the back of Johnny's head, gloved fingers gripping his skin like he's a puppy. "You bettah not piss on me."

Gaz breaks out into laughter and Johnny feels his cheeks grow warm. "Dirty bastard." He huffs, but stores the idea for later. "Are all mages like that?" He tilts his head back at the door.

"Uptight?" Gaz asks. "Snotty?"

"Wankers with their heads shoved up their arse?" Ghost helpfully adds.

"That's putting it brawly," Soap lets out a breath, amusement tugging at his lips as his tail wags.

"Yeah, I think it's like a requirement to be a military mage." Kyle chuckles, holding up his hand like he's judging someone's height. "You've got to be this much of a twat to join." He grins, passing them as he goes to get ready.

Soap wants to say more but Ghost's hand on his neck demands his attention, tilting his head up. His breath catches in his throat as Ghost bends down until their foreheads bonk together softly, the cool metal of the mask tickling Soap's skin. "Don't go doing anything dumb pup, olright?"

Dark eyes meet his own, a shiver runs down Soap's spine, his mouth dry as a desert when he tries to swallow the rock in his throat; Soap can't even begin to define the strange thing that was born between them on that one night in Las Almas, he can still remember the way Ghost's deep voice had kept him sane and his wolf's demands to blindly rush the enemy and get back to his pack quiet.

Johnny certainly can't define the late nights spent sharing that dog piss Simon likes drinking, nor the rough touches and hickeys they leave on the other, though they never have time to get further than that.

This feels nice too.

His hands sneak to Ghost's hips, thumbs hooking under his belt loops to pull their bodies closer, pressing his chest against Ghost's. "When have I ever done that?" He smirks, lips ghosting over Simon's masked ones.

He feels Ghost's chest rumble as the man chuckles, his other hand roughly gripping Johnny's arse. "You want a list?"

Johnny's tail wags more, "Well, I reckon I'd be up fer-"

"Oi, I’d hate to break the snogfest but we’ve got things to do!" Kyle’s chuckle breaks them up before they can do anything else. Soap turns to flip the bird to the bird, but Kyle's tail feathers have already disappeared into the changing room.

. . .

 The night is calm.

Mellow waves break against the well worn concrete walls of the docks, tree leaves softly flutter in the mild breeze, crickets and frogs sing their songs into the night air. The world itself doesn't care about you or the soldiers guarding the docks. Absentmindedly you track the movements of the men Khaled gave you, the barely noticeable crumbs of magic you stuck on them flickering at the back of your mind like dwindling coals.

All are accounted for. The night is calm. There is nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet your nerves are on a razor's edge. The relative silence scratches down your spine with long crooked claws, the calmness crackles beneath your skin like electricity. Your fingers itch with the need to tap them against your thigh, to do something; waiting has always been your least refined quality regardless of how often you needed to use it. Your body, your magic, Hell — the very essence of what you are — craves the heat of battle, the sweet lull of adrenaline's song to put your nerves at ease.

You resist moving too much. Years of training make hiding the signs of unease and nervousness easy as breathing, your body so still you could be mistaken for a statue if your chest didn't steadily rise and fall.

Taim doesn't possess your abilities. You can feel his nervousness on your tongue, like licking an old battery. His hands shift to re-adjust the hold on his gun for the 6th time in the past 10 minutes. You doubt he knows you're watching him from the corner of your eye, so the tenseness of his shoulders must be from you just being near him.

It doesn't surprise you — many countries that have had Russian or Soviet influence consider mages more monstrous than actual monsters. Mages like you are perversions of God's template, thieves who possess power not intended for you. Urzikstan is no different.

You don't point out how Taim flinches when you raise your hand to look at the time, the watch face strapped to the inside of your wrist; some habits are hard to break.

The deal is supposed to happen at 3AM, and it's 02:57 already. "The seller's taking their sweet time." You say under your breath, lowering your hand. You have half the mind to call it off and tell Khaled to teach his suppliers punctuality. Hell, you've done it before when you had less surveillance on yourself and your employer. This just feels like tempting luck.

Taim looks at his own watch and glances your way. "I understand your frustration sir, but- but we just need to wait a bit more." He absentmindedly holds up three fingers to indicate the minutes left, starting the count from his thumb.

It wouldn't be so odd if middle eastern countries such as Urzikstan didn't start counting with the pinky finger. Americans count with the index. That just leaves the entirety of Europe. You hum a low sound at the back of your throat.

"They-" Taim quickly puts his hand down and grips his gun in both hands, apparently thinking you hadn't noticed his blunder. "They should be here any min- minuta." Another slipup; the hint of a different accent softens and shortens the last vowel of the Arabic word. It narrows down a couple countries, but nothing specific.

Taurus would have made you run around the base for days if you had ever made the same mistakes, provided you survived the consequences of getting caught.

What a fucking amateur.

But Khaled isn't paying you to get rid of vermin, so you let it slide. You catalogue this moment in case you'll need it later, concentrating on the present.

The radio inside your helmet sputters to life, a rough voice speaking quickly in Arabic. "Ship incoming."

Your gaze falls on the dark ocean, mana flowing to your eyes without even having to cast a spell. It's not the same as using a mana sensing spell, those leave your head feeling like you'd volunteered it to be used as a church bell in exchange for perfect clarity of the world around you. But your sight becomes significantly brighter and sharper, enough to see the ship sailing towards the docks. It's a medium sized fishing vessel, the lights inside turned off so as not to attract too much attention, but it meets the specifications Khaled had given you.

You reach up to activate the voice receiver of your radio, pressing the button hidden on the inside of your helmet just behind the gas mask portion. "Our seller's incoming. Get the truck, secure the perimeter and keep tight." You order into the radio, cutting it off again.

You motion for Taim to follow as you walk out from your cover. You had hidden yourselves between two warehouses, their roofs extending to the sides enough to hide you from the sight of drones.

You stop a few feet from the edge of the docks, listening to the truck back up behind you as the boat slowly sails up to the edge of the dock and drops it's anchor.

You don't recognize most of the men on the boat, except for one. "Ah, Ifrit, long time no see," Victor Zakhaev greets you in Russian as he steps off the boat first. You notice a new scar across his face, but otherwise he looks good considering last you've heard of him he'd gotten himself shot and left for dead by some monster taskforce. "I am not late, yes?" He asks in English, offering you his hand.

"Right on time." You say and take his hand in a firm handshake. You try to ignore the way the touch of another human, regardless of the fact you can't really feel his touch, makes your skin crawl.

"Good, good, from you, that is a compliment." He smirks and steps to your side, giving room for his men to unload the heavy weapon crates from the bowels of the ship onto the dock. "I assure you, you'll find the garden hoses and other peashooters are all accounted for." Zakhaev makes a motion with his hand, making his workers put a heavy box onto the ground beside you. "But I know you well, you want to check the goods, yes?"

Needles prick your skin and your mind kicks itself for becoming so predictable. But Zakhaev has known you since your stint with that warlord in Libya, it's only natural he would learn a few of your habits after so long. "You would be correct." You say, your voice betraying nothing.

Zakhaev just chuckles, his workers undoing the crate's top board with his company logo printed on top of it. Inside, nestled between a sea of white packing peanuts, lies one of many M134 miniguns Khaled has been keen on getting — people of your ilk call it the garden hose for the ridiculous amount of ammunition it can spit out in a minute.

Say what you want about the yankees, but their weapons are top notch. Having once been on the receiving end of that weapon, you know first had how useful it can be; both for tearing enemy combatants to shreds and for decimating their morale.

You look over the weapon, unable to find anything wrong with it. Zakhaev takes pride in the guns he sells, you've never had any problem with them. "Looks good." You nod your head at Khaled's men and stand up. "Load them up."

You reach into your pocket and pull out a flash drive. Khaled had paid half of the price up front, leaving you to deliver the second half. Inside the flash drive are wallets with thousands of dollars worth of crypto currency. This is a smart play on your employer's part; you don't need to lug around suspicious briefcases full of cash, and there's no wire transfer some nosy agent can trace back to Khaled.

"Rest of your payment." You say simply, handing the inconspicuous flash drive to Zakhaev.

"Thank you kindly." Zakhaev slips the drive into his pocket. You watch the men carry the heavy weapon crates and put them in the truck.

Zakhaev shuffles through his pockets and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, some Russian brand. He taps the bottom of the carton on the back of his hand, offering you the stick that partially sticks out of the box. "Care to join me?" He asks, taking it in stride when you don't react. With a shrug, he puts the cigarette between his teeth. "Help an old friend, yes?"

You don't particularly like being the personal lighter for anyone, but you acquiesce — powerful and resourceful men with fragile prides are better as friends than foes; The task is so simple you don't even need to form a magic circle, a single thought making the end of the cigarette smolder before vestigial flames spark up from nothing, catching on the tightly packed dried leaves and setting them alight.

"Impressive trick." Zakhaev compliments and breathes in the nicotine, unbothered when he receives your silence again. You expect the rest of the weapons exchange to pass quietly, you and him watching from the sidelines as the men load heavy crates into the back of a truck. Your presence here is only as a guard dog.

Zakhaev surprises you by speaking up again. "Ah, there was another thing I wanted to speak to you about."

Another crate is set by your feet. You tilt your head to look at Zakhaev before your gaze flickers to the worker who pries the top board open. Inside isn't a minigun or an automatic rifle Khaled had ordered, but a sniper rifle.

"What is this?" You ask, just about keeping yourself from tensing; This is unexpected, a surprise, and surprises can get you killed faster than playing patty cake with a landmine.

Zakhaev, as if sensing your unease, waves you off. "A gift, my friend." He says in Russian, the words easy to understand. "And a. . . taste, shall we say, of what I can offer you in the event you decide to seek other employment opportunities."

Ah. So that's what this is about — he's trying to bribe you.

Now that you think about it, it isn't too surprising. He knows what you're capable of, and mages of your abilities don't grow on trees. "Is that so?" You ask in Russian, playing along as you kneel down and pick up the gun.

Your fingers move with life of their own, gliding smoothly and confidently over the metal as if you'd been born with it. The barrel is straight as an arrow, the butt fits comfortably against your shoulder, the magazine locks into place with a soft 'click', the bolt moves back with buttery smoothness and gives you sight of the live round before it's loaded into place with a second satisfying sound. It tickles your brain, that violent thing in your chest stirs with interest.

"You like it, yes?" Zakhaev chuckles, the sharpness in his eyes momentarily lost as he observes you as one does a child opening gifts on Christmas morning. "It’s a .50BMG, semi-auto, 5 rounds every 1.6 seconds, 1,800mile range, 1,319 m/s velocity, and has a 5-round detachable box mag with a muzzle brake." He details, and you mentally whistle to yourself; guns like these cost a fortune. "It's a nice gun, no?"

It is a very nice gun.

Something at the back of your mind tingles; a smoldering coal is quenched, a string snaps and sends a single needle through your amygdala. Foreign mana, as subtle as a tank, traipses at the edge of your consciousness — a fly unknowingly vibrates the threads of a spider's nest.

It is a very nice gun.

And you just found a target to practice on.

. . .

"What is Zakhaev doing here? I thought we buried him in Verdansk?" Sergeant Garrick’s voice chatters quietly over the coms as Captain Roberts makes her way through the swamp, muddy water up to her knees and insects buzzing around her head. A few of her best mages trail behind her, the rest of her team mingled between the monsters on the other side of the docks.

"Turns out our matchstick's just a magnet for wankers." Sergeant MacTavish’s voice crackles. She doesn’t stop the scoff that comes to her lips. He just has a voice that’s easy to dislike, then again she never did like mutts.

"Our mission remains the same, get Zakhaev if you can but Ifrit’s a more dangerous target." Captain Roberts wants to argue with Price. Hell, she did for nearly an hour after the briefing was done just on the subject why everyone but him and the wraith had to wear gas masks. Captain Price is too paranoid in her opinion; after the terrorist attack there's no way their target's mana reserves aren't depleted to shit, Ifrit probably couldn't put up a fight tougher than wet tissue paper but nooo, Laswell just had to pick that lizard over her own kind.

"Took care of a straggler." The deep rumble of Lieutenant Ghost’s voice sends a nice shiver down her spine. He had broken off to go ahead, briefly giving her a nice look at his ass. At least there’s one sideshow in that freakshow of a taskforce that’s easy on the eyes. She bets he would look even better without that ugly mask, all those big muscles on display and quivering beneath her…

"Alfa team in position." Price speaks into the radio.

Roberts shakes her head, refocusing on the task as she kneels in the dark water. She's partially hidden behind a rotten tree stump, but the night is dark and there's enough critters and insects in the swamp to make sensing them with mana difficult. "Team Bravo in position." She says.

"Good, stand by, we only get one chance at this." That's probably the only thing she and Price agree on. Opportunities like this don't fall into their laps often, maybe she can even nab herself a promotion if she captures both Ifrit and Zakhaev.

Curiosity tugs on her mind as she watches the weapons deal go down. She doesn’t know what she expected but this isn’t it; The last time she had seen someone capable of similar destruction, it had been a teenager in the late stages of lichdom— mind eroded, body nothing but skin and bones, magic rotting the poor girl from the inside out until all that was left was an animal in human skin.

She expected something similar, maybe worse, not for Ifrit to look no different than every other criminal piece of shit she's seen.

Unable to hold back her curiosity she hunches her shoulders and takes off her gloves. Her mage marks are extensive and ugly; reach to the first knuckle of each finger, the dried coral like texture scratching her skin as she places one hand on her face to peer between her fingers, another resting over her chest.

Captain Roberts can at least feel proud for being so magically gifted she can shorten a 40 something word incantation to just 13 measly words: "Sister of steams, daughter of oceans, give me sight to see the hidden." She can feel her mana leisurely crawl through her veins as she murmurs the spell, like squeezing honey through a cheesecloth.

The world lights up in an array of colors like a broken kaleidoscope, shapes and outlines flickering in and out as the mana inside every living creature mixes and twirls with the dark backdrop of dead mana without rhyme or reason. The sight is something humans were never meant to see, and it stabs at her eyes for even daring to look, but she can stomach it long enough to catch sight of Ifrit's mana.

Captain Roberts is disappointed to see the mana surrounding you is nothing to write home about; orange mana cleanly outlines your entire frame, barely a couple of inches thick, not too bright and not even the barest flicker in the even surface to indicate mana suppression.

The disappointment morphs into relief as she deactivates her spell — at the very least she won't need to waste her time with this monster and terrorist nonsense longer than she has to. Shame, she had been looking for a challenge—

A violent shiver runs down her spine, her heart lurches and bashes against her ribs with the feral panic of a prey animal trying to escape, cold sweat breaks out across her skin and pain blooming in her arteries as mana rushes to her fingers—

A bullet strikes the rotten stump she's hiding behind.

Magic explodes on contact.

Violent flames race to devour those still living.

. . .

You count 5 seconds between the bullet hitting it's target, the magic you imbued it with exploding, and it all going to shit.

You throw a hand over Zakhaev's shoulder and force him to the ground as the first hail of bullets comes your way. You drop to your knee just in time to avoid receiving a lead injection, the concrete behind you exploding in small puffs of dust as the high caliber bullets hit the ground or bounce off Zakhaev's boat to tear through the meat shields that are Khaled's men. You try to take a few potshots, but your position is bad and you can't tell where the shots are coming from.

You catch large elongated sticks fall from the sky and clatter to the ground. You immediately screw your eyes shut, bending at the waist to put your face parallel with the ground and pressing your hands to your ears. You avoid the flash as the stun grenades go off, but the following bang! rattles inside your ears and makes you stumble as you straighten out.

But you know this is just a distraction: beneath the whizzing bullets and echoing shots you can feel the world groan, the air shivering with disgust as magic slowly gathers at the fingertips of enemy mages. They take every precious second given to them to build and strengthen their spells, the average cast time around a minute.

You need no such preparation.

The moment you feel their spells release, like a rubber band snapping against your skin, you summon your own magic. You have neither the time nor space to produce a proper counter spell when you haven't seen your enemies casting circles, so your offence becomes your best defense — glowing circles spark across the air to shoot out violent flames, burning heat and freezing cold colliding in the crisp night air. Your magic is far superior, turning the balls of ice and water into steam.

The boundless steam floods the area and rushes at you like a stampede of frantic beasts. You pull Zakhaev close to you, shielding his fragile body from the blistering mist as it washes over you, nothing but a mild inconvenience. Your stomach feels tight, as if mocking you for not listening to your body.

At least you can be certain this isn't just some group of Khaled's enemies or gangsters that stumbled on you. The fact they're using water and ice spells means this was preplanned, they have a specific target — you.

The thought makes something inside you stir. You feel your heart begin to beat a little faster, a little harder, a little louder, banging against your ribs in the slow start of a war march to rouse the slumbering beast in your veins. Enticing it with what it you craves.

You hear Zakhaev say something but his words fail to reach your ears, not that you'd be able to respond with how your tongue feels like it's made of lead. Your body always does this; jaw tensing to keep you quiet, muscles relaxing in preparation, the lingering vestiges of nervousness evaporating to clear your mind so you can focus. Something in that fucked up brain of yours makes you switch to the first language you ever learned — violence.

Your grip is ironclad as you throw Zakhaev over your shoulder like he's a sack of potatoes, summoning more spells for cover instead of listening to his cursing. Even more steam blankets the ground, joining alongside gunfire and magic to create a disorientating shroud you're very familiar with. You easily duck and weave through Khaled's men, catching glimpses of enemy bodies moving beyond the steam as you head to the truck, hoping to use it for momentary cover.

Throwing Zakhaev into the back of the truck with the weapon boxes you skirt to the front of the vehicle, the sharp bang! of your fist knocking against the metal door scaring the shit out of the driver. You meet the man's eyes through the darkened lenses of your helmet, giving a hand gesture for him to drive.

Hummingbirds peck at the back of your skull, giving you ample warning to jump out of the way even before a circle spreads beneath your feet. A shard of ice erupts from the ground where you'd just stood, thankfully avoiding the car and giving the driver further incentive to get the fuck out. Ants crawl down your spine in another warning, and you saw enough of the previous circle to disrupt the one that appears behind you, a few orange lines springing up in the neat blue circle to make it fizzle out and send the half built spell right back at the caster.

With the primary targets secured you can turn your full attention on the attackers, your gloves smoldering as hot mana rushes to your fingertips. You hear pebbles crunch under a boot while you summon your own magic circles, the return of that tight feeling in your stomach making you break concentration just enough to catch sight of one of Khaled's men in your periphery.

You notice the gun aimed at you a second too late.

Bang!

Pain flares through your shoulder, your body moving on its own as you throw yourself to the side to avoid another round. You don't need to think for your flames to burst beneath the feet of your attacker, using the distraction to retreat into the space between two warehouses, giving yourself better cover. Mana rushes to the hole in your shoulder, drops of molten metal leaking from your wound when you lean forward, your clothing greedily drinking up your mana saturated blood and sticking to your skin.

Your magic repairs your body as quickly as you're injured, pain rapidly fading away until only the dull sting of betrayal remains. Like a sacrificial lamb, it catches the deadly attention of the thing slumbering in your heart.

It wakes up angry and feral and oh so hungry.

Fangs of freezing heat tenderly grip your heart, ravenous nothingness once birthed by your desperation now begs and demands for your will to give it shape. How can you refuse?

Flames spark at your palms, burning away the thick material of your gloves to free your hands. A freezing chill gnaws on your burning fingers and harkens the arrival of something that slinks out of your heart like crude oil, bulging and molding itself to your veins as it crawls to your palms. Darkness consumes the orange glow of your magic, leaving behind little pitch black candlelight flames burning at your fingertips. 'Flames' is a bad word to describe them when they suck the light around them; it's like looking at black silhouettes in the approximation of fire, painted straight onto reality by a child's hand.

A magic circle spirals beneath you, glowing bright blue and stinking of enemy magic. You can just about hear the chanting of spells near you, more circles appearing on either side of you, trapping you.

"Beelzebub," You mutter under your breath, not out of need — you've long since mastered the art of wordless magic — but out of respect. "Devour."

2 measly words is all it takes for the black fires to shoot straight up like the fangs of a beast, leaping off your fingers in wide arcs and creating a quickly expanding perimeter around you, circling like sharks as they rush outwards. The meticulously crafted circles shatter like glass, hundreds of little shards of visible mana fluttering around you for a second before they're swallowed up by the black fires.

Beelzebub is a ravenous spell, lashing out at everything around you with the sole intent to consume, to devour every little bit of mana in an endlessly fruitless attempt to sate its hunger. Regardless, if said mana has already been made into a spell, of it's still inside a person.

You don't see it, but you know the exact moment Beelzebub finds the enemy mages, screams of horror and pain filling the air as black flames descend on them like bloodhounds. You can feel Beelzebub's freezing claws tear into them, leaving the flesh unharmed but tearing their mana out bit by bit, devouring it, syphoning the power back to you.

Once, long ago, the acrid rush of foreign mana through your system would have knocked you on your ass, now it just forces you to sway and lean against the warehouse wall. Long ago, the way stolen mana gnaws on your veins and claws at your chest for escape would have left you writhing on the floor, but now you can barely feel it. Your stomach cramps, the urge to vomit still as strong as it was back then, your senses registering all the rot; people don't think about how many forms rot can take — decaying kelp, festering flesh, acid rain, gangrene, moldy wall paper — hundreds of little deaths making up the very essence mages depend on.

Your body begs to use magic before you explode, muscles tensing, chest fluttering, ribs squeezing down on your lungs in an attempt to keep the stolen mana imprisoned. Sweet relief floods your mind as the searing heat of your own magic pushes the stolen mana through your veins, herding it into your palms where you can easily reshape it into something familiar to you: Ash.

Pushing off the wall you rush into the open, using Beelzebub's flames to burn the lines of the attack circle into the ground. The thinning steam lets you catch sight of enemies rounding the warehouses in front of you, likely human or monster since Beelzebub would have taken mages closest to you out of commission. You don't ponder this further, the second the final line is drawn you use Beelzebub as a transition point and push all the stolen mana out.

The docks erupt in a puff of disorientating ash. You don't waste time waiting for someone to fire the shot needed to ignite your magic, falling to your knee as you punch the ground. All it takes is for the chips of volcanic rock along your knuckles to scrape against the concrete for a spark to form.

The resulting explosion is never pleasant.

The sudden surge of light and the loud bang! leaves you disorientated for a few seconds, your skin dry yet clammy as if you has just got sprayed by a flash flood of boiling water. Tiny chisels pick at your bones as you stumble to your feet, trying to sculpt you into something holier than what you are.

But you can't complain when the same explosion tears through soldiers like they're paper, not even leaving behind blood to stain you when the harsh heat cremates the bodies closest to you. Your lungs struggle to get in a good breath, the stench of smog and burning meat passing through the filter and clinging to your tongue. You can hear your enemies coughing, you can feel them moving through the smog in search for you, but your ash is so thick it completely hides you, giving you a few seconds to think.

Thousands of thoughts roll around your skull, but one stands out — Khaled finally betrayed you.

Fire shoots out from beyond the ash at you. Your body moves instinctively as you throw your hand up to guard your head and turn away. The hot flames lick harmlessly over your skin, too similar to the heat inside you to harm you, so all it can do is burn your outer clothes until your shirt and bulletproof vest peek out beneath the large smoldering holes.

You get a second to catch sight of sharp curving horns and predatory blue eyes staring at you from the ash, the smog shifting around a rapidly approaching figure. Next thing you know something hard hits you right in the stomach, fast and unyielding like a truck.

Your skin and muscles ripple under the fist, you feel and hear your ribs crack! under the immense strength right before the punch flings you back like a ragdoll.

You crash into a warehouse wall, the metal denting in the shape of your back as more bones crack. Pain flares through your body, your tongue, caught between your teeth, bleeds peppery acrid blood into your mouth. You gasp for breath as much as you're able to, chest weakly fluttering like a butterfly's wing as you find yourself unable to take in a deep breath.

Then a sickening crack! rings right behind your eardrums as your magic pulls out the rib piercing your lung, pushing on it until it fully expands and you can breathe again. Heat slithers through your body to glue together broken bones and torn muscles, repairing you as if nothing ever happened. You're on your feet in seconds, the ripple in the ash giving you enough warning to lunge out of the way before another stream of flames can wash over you. You send your own in return, a magic circle forming in front of you before spewing out a beam of concentrated flame. The force behind it causes the lingering ash to disperse, giving you better sight of your opponent—

Dragon.

Of course your luck has to be so dogshit you'd get a fucking dragon sicked on you. What's next, a damn stone-skinned goliath? Maybe a leviathan to really fuck you over?

You bend your knees as you summon a magic circle beneath your feet. The ash erupts with such force it sends you careening through the air, launching you into the ash free air above you. You're close enough to a warehouse to grasp the jutting out metal sheet of the steel roof, your muscles tensing as you haul yourself up.

Quickly wiping away the ash stuck to your helmet lenses your eyes instinctively look up to search the sky, the bright spotlights of the docks making the night so much darker. If a dragon's after you then there's a high likelihood there are more monsters, and those rarely come without at least one flyer in their team.

The subtle, unnatural, flutter of distant stars across the dark sky gives you enough incentive to throw up a fiery shield, retreating further back onto the roof. Feathers sharp as knives burn to cinders in your flames, some stragglers imbedding themselves near your feet, easily slicing through the steel roof; Harpy.

You can't tell what kind it is, probably a common variety, but it doesn't really matter so long as you can clip the bird's wings.

Mana floods into your eyes as you use a mana sensing spell. The sky lights up like an aurora borealis, the ground below explodes in all sorts of nauseating colors that makes a headache pound against your skull. But it's worth it when the body of the harpy lights up like a lightbulb, contrasting sharply against the sky, it's wings making for the perfect target.

You know harpies are fast fliers. It forces you to give up some firepower in exchange for a homing ability. Changing a spell is an easy thing to do, mentally erasing and adding a couple of lines in your circle before you summon it. You disable your mana sight so you don't blind yourself and let your magic loose, firing off 4 tightly packed balls of fire in rapid order.

You don't stick around to see it try to dodge your magic, turning to your heel to race across the roof after you flood the earth bellow with even more ash. You need to escape; you could try to kill the monsters, you doubt they have anything worse than that dragon, but you have bigger problems — you can't let an enemy like Khaled live.

Something catches your leg like you're a rabbit in a snare, an unforgettable cold creeping up your skin to gnaw on your brain. Ethereal shadows curl like ropes around your ankle and pull you down before you can burn them away. You tumble to the steel roof and blindly summon flames around you, rolling to your side the moment you get yourself free and just barely managing to avoid your own shadow trying to skewer you.

You burn away the shadowy spikes sticking out from the ground, flames flaring up around you to momentarily distract your opponent as you get to your feet. Your eyes settle on the one that tripped you; big fucker, tall and wide, half wreathed in shadows, a skull mask peering at your from the darkness. Your spine feels like it wants to crawl out of your back, the silence of the grave ringing in your ears when you go to sense his magic and pick up nothing.

The same nothing that makes up Beelzebub. Furious. Hungry. Dead.

Wraith. You are facing a Wraith.

Not a goliath, not a leviathan. Worse. Much, much worse.

You have no shot at outrunning that thing when your own shadow can betray you, not to mention the wraith's range is far larger than yours in the dead of night. You have no choice but to charge at him, a circle forming beneath your heel and ash bursting out to launch you forward, your magic burning hot and bright to produce as much light as you can in an attempt to limit the shadows he can use.

Flames wreathe your fist as you throw a punch to his side, your sudden advance taking him off guard just enough for you to hit him, fire eating away at tactical gear to gnaw on the dead flesh. It forces a grunt out of him before shadows spew out from where you hit him to engulf your arm, leaving you open for a sharp knee to the gut. Your hands flare up, volcanic stone melting into active lava to burn away the shadows holding you. A pillar of flame erupts between you two to force him back, but whips of shadow shoot through the fire in quick retaliation. You duck and roll, adrenaline rushing through your veins like a feral hound as you charge at him again.

Shadows and flames are both volatile and taxing, making you two employ similar tactics: rush and overwhelm your opponent. You have to admit, the wraith is fucking good; he's not an oaf despite his size, using it to his advantage and giving you no reprieve from the constant jabs, trying to bully you into a position where you'd be open for his shadows to pierce your flesh.

But you're faster, ducking and weaving between his blows, mana pulsing through your blood and strengthening your muscles when they think of failing you down. You can almost hear Jackal shouting at you for being too slow.

Your flames are an extension of you, you trust them to clash with his shadows so you can focus purely on the Wraith. You can tell he's getting annoyed when you duck under another swing and jab your elbow into his ribs, the un-melted rocks covering your joint much more painful than actual bone. And that's before magic shoots out from your elbow, flames burning away both of your clothes and creating a sizable blistering wound on his side.

"Fucker," His shadows flare out to put out your flames, "Stay still." You catch a hind of a British accent in his rough voice, unable to get any more as liquid shadows roll of his shoulders and shoot out at you. You're forced to stumble back in an attempt to avoid the shadows trying to claw your face off, your heel ending right on the edge of the roof.

There's a small space between the edge you're standing on and the start of the roof of the warehouse adjacent to this one, the space big enough for you to fall through if you're not careful. The fall itself wouldn't be pleasant either. Your jaw clenches harder and you swing your arm down in an arch, summoning dozens of palm sized circles and shooting out bolts of concentrated flame through the shroud of darkness. Some of them hit him and force black smoke to fizzle out from the wounds you inflict on him, his shadows repairing the walking corpse the same way your magic does to you.

That's not good. While you could go hours, you'll run out of the mana you'll need to take out Khaled if you continue this attempt to put the wraith down. Beelzebub's cold flame simmers in your heart, begging to be set free. You'd rather not use it again when the closest mana source is a wraith — a dead thing full of unfiltered rot — god forbid it triggers the only spell you've sworn not to use, but you don't think you have many other options.

Just as Beelzebub readies to crawl from your heart something else grabs your foot, sharp claws digging into your skin and jerking you down. You buck forward and nearly fall face first, throwing your head to look at the thing that's caught you. A man has half hoisted himself up on the roof, clothes torn and barely hanging on to his frame, a gas mask obscuring his face, one clawed hand gripping the steel to keep himself up as the other has your leg in an iron grip that leaves your bones groaning.

You notice the man's elongated ears and gleaming blue eyes as those of a werewolf. Those blue eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when you summon a magic circle point black with his head, the reflective orange glow of your magic swallowing up all the color his eyes.

Shadows shoot out into the space between his head and your circle, devouring the ball of flames you shoot out so the worst the wolf gets is a face full of smoke and singed hair. You turn your body back to face the wrath, throwing up both hands to summon different circles to take both out, but you're too slow. Whips of shadow shoot out and hit you dead center in the chest. The force sends you crashing back, the dumb wolf holding onto your leg pulled down with you.

You crash through the window of the other warehouse and straight down to the ground. The fall forces a loud wheeze from your lungs as large glass shards embed themselves into your back and shoulders where the bulletproof vest doesn't reach. Your ribs crackle like popcorn as magic heals them, but the pain from constantly getting them broken and repaired is starting to linger.

Dark brown fur flickers in the periphery of your vision, the sensation of a heavy body bearing down on your own snapping you back to action. You throw your arm up, the sharp fangs meant for your throat biting down on your forearm. You don't feel pain there, but a sick sense of satisfaction bubbles in your stomach as you get the first row view of your assailant registering the blistering head of your mage marks against the tender flesh of his mouth.

He yelps like a kicked dog as he releases your forearm. With a grunt you grip his shoulders, the patches of fur there smoldering the few brief seconds it takes you to gather enough strength to throw the heavy mutt off you. You stumble to your knees quickly, forced to dampen your healing abilities. The glass shards dig deeper into your muscles as you move, but the threat of them exploding from the heat of your magic prevents you from doing healing your wounds; the best you can do is dull the pain.

The warehouse is dark, but the mana in your eyes gives you a rudimentary night vision, letting you see the werewolf scramble to his own feet, spitting saliva and curses at you, "Aw ye fockin' bawbag! I-"

The rest of his words fail to reach your brain as you register the ignited remains of your ash blanketing the ground, making it impossible to see your feet bellow your knees. The scent of melting steel and smoke invades your nose, your mind taking this as the most opportune time to replace the metal ceiling high above you with hundreds of feet of rubble. Your chest tightens, the wide walls of the warehouse closing in until you feel like there's no space to move.

You're trapped. Again.

Your eyes flicker around in search for an escape, flames sparking from your fingers to burn all the way up to your shoulders, your mage marks burning hot and bright in the darkness. There! — at the very back of the warehouse you spy a motorcycle, your way out. Only a werewolf stands between it and you. It's true what Taurus used to tell you: freedom is a rope and God wants you to hang from it.

Steeling yourself, your hands reach out to grasp the knives you keep strapped to your shins, a subtle shift of the handles in your palms letting your magic flow freely into the steel.

Let him try to stop you.

. . .

Soap 's hackles raise, his fur feeling like it wants to leap off his tail. Such a deep and strong stench of rot permeates his senses his mind thinks he's the one decaying for a second. His eyes focuse on you as flames coat the knives in your hands and artificially extend the blades to give you better reach. Laswell's voice replays in his mind, telling him not to get close. Hell, he swears he can he can hear his ma's voice call him a bloody idjit for thinking of rushing at the fucking demon.

But his body still shifts further, bones snapping and reforming, muscles growing and the tattered remains of his shirt snapping off his torso as his body doubles in size. He can see his glowing eyes reflect in the tinted lenses of your mask before he rushes at you, body low to the ground before he leaps, claws bared.

You sidestep at the last second and raise your arm, the artificial blade of flames licking a blistering cut across his side. Pain shoots up his spine, his blood literally boiling as the fire both cuts him and cautarizes the wound.

"Focker-" He yelps and drops to all fours to dodge a second slash, leaping up and swinging his arm in an uppercut. His claws cut into the Kevlar as they scrape against the bulletproof vest instead of your skin, snagging on something around your neck and pulling it with him as you lean down and duck back to create distance.

Johnny doesn't get to check what it is when you immediately retaliate by throwing your knife at him. He quickly pockets what he got off you and tries to avoid the weapon but it still hits him in the shoulder, hot flames burning at his skin to let the metal slide in deeper. "Bastard-" He snarls but before he can do anything you're next to him, ripping the knife from his shoulder as you duck past him to slash at the back of his knee.

Soap yelps from the pain as he tumbles forward, turning his body as he falls to roughly swipe at you with his superior reach. The force behind his swing makes you stumble, giving his body the few seconds it needs to regenerate. He rolls to all fours, muscles tensing to lunge again— a sense of wrongness shoots down his spine, forcing him to pause.

A pillar of flames erupts from the ground where he would have been had he lunged at you, the bright light blinding him. When he can see again, he catches your form on top of one of the shipping containers, magical circles appearing as you run across the container to pelt him with balls of concentrated ash. The balls explode in large puffballs of ash as they hit the ground, his mind urging him to move to avoid getting a face full of ash. "Aw no yer fockin' not." He mutters under his breath, taking a few quick and wide steps before he leaps onto the shipping container to escape the suffocating smog, racing after you on all fours.

This proves to be a mistake as you suddenly turn around, thrusting your hand out to cast a giant circle right in front of his eyes. Claws digging into the metal Soap throws himself to his side just as a beam of flames shoots out, singeing his furry tail and forcing a strangled gasp out of his lips as a bit of his thigh gets caught in the blast of fire.

He crashes to the concrete ground, the scent rot curling in his nose as the ash swirls over him, but can't reach his lungs thanks to the gas mask. Johnny's leg muscles twitch, his though skin blistered and red like a tomato, the tattered remains of his pants partially burned into his skin. He struggles to get to his knees, pain stabbing his skin as his body tries to heal, watching through blurry eyes as you reach your target — the motorcycle.

The engine revs to life and you get on it without wasting a second. A violent sensation rushes down his spine as you summon another circle, this one so big it stretches across the entire back wall of the warehouse. In a second the metal heats up to the point it's glowing, solid steel turning into molten slag and dropping to the ground like melting snow. Soap's mind stutters when you flip him off before racing away, shouting and gunfire audible but quickly growing quiet as you get away.

Fucking Bastard.

"So- Soap! H-ghr!- ow co-kghr-ppy?" Price's voice crackles through the radio, barely understandable thanks to how much magic is floating around him.

He groans, sucking in a sharp breath. "Still alive." He grinds out. Rapidly approaching footsteps make him stumble to stand, a threatening growl erupting from his throat.

"Just me." Ghost's voice makes him instantly calm down. His body presses against Johnny's and Soap lets himself put his weight on Ghost. "You broken?" Ghost asks, slipping Johnny's arm over his shoulder and gripping his waist, easily holding him up despite Johnny being nearly twice his size currently.

Johnny tries to breathe in deep with the gas mask restricting his lungs, "Just me pride." He glances down to his leg, the wound glistening with clear fluid and still blistered, his healing factor not even making a dent in it. "Fucker got me good." His ears twitch,

"We'll track 'em down." Ghost grunts as he helps Soap limp out of the ash filled warehouse, safe from the magic as he doesn't need to breathe. "I stuck a tracker, they're not getting far."

"Fockin' hope so, ah got a score to settle an' the bawbag flipped me off for fuck—" A thought comes to him. The tattered remains of his pants have pockets high up so he doesn't tear them when he transforms. He reaches into the pocket and pulls the thing he'd accidentally nicked off you. Johnny lifts it up so both of them can see the chain hanging off his fingers, a little more than a dozen dog tags dangling from it.

Even with the gas mask obscuring part of his face, Ghost knows Johnny's smirking. "Bet you Laswell will love this."

Tag list: @resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten @lieutnt @lilpothoscuttings @krystiannng @crankyweasel @ashy-kit @fyolaizs @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aldis-nuts @whoislucas @birdiiiiiiiiiii

Masterlist; Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2(you are here) -> Chapter 3

#centerpieces of the hoard #captain john price #captain john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod modern warfare #poly 141 #monster cod au #fanfiction #cod x male reader #cod mwii #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x male reader #captain john price x male reader #john soap mactavish x male reader #soapghost #cod fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x male reader #cod x y/n #cod x gn!reader #cod x you #cod x male!reader

[alxtiny]

Birthday Gift | Jeong Yunho x Reader

Synopsis: where you and yunho engage in birthday fun

Pairing: jeong yunho x afab!reader, idol au

Genre: smut, fluff

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: smut, no use of protection (wrap it before you tap it guys), piv, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, use of princess, oral (f & m receiving) big dick!yunho if anything else please tell me MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!!!

Notes: I’m not great at writing smuts 🫡

masterlist

As the last echoes of goodbyes faded into the night, the KQ Ent. building buzzed with sounds of celebration. Yunho had just wrapped up a special birthday live with his fans, and the energy of the evening lingered in the air like a sweet melody as he made his way home. He stepped through the doors of his apartment, and his eyes widening at the sight of the dimly lit room adorned with colorful streamers and balloons. A chorus of "Surprise!" erupted from the gathered ATEEZ members, a few select friends and of course you.

Yunho's smile stretched from ear to ear as he took in the scene, feeling overwhelmed by the love and warmth surrounding him. His birthday had already been magical with the love and wishes of all the atinys and the gifts prepared by the staff, but this unexpected party made it even more special.

He leaned against the wall, taking it all in before slowly making his way towards the brightly decorated cake, that Hongjoong held, at the center of the room. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder baby blue lace dress, matching the frosting on the cake, you rushed over, squeezing Yunho’s arm, contentment settling over him. He placed a kiss on your lips as you wished him a Happy Birthday, hint of a smile playing on your lips as you nudged him to blow out the candles.

When Yunho finally did so, there was an eruption of cheering, Hongjoong and Seonghwa took it upon themselves to pass around slices of cake, leaving Yunho to you. Smiling shyly, you glanced at Yunho, who grinned back before wrapping his arms around you. Slipping his hands around your waist, you blushed at the feel of his fingers stroking up and down your sides. “Happy Birthday, Yuyu…” you whispered once again.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling him closer as the two of you leaned in for a soft kiss, pulling away only when Wooyoung told you to get a room. You sent Yunho away to talk to the others and enjoy himself. As the night wore on, laughter filled the air as everyone indulged in delicious snacks and shared stories. Yunho found himself surrounded by the people he cherished most, feeling grateful for each and every one of them.

Eventually, the other members began to trickle out, bidding their farewells and promising to catch up soon. Left alone with you, Yunho turned around to face you, his heart skipped a beat as he met your gaze, love overflowing from your eyes.

With a gentle tug of your hand, Yunho led you away from the living room and into the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as he closed the door behind you, enveloping you in his arms.

In the soft glow of the fairy lights, your lips met in a sweet kiss, “Thank you,” he mumbled against your lips, a smile pulling at his lips. His arms tightened around you, hands reaching the backs of your thighs, swiftly lifting you and making you giggle at the sudden action. He pulled you close as you wound your legs around his waist, unable to stop yourself from revelling in the warmth of his embrace. Your body trembled under the heat of his touch, and a content sigh escaped your lips as your forehead rested against his, eyes closing for a moment.

You pulled away slightly to look at him, the glimmer of moonlight falling upon your face highlighting the flush on your cheeks. The desire evident in his eyes as he gazed at you caused your pulse to quicken, though you kept your voice calm. “For what?” you asked.

His response came quickly, almost breathless, “Everything, everything… I have to say thank you,” he replied. Before you could respond, he captured your lips again, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck. Pulling away after several moments, you sighed in pleasure and smiled at him, “I am glad you had fun.”

Your eyes drifted shut as his lips caressed your cheek, your skin warming beneath his touch. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as your breathing steadied. When you opened your eyes again, a mischievous grin played across your lips. Tugging Yunho forward by his tie, you pecked at his lips before pulling away, leaving a small trail of kisses down his jawline. Lifting yourself slightly, you brought your lips back to meet his, letting your tongue explore the depths of his mouth. Inch by inch, your hips pressed against his as your hands ran up his chest and along his neck. “Yunho…” you breathed out, seeking his tongue with yours.

He wasted no time and took three quick steps towards the bed, dropping you onto it gently. You laughed and squirmed under him as he positioned himself between your thighs, his hands moving down your torso to rest on your thighs before lifting your dress over your head as fast as he could. You gasped in surprise when he tore off your lingerie in fervour, eliciting a pleased hum from him. Moving his hands lower, he palmed your breasts with his large hands, causing you to writhe beneath him.

Your breath came faster now as pleasure ran across your body like electric shocks. His hot lips continued their journey downwards, stopping briefly to tease your collarbone with his teeth before continuing to work their way down your body. “So fucking beautiful and all for me,” His teeth nipped at your soft skin, leaving tinges of purple in their wake. As he went lower, you arched your back towards him, his lips teasing and pinching your nipples making you whimper, “Mhmm….all for you,”

You wrapped your legs around him again, pushing his hips towards yours, encouraging him further. His fingers grazed your thighs, lightly caressing your pliant skin but never touching you where you needed him. Suddenly his hand dipped further, the feeling of his fingertips against your most sensitive part made you shudder.

Slowly he worked one finger in, sliding it back and forth, watching pleasure take over your face, hands fisting at the sheets. When you began to shift restlessly beneath him, his fingers moved faster, slipping inside of you and rubbing against your g spot. The sensations coursed through you uncontrollably. You dug your fingers into his back, your nails almost drawing blood.

He pulled out his fingers and brought them to his lips, sucking your arousal off them. You whined at the loss of his touch as he started to kiss down your stomach. As soon as he touched the skin between your thighs, you let out a cry and arched your back, thrusting your hips towards him, “Yunho…f-fuck please,” you sighed. His lips travelled down over your lower abdomen, he kissed and marked the skin, nipping gently before moving further south.

He gave an experimental lick to your clit as he spread your legs wider, opening you up for him. Your hands tangled themselves in his hair, tugging harshly, he moaned at the feeling sending vibrations through your pussy. He continued his descent down your body, his tongue lapping hungrily at your slit. You were beyond reason now, lost in sensation and unable to control yourself.

You felt his tongue slowly slide up inside of you, licking every inch of you until finally he pressed the tip against your hole. With one smooth motion, you felt his tongue intrude in your cunt, moving it around while giving gentle pressure to your tight bud.

Your whole body quivered as he rubbed his tongue up and down your slit, working magic with it, making your orgasm build up quickly. "Ahh! fuuuuck" You cried out as you came, hips twitching against his face. His tongue twirled around inside of you, flicking against your g-spot, bringing you closer to another orgasm. You grabbed his head and ground your cunt against his face.

"Oh fuck Yunho… Ahh… oh god…" You felt your eyes roll back in overstimulation. He pulled away from your cunt, his face wet from your cum, grinning wickedly at you. He caressed your inner thighs, teasing you again before you could recover completely.

Your legs felt weak and shaky but you pushed yourself up to your elbows, grabbing hold of his belt and unbuckled it, rushing to get rid of the tight constriction. Yunho pushed your hands away and quickly freed himself from the rest of his clothes, pulling off his shirt and tie, throwing them on the floor. Looking up at him, you reached for his pants and underwear, pulling them off quickly and throwing them over with the others.

Gripping his hardness in both hands, you looked up at him, taking in his dark brown eyes and hungry expression. Shivering with anticipation, you lowered your head, letting your tongue run along the tip of his erection. “Fuck,” he sighs, taking a sharp intake of breath as your hot breath scorched his sensitive skin.

Moaning low in your throat, you began to pump him, taking his cock deep inside of your mouth. His grip on your hair tightened as you bobbed your head, desperate to please him. He growled deeply in response, his hips jerking into your mouth with a grunt. He allowed his hands to grip your hair into a makeshift ponytail, and guided your head forward onto his cock and back, thrusting his cock deeper with every movement.

“Nghh, s-shit…” he moaned, throwing his head back at the feeling of your mouth around him. With his eyes closed, Yunho groaned in pleasure as he felt your tongue swirl around his member. When his entire length was buried in your mouth, he clenched his eyes tightly shut, biting his lip to keep from crying out too loudly. This was exactly what he needed; his body stiffened as his release grew closer. With one last deep thrust, he released into your warm mouth, his hands clenching your hair tightly. He panted harshly as you cleaned him up with your mouth, dragging your nails down his thighs lightly, humming happily as his member throbbed in your mouth. You stopped for a moment, only to wipe at your mouth and chin. with your hand, looking up at him through your lashes.

Satisfied that he was finished, you slowly licked your lips before rising up to kiss him deeply, your tongue tangling with his. Moving backwards onto the bed, you straddled his waist, resting your weight against him as you started to grind your hips into him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you began to rock against him, feeling him grow harder still within your grasp. When he gripped your ass firmly, you lifted yourself off him until just the tip remained within you.

He moaned as you sank back down onto him, slowly pushing your breasts together as you moved back and forth. His grip on your hips tightened, gripping you as hard as he could as he forced you onto his length once more. His pace became frantic as you rode him mercilessly, his legs tensing as he prepared to release. He looked up at you, wild brown eyes begging for mercy as you leaned forward and kissed him again.

Yunho flipped you over, not being able to wait anymore, “Hmm, fuck, getting real close, princess.” Bringing your legs to your chest, his hands had a strong hold over your thighs, strong enough to leave marks. He thrusted into you from the changed angle, watching your face contort with each thrust, moving his hand he pressed it against the bulge that formed near your lower abdomen as he thrusted deeper and deeper. “‘M close, Yun,” you moan, arching your back off of the pillows, chest briefly touching his, breathing heavily, “Wanna cum with you.”

Yunho whimpered, hips stuttering slightly at the intense pleasure. His arms trembled, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, as he once again picked up the pace, pushing you to the edge. You convulsed around his cock, making it difficult for him to move but his pace did not relent, driving you to overstimulation. Your hands moved up to his chest, almost pushing him away.

Yunho watched you, a haze drawn across his eyes. He let out a pained strangled moan, as you clenched around him even tighter. You moaned and leaned in to kiss him sloppily, feeling another orgasm approach with increasing intensity.

“Can I come inside, princess,” he exhaled, making you nod frantically. His hips pressed deep onto yours as he released into you, your legs falling limp to your sides, feeling the overwhelming pleasure wash over you. You felt Yunho’s legs tremble, as he collapsed beside you, panting heavily as you both came down from your high. He smiled lazily, running his fingers along your sides as he waited for your breathing to return to normal.

Pulling out of your soaking cunt, he grabbed a cloth from the side helping you clean up, occasionally peppering kisses on your face and the bright purple marks on your chest. After cleaning himself too he helped you put on one of his loose t-shirts, dressing himself in comfy boxer shorts as well and laid down beside you, arm thrown around your waist and face nuzzled into your neck. He sighed happily, “This might’ve been the best birthday gift I got today. I love you.”

You chuckled softly, stroking his soft hair and kissing his temple. “I love you too.” You turned so you were facing him, looking into those intense chocolate eyes of his, taking in his whole person. Those bright eyes gleamed with happiness as they locked with yours, which caused an overwhelming sensation of comfort to flood you.

Wrapping your arms around him, you brought him close and held him tighter, wondering how this perfect man had managed to find you.

© alxtiny . Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my works on any platform in any way.

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DISCLAIMER: THIS IS PURE FICTION AND NOT RELATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ATEEZ IN REAL LIFE PLEASE DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

Taglist:

#ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez reaction #ateez smut #ateez x y/n #ateez x you #yunho ateez #yunho imagines #yunho drabble #yunho fanfic #ateez yunho #yunho x reader #jeong yunho #yunho fluff #yunho smut #yunho scenarios

[christinesficrecs]

Happy Saturday! Enjoy these brilliant fics. 🩷

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“You smell like me,” the guy says, scowling as he crowds in and Stiles staggers back between the coats and finally hits the wall. “Why do you smell like me?”

He barely lets out a garbled sound as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “No reason,” Stiles yelps, struggling to get his footing and grasping at a whirlwind of puffy fur.

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Stiles had just accidentally challenged an alpha.

Oh God, and Scott had just stood by and let him do it. He was the worst best friend ever. Stiles was going to kill him. Except, oh right, the alpha was going to kill him first. Like beyond dead, ripped into tiny little pieces dead. So far dead that his dad would not be able to identify him, dead.

Laying Groundwork by  LunaCanisLupus_22 | 10.9K

The one where Scott and Stiles go clubbing and there’s this broody Bouncer out to get Stiles-

Or get into his pants. Thank God it’s the latter.

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The one where mateless Derek thinks no omega can affect him like they do other alphas and he’s about to find out he’s very, very wrong.

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The one when Stiles and Derek work for rival assassin companies and are sent to kill each other. It definitely doesn’t go as planned.

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“I will marry you,” he declares. “But should any more harm come to my father or my people, I will raze the earth itself until I feel the lifeblood drain from your corpse and paint my skin with it.”

It is not an idle warning, but from the princeling it has none of the desired effect. Derek feels no fear, but in this instance at least diplomacy triumphed over the spilling of more blood. It is all the same to him anyway. But Regent Peter was most insistent they avoid a drawn-out, gruelling war.

“Then we have reached an accord.”

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“You like Derek,” he says slowly. “Derek Hale.”

His father grimaces at the accusation there. “Look, Stiles it’s complicated-“

“So when I was married to him,” he continues, voice rising. “He wasn’t good enough. He was taking advantage of me. ‘He’ll never be able to love you like you want, Stiles’. That’s what you said-“

Or the Sweet Home Alabama AU that nobody asked for.

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“All in favour of Derek not dating for a full year so he can get his shit together and stop romancing people who want to kill us?”

Everyone raises their hands. Every single pack member.

Or the one where the pack insists Derek can't date anybody for a year but he ends up finding romance much closer to home anyway.

I know that you love me, even when I lose my head by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 135.5K

“We’re not mates, Cora,” he insists. “I mean look at him-“

“Ouch,” the kid says, no longer pushing that shit eating grin.

“He’s- he’s,” Derek tries, at a loss of how to explain why this can’t be possible. Why it shouldn’t be possible.

When sparks fly by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 87.5K | Abandoned

“Derek,” Stiles thunders. “Were you ever going to tell me your house is trying to hook us up?”

Derek’s head snaps up, eyes wide and scenting the evident crackle of magic in the air.

I'll wrap up my bones, And leave them by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 65.1K

The sign on the cage actually reads Beware: The Beast! in that crappy horror movie red paint that trickles down the paper in a failed attempt to appear like dripping blood.

And it would seem stupid if not for the living supernatural creature currently trapped behind its bars. Little hard to dismiss the big, hulking werewolf as a poorly constructed horror movie prop.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Dude, cannot catch a break.

How long have I been on the hunt for you? by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 20.3K

“Well I guess accidental kidnapping is not so bad then,” Scott decided brightly after the others had finished describing their ordeals. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

“HAHA,” Stiles practically shouted, loud and unsettling enough that everyone turned to look at him. “I mean, yep. For. Sure.”

#sterek fics #sterek #ficrecs #fanfic writers #sterek fandom #author spotlight #lunacanislupus22 #author appreciation

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

To the victor the spoils

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 19

Prompt: Enemies to lovers

Rated: T

CW: light blood and violence; steamy kissing; very light dubcon if you squint (they're actually both super into it, I promise)

Tags: Fantasy AU; Magic AU; Guard!Steve; Thief!Eddie; Sexual tension; Flirting; Fighting; First kiss

Notes: Thought that kiss was hot in writing? Wait until you see it! @house-of-the-moving-image did an entire mini comic!

In the end, it’s just the two of them again. 

Steve jumps over another groaning pile of half-conscious guards and bursts out onto the roof, cold night air slapping him in the face and making the cape of his uniform whip. 

“Munson!” he barks. 

He is standing by the edge of the roof, a black cut-out against the starlit sky. As Steve stalks closer, he can see the smile curling at his lips, the amusement glinting in those dark eyes. 

“Stevie,” he greets, like they’re two acquaintances who’ve just met on the market square - not the new Captain of the Guard and the city’s most wanted criminal. “My, don’cha look strapping in the new get-up. Congrats, I bet daddy’s mighty proud.” 

“Shut it,” Steve growls, ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes linger on his golden breastplate, the way it makes a treacherous heat prickle at his neck. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Now give it back!” 

He jerks his head at the necklace clutched in one black-gloved hand. Eddie pouts. 

“Don’t wanna. It’s shiny.” 

Steve groans. It’s like talking to a five-year-old. A five-year old clad in black armor who’s versed in combat magic. 

“It is a priceless magic artifact that’s been in Lord Carver's family for generations-” 

“Yeah, and what a load of good they’ve done with it,” Eddie sneers. “High time it got into the hands of someone who actually knows what they’re doing.” 

“Oh, and that someone would be you?” 

“Look at you,” Eddie winks. “Pretty and clever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta-” 

“You’re not going anywhere!” Steve snaps. His sword slides out with a high, metallic sound. 

Eddie raises his hands. “Woah, big boy. Careful now, you don’t wanna-” 

Steve roars and lunges. 

Eddie skips out of reach, but not quite fast enough. A lock of curly hair floats to the ground. 

“Oh sweetheart, you're gonna regret this,” Eddie purrs. 

And all hell breaks loose. 

The air crackles with the taste of ozone, a blinding light erupts from the artifact, and Steve just barely manages to parry. Something whirrs through the air, glides off his blade and a sharp, hot pain explodes all over the side of his face. Something warm trickles down his cheek. 

“Hell yeah,” Eddie whoops and comes flying at him, giant shards of solid magic whirling around him, eyes eerily alight with their glow. “That's what I'm talking about!” 

The world blurs into a frenzy of movement and adrenaline. Attack and parry, dive for cover behind the towers and turrets and battlements of the roof, attack again. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity, this dance of theirs. Steve knows all of Eddie’s little quirks, the subtle twitches of his face that indicate his attacks before they actually come. They’ve done this so often, he can read him like an open book. 

The problem is, Eddie knows him just as intimately. Steve screams with rage, forces his aching limbs to go faster, harder, but it’s no use. Every blow that he tries to land, Eddie blocks, every twist and turn he makes, Eddie’s already there, always with that infuriating, dimpled grin, that amused little quirk of his brow. 

Until Steve’s foot lands on a wet patch of moss and he slips. 

It all goes so fast he has no time to be terrified - just feels the horrible sense of vertigo as the world tilts and the cobbled street jumps at him. Then, before he can so much as scream, there's arms wrapping around him and he's being hauled backwards, back pressed flush against another body. His blade goes clattering into the shadows.

“Whoops,” Eddie chuckles into his ear. Steve can feel his chest rising and falling with exertion, can feel his hot breath clouding against the shell of his ear. “Thought I told you not to fall for me.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, tries to struggle free, but Eddie has one arm around his chest, the other flush against the hollow of his throat, and he can't go anywhere. “Don’t give yourself too much credit.” 

“Oh, do I?" Eddie’s lips twitch into a smirk against the nape of his neck. “Then why were you holding back?” 

“Fuck you!” he grits out, but all it earns him is a low tut. “Now release me.”

“What, without a reward?” Eddie’s voice tingles down his spine, sweet and potent like poisoned mead. “You know how I am about pretty things. And you wouldn't wanna deny the victor his spoils, would you?” 

“Asshole!” Humiliation coils hot and heavy in Steve’s abdomen. “Stop joking and-” 

Eddie snarls against his ear. “I've told you a million times, honey. I'm not joking.” 

Steve’s world spins again, breath punched clean from his lungs as he is flipped around and slammed against the nearest wall. Eddie doesn’t leave him any time to recover, just surges in with a hungry growl and crashes their lips together. When Steve tries to struggle, he bites down on his bottom lip, uses the pained gasp it earns him to lick into his mouth. 

Someone moans, but it takes Eddie running his tongue over the roof of his mouth and pushing a leg between his thighs before the sound tumbles out again and Steve recognizes his own voice. They only break apart when they run out of air, both flushed and struggling for breath. 

And that is when the door to the roof slams open and Lord Carver and his men push through. 

“He went this way! Seize him!”

Eddie lets out an annoyed huff and leans in for one last peck against Steve’s lips. 

“Sorry, darling. Gotta go, y'know how it is. See you next time.” 

He steps out of his space and the night air hits Steve like a bucket of ice water. Eddie winks at him and steps over the edge of the roof. 

By the time Carver and his guards arrive, the night has long swallowed him.

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles #phantom thief au

[mokulule]

A Pinch of Salt snippet 1

Chronologically first story in the Salt in the Bones AU @clockwayswrites and I are working on together (go check out the snippet Clock posted) - so much brainstorming, it's so much fun. This story is how Danny and Constantine meets.

“What the hell man, do I look like some kind of restless spirit to you?”

When Danny decided to investigate some ghostly rumors at the abandoned construction site of a nearly completed mall about an hour from Amity, he did not expect to turn a corner and get a face full of salt tossed at him. His assailant, a tired looking, blond, middle aged man in a sandy trenchcoat that had seen better days, just continued staring with narrowed eyes and the hand that had done the throwing still slightly raised.

“Okay, so I haven’t slept in three days, but dude, really?” He brushed his sleeve across his mouth to remove the salt but only succeeded in getting more in his mouth, he stuck out his tongue in disgust.

Still no give from the sad trenchcoat man.

“What are you?” the man finally spoke.

Danny stared open-mouthed, rude much! So that’s what trenchcoat wanted to go with! Fine! Two can play that game.

“Covered in freaking salt that’s what!” Danny shook his head so it rained salt speckles around him.

“It’s everywhere,” he groused spitting at the floor trying to get the taste out. “Seriously, save that for the shades and the fries.”

Having expelled most of the salt, he noted something else. He moved his tongue around for a moment pondering, then froze.

“Is that… Rosemary?!”

He had a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, took a moment to sense past the surface of noir-reject and was assaulted by sheer wrong-torn-wrong. He took a step back in horror.

“What are YOU? Why are you seasoning me? Do you eat people?!” Danny had thought he’d be dealing with a poltergeist, not whatever weirdness this man was.

For the first time he got a reaction.

“I don’t bloody eat people!” Constantine blurted in consternation, taking a step toward the creature posing (annoyingly realistically) as a teenager, who promptly took another step back.“Could have fooled me,” the creature countered, “what with that thing you have going.” He gestured vaguely up and down at Constantine’s entire person in disgust.

It really shouldn’t matter what some not-poltergeist thought of him, but something about him just rubbed Constantine wrong and he bristled.

The next moment the creature spluttered and coughed from the holy water he’d just thrown at him, but huh, no burning.

“Not a demon either,” John remarked, allowing himself a smirk as the creature looked at him open mouthed, eye twitching.

“Where the hell are you keeping this shit, did you just pull it out of your a- wait, demon?” He blinked and stopped his tirade.

“Demon?” he repeated, “demon’s exist?”

And suddenly it was Constantine reevaluating, because that sounded genuine, and the kid, because oh God it was just a bloody kid, might reek of death magics, but now that he was paying attention the malice wasn’t coming from him. It was coming-

A wail, angry, hateful, sorrowful tore apart the silence. It was cold to the very marrow of his bones freezing him in place.Down the hallway energy crackled in a growing storm of malice throwing around dust and debris from the construction. Cardboard, and forgotten tools was sucked into it and it was slowly moving towards them. Shit.

“That’s not a poltergeist either,” the kid remarked quietly at his side. And for a moment he’d forgotten he had a bloody civilian on hand. He cursed, grabbed the kid and booked it in the opposite direction from the sodding spectral storm.

#A pinch of salt #Salt in the bones #Danny and Constantine #dysfunctional found family FTW

[m1d-45]

Heheehee would love to see venti post-imposter au like that one u did for zhongli...I love guilt >:)))) and thank u, u r amazing!!!!

unnamed poem, unnamed bard

a/n: wrote a whole poem for this. hope you enjoy <3

-> warnings: reader is dead. reader is a literal corpse and is described and referred to as such. major spoilers for mondstat archon quest, the most microscopic spoilers for liyue archon quest.

-> lowercase intended!

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie

< masterlist >

‘the creator is the highest god across every nation.’

seven sets of eyes stared at the body in front of them, at the arrow shot through it’s throat. several other wounds crossed the body, but none were as lethal as the first.

‘they have created everything, from the clouds-‘

angry gray rippled across the sky, thunder crackling in the distance. the storm had been brewing all day, and now the reason why was clear.

‘-to the air-‘

wind howled and cried, whipping through hair and pulling at clothes. one of the ties around venti’s braids had been ripped away, the hair beginning to unravel in the gale. still, even as nahida clutched at focalor’s cloak to stay standing—poor girl, she’d been trying to convince her—the clothes on the corpse were still.

‘-to the earth beneath our feet.’

blood seeped into the ground below, shimmering even in the dim light filtering through the clouds. the brick pattern below had shining blue for grout, blood tracing a spiderweb out.

‘they are only to be adored with the highest of veneration.’

thin hands shook around the handle of a bow, painted nails digging into the grip. barbatos’ eyes are wide, teal, unblinking gaze staring at the body as if it would magically come back to life. as if it would reach, pull out the arrow, as if it would sit up and chide him for behaving so rashly. it doesn’t.

‘after all…’

amber eyes search for purple, then red, black gloves tightening around the geo lord’s weapon. he was not without sin, having also participated in the chase—none were truly pure, none truly deserved any form of forgiveness except for maybe nahida.

‘it is they to which we owe our lives.’

seven chests heaved with a variety of emotions—adrenaline, contrition, horror—but an eighth was oddly regular. blank, lifeless eyes, matching the color of the ones on the corpse, curved with a smile. well done! they cheered, silent pride shining in the dim light.

‘they are stronger than steel.’

“who are you?”

the gritted voice of the pyro archon shattered the fragile silence.

“me?”

‘brighter than the sun.’

the false god put a hand to their chest, the fake shock on their face not hiding their glee. “well, i’m your god, aren’t i?”

‘with their iron-strong will,’

six hands tightened on weapons. one set let go of cloth, small stature still brimming with anger.

‘eons long work begun.’

new blood stained the dirt, red instead of divine blue. the fake’s body jerked, elemental reactions dancing across their skin as their body fell to the floor. superconduct burned out their eyes, overload locked up their lungs, quicken sped up the rate at which blood flowed from their veins. frozen pinned their still-twitching body to floor as they slowly died.

the gods almost wished that it had taken them longer to die. they certainly didn’t deserve a quick death.

‘they forged the valleys and plains.’

seven voices united by the covered body of their god, undivided by worldly squabbles. grudges and bitterness fell away, if only for now, seven heads bowed on seven sets of knees. even nahida, innocent as she was, had knelt alongside them here. seven prayers were lifted on seven tongues, some wavering, all weak. the scenery did little to distract when they knew they had slaughtered it’s maker.

‘mountains shaped, clouds retained.’

the burial was silent, only the sound of dirt against dirt breaking the solemn air. shimmering jade rose from the earth, obsidian lettering carving out their sin. seven were too weak to continue standing, seven sets of tears beginning to fall. seven asked for forgiveness.

‘as night turned to day turned to night again,’

none would receive it.

‘their last creation made, to their own world they ascend.’

grass and flowers were quick to grow over the unsettled dirt, risking quick uprooting for the chance to get closer. seven hearts burned. seven souls screamed.

drinks hit their tables with loud bangs. ‘who are you, bard?” a man called. ‘where have you heard such things?’

barbatos was the first to flee, unable to bear feeling their aura so long after their death. his wide wings flapped erratically, all of his usual grace lost as tears blurred his vision. the cuffs of his shirt clung to his skin, droplets of blue already staining to matter how hard he tried to scrub it out. it refused to even smudge.

he tucked his wings in and dove, barely even trying to slow his fall once he got closer to the ground, not feeling the pain in his feet. he stumbled once, twice, then collapsed at the foot of his own anemo statue.

the boy laughed, the teal on his nails matching the mirth in his eyes.

barbatos’ chest heaved, the air he commands abandoning him in his time of need. the peaceful breeze of windrise couldn’t hide the uneven beats of his heart, the cool stone behind him not soothing the burn on his face. he could see them, the golden chains of his crimes, already encircling his arms. the fingers that pulled the string stiffened with shining rings, too tight to be comfortable, his opposite palm already beginning to glow. some scrap of his consciousness mourned how it would affect his ability to play, to drink, to move, the unforgiving chains binding his actions.

the larger majority mourned his god.

‘you can call me venti.’

#*kicks down your doors* HEY YALL EVER HEARD OF PARALLELISM #genshin sagau #sagau #genshin #genshin impact #sagau impostor au #sagau zhongli #sagau venti #sagau ei #sagau raiden shogun #self aware genshin #genshin self aware au #ever-thankful that poetry is one of my hobbies 🙏🙏 how would i write my rhyme-loving bard otherwise? #venti angst #tw death #death tw #tw: death #dead reader #this. exhausts the idea of you being dead. gotta be safe abt it #this was meant to be a drabble involving the karma idea i had on… i wanna say ‘the scottish play’? #nope it was ‘death rebirth new life’. #but i recognize it covers everything but the karma… so.. #may or may not elaborate on this in the future? like with you being revived/isekai’d and he’s very teary and repentful #or maybe he refuses to even get close? unwilling to allow you to be harmed by him once more even as his chains start to cinch his lungs- #ok i need to stop before i write an essay in the tags #(but what if he /zhongli went to the grave to pay respects only to find it empty? what if THAT????) #guess who forgot a TITLE!! #edit was that i added one: it’s shit but i needed something for the m. list

[thecouchsofa]

hi!! #14 & #90 for the trope mash-up if you want to? 👀♥︎

Fanfiction trope mashup - Bodyguard AU x Unexpected Virgin

I took this in a slightly different direction to what I was intending, but I quite like it!

Rating: M

“I can’t fucking believe you.” Malfoy slammed the door as he stomped in behind Harry, the rusty hinges squealing. “Do you have any idea–”

“Come off it, Malfoy, you pillock.” Harry rolled his eyes, delighting as the corner of Malfoy’s lips twitched. He sagged against the cool stone wall, trying to catch his breath for the first time in hours.

“I told you not to draw attention to yourself.” Malfoy tugged at his pale hair, twisting the strands around his fingers. He looked far older than his eighteen years, the seemingly endless months of war hanging heavy on his frame. He had lines now, between his arched brows and across his high forehead. They stood out when he hunched over a book as he read by candlelight, too nervous to cast a proper Lumos.

“I didn’t try to–”

Malfoy’s laugh was hollow. He fixed Harry with a look that displayed the fatigue and sadness lodged deep in his soul after so many losses. “You pulled your wand on Greyback. That–”

“I had to.” Harry’s words tripped over themselves. He clutched at the wall, breaths coming faster and faster, the echoes of the offensive spells fired at him and Malfoy still hot on the skin of his heels. “I couldn’t not, not after everything.”

“Then let me do it.” Malfoy’s voice was desperate, pleading. “I’m supposed to protect you. You can’t let me fail at this, Potter.”

“You don’t care about me,” Harry said, though he didn’t believe it. He saw how Malfoy looked at him now, had watched the fear and determination on his face when he threw himself between Harry and the oncoming spells.

“Sirius does.” Malfoy yanked at his jumper, tugging it over his head. There was no point in keeping it now, not in the state it was in; they’d have to burn it before nightfall. Before they moved on from there, to somewhere safer. Wherever that was. “And I can’t let him down, Potter. Not after everything he’s done for me.”

What about me? Harry wanted to ask. He ached to, needed to hear the answer out loud, that something that he felt from Malfoy every day, in each action he performed. What about what I’ve done? What about what you’ve done for me?

Malfoy’s tongue swept over his bottom lip. He looked at Harry then – really looked at him. “I’ve killed for you.”

“Yes,” Harry said. And I’d do the same for you.

Malfoy’s pale throat moved as he swallowed. “I’d do it again.”

“I know.”

“I would.” Malfoy’s gaze was heavy, his shoulders sagging. “But please don’t make me.”

And that was something that Harry couldn’t promise, no matter how much he wanted to. Malfoy knew that; Harry could see it in his face.

The rest of their clothes hit the floor, the threads of fabric standing on end, friction from the offensive spells caught in each strand.

Malfoy stared at the pile for a moment, jaw clenched tight. “We’ll have to burn them.”

“Not in the fireplace.”

“No. The bath.”

Harry gathered up their things, shuddering at the remnants of hostile magic that brushed against his skin. Every atom seemed to scream They’re here. He’s here. Come and get them.

The light of the fire danced across Malfoy’s face as they stood next to the tub, watching as their clothes burned. The scent of it was cloying, magic mixed with ash and charred polyester. Malfoy shuddered, wrapping his arms around his bare torso. Harry glanced at him only once, eyes dropping lower, cheeks heating.

Malfoy cleared his throat, the sound harsh against the backdrop of crackling flames. If Harry closed his eyes and listened, he could almost believe he was camping somewhere in the countryside, innocent and safe.

“We need to wash the magic off.” Malfoy’s tone was rough, like shoes on gravel. “I…”

“Together,” Harry said, before he could stop himself. He couldn’t go back downstairs and wait, ears straining for any sign of someone having followed them to that crumbling lighthouse on the edge of the world.

Malfoy nodded curtly, turning away when Harry looked at him.

They couldn’t turn the water on, just as they couldn’t activate any of the lights. Instead, they took turns holding Malfoy’s wand up, keeping a finger on it to activate the Aguamenti. Malfoy shivered, stepping closer to Harry as water sluiced over the planes of his torso. It shimmered, magic running down their skin and collecting at their feet. Droplets of water clung to Malfoy’s pale lashes as he turned to face Harry, blinking slowly. He didn’t flinch when Harry reached for him, not as he had the last time, the only other time Harry had tried.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, and Malfoy finally touched him back. He slid a hand round the back of Harry’s neck and tugged him in close, kissing him firmly. Their knees bumped in the cramped space, Malfoy’s fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, his breath a whisper.

Malfoy gasped, tipping his head back, when Harry wrapped a hand around the length of him. His legs shook, fingers clutching for any part of Harry he could reach. “I can’t … Potter, I haven’t … not before. Not ever.”

Harry kissed the confession from his lips, swallowing each of Malfoy’s moans, keeping him quiet so they wouldn’t be found. His bicep bulged, muscles straining with the effort of keeping Malfoy’s wand raised above their heads. He didn’t protest, didn’t ask to swap. He touched Malfoy slowly as Malfoy looked his fill, ran his fingers over another body for the first time.

“Please,” Malfoy whispered, legs shaking. “Fuck, I need…”

“Hold on to me,” Harry directed, tightening his grip and speeding up his strokes.

Malfoy clutched onto him and gasped, mouthing Harry’s name again and again against his damp skin. He said it out loud as he crested, Harry’s given name passing his lips for the first time as the smell of their burning clothes filled the air.

“Sirius is going to kill me,” Malfoy muttered against Harry’s shoulder, later, after they’d Apparated to a damp forest in Cumbria.

Harry wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders, holding him close. “Not if I do it first.”

His words rang loud in the quiet, a joke that didn’t so much as fall flat, but seemed to predict something, a future that neither of them wanted.

“Maybe,” Malfoy said. He pressed his lips to Harry’s throat, parting them and swiping his tongue across Harry’s skin. “But not if I do it first.”

Send me two tropes and I'll mash them together

#ask game #my stuff #drarry #drarry fics #drarry fanfiction #hpdm

[somebluemelodies]

@atthebell's SPIDERBIT WEEK DAY FIVE: weed fic | mermaids spiderbit mermaid au's are so personal to me i'm actually obsessed with them

There's a storm above the water when Cellbit surfaces. It's wreaking havoc on the surface, tall waves pushing him up and down and rocking him back and forth, making it hard to survey his surroundings.

It worries him. It's not the first storm he's ever seen, and he knows it won't be the last, but that's not it. The familiar ship is gone from the dock, and that's what worries him.

Because it means he's out there somewhere, in the midst of this chaos.

He shouldn't care about humans, he knows that. And he doesn't! For the most part. Only one, really.

(Roier. He likes the way the name sounds. It's perfect, just like its owner.)

And he really, really cares about that one. So much so that he feels fuzzy and warm at the mere thought of him. So much so that he could spend his whole life just listening to him talk about what makes him happy. So much so that the time between their meetings makes his heart ache with longing.

(He's in love. But he'd never admit that aloud. It's not like they can be together. Not unless...

He wouldn't do that to his human. His human friend. Friend.)

To try and quell the worrying quickly brewing in his chest, he takes off away from the land, deeper into the ocean. The downpour makes it hard to see ahead, the booming of thunder makes it hard to focus, but he persists. He has a mission.

Roaring oranges and yellows in the distance create a beacon against the gray, drawing him forward. The closer he gets, he starts to hear shouting over the rainfall. The crackling of flickering flames.

There's two ships, but only one is burning. He sees people fighting. Pirates and masked figures in all white. He sees people running.

He sees him.

His beloved human is a fighter it seems, battling two of the strange figures. And he's quite the fighter, making the whole thing look admirably easy as his weapon - a cutlass, Roier said it was - disarms one of the figures, knocking its body to the floorboards.

Life has always been eerily good at changing in the blink of an eye, though. And it happens in a flash.

Lightning ignites the sky, a deafening clap of thunder following. The ship rocks a little too hard, throwing Roier off his balance as he's nearly thrown overboard.

And then the second figure, that hellish, disgusting, wretched thing, strikes. Cellbit can't see it, but he can see his human's face, the way it contorts in pain, and he knows.

And he's mortified.

(Not his human. Not Roier. Not his Roier.)

The monster draws its weapon back, and it's stained, dripping red. And like the heartless thing it must be, it and its recovered ally send him toppling overboard, into the stormy sea.

Cellbit feels like he's been shocked, shooting back under the water and zipping forward, searching.

He finds Roier, bleeding crimson into the sea from a spot that looks way too close to his heart as he sinks down, down, down, pulled deeper and deeper by the waves.

He grabs Roier, who seems momentarily stunned to see him. There's a hand on his face, then, and Cellbit trills, nearly melting into the touch, but then Roier's eyes flutter shut and he immediately remembers he's running against the clock.

They're too far from land now. Cellbit could only keep him above the surface for so long. Only one option saves him from an untimely fate.

He pulls Roier deeper, away from the chaos near the surface, and towards the seafloor. And, cradling his face in both webbed hands, kisses him, praying to a god he doesn't quite believe in that it isn't too late for his magic to run its course.

(Maybe it's selfish. But he doesn't care. If it means keeping him breathing, keeping him alive, he'd choose this a million times over.)

He feels energy. Powerful, almost overwhelming energy. Then, white envelops them.

When the white finally begins to dissipate, only then does he pull away, only just enough. Cellbit sees shimmering deep reds and blues in his peripheral, no more bleeding, too, but he focuses on Roier's face.

He sees newfound gills flare, and then Roier gasps sharply, eyes shooting open. He's off-balance, kicking a tail instead of legs, and he realizes it quickly, eyes widening. "What the fuck?!"

Cellbit steadies him, hands on his waist, and only then does Roier seem to fully notice he's there. "What did you do..?"

"It was the only way to keep you alive," Cellbit answers, and God, does finally being able to speak to him ignites something in his heart. "I didn't want you to die. I couldn't let you die."

Roier seems to have the same thought process as him, as instead of further questioning his new state first, an awed smile starts to cross his face. "You can talk to me."

"Well, you're like me now."

"Shit, man, how did you do that?"

Cellbit flushes. "I... I believe you call it a kiss?"

He goes to pull after a few moments, sheepish as Roier processes, but then Roier's arms are around his neck, and he blushes deeper. "Is that so?"

Cellbit nods slowly, and then their eyes lock. Roier moves an arm from around his neck, hand once again cupping his face with a gentleness that makes him feel weak all over. His voice is soft, and Cellbit wonders if his heart is about to beat out of his chest. "Can I return the favor?"

Cellbit's eyes widen, flickering down to Roier's lips. "You can..."

(Since when were his feelings reciprocated?)

(Since when was this possible?)

The latter hums, smiling. "Perfect."

He tilts Cellbit's face up, and they both let their eyes close, closing the gap between them.

The kiss is soft, almost tentative, but there's no trace of franticness to be found anymore. No panic, no fear, no worry.

Euphoria floods their veins, and the chaos is forgotten.

(...who was Cellbit to question this?)

There's a lot to figure out. But they'll do it. They'll make it work like they have thus far.

Together.

#i just kinda ran with this she's a bit of a mess #leave it to spiderbit to kiss mere moments after being able to actually communicate with each other #they totally would argue with the wall #idk what this is but i'm kinda proud of it #mermaid spiderbit my beloved i want to revisit this soon #whether it's this exact au or not #qsmp cellbit #qsmp roier #spiderbit #qsmp #blue writes qsmp #atthebell's spiderbit week #spiderbit mer au

[horridgoblin]

In Need of Comfort (Part 2 - Finale)

For part 1, click here. Tags: Fluff, hurt/comfort, romance, SFW (lightly suggestive dialogue MDNI), Christmas AU set in Waterdeep, gender neutral Tav x Gale. Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, sensory overload, and sadness around the holidays due to loss of loved ones. Note: I've come to the conclusion that this fic no longer needs to be in three parts - so ignore the previous post saying that it would be posted that way. Thank you for reading and enjoy!

The way back home to Gale’s tower was a precarious one, with extreme snowfall sending a great chill down to your bones as the hire coach rocked along the cobblestone streets. Once you arrived and the door home swiftly opened and thudded shut, you let out a relieved sigh. Although the warmth was welcome, the snow on your winter coats were melting, plastering the now damp fabric to your limbs. 

“I think some dry clothes are in order, and soon,” said Gale, taking off his purple coat.

“Indeed. It’s a shame I’ll be getting out of this pretty outfit I wore for this occasion, but pyjamas sound heavenly right now.”

“You look delightful regardless of what you wear. Though that doesn’t mean I don’t share your disappointment, it looked exquisite on you, my love.” As you giggled, feeling bashful at his compliment, he went to hold your hands. “How about you go and get changed, and I’ll start swiftly on preparations.”

“Aw, but we could help each other get out of these clothes,” you winked.

“As divine as that would be, I wish to surprise you with something,” he blushed. “Besides, I have a spell to get myself dry; I will change into my night clothes later. You can be my audience for that.” he kissed your forehead. “Now, off you go, and it is imperative that you don’t sneak a look until I call for you!”

With that, you ventured up the wooden spiral staircase to your bedroom. Ever since moving in with Gale, his bedroom became the both of yours, with your belongings adding your own essence to the room. The large four poster bed with purple gossamer curtains had the bed sheets mussed up from prior use. An unbelievable number of books on dark wood shelves now containing your own books alongside Gale’s. Expertly crafted oak chests at the end of the bed, with yours being a recent addition, spoke of home. It was the very picture of your relationship. 

And yet, despite the contentment at the sight, the sadness lurking in the back of your mind began to creep to the forefront as you peeled off your damp outfit. You pulled the pyjamas out of your ornate chest and tugged them on. The feel of loose pyjamas against your skin felt incredible, heat finally reaching your cold bones and aching muscles. Once your wet clothes were put away in the wicker laundry basket to deal with later, you sat on the edge of the plush bed. The melancholy became greater, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. No. A distraction is needed, and fast. You took one of Gale’s books on illusion magic and read while you awaited his call. The scent of the leather binding and yellowing pages reminded you of him, easing you slightly. You couldn’t resist the smile forming on your face as you saw the notes scrawled onto pieces of paper that were wedged in between the pages, detailing his own findings. One such note said, ‘I could use this to enhance the scent of flowers for my beloved Tav.’ There were a lot of similar notes. It was a much-needed temporary reprieve, sorrow reduced to a lingering lump in your throat.

“You can come back down now, my dear!” Gale shouted up the stairs.

Closing and putting aside the book, you rushed down the spiral staircase. Your eyes widened at the sight before you. The living room fireplace was lit with a roaring fire, bathing the room in a gentle orange glow; the crackles of the fire brought a sense of calm. Pillows on the sofa were artfully arranged alongside an array of fluffy wool blankets in a variety of colours and patterns. A teapot and accompanying cups were on the coffee table, herbal tea emitting an earthy but sweet scent. Best of all, the room was filled with the dancing lights of fireflies, Gale clearly having used his illusion magic for the occasion. He gazed upon you, revelling in your reaction with a grin as you stood there, mouth agape.

“Gale, this is amazing!” You ran towards him, colliding in an embrace. He was such a light in the darkness, and for it you were eternally grateful.

“I only ever want the best for you, my heart,” he hugged you tighter, “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

For a while, you embraced in silence, taking in your closeness. Nuzzling your face in his broad chest, you picked up his familiar scent of lavender and old books. Gale sighed at your actions, and you could feel his body release tension. Planting a kiss into your hair, he murmured, “I know today was hard for you, dearest.”

Pulling away slightly to look at him, you saw sincerity and adoration in his eyes. Did he know? “I hope I didn’t spoil the mood. You’ve been excited for weeks to show me The Market and all the festive displays.”

“It is certainly easier said than done, but hiding your despair to service me upsets me more than the ‘soiling of moods’,” he waved his hands in emphasis with a slight smile. “To clarify, I am not upset at you, simply at how you feel the need to do this to appease others. I cannot stand to have you suffer. Not ever.” You were caught in a stunned silence as he continued, his tone now serious, “Please, tell me when things get difficult? I am more than happy to accommodate you to enjoy these spectacular events with you.”

“I will, I’ll make sure of it.” You said, looking down at the dark wood floor.

“This does not only pertain to going places or celebrations with your dear old Gale, my heart. You can always unburden yourself with me, as I always say.”

He was right. You sighed. “Well, Gale,” you looked into his soft brown eyes, “I’m just so tired,” you squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “I know you said I didn’t ruin these festivities, but it certainly feels that way. My soul feels like lead, and I’m not sure what to do. I am just so tired of this crippling fear and despair I feel every day.” You could feel the lump in your throat return as you spoke, “So much death, and for what? I have lost so much, and in the end, I am here, and those I love are not when I wish they were. The holidays really highlight that.”

“I have read that others feel the same this time of year, if it is of any comfort. You are not alone in this, my dearest. I won’t speak of my own experiences just now, but please know that I understand your grief.” Gale pulled you back into a hug, giving you a squeeze. “You were so brave in telling me this. Thank you.” 

As tears rolled down your cheeks, you looked up at him. He kissed you softly and wiped away your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I really wish I told you this sooner, I don’t know why I hide myself away so much.”

“This can be the first step. Being open about your feelings is never easy,” he paused. “Now. I wanted to ask you this earlier, but would you still like to make the mince pies with me?”

You contemplated his words for a moment then said, “Can I put the filling in and decorate them?”

“You most certainly can! Now make yourself comfortable while I get to baking, I will let you know when they are ready for your touch of magic,” he smiled.

After getting yourself comfortable under the blankets and drinking the herbal tea, you and Gale enjoyed your evening together baking. There was quite the struggle in finding where the assortment of cookie cutters were to decorate the tops of the pies. In the end you resorted to hand crafting the designs. Some you humorously made into the likenesses of your friends.

“Astarion would not be amused if he saw this,” Gale giggled observing the pie, the design of questionable quality, even with your honest attempt. “Although can he complain? He cannot see his reflection, being a vampire.”

“I don’t think he could stay mad for long, these taste fantastic! You have truly outdone yourself this time, Gale.”

“What can I say, wizards have the repertoire of having a myriad of skills, and this one happens to enjoy baking.” He said with a grin, putting away the excess pies to gift your friends later.

Stomachs filled with delicious mince pies; the crackling of the fireplace lulled you both to sleep as you cuddled up together on the sofa, entangled in the many soft blankets and cushions.

#bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale fanfic #gale x tav #gale x reader #In Need of Comfort #gob's fanfiction

[kedsandtubesocks]

In The Dead of Night

pairing: Creature!Cowboy Din Djarin x F!Reader

prompts: “I will keep hurting, I will keep killing, anything to protect you” + “it’s just a little blood”

wc: ~8k

tags & warnings: 18 + only MDNI, supernatural western AU, monster loving, biting with aphrodisiac like effects, wound licking and blood consumption, magic healing, allusion to fem!oral receiving, gore and violence, possessive + protective!Din, loosely established relationship getting firmly established (if I missed anything please let me know)

a/n: written for the haunted hoedown, I want to thank @inklore & @psychedelic-ink for taking the time to create and host such a boo-tiful event! I saw ‘haunted hoedown’ and of course my mind went straight to spooky cowboys lol my deepest thanks and love go to @skeletoncowboys & @perotovar for being the best root tootin’ cowpokes ever, thanks for reading!

Legends whispered of demons living up in the mountains. Untouched by the sprawl of the town, the myths of creatures lurking in the shadows seemed born simply as ghost stories to tell around crackling campfires. 

“Heard there’s a portal to hell up there,” one of the midwives had told you. “And the things that crawl out from the mountains are sent from the devil himself.”

Those legends though were forming into a tangible blistering darkness growing on the edge of the desert. The weight of it now circles the town like a vulture.

Shrill shrieks recently began howling in the night, haunting the town. Unlike the cries of coyotes or even a skittish wild boar, the bestial distorted screeches instead seize a primal fear within the heart of the town. The echoes linger in the wind and simmer a slight unrest.

Then a few shops, along with the bank, began to get ransacked late in the night.

And recently, as of two nights ago, one of the innkeepers heading home for the evening went missing. 

As you sit in the cantina, the bustling discussion brewing in the bar of course focuses only on the creatures rumored to be living in the hills.  

The cantina owner, a gruff older gentleman, tells you he even saw one once. 

“It flew fast overhead. Had wings that reminded me of a bat, but I couldn’t see shit ‘cause of how dark it was. But I know what I saw.”

“All these stories are all just talk! Mindless ghost stories!” Mayor Karga laughs. “There’s nothing out past those points except unforgivable terrain and some terrifying rattlesnakes. Nothing supernatural.”

The wilderness held many forms of life. From the wild creatures to the shadows within the mesquite trees, the secrets held among the desert’s stretching landscape are endless. 

“I don’t know mayor,” the bartender sighs. “We all hear that sound, and whatever makes it…it ain’t human.”

“It’s probably just an injured mountain lion.” Karga argues and you hope it brings some comfort in his rationality. 

“There’s no way a mountain lion did the damage we saw in the shops.” Another patron rebuttals hard and unconvinced at Karga’s logic. 

The grumbles and paranoid brewing among the bar refuse to settle. 

“Look,” Karga sighs. “I’ll have my best man go up there and take a look around. I’m sure he’ll be able to find the source of whatever’s been making this ruckus.”

Karga moves to the corner of the saloon. He then happily claps the shoulders of a man sitting among the shadows of the bar. 

The quiet bounty hunter.

You hadn’t realized his presence and at the sight of him your heart jumps rapidly as if a jackrabbit made a home in it.

The bounty hunter had arrived many months ago. 

The black bandana he wore constantly covered his face. He now almost looked like a shadowy creature from the hills. The cowboy is just as dangerous as whatever lurked among the mountain range and is just as quiet.

In the dimly lit cantina, the bandana, along with his hat, casts an even thicker shadow over his face almost obscuring his eyes.

He simply nods at Karga. 

Fear immediately claws at you, sinking its talons into your soul. You stiffen in your seat at the bar.

“See! It’s settled then!” Karga announces warmly and it does calm the tense room down. 

“Poor bastard,” the saloon owner says under his breath. 

You find no words, only an aching panic quickly gnawing at your ribs. Your body rises up on your own. You settle your tab, grab your shawl and quietly make your way to head back to your cabin. 

But before leaving, you can’t help but turn to curiously stare at the bounty hunter. For being such an intimidating force of a man, he sits unassertive against the shadow of the wall. He’s barely touched his drink and doesn’t move to talk to anyone else.

Even after agreeing to investigate, to make his way to the treacherous mountains, one seems to pay him any attention. 

Then his face turns up to you.

Under the shadow of his hat, deep eyes pulled straight from the blessed soil stare at you with an unwavering attention.

A tension settles over your skin. 

Someone calls out your name, breaking your trance. 

“You’re not walking back alone, are ya?” The saloon’s owner asks with genuine worry. Even a somber silence casts its shadow over his older face.

“I’ll be fine.” You reassure him with a soft nod. 

You can’t help but find your gaze flickering back to the cowboy.

He stares at you now with wide eyes.

Before him or any else can act, Mayor Karga slides into a chair opposite the bounty hunter immediately drawing his attention. Your attention now moves down to the satchel slung across the cowboy.

The dusty cream colored bag suddenly wiggles. Out from its pocket a tiny clawed hand faintly pops out.

Before any more terror dizzying worry can poison your mind you spin on your heels and head out of the saloon. You feel eyes clawing at the back of your head your entire walk back to the cabin. 

You expect the sound of cowboy boots to follow you out. Except only the still silence of the night greets you. 

Thankfully no mysterious shriek comes among the evening air, just the crunch of your boots on the gravel. 

As you turn in for the night you give one last glance out the window. There at the edge of the town, where civilization bleeds dry into the wilderness, the large mountain ranges loom with their ever watchful gaze.

If something else lurks within them…

You shove the thought aside as you take a seat on the chair in the dining room. Angrily yanking your quilt up, you close your eyes. 

Then, soft gentle claws scratch at your face.

Your eyes flutter open fast. 

Crawling up your body and staring with the widest marble like eyes, a green strange eared creature chirps the sweetest noise. 

“Hello there,” you coo back.

The baby yawns and it crinkles up his adorable wrinkled face. Moving to rest flat against you, he sighs sleepily, comforted. His presence melts you.

Out of instinct you draw him close. Settling your hands against his tiny body, you wrap him under the quilt.

“Kid, thought I told you not to go and wake her-”

“It’s fine.” You sharply cut off the deep voice calling out in the cabin. 

A sigh comes. When you glance over to the open dining room area, the cowboy already begins to disarm himself, laying his various weapons into the chest that sits snuggled in the corner by the wooden extended table he built for you. 

“You shouldn’t have walked back here alone.” He mutters with a hardened edge.

“You were busy.” You briskly reply, rubbing your hand on the baby’s back. 

“Could’ve waited.”

“Didn’t want to.” You fire back just as hard and frustrated. 

He knew you couldn’t. No one in the town knows about you and them. For their safety, and yours, this existence remains a tight barbed wired secret. 

Your eyes are drawn to the cowboy’s beautiful sturdy back and you glare fierce daggers into it.

“I can feel you staring.” He mutters.

“Good.” You mutter back low, hard. 

A heavier sigh trickles into the cabin and the bounty hunter turns to face you. Removing his hat and drawing his bandana down, you are greeted by the most beautiful man this wilderness could ever bless you with. He stares at you with those same eyes that silently spoke to you at the cantina.

“I know you’re upset…”

That is an understatement.

“Din…” you sigh now as an ache wide as a canyon rips across your chest. “You can’t go. You don’t even know what else is out there.”

“That’s why I have to go. I have to see and make sure.” Your cowboy replies back with patience woven in his voice.

You’re more upset than he is and you angrily blink back tears over that truth. 

The wilderness is an unforgiving vastness, capable of swallowing up anything it chooses. 

The thought of that scares you more than any mysterious noise or being slinking around your town.

Suddenly a warm calloused hand trails up your cheek. Even after all this time the action sparks a warm current up your spine. When you blink out of your thoughts Din stares down at you with a molten ink gaze begging for you to fall into him, to trust him.

He is considered just as mysterious and dangerous as the wilderness from which he emerged. Just in the same manner that the desert is a cautious beauty, so is Din.

A nose as sharp and defined as a canyon’s peak, cloud soft plush lips, a scruffy beard and mustache that tickle your face, he seems crafted from a dream. 

Din’s thumb runs over your cheek.

Staring up at him, you soak in the sight of this myth of a man. Din sighs and leans down to rest his forehead against yours. 

“You know I'm the only one who can go…”

You know he’s right and it’s why you are terrified.

Closing your eyes you lean into his hand.

“Just come back.” You whisper already hearing tears leak into your voice.

“Always do.” Din’s thick reply doesn’t help your aching heart.

As if on cue Grogu yawns, so heartwarming and sweet as he wiggles to get more comfortable in your arms. You and Din glance at the baby sleeping so peacefully against you. 

“We should follow this little tadpole’s lead and get some rest too,” you mutter. 

Din mutters a hum of an agreement. The three of you move to settle into the bedroom and sink into the warm quilts.

You don’t realize how exhausted you are until your eyes wearily flutter open as strong arms wrap around you from behind.

Din’s all encompassing warmth becomes a beautiful dream lulling you to sleep against his solid frame. His scent, the faintest hint of gunpowder mixing with the rosemary soap you gifted him, settles a peace within you. 

The faintest pressure of his lips kisses your head, a soft good night.

In the morning, you realize it was also a goodbye.

Because when you wake up, your bed greets you cold, and Din is nowhere to be found.

The day passes by in a slow pace that sticks to your bones in a brewing terror. You try to hold grace and a steady strength, to be an unbothered mesquite against the wind.

Especially when you have a sweet little creature to watch over.

You stay at the cabin with Grogu and see the opportunity to work on the various chores you have neglected. You do some weeding, check on the fence, and watch Grogu happily chase after butterflies that flutter around your garden. It all manages to settle the brewing storm trapped in your chest, if only for a moment. 

Thinking of Din facing whatever terrors haunt the town rapidly consumes you as your mind conjures up the worst scenarios. Din might be a force of a man possibly formed of smoke and shadow, still out of your grasp. Yet you want to keep him close and safe. 

Little claws tugging at your leg suddenly snap you out of your thoughts.

Blinking down in surprise, Grogu glanced up at you with worried eyes. His head tilts in confusion. You effortlessly scoop him up into your arms.

“I’m sorry little tadpole,” you poke his nose and earn a shimmering giggle from the baby. “Just got lost in thought. Let’s head in for dinner, yeah?”

His excited squeak brightens your cloudy worry like a sunlight ray.

With the baby happily fed, his eyes fighting to stay awake. So you tuck him into your bed and return to cleaning up for the night.

As you close up the cabinets, wings fluttering dangerously around the cabin dance through the night air and you freeze. 

Something solid collides with a hard thud onto the ground outside. A distorted croak of a noise follows.

The noise sounds close, right outside your door and you hastily move to head outside. 

The lights from inside of your cabin along with the lantern on the front porch illuminate the midnight sky. Against the darkness, a looming silhouette slowly drags itself closer towards the cabin. It stops and curls over with hunched shoulders. The shape reminds you of a cornered animal hiding within itself from the light. 

Then a distorted creak of your name whispers out soft as if it could be snagged on the desert’s foliage.

You sob Din’s name out into the midnight wilderness. 

You rush out to him, relieved. Panic however rushes in like a broken damn when you reach him.

His body pitches forward and in a scramble you manage to steady him.

In this form he towers over you with an intimidating height. Yet this mythical monster, this tender creature, allows you to steady him into the cabin as best as you can.

After managing to sit him on the floor beside the table, the sigh of him now has you paralyzed in terror.

A gash runs against the top of Din’s head with blood trickling softly down his face. Rips and scratches can be seen on his wings even with them folded against his back. Various wounds run across his chest and his claws have blood already drying on them.

Rushing to the cabinets, you grab as many supplies as you can and spill them onto the table. You reach for the salve first to treat the wound on his head. 

“What happened?!” Your hands shake as you scoop out the healing salve. 

“I’m….fine.” In this form his voice creaks and sounds distorted, as if it holds the weight of all the secrets in the mountains. However, his breaths come out labored, thick, gurgled and fear pulses with a deadly toxin through your body.

His pitch black eyes wearily glaze over as he stares at you.

You have never seen him this injured and seriously wounded.

Fighting the tears becomes harder as you rub the medicine onto the gash against his head. You need to tend to his chest wounds next but it’s hard to focus with questions and dread filling your body.

A worried little noise shatters your anxious thoughts. You rapidly turn around. Grogu, wide away, waddles towards you and Din with worried wide wet eyes. 

“Little love,” you say tenderly cautious. “It’s alright I’m helping your papa-“

“Wait…let the kid come.” Din interjects. 

Grogu scurries closer until you simply pick him up and bring him to his father.

Din then begins speaking in clicks and chitters, gurgle-like noises only him and Grogu seem to understand. You feel out of place yet completely absorbed watching Grogu so endearingly try to grab at his father.

“Let me take the kid.” Din coughs out.

“Din.” You cautiously press.

“It’ll be alright.” He reassures with a dangerous wheeze that does not reassure your rapidly terrorized heart. But you hand him Grogu who stares at Din with glistening teary eyes.

You keep yourself busy by moving to place wraps and more salve onto Din’s wings.

Father and son exchange more click like chirps. You move to tend to his chest wounds. Then the scratches softly melt away, like magic.

You gasp and almost drop everything in your hands.

“S’all right honey.” Din calls to you low and eased. Your eyes whip up to him. Grogu’s hands are against Din’s chest and his eyes are so adorably focused. The realization settles in quickly. Your little tadpole is doing this.

The baby has healing abilities, like a legend out of a children’s bedtime story. Then again, to the town and to many others, these two creatures in your cabin would be mistaken as demons who crawled out of a nightmare. But to you they are precious, your most dearest boys. 

“You two can heal?” You mutter out still stunned.

“In a way, yes.” Din replies still hoarse.

The chest wounds are all the baby can heal before his eyes flutter hazy and exhaustion takes over. Both you and Din rapidly move to steady his little body as he falls asleep from exhaustion.

“Let me take him.” 

Din allows you to tuck the baby back into the quilts of your bed.

Your name floats out from Din a hoarse whisper. Hot tears bubble in your eyes as you return to your creature’s side. 

“What happened?” You ask again this time hoping for an answer.

Din gives it to you. 

He discovered what has been terrorizing the town.

“A group of bandits.” Din explains wearily. “They ambushed me but managed to get a few of them.”

If they were bandits, then what creatures were making those sounds at night? 

The truth, you realize, sits right here on your wooden cabin floors.

“The bandits are like you.” You mutter out.

Din nods solemn, serious and your heart plummets straight into your stomach. 

“What are they doing here?” You whisper low as if someone miles away could catch this conversation.

“Migrated here. Their kind jump from town to town, taking all they can and then leave.”

Your mind thinks of a plague of locus, deadly and all consuming. 

“And the innkeeper?” You wearily ask.

Din shakes his head, a somber answer that needs no further explanation. Your throat closes tight.

These creatures, these bandits, would not stop or be satisfied until they get their fill.

Suddenly a soft face nuzzles into the hollow of your neck. A rumbling vibration runs up your skin and through your entire body. He’s purring. You’ve heard this sound before but this, this feels like his attempt to soothe you.

You gently wrap your arms around his large monstrous form as much as you can. Din burrows his face more against your neck as if he hopes to dig past your skin.

“Din careful, you’re injured.” The words leave you a scared, worried sob.

“I know just..need to be close to you.” His purring becomes louder, a stronger attempt to comfort you. 

“I’ll keep you and the kid safe.” Din mutters in his gravel filled voice.

One of his clawed hands curls against you gently to draw you closer.

“No one will hurt you.” He vows and it rings with a conviction unwavering and hauntingly somber.

“But you got hurt.” You cough through tears thinking of his blood drying on your hand. 

“Doesn’t matter. I will keep hurting, I will keep killing. Anything to protect you.”

His voice in this form seeps with danger, a venomous animalistic tone that should be a warning. But hearing those words, realizing the blood you wiped from his claws was not his…

A wave of slick dizzying heat licks up your body down to your core. 

He is your protector, your shadowy creature consecrated from legends. And you love him. 

Din inhales against your skin as if he smells this shift in your body. Maybe he possibly has because your cowboy begins to kiss your neck tenderly. 

Fangs, dangerous sharpened fangs, lie behind those lips. Yet he kisses with a gentleness trying to cover every inch of skin you will give him.

“Din, you’re injured.” you remind him again and your bounty hunter exhales shakily.

“There’s...a way you can help heal me.” His voice now shrinks back, soft and hesitant. 

“Wait.” Your thoughts clarify with a rapid sharpness. “There is?”

You would give him anything to save him, to help him.

Din draws his head up from the warmth of your neck and you find an ache missing his presence.

In any form, human or not, your cowboy is a beautiful sight. His completely consumed coal eyes avert from your watch. A bashful earnestly flickers over his ghastly features and an ache rises in you to soothe him.

Leaning forward you kiss his rough cheek with all the affection you can.

“Whatever you need,” you reassure your monster. “I’m yours Din.” 

His body moves rapidly. His large form curls against you,  a towering shadow. Din dives his face back to your neck as he starts to burrow his nose against your skin.

Suddenly his tongue draws out and begins to lick at you. It’s long, and you remember how snakelike it was when you first saw it. Your eyes close as you wonder if this is his attempt at soothing you once more.

Then he bites into the base of your neck and your eyes snap open wide.

Instinctively, like an animal caught in a trap, your body lurches forward. Pain sharply runs up your neck and warm liquid trickles onto your skin. 

Then, Din begins to suck.

He starts to suck and drink from your blood.

Your heart hammers a thunderous drumming in your ears. You have never done this with him. You’ve been intimate with your cowboy before and never shy away from his more createrous form. 

But… the secret cavern of your hearts, not even wanting to face this truth yourself, a part of you wondered with a dangerous temptation what it would be like to be intimate with Din in this form. 

Your mind tries to steady itself on this new frontier you are about to explore. Suddenly a sharp wave of arousal washes over you so fast your eyes roll back. 

Your body goes slack in Din’s large arms while a blissful moan escapes you. 

“Shh…” Din mutters a low gurgle against your skin. “Not too loud.”

You can’t wake the babe asleep in the other room and this is the last solid thought you hold onto. 

Because your mind quickly melts as if a desert mirage has blurred your reality. A heated fever burns across your skin. So much slick pools between your legs that you feel it dripping. Now your body thrashes with the pleasure of wanting to get closer to Din as much as you can. You press your lips tight to stay silent. 

Din’s sharp fangs nip at your skin. He rapidly alternates between drinking your blood and licking at the wound.

Your mouth waters in a way you didn’t think pleasure could draw this reaction out of you. Soaked in this lust, you feel intoxicated and you don’t seem to be the only one.

Din rapidly laps at your blood and hums an animalistic noise that rages through your entire body.

“Taste so good.” Your cowboy slurs barely focused himself. “Knew you’d taste s’good.”

Pleasure builders faster and faster now. Your legs twitch trying to relieve the aching arousal but you don’t want this to stop. It’s delicious, pure pleasure, one that melts the skin off your bones and transcends you into a sacredness you can’t describe. Because this tastes sacred in both a delicious and dangerous way. 

“Din.” You quietly moan his name out and he clutches onto you harder as you feel his own body beginning to grin against you.

Din sucks harder, fervently, and doubles the dizzying heat surging through you. 

You’re getting close. The way your mind teeters between consciousness and bliss it feels like you are tiptoeing on the edge of a cavern’s abyss and will fall in at any moment.

Suddenly Din pulls away from your neck. The cold air prickles against your skin and a chill crawls up your body.

“Wha-” you slur your question. But before you can ask, the sight of Din steals your breath and thoughts. 

His shoulders heave heavy and rise with rapid breathing. His obsidian eyes gleam wild and raw, almost possessive as he stares down at your body. His fangs, his beautifully monstrous maw is soaked with blood, your blood. 

Before you can process this sight, your bounty hunter acts with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. His claws tear apart your night gown undergarments with a sounding rip.

You feel a surprise squeak die in the back of your throat.

This creature of a cowboy flings himself down between your legs with a feral franticness, a being possessed. 

Then that long tongue of his takes a smooth swipe up your soaked folds. Your body shakes, falling into the abyss. Your eyes roll back as numbing black out pleasure swallows you whole.

The shop thankfully has been quiet all day. The shop owner, Annalise, and her husband left for the nearby town to visit family. So they told you. But you knew it was fear, the same fear driving out more and more of the town.  

An eerie emptiness has settled among the shops as if ghosts themselves have moved into their vacancy. The town slowly rots away into a bone like shell of itself. Even the dread has begun leaking into you.

As you currently repair a skirt, the gentle silence that once comforted you itches your skin with an edge of unease .

The day is almost over. That comfort alone keeps you sturdy among the waves of worry. 

A small thud of something falling comes. Then a little giggle follows.

Amusement tugs at your lips. Setting your work down you go investigate the scene of the crime.

There off to the side, Grogu sits happily tangled up in various colors of yarn. He must have pulled them down trying to climb up on the shelves here behind the counter. 

Grogu with his angelic black eyes blinks up at you with red yarn hanging off his strange ears. He giggles again so playfully as he beams up at you. The baby begins babbling, holding up more of the yarn to show you his handiwork. 

“Yes I see you.” You tease back.

Kneeling down to sit on the floor with him, you start gently untangling this adorable mess. 

“You’re always just going to be my little trouble maker, aren’t you?” You fondly say mainly to yourself. Yet Grogu chirps a noise sounding like an agreement.

He came into your life this exact same way.

With a sneaky entrance and a giggle, you had first found this strange little creature in your garden. From that moment seeing his wide midnight eyes blink up at you with herbs in his mouth, your life has never been the same. But it has been blown into a beautiful new direction with such ease you never want to change. 

“Definitely grateful Annalise isn’t here now.” You tell Grogu as he wiggles his arms watching your move and shift the yarn. “She wouldn’t appreciate you messing with her very meticulous and organized yarn arrangement.”

Of course she wouldn’t have appreciated seeing this strange sweet babe of a creature. It’s why whoever kept the baby had him hidden in bags or under cloaks.

Having him here with you at the tailor shop, sitting so freely on the floor, you understand walks a fine dangerous line, even with the vacant town. 

But you wanted to keep your sweet little tadpole close to you more than ever.  

“I’m also grateful your papa is getting some rest.” A distant wistful tone floats into your voice. 

“Mweh.” Grogu replies back in his strange bell-like voice.

Since he arrived home from the bandits ambush three days ago, Din has slept under the blankets of your bed. 

His continuous slumber reminds you vaguely of bears that rest in their caves during the winter. You wonder if the same goes for Din. After such a difficult fight, sleep and rest provide an ultimate form of healing. 

When you first peeked under the blankets to check on Din, you found him resting peacefully and fully human. Now with a soft kiss goodbye to your cowboy every morning, you let him sleep and heal.

Grogu, as mischievous as he is, still is his father’s son. He begins helping you with the yarn by carrying as much as he can in his little arms. You warmly thank him and Grogu beams proudly as he continues wiggling out of the tangles.

The door to the shop creaks open.

Sundown approaches fast. Who could be coming in at this late in the day?

“Stay here and don’t move.” You softly tell Grogu with a pat to his head. You rise to greet the customers.

Instead you discover newcomers, strangers you do not know, and it’s a group of them. 

Their leader, a man with sharp eyes saunters towards your counter.  A deadly shift circulates in the air the way it does when a viper is spotted slithering across the sands.

“Why ‘ello there lovely.” The stranger coos with a disgusting seductive undertone that has you frowning.

Bandits, these have to be the bandits Din spoke of.

“Can I help you?” You ask sharp.

The leader’s lips twitch playful.

“Name’s Vane,” he introduces himself. “Didn’t think I’d find someone as lovely as you here.”

You stay quiet, staring hard. 

“You know, it’s polite manners to introduce yourself.” The bandit named Vane offers coyly almost teasingly. His comrades snicker and you again stay silent.

You’ve seen your share of bandits that have rode into town. But these men infesting your tailor shop are not like the others. That thought alone infects you with a petrifying venom.

“What do you want? There’s nothing here you all could possibly need.” You argue steady and calm..

“See, that’s where ya wrong lovely.” Vane purrs with a gleam in his eyes. He takes deep sniffs once and twice. 

His face melts into a deeper pleased smile. 

“There’s something very important here.”

Something inside of you screams to scoop the baby into your arms and flee. Din gifted you a beautiful dagger months ago. You know it’s not much but threatening a weapon might be your next option.

“Aw,” one of the bandits frowns at you. “What’s the sad face for, pretty?”

“I need you all to leave.” Gathering all your strength you try standing your ground even. 

They laugh wild cackles that put the crows to shame and your stomach twists sick with a tangible dread. 

“Fellas, why don’t you do as the lady says and leave.”

Mayor Karga’s voice floats into the shop, a sturdy safeline. The bandits all turn in surprise at the new intruder who stares at them hard and determined.

“Ah, Mayor Karga! Good to see ya!” The bandit named Vane greets him.

“Why don’t we have our reunion somewhere else.” Karga urges firm.

Then his eyes turn to you with golden reassurance and he nods.

“Why don’t you head on home for the night?”

All you can do is nod back. Falling to the floor, you scramble and gather Grogu into your satchel. Of course the baby, just like his father, thankfully stays close to you.

“It’s alright,” you softly comfort him as you kiss the top of his fuzzy sweet head. “We’ll be home soon.”

You rise up and find the bandits have disappeared. So caught up in your panic and trying to reassure Grogu you didn't even hear or notice their exit. 

For some reason, their absence terrifies you more. 

When you step outside the town is bathed in dusk’s glow. Someone calls out your name.

There a few steps away Mayor Karga grins at you.

“I apologize for that encounter earlier. Might I escort you home? I’d like to make sure you make it back safe.”

You’re grateful for your town’s mayor. A steadfast calm and sturdy soul whose company you gladly accept.

“Where did the bandits go?” You cautiously ask.

“How did you know they were bandits?” Karga now curiously asks you.

“A good guess,” you sleepily reply back. “Haven’t seen them around town before.”

Thankfully the answer appeases Karga enough as he sighs.

“I know the town believes it’s some type of… monster living in the mountains that’s been disrupting the town. But I have no doubt it’s really those bandits.”

A heaviness shit in your chest as you wish you could agree that both possibilities are true. 

“Now ain’t that just rude? Accusing us of somethin’ you have no proof of.”

Vane’s shrill voice slices through the ghost town and it steals the air from your lungs.

When you and Karga turn around the bandit already holds his pistol drawn with a coy eased expression.

“Just at least let the shop keeper go. This is between us.” Karga snaps fiercely as his hand rests now on his own gun.

“Actually, that pretty ‘lil thing is more interesting than you Mister Mayor.” Vane’s smile oozes with disgusting glee.

Boots crunch on the path in front of you and when you whip back forward, more bandits have arrived circling you and the Mayor like a pack of coyotes ready to strike.

“I’ll draw their fire, you run. Run as fast as you can.” Karga whispers low panicked. 

The loud bang of a shot pierces the early evening.

You almost jump out of your skin hearing the gun go off. But one of the bandits drops flat onto the gravel path. 

An unearthly hollowness snaps the air tight. Everyone, including yourself, rapidly tries to find the new gunslinger.

Another gunshot comes. 

Another bandit collapses dead.

“Come out ‘ere!” One of the bandits roars. “Show yourself ya fucking coward!”

Materializing from the shadows himself, Din simply struts out from between the cover of two buildings. His rifle is drawn.

He’s here. Your cowboy, your bounty hunter, is awake and he’s here.

Din has never looked as striking and beautiful as he does now. A force of pure steeled power and precision he stands broad, intimidating. His black bandana hides his face. But from under the cover of his hat his eyes glare blazing furious fires. 

“Your fight is with me.” Din snarls to Vane, fierce yet deadly composed.

“You damn BASTARD!” Vane barks back. 

The gun fight erupts in a blink and flurry of bullets. A terrified scream escapes you before you can even stop it. But with chaos and terror swirling all around, you summon all the courage you have left.

You draw the satchel housing Grogu close to your chest and you run for cover.

Bullets fly in screeching fury and your heart rages fast within its cage in your chest. You want to help Din. But you need to protect the baby.

A voice sounding so close to Din’s screams, urges, inside of you to run. 

So you flee as fast as you can from the town. You imagine wings sprout from your feet and carry you to your safe harbor in the wilderness. The bullets firing grows distant. Your cabin begins peeking over the horizon against the watercolor sunset bleeding into the early night sky.

Safety beckons you. It is right there just at your grasp.

A monsterous screech suddenly shatters the peace around your cabin.

The flapping of wings, furious and loud swoop in the wind and, out of instinct, you lean down away from the sky and cover Grogu. 

Then it happens in a fast collapse. 

Something sharp slices across your shoulder. Pain shoots through your body fast and unforgiving. You scream, faltering in your steps. Grogu cries out in a concerned sob but you hold him tighter refusing to let whatever took a swipe at you get the baby. 

A loud thud lands. When you glance up, a creature rises before you. 

His appearance vaguely reminded you of Din. Except this creature with a sharp beak and covered in scales is thinner in size compared to your cowboy. 

“Thought you could hide from me, did ya?” The distorted voice of Vane seethes at you.

His shoulders and wings hunch in a terrifying tension suggesting he can strike at any moment. However, crimson drips down his side and colors the dirt path. He’s injured. 

“But it’s hard to hide when y’er damn bastard mate’s smell is all over ya!” Vane hisses through gritted jagged rotting teeth.

Grogu wiggles in your arms almost in a determined fidget. But you stay frozen before the bandit, a jackrabbit staring down its hunter.  

In this life, in this harsh wilderness you exist within, you have faced danger in their various forms. You think of the first time you encountered Din this way. When you first saw him, a creature from the dark shadows, it reminded you of how small and human you are.

Except now, you wonder if this is pure terror you face.

“M’gonna rippin’ you and that babe apart.” Vane grins with a rotting smile. 

Like a released spring, the bandit flings himself towards you.

A blur of a force collides fast into Vane before the bandit can even reach you.

In his creature state Din slams Vane violently down into the dirt. He howls at the bandit, his fanged jaws open wide in a frightening threat. 

This fight, just like the shoot out that broke out, erupts in a blink. 

However, unlike the gunfight, your eyes fall under a spell and cannot look away.

The sight of these two creatures doesn’t seem possible. Yet, the snarling slash of teeth, the rapid movements, it all seems more real and raw more than anything you have ever seen. 

Larger and healthier in his form, Din wrestles Vane down with a smooth ease. Sharpened claws swipe at the other with the intent to kill. The two brawl hard picking up dust and dirt in the evening sky.

Suddenly, Din shifts. In that moment he grasps Vane in his arms and towers over the bandit. Then Din digs his talons into Vane. With the same effort you have seen Din take when he peels oranges, he rips off one of Vane’s wings. 

The action is visceral, unholy and Vane screams in absolute agony rattling your bones.

But you have never been more mesmerized by your cowboy. 

Like a hawk that’s captured its prey, Din gathers Vane, along with the ripped appendage, into his grasp and takes flight.

Vane’s screeches, gurgled and violent. Din roars back a bellow you think shakes the mountains to their base.

The monstrous sounds echo into the air. Yet they grow further and further away. You even try to follow Din’s flight in the air. But, the shade of the sunset has faded from its tangerine warmth into a fully stretched out faint blue bleeding into midnight. The edges of the deep dark sky swallows any sign of Din. 

Then silence falls.

Staring at the mountains against the sky’s tapestry you hope to catch even a glimpse of Din or of any movement. 

Grogu cries a worried chirp in your arms and it breaks your gaze.

You need to get him inside, see if he has any injuries. 

With the door open to listen for Din, to hope and pray he comes back, you take Grogu out of the satchel and begin checking him over. Babbling in his own clicks and chirps, Grogu fidgets with a worried frown on his sweet wrinkly face. His little clawed hand reaches out to you with a stubborn stretch. 

“Hold still, little tadpole.” You breathlessly plead with him. A heaviness slowly creeps into your legs as if anchors have been tied around them.

The rush of boots run across your patio. When you whip your attention to the open doorway, Din rapidly is hurrying inside.

In his human state, his clothes are torn from the fight and blood already dries all over him.

Those wonderful eyes of his stare wide and petrified. 

In fast steps Din rushes to your side.

“Are you alright?!” You croak out trying to breathe through the dizzying relief of seeing your bounty hunter home and alive. 

“Your shoulder!” Din snaps. “You should be resting!”

In the whirlwind of adrenaline and panic you had forgotten about your shoulder. At his comment, you fully become aware of the stinging wound and the blood soaking your blouse to your body.

“It’s just a little blood and doesn’t feel deep. I’m alright.” You mutter reassuring Din who already begins inspecting your shoulder.

Exhaustion and the rush of this day, of this week, however causes your legs to buckle. Hastily Din’s sturdy hands catch you while you want to hiss at your body for betraying you. 

“What did I say? You need to rest.” He growls.

You can’t fight him anymore, not when he guides you with tender sturdy hands to rest. 

Your mind begins to feel thick and heavy, like you are trekking through a mud pit. You float in and out of your thoughts. 

“I apologize for this.” Din’s sudden voice comes softly beside you and then a rip follows.

He tore your blouse to reach the wound. 

A soft pad of a fabric begins to clean your wound and you hiss at the jolt of pain.

“I know,” Din soothes. “It’ll be over soon.”

All you can do is nod.

You can’t make sense of how much time has passed or how long you’ve even been sitting on the chair. It feels as if years have been crammed into this short day, as if lifetimes have been stitched into this past week.

Out of your haze, you think of the baby and ask where he is. 

“Asleep. Took me a bit to get him to bed. Knew he was fighting me to stay up and make sure we were alright.”

Your lips twitch with deep love for that small creature you now hold in your heart as your own.

“He’s stubborn like his papa.” You mutter back with a hint of amusement.

Din however stays quiet. 

A heaviness as thick as a thunderstorm hangs in the hush of your cabin.

Focusing out of your hazy thoughts, you worry Din is injured and refusing to tell you. When you are about to ask, Din speaks first by calling out your name. 

“I am sorry… for putting you in danger.” A hoarse emotion has struck its barbs into your bounty hunter. 

“For frightening you.” Din continues, his voice growing distant and you worried might get caught on the fence outside the cabin. 

“And…for being a monster.” His voice cracks, shattering your heart within its wake.

You blink through tears to where Din sits beside you.

“The things I did, what you saw...” His eyes refuse to meet yours. 

Torment furrows his brows and an ancient ache hardens over his handsome features. For being someone who faced bloodshed and pain, who existed in a split life so feared by many, his heart is so tender and golden. 

“You could never frighten me.” You whisper tear soaked.

So you bare your heart before him.

He’s protected you, cared for you, showed you a tenderness you believed would never find you. 

You think of those who love the mountains, love the beauty and the terror carved into the peaks. You will love Din the same until the very last of your days.

You will love his pain, his claws and his golden heart. 

Even at hearing your heart being spilled before him, Din shakes his head adamantly stubborn.

“Do you remember when you came and checked on me before that big storm came?” You begin. 

Back then, you were convinced this hardened bounty hunter with his hard glare hated you. Yet he showed up with a blanket full of supplies. Even after much urging on your part, him and the baby stayed in your cabin to pass the storm. 

Din finally glances at you with his rich earth eyes and he nods.

“That was when I knew I wanted to be yours.” You earnestly tell him. 

Even knowing what he was, after seeing the core of who Din is, a gentle, protective and honorable man - you wanted so badly to be his. 

“Will you let yourself be mine? Can I love you the way you love me?” This love rips apart your voice, cracks you raw and open.

Din leans forward and kisses you. The smell of dust and his sweat overwhelm your senses. The kiss is hasty, more desperate than anything as his lips continue to seek yours. You already want to mold yourself to him. Yet as fast as he kissed you, Din draws back to simply lay his face against yours. He softly rubs his lovely nose to yours.

“I am yours. Will always be yours.” The thick whisper of his voice holds the depth and implications of a thousand lifetimes.

You press back against him wondering if the two you will simply mold into one.

But when you shift ever slightly a sharp stab of pain runs across your shoulder and you flinch in pain. Din of course doesn’t miss this. 

He cautiously says your name, but you reassure him again you’re fine.

“No.” He firmly cuts you off. “You’re not.”

You sigh knowing there is no hope in fighting your cowboy.

“I…there’s a way I can heal you.” He cautiously explains. 

You think of how you helped heal Din. Even through the pain and exhaustion of the day, a simmering curiosity bubbles within you.

You stare deeply into his earthen eyes. “I trust you.”

His eyes widen for a fracture of a moment before he nods ever so reverently at your words. With tender delicate hands he maneuvers your face to expose your sounder. It keeps your attention forward.

Din’s hair tickles your skin as does his soft heated breath. Suddenly his tongue licks a gentle swipe across the wound.

Every inch of you tightens as well as collapses all at once. You dare not move, and wonder if you are even breathing.

His tongue licks through the blood, across the scratch and you find no pain comes from the contact. He’s delicate, almost kitten-like. Slowly emerging like an early morning fog, a tranquil haze falls over you in a soothing like manner.

It’s beautiful, tender and blissfully intoxicating having him tend to you like this. You start wondering if maybe some part of you will arrive at a realization of horror. Yet you find no terror, or disgust within yourself. Only adoration and gratitude fill your body. Dreamily, your hand even begins to run through Din’s soft hair. His tongue swipes and swipes with reverent warmth lulling you.

All too soon suddenly Din kisses your shoulder, your bare fully healed shoulder.

That snaps you wide awake and you scramble turning towards Din. He sleepily stares at you with a peaceful gleam. A soft crimson faintly colors his plush lips and you understand it’s your blood. The image of him in his creature form flutters back to your mind. Your blood coated his mouth then too. 

No fear rose at the sight even then and it does not rise now. You instead move your hand to stroke his cheek.

Din’s eyes shut blissfully as he melts at your touch. 

“How…how is it possible?” You have to ask. 

“It only works with a select few.” Din explains quietly. “Just with those we love, who we see as our own.”

It’s why Grogu was able to heal him. And it made sense why the baby seemed so stubborn earlier about reaching out to you. It’s why you could heal Din. You even realize it’s why there is no wound from where he bit you days ago. 

Love heals - a beautiful remedy and truth old as the wilderness itself. That soft understanding greets you just as kind as the morning breeze.  

You lean forward to embrace Din. Quick as ever he draws you into his arms first. Safe and solid your cowboy’s warmth, you thank him.

You thank him for healing you and for so much more.

The legends of the mountains spoke of indescribable horrors that crawled among their caverns. However out of the wilderness, out from those shadows, Din was brought to you.

And for that, you will always be eternally grateful 

Your cabin was your own personal ghost town before you found a mysterious creature adorably rummaging around your garden. Now Din and his son fill every space of your life with love. Your days are warm, even in the shadows. Even with the terror and fear, you consecrate yourself to this life, burrow your roots into it. 

Yes, your cabin is now filled with monsters, creatures reminding you of the secrets that the wilderness shadows of the wilderness. They are indeed ghost stories brought to life. 

But they are yours. You will house their secrets, become the desert itself and make your heart a wild fortress for Din and the baby to find refuge, to find peace.

And you will lovingly welcome them home with your arms stretched open wide and vast as the mountain range. 

#this is maybe the most self indulgent piece I’ve written and I’m petrified of posting this but oh well time to be brave I guess lol 🤡 #cheers to the haunted hoedown! okay I’m posting this and fleeing lol #haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown #cowboy din djarin #din djarin x reader #cowboy take me away tag #ask to tag #Din 🩶

[storyofmychoices]

The Promise of Today

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage] [Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 AU]

Pairing: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC) Book: Blades of Light and Shadow, Book 2 Chapter 3 Word Count: >550 Rating/Warnings: General, none Tagging: @choicesficwriterscreations, @choicesbookclub, @choicesflashfics Prompt #3 (in bold)

Synopsis: Mal and Daenarya share a moment together the morning after her return. [This follows The Quest for Daenarya]

This gorgeous art is by the lovely CoffeesforChloe on Instagram.

She paused, letting the soothing symphony of sounds wash over her. The joyful notes of the children's laughter, the delicate crackle of the fire warming the space, and the voices of her friends talking (and maybe arguing a little) as they made breakfast for the children were the sweetest harmonies she could ever hope to hear. For the first time in—well, she wasn't really sure, but that was a problem for another day—for now, Daenarya felt peace, content to stay in the stillness of the moment for as long as she could, knowing moments like this would not come again for a while more.

The sweet scent of honey cakes filled the air, a special treat for the children who successfully completed their first quest. They had repeatedly recounted their heroic tale of adventure to her the night before. Their infectious cheer was positively contagious. Only Mal could inspire such joyous wonder and storytelling. She marveled at how much he had accomplished since she had been gone. These children were a testament to the man she always knew he was.

He slipped his arms around her waist from behind, drawing her nearer. The gentle touch of his fingertips brushing against her sides brought her an immediate sense of comfort. He cherished the warmth and familiarity of her presence as she leaned further into the security of his embrace.

Surrounded by the gentle melody of laughter and sizzling pans, Mal hugged her a little tighter, savoring the delicate fragrance of her hair. He still couldn't believe she was there, back in his arms. 

"Shouldn't you be lending a hand with breakfast?" Despite her teasing words, she placed her hand on his arm, holding him to her. 

“I’m here with you. I’m right where I belong.” His words were a tender murmur in her ear. 

Her eyes closed gently as she savored being back with him, surrounded by almost all those she loved, and with their dream of an orphanage now a reality. 

"Me too," she whispered. "I know we're not safe yet. I know there is so much to do, so much to overcome..." 

"Shh," he breathed, holding her closer. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He couldn't even make a joke. The time for that had passed. He couldn't promise her it'd be okay. He couldn't promise to protect her. He couldn't save her if they took her again. He had no magic. He had no legendary weapons. He had no piles of gold or treasures to bargain with. He had nothing to offer, and yet, she was there. She had returned to him.  

His body tensed as the fear and panic that had consumed his soul threatened to overtake him once more.

"Hey," she turned slightly, her fingers caressing his jaw. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"You can't promise that," he shook his head, trying to hide the tears forming in his eyes. 

"I know," she replied solemnly.

There was nothing either of them could say. The future was uncertain, but they had each other, and they had now. So, she'd believe in the promise of today and hope that would be enough to carry them to tomorrow.

She cradled his face gently, guiding it closer to her. She sought solace in the warmth of his lips, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss against his—a promise that despite the challenges ahead of them, their connection could and would withstand it all.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little drabble and the gorgeous art commission! I just really love them both a lot!

#mal volari #mal volari x mc #daenarya #blades of light and shadow #bolas #choices #playchoices #choices game #choices book club #fan fiction #lovealexhunt #blades 2 #bolas 2 #blades of light and shadow 2 #dani cries over blades 2 #dani plays blades 2 #december2023 #mal volari x oc

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

hello!

so i had a thought/request thing: prussia x reader sound of music au?

Oh I absolutely LOVE that thought!

I took a little creative license in this fic (which I will elaborate on in the after-notes), but ultimately I directly referenced some of my favorite scenes from the film.

Thank you for sending me the ask, and I hope you enjoy!

The children were finally asleep.

A spring storm had rolled in- a welcome relief to the dry heat which had plagued the city for several long days- but the thunder had troubled them.

You were hardly surprised when first a timid Ludvig came to your room, followed only moments later by Monika. It took a few more claps of thunder and flickering lights for Friedrich to appear, claiming with false bravado that he had come to make sure that you were safe.

You had distracted them from their fears, though some- such as the loud protests which continued with each passing day, the strange men seen lurking outside the house, and the current absence of their guardian- Some fears couldn't be assuaged.

But children were easy enough to sway from their dark thoughts, and you always had a gift for embellishing the truth. 

This time, you chose not to rely on the ditty you had taught them several weeks prior (though you could hear Ludvig repeating 'whiskers on kittens' to himself), but instead crafted a tale of heroism about their big brother, one that soon worked its magic, all three falling asleep by the time the storm had settled into gentle rainfall, curled together atop your blankets.

Unfortunately, their restless energy had passed onto you, and after several moments of staring at the ceiling, you carefully, quietly, slipped out from beneath the covers, tugging on a nearby robe, and sliding on a pair of slippers before making your way to the library.

Time passed without your knowledge; you had found an old disc of American singers to play on the gramophone, and quickly tucked yourself into a novella that had caught your interest several days prior. It was a pleasant distraction, almost successful in keeping your frazzled thoughts from running wild. 

Had his work run late? Had there been an accident? Had one of those radicals done something that was meant to look like an accident? Had-

The distant, sudden sound of the front door closing had you glancing towards the grandfather clock, that flicker of worry sparking to life once more as you noted the lateness of the hour.

His work often brought with it long hours, but this, even by his standards, was alarming.

You were relieved to hear his footsteps, and knew you must content yourself with the knowledge that he had at least made it home safely. He had, after all, made it perfectly clear some time ago that his welfare was none of your concern.

In vain, you tried to return to your book, but to your chagrin the combination of the gramophone's crackling, the tapping of raindrops on the windowpanes, and the nearing, shuffling footsteps kept you from falling back into the story. You feigned interest however as a familiar figure entered the doorway.

For a moment, he said nothing, silently studying you. You were hyper-aware of his gaze, were certain he could hear the panicked rush of your heartbeat, could see the heat dancing on your cheeks.

Finally, he spoke, your given name tumbling out almost as a sigh, and to your embarrassment it caused you to jump, startled by its presence in your already frenzied state.

You turned to face him directly, seeing his hand hanging uselessly in the air, looking for everything like a guilty schoolboy. In another circumstance, you could have laughed, seeing the normally rigid Captain so timid and unsure of himself. "Sorry! Sorry, I..." His words trailed off, the hand falling back to his side, all emotion gone from his features once more. "May I join you?"

No, you wanted to say, I'm not sure I could trust myself if you stay.

But your voice was welcoming him in, and you straightened your posture as he took the chair opposite you.

You tried once more to feign interest in your book, but your eyes kept straying from the page, unable to stop yourself from studying his features in the warm light, taken in by the vulnerability, small as it was, he was granting you, clearly beyond weary.

Your curiosity could no longer be helped. "Are you well, Herr Beilschmidt?"

A small smile flickered to life, half-formed and fragile, those peculiar scarlet eyes finding yours, your name once more slipping past his lips. "I thought we agreed you would call me Gilbert when we were alone?"

For a moment, he was no longer a Captain, not Herr Beilschmidt, but any other man, a man who could even become-

But that could not be, and you wouldn't allow your fantasies to jeopardize your work, couldn't bear the thought of being parted from the children. "I agreed to no such thing, Herr Beilschmidt."

He released a pained sort of sound, reminiscent of a scoff, and it prompted just enough of your ire for you to press onward with your curiosity. "You were out late this evening."

You couldn't fully conceal your concern, and it was clear that he had detected it, those eyes somber once more, studious and strategic.

Fearful of what he may find, you spoke once more, hiding the inconvenient truth with another, sweeter one. "The children missed you at dinner."

His study lingered, lips parting as if he were going to speak, before he dismissed it, a sadness surrounded him in its absence. "How were they today?"

This was neutral territory, familiar ground, and you breathed a silent sigh of relief. You began a retelling of the day's adventures, embellishing your words with a whimsy that had often earned you others' disdain. But G- Herr Beilschmidt- was amused, laughing at your failed attempt to mimic Friedrich's angered voice at Monika for daring to stick a frog in his pocket.

"And Luddy?"

Your smile softened at thoughts of the youngest Beilschmidt. "A dear as always. He insisted upon baking a cake with me earlier." The words triggered another memory, a more urgent one, and you rose with a suddenness that caused him to jump. "Pardon me; I forgot that we saved a slice for you! Excuse me for a moment?"

You didn't wait for his reply, already sweeping towards the open doorway, forgetting in your rush to grab a candle, the electric having gone down several hours ago.

The corridor loomed before you, quiet and filled with the darkness of the midnight hour. In the face of that alien light, your footsteps faltered, suddenly uncertain of a path you had tread dozens of times.

A warm presence appeared at your side, a gentle hand pressing to your lower back, as he fell into step beside you, carrying one of the candles. "Allow me?"

Your skin burned beneath the weight of his hand, memories of the party several nights before now dancing to the surface at his nearness.

How you wished you could turn him away now, but fear of the ghosts still haunting these ancients halls and nameless monsters lurking in the shadows far overpowered your fears of revealing your heart.

Slowly, quietly, you charted the course to the kitchen, and you were grateful to finally be able to step away, allowing yourself a moment to breathe, reign in your traitorous thoughts.

The ghost of his touch still remained however, and you busied yourself with pulling the cake from the ice box, pleasantly surprised to discover some remaining cream as well.

He had taken a seat at the small table often used by the house staff, several more candles lit in front of him. You were surprised to see he had pulled out two forks, standing and gesturing to the empty chair beside him. "Please; join me."

You should have taken your leave.

You should have made your excuses and retired for the evening.

But there was something so hopeful in his expression, and you couldn't resist the sway he held over you.

For a time, there were no words shared between you, the only sound the symphony of the falling rain, the distant notes of the gramophone, and the irregularity of silver tines clinking against porcelain.

"We should discuss what happened at the party."

His voice was unexpected, words hanging in the air with a tension you were loathe to acknowledge.

There was nothing to discuss, not to your mind.

He was betrothed to another, and he was your employer.

It could never be anything more, even if you should so desperately wish for it.

Still, you would always have those memories, safely locked away into your heart: Monika sighing, fondly watching the sparkling couples gliding across the ballroom floor, Ludvig pestering you with questions about the musicians, and Friedrich earnestly trying to master the Allemande with you, before Gilbert was unexpectedly cutting in, offering the children a brief history lesson even as he fell perfectly into step, words soon falling away, sparkling burgundy eyes locking with your own.

With each step, you felt your fragile defenses weakening, was certain he was drawing you nearer with every turn. Each clasp of hands sent a spark through your pulse, every point of contact buzzing with restless energy. As you took your final turn in a dance meant for four, you were met with a warm smile which stole the little breath you had left, and you were drowning in a wine-dark sea.

The spell was broken with Julchen's applause, surprise to see her home from university enough to distract the others, though Gilbert was slow to release your hand, lingering, before he finally drifted over to join his younger siblings.

You couldn't fathom why he should wish to discuss the ordeal now of all times, though to say it hadn't been on your mind, replaying in your thoughts for the past several weeks, would be a lie.

"You hired me to watch over your brothers and sisters, and I care for them dearly."

Your focus remained on the chocolate crumbs remaining on the plate, dark flecks against the otherwise pristine, pastel pink petals.

Even as he spoke your name once more, you did not turn to him, unable to face him. "Only the children?"

"No," you admitted, before you recognized your slip and quickly tried to rectify it. "Yes!" Trying to redirect his thoughts, you interrupted him before he could speak. "Isn't it right that I should care for them?"

You finally turned to him, praying your mask would hold, even as you once again found yourself the subject of his scrutiny. He was bewildered, clearly not expecting this turn.

"Of course it's right."

You saw another opening, one that could perhaps save you from his suspicions. "You invited me into your home, and I am grateful to you. I'll miss them very much when you and the Baroness-"

Oh, you couldn't even speak it, for goodness sake!

But this excuse was convenient, a simple shroud, disguising your feelings behind the implication that your true worries were being parted from the children, that you only dreaded his betrothed becoming his wife because-

You could face him no longer, your attention once more drawn back to the scene in front of you, candlelight dancing in refractions on the cutlery. 

He let out a stray sound of bemusement, your given name yet again slipping from his lips in a fond murmur. "There isn't going to be a baroness."

Your attention flickered back to him almost immediately, disbelieving and concerned. "There isn't?"

"No," he hummed. There was a slant to his brow, a twist to his features which puzzled you.

"I don't understand."

His focus shifted away from you, a small smile once more flickering to life, not fading away this time but lingering, its lightness echoing in his voice. "We've called off our engagement-"

"Oh, I'm sorry," you whispered sincerely, not meaning to interrupt, but he was stunned nonetheless.

"You are?"

You nodded, unwilling to trust your voice in this moment.

His smile softened to something unreadable then, something which made your heart melt. "We both agreed that, well..." He suddenly was looking away from you, bashful in a way you didn't recognize, taking a steadying breath before he seemingly found the courage to face you once more, though his words were barely a whisper. "You can't marry someone when you're in love with someone else."

At first, you were unable to comprehend his words, desperate for confirmation. "Surely you don't mean-?"

His hand found yours, gentle and insistent. "I do. I've come to love you in a way... quite unexpected. And I," he paused, his eyes seeking your own with a tremulous yearning, one which carried in his words. "Is it foolish for me to hope that you love me, too?"

You thought back to the journey which had led you here: the arguments, the compromises, the love growing ever stronger with each passing day. This house had been a cold tomb when you had first arrived, specters haunting every square meter.

But now it was your home.

The children were your home.

Gilbert was your home.

He was still waiting for your answer, both despondent and eager, and you finally allowed your mask to fall away, smiling as you raised your free hand to gently cup his cheek, your vision hazing through tears.

It was uncertain who moved first, but the kiss was all you could hope it to be: gentle, loving, with an added sweetness from the lingering tastes of cake and cream.

He sighed as you slowly drew away, the candlelight dancing in his eyes, a bright smile creasing his features.

You had made many mistakes in this life, taken many missteps, but to be blessed with this life, to find such love and a place to call home?

Somewhere along the way, you must have done something good.

One of the most notable changes was directly adjusting Gil's role compared to Captain von Trapp's. The Sound of Music carries an inherent antifascist message, which allowed me to explore more of my belief that Gilbert was a Prussian Social Democrat, a member of one of the most influential political parties directly challenging the rising fascist ideals of the growing Nazi Party. Several assassination attempts were made on members of the Social Democrats, before, ultimately, tragically, their work against the Nazi Party was overruled by vote.

I opted to keep Gil as a big brother instead of a father; I cherish the relationship they have already, and the thought of them not only losing a parent, but watching their beloved, bright brother fade away into someone they barely know- It was too good.

I spent quite sometime trying to finding a traditional German couple's dance, and even the Allemande, from the Baroque period, was intended for a group of four.

I wish this could have been longer, but at over 2000 words already. I am content.

Thank you again for the ask, and thank you so much to everyone for reading!

#prussia x reader #aph prussia #hetalia prussia #hws prussia #aph prussia x reader #hws prussia x reader #hetalia prussia x reader #gilbert beilschmidt x reader #gilbert beilschmidt #readerfic #sound of music au #aph germany #aph fem!germany #aph fem!prussia #aph hre #aph holy roman empire #i listened to so much old jazz while writing this; i was up till 4 am this morning/last night #hello lovelies! #gods i am so surprised how much writing i've done the past two days #thank you again for the ask! #i hope you enjoyed <3

[andypantsx3]

tags/warnings: dabi x gn!reader, runaway prince touya au, ambiguously established relationship, some violence, slightly yandere at the end, sfw

length: 1k

"You're him," you breathe, a strange kind of terror zinging through your veins. "You're the missing crown prince."

Dabi—Touya, that is now—just arches a brow at you in that dismissive way he has.

"Thought you said you didn't care about my past, sweetheart. Walking that back now?" he drawls.

His voice is the same smoky rasp as always, tinged with an undercurrent of boredom, as though there is nothing about this revelation that has discomfited him.

"Why join a league of antimonarchists if you're quite literally a future monarch?" you ask, drawing back. Unconsciously, your hand goes to the knife pouch at your waist.

Touya's eyes follow the motion, and a smirk cuts across his mouth. "Why might a wolf creep into a sheep's pen, you mean?" he asks.

Your hands ball into fists at your side. You can feel your muscles shivering with the barely-restrained need to do something. You're certain what you want most is to punch him—a bold move on a good day, considering he's one of the League's most dangerous assets—but now the idea carries new weight.

He might be here, in antimonarchist headquarters. But if you punched him, you'd be punching the future sovereign of your country—an offense that carries a death sentence.

"Have you been spying on us?" you demand.

Touya laughs, leaning in like he's delighted with the question. "Oh no—I've been using you. There's a difference."

With his face this close to yours, you can pick out the changes this new information has wrought on his features. He's always been an arresting sight—his face full of stitches and metal, the skin under his eyes and mouth the purple bruise of old burns. But he's also always been darkly handsome—the damage to his face not enough to disguise the careful, sensuous lines of his features.

You see now that he looks so much like Prince Shouto—which makes sense. They're brothers.

"I'm going to have to take you in," you tell him. "Whatever your reasons, you're a liability now. Leadership will figure out what to do with you."

Touya's laugh is dry and crackling. "You? You're going to take me in, sweetheart?"

You scowl. You know you're not nearly equipped to fight him—you're more of a logician, and he's a brawler. He's got years of swordsmanship under his belt, and molten hot stores of fire magic at his disposal. He's also undoubtedly taller, broader, and stronger than you.

The odds don't look good, but you know he can't walk free after this.

You don't have a choice.

"You could come quietly," you tell him.

Touya snorts. "Doesn't sound much like me."

Your hand is back at your knife pouch, and you watch Touya closely for any sign of his magic—you've seen it before, an instantaneous inferno of blue flame impossible to escape at close range. Your best chance is to back away to safer distance and try to pin him with your daggers.

You will have to be fast.

But Touya is faster.

Quick as a viper, he strikes first. Blue flames rage into existence just past your shoulder blade, a line of fire shooting along the side of the room. It's so hot it feels you can feel the burn of it through your shirt, though it hasn't touched you yet.

You yank your dagger from your belt, lunging for Touya's ribs. Fire blazes to life in his fingers, roaring out in a hungry wave, and you're forced to stumble back to dodge it.

Blindly, you fling your dagger towards his shoulder, but Touya lunges through the flames feet away, and you hear the metallic clatter of your knife on the ground.

More fire pours from Touya's hands, lashing around the room in a sapphire wave. It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room, the air thick and burning in your throat. The air shimmers with the heat, and your eyes water.

Too late, you realize Touya's burned a circle around you, cutting off any route of escape. You grasp your remaining dagger, warily eyeing the growing blaze.

Touya steps through his own flames just in front of you, grinning. He's always liked a fight, has always come out of them invigorated—and even this measly matchup has clearly pleased him.

"Touya, please, I'll ask you again to come quietly," you say, though you know very well your odds of besting him have just plunged to zero. You can't get a safe distance away, now—he could light you up in an instant.

But he doesn't make a move to. Instead, he looks thoughtful, those burning blue eyes flickering over you. "It sounds even better in your mouth," he says.

For a wild moment, you wonder what he's on about. But then you realize you've said it out loud—his birth name, where before he was only ever Dabi to you. The tips of your ears burn, independent of the fire blazing around you.

"But I won't be coming with you, sweetheart," Touya continues, stepping even closer. "No, even better. You'll be coming with me."

You swipe out at him as he comes within range, but his hand snaps out to catch your wrist, twisting expertly until you've dropped your knife. You grunt in pain.

"Let go," you gasp, kicking out at him. He easily wrangles you closer, until you're pressed against him with your arms twisted behind your back.

He's inhumanly warm, and this close he smells like ashes and smoke, with that rich, dark undercurrent like cinnamon you've always associated with him. You tell yourself you don't like it as much as you thought.

But Touya just grins, pressing his mouth to your ear, much closer than he needs to to deliver his pronouncement.

"Not ever," he says, low and raspy, before huffing a laugh. He bites the shell of your ear, a sudden flash of sharp teeth. Despite yourself, a shiver wracks your body. Touya shifts you, angling you closer against him.

"Now hold still, sweetheart," he says.

Before you can beg him not to do it, in a sudden flare of pain at the base of your skull, the world goes dim.

#dabi x reader

[dat-town]

haunting

never seen circus masterpost

Characters: Yunho & female reader

Setting & genre: magical realism au, ghost au

Summary: Yunho was the centre of your universe. He made you so happy and you wished you could do the same but his eyes were always so, so sad.

Warnings: general creepiness of an eerie circus, ambiguous ending, mentions of blood, injuries, car accident, self-conscious MC, implied past death

Words: 1.4k

i guess i will tag you in all of these @restlessmaknae 

You remembered the day you had met Yunho and fallen in love with his dimpled smile almost immediately. He was the typical boy next door with his easygoing and kind personality, it was impossible not to love him. But somehow it had been you whose seatmate he had become on the first day of university and then all other days too during your shared Economics lectures.

You and him had been inseparable ever since.

You had spent a meaningful majority of your early twenties with him by your side. Study sessions in the library had turned into café dates and then cuddling on the couch in front of Netflix. Weekend trips to the beach, dissing terrible job interviews, murmuring I love yous into his warm skin under the blazing sun and him kissing every one of your fingers until you couldn’t feel the unforgiving cold of January.

You loved him more than anything.

Especially after the accident. He was the only one who still looked at you the same way.

It had been awful. You remembered the yelling, the honking and a blinding light. Then the pain had come and everything had gone dark. When you had opened your eyes, it had been Yunho you had seen first. His temple had been bloodied, glass shard cuts all across his lovely cheek. He could barely open his eyes and his head had been wrapped in white gauze.

You had cried yourself to sleep because you had known it had been your fault. You had been the one who had insisted on visiting the circus even in the pouring rain. Looking back you couldn’t understand why it had been so important to go on that particular Sunday. There would have been other days and other circuses. There was no other Yunho. No circus was worth that much.

Yunho had recovered but after that you had promised yourself you wouldn’t let him get hurt ever again. But something must have been broken between the two of you after the accident because his eyes had become so, so sad. He still looked at you lovingly, like you were the most precious thing and for those moments you felt seen and beautiful even if other people looked away when they saw you. Nobody else mattered, not when you had Yunho. You just didn’t get why he felt so far even when he was brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Are you happy?” The boy asked, cautious, and you blinked at him in confusion.

“Of course, I am. I have you,” you smiled at him but Yunho looked like he was made of glass, crackling at your words.

When your boyfriend proposed a weekend getaway, you were more than happy being on board with the idea. You hadn’t really been going out since what had happened. You needed it to feel some normalcy again.

“Where are we going?” You asked curiously while you were walking through a forest during the golden hour. You liked surprises and Yunho was always the best with date nights as he was a much better planner than you were but you had always been curious by nature.

“You will see,” he said with a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He sounded tired but that must have been because he worked those extra hours over the week.

He didn’t let go of your hand even when you reached the edge of the forest path and you saw a circus right in the middle of the meadow in all its shiny gilded glory.

You flinched at the laugh of clowns and the eerie music, phantom pain throbbing in your skull. Your steps halted and you took a shaky breath.

“Yunho…” You whispered, feeling uneasy.

“It’s okay,” Yunho reassured you in his soft voice, letting you nuzzle closer. “I’m here.”

You tried to find excitement and awe in the wonderful spectacles all around but deep down you had a bad feeling. Maybe it was because of what had happened and your brain subconsciously associated circuses with inevitable tragedies but you could almost feel yourself spiral into panic. You didn’t quite feel okay in your body. It was almost like you were watching yourself from the outside.

You jumped in surprise when a black cat ran across the road right in front of you and heck, you weren’t superstitious but did it mean that you would be unlucky? Maybe you should have left.

But Yunho seemed determined to stay and he was clearly looking for something, so you told yourself to be patient. It must have been the surprise. What could it be, you wondered, a fortune teller or a palm reader?

The tent of a ghost whisperer wasn’t what you expected even though it felt awfully familiar. Have you been there before?

You turned to Yunho, the question burning on the tip of your tongue, but he was looking at the girl behind the candle lit desk, hovering over a bone coloured board with letters scattered over it. You vaguely remembered that tool from horror stories as something used to communicate with the dead. An Ouija board.

The young girl in old fashioned clothes behind the desk looked up at the two of you and hummed knowingly. There was something unnerving about it as she looked at you.

“I knew you would be back. Most people are,” she said, melancholy ringing in her voice and you furrowed your brows in confusion. She wasn’t sure whether she talked to you or your boyfriend.

“She… she is just a shell of herself. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Yunho spoke up hoarsely.

“I told you there was always a price to play,” the girl reminded him but the entire scene had you going a little crazy because you couldn’t understand anything.

“What’s going on, Yunho? Who is she? Why are you talking like you are breaking up with me?”

Yunho turned to you, his usually warm nougat eyes devastatingly sad and then he walked you to the full body mirror on one side of the tent.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered and there were already tears pricking your eyes because what could have been so terrible about your looks that made him call you a shell?

Then you saw it.

There was Yunho, tall and handsome, perfect if only a little pale and his smile you loved so much was lost on him. And you? You were nowhere. In the mirror there he stood alone, no sign of your reflection. You reached out to touch the furniture with shaky hands and looked down at your skin, half-transparent in this new glow.

“Am I dead?” Your voice hitched, panic coursing through you.

“Your soul is trapped in a limbo between this world and the beyond,” the stranger girl explained patiently. “He’s the one keeping you here.”

So you did die. Now that you thought about it, you couldn’t tell when was the last time you interacted with somebody else other than Yunho. Or when you last spent time alone. Or when you ate or went to the bathroom. All you could remember was being with Yunho, everything else was just a blur. As if he was the reason why you even existed, the Sun of your universe.

You felt like crying but you couldn’t. Ghosts didn’t have tears. You must have imagined every tear and every touch since the accident and it only made the loss cut deeper.

Yunho was crying though, crystal-like tears were running down his cheeks and when you reached up, you could feel the warmth on his skin against your own cold nothingness.

“I love you so much that I brought you back,” the boy whispered and you could feel your heart break for him even if you didn’t have one anymore. You never wanted to see Yunho suffer, not like this, not because of you. “But it’s not the life you deserve. You should move on. Find peace.”

The thought of him saying goodbye, of losing him scared you.

“No. I don’t want that. I’ll be staying with you, Yunho. Please, don’t do this,” you begged because you wanted to stay by his side, you didn’t want to be alone. The two of you were supposed to be together forever.

But it was too late. The boy was already taking off the couple bracelet you both had and the ghost whisperer took it from him, letting it fall into flames, smoke going up dark and quick.

Your scream cut through the night, extinguishing every lit candle and by the time the sun came up, you were once again faded.

But Yunho swore he could catch sight of you in mirrors from time to time.

#series: never seen circus #ateez x reader #yunho x reader #ateez angst #yunho angst #stories

[izvmimi]

cw: fantasy!au shoto x princess!reader, implied quasi-arranged marriage, some place names i made up for my au <3

Court ladies, particularly the ones that are of your age, marriage-eligible and plagued by thoughts of wedded bliss, are notorious for embellishing stories. Especially those that concern men, especially those that concern those rich and powerful men, and most of all those who are thought to be blessed with powerful magic.

The prince who hails from the Terras Magi far away, whose personal history already sounds like the stuff of fairytales, is one of these bountiful sources of mystery and fantasy. Third in line to the throne after the original crown prince of their hidden kingdom went mad and after the second prince disappeared into the night, the mage prince is thought to have strategically kept himself hidden away from the remainder of the continent, declining to partake in the many royal conferences held over the year. Few have seen him in the flesh, aside from the reported occasional meetings with prince Bakugou of the highlands, who somewhat begrudgingly claims to be his friend. 

However, that changes tonight. You will meet him, and you are expected to charm him, as princess of Phulblume, to consider forge a stronger alliance with that part of the world that has remained closed off and uninterested in the much more mortal remainder - 

and there is no greater alliance than matrimony.

Yet,  the thought of courtship tires you immensely. You’ve been in love before, and lost it, accepting that a relationship between a future Queen and her Knight would cause more harm than good; your previously furtive glances, held too long across the court of flowers, have now been reduced to averse, split second looks. You cannot bear to lay eyes on him and neither can he on you. 

Love is laid to rest, and you expect not to be impressed by another man ever again.

And yet, the mage prince is everything you’d heard and more.

The prince arrives with his older sister in tow, who watches him carefully, not to protect him but as though to mind his manners for him. He bows before the throne where your father and mother sit, where you stand in polite wait and then curtsy.

As he introduces himself to the court, you find yourself waiting for him to look at you. He doesn’t immediately, and you notice the red and white of his hair, starker in contrast to his sister’s gently swept locks. She is radiant despite the gentle frost that follows her, and it is reminiscent of the first snow of the season, the kind that is too gentle to accumulate but warns you that storms may approach soon. She turns to you and smiles, and you curtsy politely, your cheeks warming. 

Then he turns, as though instinctively following his sister’s lead, and he sees you. There is a split second of hesitation as your eyes meet. He forgets to bow and you forget to curtsy, perhaps because you are both feeling out each other with your souls. 

You are earth and he is both water and flame. 

You catch yourself first, starting your curtsy, and he takes your hand and bows deeply, his eyes falling to the ground at your feet. 

“I am pleased to meet you, your Highness.”

The pleasure is all mine, you think and forget to say. His voice reminds you of the gentle crackle of firewood on cold nights as a child, sat comfortably in the lap of your mother as she reads your favorite book. 

His sister watches carefully, and you think of morning dew. 

“I am glad you have arrived safely,” you can hear your father, the King, announce. Prince Shoto has not stopped looking at you, although your gloved fingers no longer touch. Princess Fuyumi nudges him gently, then speaks first.

“We are thankful to have been invited to your kingdom on behalf of our country,” she cuts in when Shoto remains mute. He seems to snap back into attention at the sound of her voice. He nods. 

“We look forward to tonight’s gala and to what you have to show us in Phulblume,” he adds.

He glances at you again, and you look away, your face warming, and wonder if it’s his magic, or something else.

#shoto x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #fantasy!au shoto x reader #mimi's notes #daydreams: bnha #thoughts: shoto