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tadpolesonalgae · 4 months

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Play-mate[***]

Dark!Rhysand x reader

a/n: something so comforting about writing dark!character fics (is that worrying?)

Warnings: dark!Rhys, non-con, light choking, smut, fingering, degradation, brief impact ‘play’, overstimulation, squirting, nipple play, dumbification, breeding kink, this is a sequel to Desk Pet but can be read on its own

Word Count: 7, 245

-Desk Pet- -Two-Faced-

Perhaps the one pleasure you can still keep safe is those rare but precious nights he works late. The ones where you’re allowed to resign yourself to lethargy, fatigue soothing your muscles as you melt across the small pallet that lays beside his own, much larger bed. Relaxing into the soft sponginess of the plump bedding, silky smooth fur swelling around your body as the plushness dips, swallowed by the single thick blanket you’re allowed in the winters.

With the darkness covering the lands so swiftly, you often find yourself lighting a few candles, disliking the obtrusive glow of the fae lights, plucking a thick book from his shelves, and curling up to read upon your meagre but wonderful pallet. Something more likely to be offered to a pet than a fae, but somehow large enough to comfortably contain you.

In your world of passiveness, it’s the single joy you’re allowed—reading on a cold winter night, tucked up cozily with a book, left entirely to yourself. No rough palms bruising your jaw, no deft fingers pushing into the slippery wetness of your mouth, nor touches that hurt more than frostbite.

Hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end, raising across your bare body, still kept entirely naked for his ease, and you discard the book, noting the page number. The wet roughness of your tongue swipes across the soft pads of your fingers, suffocating the tiny flames swiftly, keeping your digits flush until the skin stings, careful to keep too much smoke from filtering to the air. You want him to think you’re asleep—he’s less likely to take interest if he knows you won’t be reluctant. Less likely.

Freshly oiled hinges swing open silently, but you know he’s entered the chambers and you remain mostly concealed beneath the thick blanket, the soft cotton brushing your shoulders, hiding the intimate skin of your breasts.

The night before he’d taken a particular liking to them, teething across the aching peaks, suckling them into his mouth one at a time, grinding for a seemingly endless period between your legs, only the cloth of his finely tailored trousers protecting you from him. He’d bitten, sucked, pinched and flicked at your breasts until he’d finally been satiated from whatever sexual interest had initially grasped him. Tongue soothing the raw peaks, swollen and freshly-licked from attention, gleaming in the low lights like candy.

Now they ache more intensely, small threads of soreness plucking through your chest, small throbs of pain soothed into your flesh like a balm being rubbed into skin until it’s absorbed by the surrounding tissue. Brought in and softened, slowly seeping across your breasts, nipples still aching most acutely.

You hear him now, walking on cat-soft feet across the wooden panelling, skin prickling with familiar awareness as his attention skates over you like how your eyes would have, at some moment deep in the past, scanned your own bedroom upon entering it. Counting your belongs, making sure nothing had been displaced or removed without your knowledge: potted plants still sitting pretty along the windowsill; candles still decorating the side table; clothes folded unobtrusively atop a chest of draws to be put away. And so as your eyes would have once mindlessly catalogued your belongings, now his brush over you, curled neatly to the side of his bed, waiting patiently for use.

The thought has a kind of disgust rising in your stomach, one you thought had long since been numbed. Becoming so warped and twisted it would never flare again. Yet here it is, sitting gelatinously at the back of your mouth, resting fully in your throat, as if waiting to be regurgitated—spat out and disposed of so it’s no longer a bother.

He pauses adjacent to your bed, and you wonder if he’s reassessing your positioning. If he should have instead set your pallet at the foot of his bed so he wouldn’t be tasked with travelling to the other side for access. Instead the sound of muffled fabric floats to your pointed ears, conditioned to recognise all of his noises: onyx black buttons being slotted through midnight blue holes; fabric whispering as it’s shucked off broad shoulders that can carry the width of your waist, having been unkindly tossed over it more than once; ties that rasp like rope, and he pulls them free, loosening the band of his trousers before leaving to prop himself upon the bed, likely removing the rest of the clothes before disappearing into another room.

Even in the moments of his absence, his sense clings to you, as if he’s somehow been granted ubiquitous sight, observing you while he should not be able to. His magic settles in the air, thick and dense, like the fog that pools in valleys, masking the dangerous potholes and rocks that manage to stumble themselves into one’s pathway, creating a lethal road to navigate.

Sheets rustle, and you realise he must have re-entered at some point, having gone undetected as your mind helplessly wandered, seeking escape from the dreadful pleasure he so regularly subjects you to, forcing you to take long, languid drives of his hips, hands pulling and tangling with your hair, intrusive power seeping into your mind, controlling you from the inside out.

It’s only once he’s seemingly settled that you allow yourself to consider a hell-free night. Liberated, if only temporarily, from his deep aches and contagious pain. How he enjoys putting his sickness into your body, releasing his cruelty upon your bones, like you’ve done something wrong enough to be deserving of his inflictions.

Sheets rustle again, and your heart stumbles despite even breaths, ones that are deep and regular, suggesting peaceful sleep in the hopes of remaining undetected by his attention.

“I know you’re awake,” he says lowly.

Your skin prickles tightly, littered with goosebumps as his words send small thorns pushing into your tender flesh. He shifts on the bed, and you can feel as his eyes settle, taking in your form and the things he’s free to do to it.

“You think pretending to sleep will save you from me?” He asks, mirth clear in his honeyed voice, softer than satin, softer even than a lover’s, like warm clouds and fresh feathers. “Do you have any preference for what happens tonight?” He asks idly, as if speculating upon an item from a menu, considering his options with careless interest. He will get a meal no matter what he decides on.

Roughened fingers grip your shoulder firmly, and you fight the jolt that urges to burst through, remaining tight but relaxed, melting into the softness of your floor bed, willing him away. Willing yourself to appear quiet and uninteresting. For a short moment it appears to work, his touch leaving your dirtied skin, pulling back into the great warmth his own bed, as if he’s a beast who’s curling his tail in preparation for sleep, coiled tight to whip out at a moment’s notice.

But then the sheets rustle again, and a firm heat snakes down, slinking down as his power pulls back the corner of your blanket, allowing the naked sturdiness of him to collect at your back. One arm slides beneath your rib cage, folding at the joint to wrap across your middle, his large palm gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you flush to his chest while his free hand trails between your breasts, fingers feathering up to your throat, wrapping around the comparatively small extension. A heightened pulse drums against his digits, bumping against his tight hold, alerting him to your own awareness. Lips stretch beside your ear, hot mouth grazing its shell as he strokes your hip like you’re a pet to be soothed.

“Nothing to say for yourself, or do you simply not care?” He asks mildly. The sinister question registers fully in your mind, already beginning to shut down in attempts to preserve what little pieces you have left that he hasn’t already touched. “You were so vocal for me last night. What happened?” He laughs softly, the arm beneath you shifting so his fingers can graze your ribs, stroking just below your breast, still aching from his rough attention. He squeezes your throat a little tighter, eyes prickling with the pressure, the burning in the bridge of your nose. You won’t ask him to stop—you’d only be wasting your breath.

The High Lord hums at your back as if he’s disappointed by your lack of a response, put off now you aren’t doing as he likes, a small reminder while he may have control of almost everything in your life, he cannot control your thoughts. Or rather, if he did, there would be nothing left of you to enjoy: if he continues to replace small pieces of yourself, is it still you he’s playing with?

He releases your throat in favour of dipping to your breasts, the arm beneath you skating over the softness of your stomach, brushing with a feather-light touch over your abdomen, feeling the slight flutter of tension beneath his fingertips. Rhysand brings his mouth lower, suctioning over a small spot below your jaw, trailing along the tendon keeping your head to your shoulders, following to your collar bone. “Should I give these some more attention?” He inquires, and you bite back a pained noise as he pinches your nipple, tugging lightly on the bruised peak.

His other hand drops lower, exploring the familiar area leading between your legs that you’ve preemptively tried to lock together. The digits pause, feeling your obstinance, your clear reluctance to let him touch you any further, and he hums approvingly, pleased with your resistance. “Better,” he murmurs onto your skin, even as his magic wraps tightly around your thigh and ankle, pulling you back to lean against his chest, guiding your leg over his hips. You squirm at the invasive press of him between your thighs, gently forced open as his mouth latches over the intimate skin of your throat, lapping up your flavour as if he isn’t in possession of such sheer power that he’s able to have you whenever he pleases—and fully takes advantage of it.

Lips part as he cups your heat, pressure building behind your eyes as his fingers splay across the intimate part, lazily taking his time, both going slow for his own enjoyment and for your torture, making sure it’s dragged out as long as possible. He doesn’t want this to be something you can switch off for a few minutes a day, he needs it to be hours long, twisting you until you fit the shape of him, so wary and worn from taking him you end up bending and slotting to hold his impression within your bones. His finger presses to your clit and he relishes in the flinch he feels within your stomach and thighs, desperately suppressed on your side in attempts to keep his hunger at bay, as if the possibility of remaining indifferent to him might stave off the ferocious starvation than comes alive in him every night without fail.

“One day, lovely lamb, you’re going to break,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, digits lazily circling as he plays with you mindlessly, so well familiarised with your body he no longer needs to pay attention to where he’s touching—it will always be the right spot. “You’re going to shatter for me, and fall apart at my feet. All soft and pliable. Begging for me to either give you the pleasure you’ve spent so long resisting and hating, or for me to give you your end right then and there.” His fingers slide lower, his touch dripping across your skin as he flicks across your nipple, drawing a pained inhale from your mouth, caught off guard.

“Would you like to know what happens after that point?” He asks mildly, as if he can’t feel the way you’re trembling in his arms from the effort of keeping yourself together when he can pull you apart with such ease. There’s always that edge of terror when you’re forced to lie with him, that he might one day tire of your resistance and pluck at your mind for good, banish your rationality and lock it up somewhere, or simply annihilate it completely. That one day, he might decide to go into your mind, and steal it from you entirely, take control of you and make you truly beg for him like he enjoys seeing, having you perform for him dumbly, crawling toward him across the floor, touching yourself upon his bed, pleasuring him of your own accord. The fear never leaves you, that he might one day decide to make use of his daemati powers, and leverage them against you.

His palm smacks across your cheek, digits digging into the soft muscle of your jaw as he grips you punishingly, drawing you away from the torment of your inner thoughts. “Are you sure you want to do this dance tonight?” He asks lowly, able to feel the tautness of your limbs, how you’re trying not to squirm or recoil, trying not to fight against him. “I’m in a rather pleasant mood for once. I would suggest you try to appeal to my better side,” he advises coldly, hot lips brushing bare skin. “Is that clear?”

“Go to hell,” you manage weakly, tremors making their way into your voice.

The High Lord’s lips stretch into something wicked and pleased, hand sliding down to your throat, tilting your head so you’re leaning to give him more access, his grip swallowing your back whole. A low sound of pleasure drags from his chest, hips rolling languidly into your hind, fingers slipping lower to bask in the stiffness of your body as he presses to your entrance, leg still hooked over his hip so you can’t prevent it. Disgust crawls across your body, having your skin tighten with awareness and attention, focusing on where his touch is branding you, burning in his handprints so they’ll never leave your soul.

“You don’t like it when I touch you?” He provokes, hungry for resistance. “From the amount of times you’ve come on my fingers alone, I would have thought you like the way I can make you crumble.” His digits circle your entrance, keeping you pulled flush against his chest, forced to lean your weight onto his shoulder as he pushes in, and you want to scream at the invasion. How many times has it been, and yet it never gets any better, skin constantly soaked in oil, doused from head to toe in it so thoroughly you wish for a match to end you. One spark, and you’d be gone, blessedly free of him. Perhaps at last released to a place away from his touch, a world where you’re clean and safe, and you’d never met him.

Or at least, he’d never have forced you to be his.

Maybe there could have been a happy ending.

“I hate you,” you manage to hiss out, trying to ignore the sensation of his fingers pumping slowly, curling against spots he has no right to know or touch with such familiarity, digits dragging in and out until slick has begun to coalesce to prevent pain. Again he hums, and it sounds encouraging, like he wants you to repeat it, like the words give life to him, allow him to continue to thrive and feed off you. “I hate you,” you say again, voice breaking from how many times you’ve said so, and yet it never encapsulates the depth of betrayal that squirms in your gut, the anger and frustration that once burned in your chest at the severe maltreatment. Things could have turned out differently, if only…

“I hate you so much, Rhys.”

Pressure spills over, quietly dripping down your cheeks, hot water splashing down into the pillows. You don’t want to cry in front of him, don’t want to allow him that emotional proximity. He’s taken so much from you, it’s unfair that he will ruin this, too. His fingers graze a spot deeper, and your breath catches, familiar heat beginning to take root in the pit of your belly, that disgusting, shameful arousal he puts into your body, something you shouldn’t feel, ever, for him.

“I’m glad to know you feel so strongly for me,” he replies lowly, nipping at the tip of your ear, reminding you of all the other unpleasant things he’s served to you, the ways he’s used those teeth upon your body to summon pain to your skin. You wish he wouldn’t. If just for one night he would soften his touch, lessen the brutality he likes to play your body with.

If you gave into him…would he be nicer? You don’t understand where the thought comes from, but your mind has taken a severe turn since he first put his hands on you, rarely anymore surprised by the things that come and go, drifting by like leaves on the wind. Instead you allow yourself to ponder it, plucking it from the mellow streams of thought, cupping it in your hands to examine a little longer. Would it be worth it? The degradation of following along with him to grant yourself some reprieve? If it’s the only way to maintain your sanity, to keep yourself intact, isn’t that all that matters?

You dare experiment, trying to soften the tension in your muscles, to force yourself to melt over him, to reduce the tautness that’s been tightly stitched into your seams, until you’d become rigid and stiff. He’s surprisingly comfy, body slotting against yours, fingers continuing to slide in and out, and you manage to lean into him, skin pressing to skin, bare and prickling with awareness. You could swear one of his exhales sounds eerily like a laugh, like he’s enjoying watching you attempt to save yourself, but it’s something different, something more sinister you have yet to guess at. That perhaps he’s got some larger plot, and you’re falling nicely into place, manoeuvred by an unseen force.

“Enjoying yourself, lamb?” He asks beside your ear, a shiver passing down your spine at the lover’s caress. Teeth bite together against the sickening pleasure he’s bringing out of you through pumps and curls of his fingers, the base of his palm rolling into your clit. A small sound jumps from your tongue, a wash of heat soothing the pressure across your abdomen. Words of agreement rise to your lips in answer to his question, but you swallow them down thickly, feeling the syllables lodge in your throat beneath his palm. “I hate you,” you repeat, the only things left you can use as a defence, but even those three words seem to be losing their bite as your head lolls against his shoulder.

“You hate me?” Rhys breathes as he drags his fingers out fully, wetness trailing up your abdomen as he raises his hand to your mouth, just another obscene act he likes to watch you perform. The fixation he has with your mouth has never previously taken your attention, seemingly appearing as a familiar gesture when having intimacies with another person, yet you dwell on it for a little longer than usual when he runs the slick pads of his fingers over your lips. The digits part, and you can make out silvery strings connecting them together, like the threads of a cobweb.

“Open,” he goads, and your mouth parts without having to be asked twice. The taste blooms across your tongue, stark arousal that sparks heat in your lower body as he presses his fingers down, causing you to choke, gagging lightly as your throat contracts. His hips roll into yours at the sound, and you’re reminded of what other horrors he has yet to inflict upon you tonight.

“Aren’t you being good,” he whispers beside your ear, soft as silk, warm as freshly baked bread. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this docile. Feeling tired?” The remark should have been a warning to stay aware, you know firsthand that he’ll pounce at the first sign of lethargy. “Answer me,” he orders, but it’s with an ineffable lilt you’re unable to put your finger on. Like he’s finding something amusing, taking pleasure in being able to understand the bigger picture while you’re left to dumbly stumble to and fro, seeking the right path that he can see from high above and chooses to keep secret from you.

The words form in your mind, yes. I am tired. yet they come out softened and muffled, contorted as you babble them onto his long, elegant fingers that are lightly massaging your flavour into the hot, wet muscle. Fatigue weighs atop your lids, and you try again, I am tired, and I wish I could sleep myself away from you, but again, your words are scrambled, garbled into a slushy mess of syllables that feel like froth. Like trying to bite down on sea foam.

He laughs lowly, hips grinding into your backside, pulling his digits away, revealing the wetness that’s now soaking them, slathered in saliva, dripping with silvery weight and you watch distantly as they make the pathway back down your body, sliding effortlessly back into your heat. They push in softly, easing in their return, curling against spots that have you pulling against the urge to widen the stance of your legs.

The fight is often on both sides: why he’s so draining to be at the mercy of. On one hand there is your despair, the visceral hatred and frustration, the betrayal that could splinter your bones with its ferocity; on the other there is the overwhelming pleasure, coming with an intensity that regularly and repeatedly threatens to upend you entirely, to buck you off your wobbly standing and throw you to the floor with the sheer pleasure he knows how to deal you.

Shallow pants reach your ears, and you realise they are coming from your own mouth, pouring like a babbling stream as the unwilling sounds of pleasure crest on your tongue, skin heating as he presses tighter to your naked body, skin flush to skin, sharing heat in what should be an intimate display of affection, not such a gross abuse of power. Humiliation burns across your cheeks as you move your leg further over his hip, leaning more heavily into the supportive expanse of his chest, hands clutching the silky fur of your pallet.

His laugh whispers against your neck, breath fanning erotically across your throat and you shiver, inhaling softly as his long fingers continue to curl inside of you, beckoning you forward to the high he’s pulling up to blossom and bloom across your skin. “Does that feel good?” He asks softly, mischief prominent in his tone. “Knowing you’re going to be coming on my fingers? That I’m taking this from you, too?” A garbled sound floats from your mouth as the heel of his palm rolls across your clit, digits playing with you lazily, drawing pleasure up from the depths of your body as if his fingers possess the powers of dowsing rods, actively seeking out the spots that will swell with heat, flood your body with mind numbing goodness to have you melting into him.

The ridges of your nails scrape against the bedding, breaths stuttering out as he licks up your neck, gleaming white teeth grazing across the well-bitten skin, having been nipped at and had his mark stamped into you endlessly the night before. He hums absently, hand releasing your throat to drop lower, trailing between your breasts, and a drop of dread is dispersed across your conscious, like ink into water. “No…” you breathe weakly, heat building behind your eyes as he thumbs across your breast. “Rhys, please,” you mumble desperately, anxious to spare yourself from the sensitivity, the pain you’ll be exposed to should he choose to continue with his recent fixation on your breasts.

He groans at your back, palming at your chest, arousal concentrating in his veins as your body arches against him, bowing from his torso as pleasure and pain twine together. “Stop it,” you breathe, flinching as he pinches lightly at your nipple, rolling the abused peak between his fingers, tugging to call up more of your sweet pleas, the words that fuel his sadism, stoking the embers of his hunger, whetting his appetite for your reactions. “No? You don’t like this?” He croons beside your ear, talking down to you as if his words need to be dumbed down to be digestible. “Want me to touch you somewhere else?”

The High Lord grazes the ridge of his nail over the peak of your breast, and you gasp, body recoiling into his chest, scent wrapping more firmly around you, infiltrating your lungs, short circuiting your mind as your lids flutter. Your breaths shallow, mindlessly trying to seek out the source of your pain as pleasure pools between your legs, his fingers summoning heat. Weakly, your hand fumbles across the bedding, blindly searching for an end to the soreness. Nails scratch at his knuckles unintentionally, but his hips buck nonetheless, biting gently at your neck. Clumsily you grip at his wrist, muscles weak from his ministrations as you try to pull him away, breathing heavily as you paw at his hand, desperate to find reprieve. Fingers slide between his, curling over into the top of his palm, weakly trying to pry him from your breasts.

“Please…” you pant, hips rolling down onto his fingers, tingling pleasure becoming more and more difficult to ignore, grabbing for your attention as slick drips across your thighs, Rhys creating a sloppy mess with his hand, palm wet as the heel glides across your clit. “Rhys…” you pant, fingers trembling, unable to release him, hands entwined but at least you’re being spared from his pain-soaked touch.

He inhales softly, nosing at your throat, groaning as he feels you tighten once around his fingers, and he knows you’re close, that once again he’s going to pull yet another piece from you, like separating raw cotton, the pieces weakly grasping onto one another, as strong as water-soaked paper beneath his hold. “Ready?” He asks, and you gasp, trying to shake your head, nails digging into his skin as you press his hand to your sternum, as if in doing so you have some sort of control over what he does to you. “No,” you cry softly, “not again. Please, I can’t. Please no.”

A rough groan grazes your skin, and goosebumps rise in its wake. “You don’t want to come?” He murmurs, his breathing pattern shifting, hand pulling away from yours with despairing ease, sliding back up to your throat, hand gripping your jaw and the tingling pleasure begins its countdown, the slow ticking until you shatter, unable to do anything save for squeeze your eyes shut, hands scrambling to try and pull away from him, writhing weakly in his dominating hold. “Rhys…Rhys, please…no…!”

He roughly tips your jaw, flinching beneath his touch, gasping from shock before he puts his mouth over yours, tongue dipping in as he angles you correctly. A shocked whimper spills into his mouth that he drinks down hungrily, caught off guard as his body shifts, sliding slightly out from beneath you while his fingers continue working you. Fear pounds through your body, heightening the acuteness of pleasure and you writhe in his hold, struggling violently but somehow it only results in your legs spreading wider, hips bucking fervently onto his hand, grinding against his palm as you moan into his mouth, jaw opening wider as he takes you for his own.

The piercing edge of of terror sharpens your pleasure, and you cry out into his mouth, sounds the High Lord steals away, satiating himself as teeth nip at your lips, hand squeezing your throat, reminding you of his dominion over your body, his touch demanding utter submission as you flutter wildly around his fingers, hips stuttering against his palm. The pleasure explodes across your skin, body arcing off him, grinding against him in a way you know you’ll hate yourself for once the buzzing sensations subside.

He laughs lowly once your high fades, fingers pressing back in fully as he detaches himself from your mouth, partially atop your body as he gazes down at you intently, attention pinning you to the pallet as he curls his digits gently but firmly, taking in the rise and fall of your chest; the way your breath hitches; your brows curve, eyes gleaming with wetness he’s anxious to have spill over. “Such a whore,” he whispers onto your mouth, more tenderly than he’s ever spoken to you. His hand finally retracts, dragging up over your clit, puffy and sore from attention, and you feel yourself fracture a little more from the humiliation.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe out, forcing venom into your tone, his hellish mouth parting into a feline curve. “You’re the one who just came on my fingers,” he says with silky smoothness, “should I remind you?” Before you can protest he’s rolled on top of you, keeping you pinned to the pallet as his fingers again slide between your lips. You struggle weakly, but he presses his hips against your own, keeping you incapacitated with frustrating ease, feeling the evidence of his own arousal poking obtrusively into your lower body.

“Can you taste that?” He laughs, watching as you struggle pointlessly, his hunger becoming harder and harder to resist, grinding against the alluring wetness of your heat. “Taste how much you liked it? See how wet you got?” He groans as he glides through the slick between your thighs, coating himself, bucking his hips as his fingers press down on your tongue. “Gods I’m going to fuck you so well,” he says lowly, mirth clear as he taunts you. “You’re practically dripping onto your bed, getting it all wet and dirty,” he muses breathlessly. “Such a whore.”

Your hands grip his wrist, both of them desperately trying to pull him out of your mouth, making his lips curve with amusement, enjoying your struggle. “Don’t be so ungrateful,” he drawls, pushing his fingers in further until you gag, throat constricting around his digits as tears gather at the edge of your lashes. He curses lowly, colour tinting his tan skin as saliva gleams on your lips, spilling over like how your cunt does when he stuffs you full, dripping down your thighs and creating a slippery mess. “So pretty,” he murmurs breathlessly, rubbing his fingers over your tongue, feeling it’s velvety heat. Your breath catches at the murmured praise, so rarely compensated for the harsh treatment he forces on you.

His own breathing patterns have turned irregular, arousal piercing his mind as his gaze remains locked with your own, and that starving hunger returns in full force, eyes rolling briefly as he settles on what he’s going to use you for tonight.

The High Lord pulls away from you, allowing you not even a second’s reprieve before his hands are pushing your legs apart, raising them up as he rolls his hips forward, gliding through your wetness. “So wet,” he groans, fingers biting into the soft flesh of your thighs, slick somehow having made its way even there, and he can’t bring himself to wait any longer.

You try to brace yourself for the intrusion, a mix of disgust and hatred building in your stomach with equal parts arousal, knowing from experience how sickeningly right it feels, how he fills you up so completely you’re rendered temporarily mute. “Don’t,” you beg, heart pounding as he lines himself up, tip pressing to the soft indentation between your legs. You close your eyes briefly, hands still weakly trying to push him off you despite his overwhelming strength. “You can’t do this,” you cry out, knowing how sensitive you are, how he’ll no doubt take full advantage of that and not in a pleasant way.

“Shut up,” he grits out, violet flicking sharply as it pierces into you. “Don’t you ever get tired of protesting so much? Whining and complaining at every moment no matter how well I treat you. Such a selfish brat.” He practically spits the words, and humiliation burns through your lower body, opening your mouth to spew back vitriol but he pushes in, hips flushing tight to your own, feeling the bump he’s put into your stomach. He groans lowly, panting as he grinds against your cunt, abdomen rubbing over your clit and your toes curl, back arching at the fullness, having his teeth flash in a vindictive grin.

“You fucking like this, don’t you?” He accuses, pushing your thighs wider, raising your hips, allowing him to settle deeper, feeling as he presses further, stealing the breath from your lungs. Lips part as you try to form words but you’re unable to do anything, grasping for thoughts but it’s as though he’s shoved everything out of you. “Such a liar,” he groans out, hands leaving your thighs to settle further up your body, caging you in as he draws his hips back. “Is the reluctance part of your act? Pretending to resist so you can feel how helpless you are? How easy it is to shove you down? Fuck I could take you whenever, wherever I liked.”

You tighten around him as he sinks back in, pressing flush to your heat, adding a roll to his hips so he rubs against those spots he’d abused with his fingers, having you gasp sharply, nipples peaking as your back arches. “You’re a monster,” you pant, unable to focus on his hazy figure as pleasure sizzles in the pit of your stomach. “You’re…you…I hate you.”

“Say that again,” he breathes, picking up the pace, hitting those overstimulated spots and your press your lips together, trying to keep your cries to yourself. “I fucking hate you,” you hiss out, feeling him twitch inside you, and you realise the protests are turning him on more. Disgust crawls across your skin, realising you’ve been complicit in his pleasure. But the words have already started, and you’re suddenly unable to control it as your thoughts begin spilling from your lips. “I hate you so fucking much,” you cry, “so fucking much. I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re a fucking psycho, sadistic bastard. I hope you fucking burn.”

His hips stutter, panting as he pulls away from your body, fingers biting into your hips as he begins slamming in, making you bump up the pallet as he fucks you into the bed. “Gods you’re so perfect,” he growls, brows furrowed; pupils fully dilated with hunger. “And you’re all mine. All mine, every hour of every day. Do you like that? I can do this whenever I want. Make you scream. Scream until your throat is raw and your legs are shaking.” His hips buck roughly and you bite back a cry at the sharp pleasure, the overwhelming fullness. “I’m going to fuck you so full,” he groans, and for some sick reason, arousal blossoms across your abdomen, a fresh wave of wetness slicking your thighs, squelching noises spilling from your cunt as he drives into you with a conviction that’s both terrifying and obsessive.

“Yes…!” The word is out before you can censor it, and he laughs darkly, pouncing on the lapse greedily. “I knew it,” he growls, “fucking liar. You like this. Can you feel that?” Before you can get a handle on your thoughts again, a moan flutters from your tongue, hands grappling wildly for purchase, seeking stability as his hips drive roughly into you, bucking with a fervour that has you arching from the bedding, scratching at his forearms. His hand splays across your abdomen and you cry out as he presses down, the orgasm building much faster, pleasure ringing in your ears as a heat like sunlight blossoms across your body.

“Rhys,” you moan, brows pulled tight and it’s as though that one cry urges him on, pounding harder, pace increasing as magic flares, the ghostly outline of wings emerging at his back. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your head so you’re forced to look at him as he pounds into you. “Gods you’re such a slut. You should see how you’re taking me, practically swallowing me whole, such a greedy cunt, isn’t that right?” He pulls back, landing a hard smack to your cheek before gripping your throat again, dragging you up from the pallet as your thighs are forced apart from how he’s pressing against you. “I’m going to fuck you so full you won’t be able to move without my cum spilling out. So full you won’t be able to think straight, that you’re going to be able to feel how much is inside you, tucked away where it belongs.”

Your mouth parts in a moan, hands being forced to lock over his shoulders to relieve the pressure on your spine. “Would you like that? Do you like that idea? Knowing you’ll have part of me so deep inside of you at all times? Gods you’re going to swell up from how full I’m going to fuck you.” His words splash across your skin and pleasure spills between your legs, heat coiling in on itself before breaking across your skin, fluttering around him.

Rhys watches as you come, body writhing as he keeps you trapped on your pallet, cock driving in repeatedly as the overwhelming pleasure has your eyes rolling back, muscles seizing, butterflies fluttering as you jerk from the force of the orgasm. “Please, Rhys stop! I— I can’t—” you gasp, body going taut from the sheer intensity. “What was that?” He pants, lips curving as he fucks you through it. “You want more? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think? What a good girl.”

In one movement he’s flipped you over, roughly handling your body so you’re forced onto your hands and knees, arms shaking, mouth parting to scream for him to stop but then he’s slamming in again, picking up the pace from before but now you’re so much more sensitive and tears spill down your cheeks, utterly undone. A soundless scream parts your lips, his hands putting bruises into your hips as he slams you back onto his cock, slick spilling down your thighs as overstimulation fries your brain.

“Fuck that��s it. Finally learning to take what I give you. You like that?” Your eyes blink wildly as the pleasure becomes too much, tears dripping down your cheeks. “Say it,” he snarls, “come on, admit how fucking high I can take you. How you love the way I fuck you.” You babble messily, words fluttering nonsensically, crying, screaming, panting as saliva spills from your open mouth, unable to shut it and your lungs can’t take the intensity. “I-I love it,” you cry, “please, R-Rhys…!”

His hips buck sharply against a spot, breath hitching from your obedience and it triggers something in you, pleasure unlatching as you gush around him. Rhys curses, low and viciously as you squirt, arms shaking as his magic presses up against your abdomen, the pressure making you dumb. “So fucking perfect,” he moans, “say it. Say you’re my perfect little toy, tell me how much you fucking love what I do to you.” His hand drops to your thigh and you scream when he cocks your leg, the angle turning you into a sloppy mess, arms giving out as your face buries into the bedding, back arching deliciously as you soak him.

Rhys snarls, power wrapping around your hips to keep slamming you back on him as his fist tangles in your hair, pulling you up. “Say it,” he snarls, “fucking say it.”

“I love it!” You scream, voice breaking as your thighs are spread wider, his hips bucking to target the spots and terror burns across your skin as overstimulation turns into fresh pleasure. “I’m— I’m your perfect…your perfect little toy!” You scream again, another orgasm bursting across your skin and your world is spotted through with white dots, body trembling as his hips smack against the backs of your thighs, feeling at last as he twitches once before releasing deep inside of you.

Even in your daze you can feel how it’s more than usual, much more. Feel how he fills you up, spilling out, stomach inflating with how much he’s pumping into you. He releases your hair, returning to grip your hips, pounding into your puffy, swollen cunt, allowing you to flop forward into the bedding, head down ass up as the shockwaves of his thrusts pass through you, dumb moans babbling softly from your mouth, muffled by the soft but damp fur of your bed.

His thrusts turn sloppy, hips grinding against you as his breathing stutters, cum spurting from his tip, continuing to fill you up over and over, panting heavily, sweat glistening on tan skin. “Fuck,” he pants breathlessly, “you still there?” He asks, pulling back a little.

A muffled whimper floats up to him, and he sighs contentedly, gaze dropping to the smooth curve of your spine. He gathers his energy, body curving over yours as he roughly pushes his hips back to your own, tight to flushed skin and you cry out weakly. His hand presses across your abdomen, the other curving round your throat, pulling you from the bedding. Tears have dampened your gleaming cheeks, lips swollen from having teeth pulled over them and he grinds against you to spark a reaction. You sob weakly, body trembling beneath his as the pleasure continues to overwhelm you.

Rhysand pulls back, broad palm splaying across the slope of your spine, keeping you pinned down as he rolls his hips firmly to yours, making sure his release is being kept nice and deep. “Want another one?” He asks lowly, and you shudder, sobbing softly with exhaustion, shaking your head numbly, tears long since dampened the fur beneath you. “No?” He smiles faintly, reaching between your legs, “can’t take it?”

He swipes across your clit, and you can’t even muster the energy to jolt away, forced to take the sharp beats of pleasure as he gently oscillates his finger. You babble mindlessly, and his lips curve, pleasure gleaming in his gaze. “I thought you liked it,” he taunts quietly, “thought you loved being a toy for my cock. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Shame crawls across your skin and you try to weakly squirm away, but it just has him touching more spots inside of you, a fresh wave of tears saturating the bedding. He laughs lowly, his arm banding beneath your front to pull you up against his chest. “Want me to stop?” He taunts softly, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t know if you don’t tell me.”

You scramble for words, struggling to function. “I don’t… Can’t,” you manage weakly, body trembling from pleasure.

He drops a kiss to your hair, and relief has your muscles utterly giving out, turning soft and pliable beneath his touch.

“Good girl,” he soothes, hips dragging back from your dripping cunt, pulling out until it’s just his tip inside.

“But when have I ever listened to you?” He muses, pushing you back into the pallet, muffling your cries.

Silencing your pleas.

Aftercare fic

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

#dark!rhysand x reader #dark!rhysand #dark!rhysand smut #desk pet #dividers made by cafekitsune

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aconflagrationofmyown · 10 months

Text

but then…Gigi

An Elvis fanfic -chapter 3

Notes: finally a little update! There’s more coming up behind it I just needed to break it up a bit. Thank y’all for all the asks and the continued enthusiasm! Hope y’all enjoy! 💗

18+ content, sexual content, age gap and poor self esteem, parental neglect

Chapter Three

It’s stuffy inside the Stutz, humid air trapped inside it and in the garage; even Elvis Presley’s garage smells like mildew on this oppressive, stormy summer day. Her perspiration gluing her bare legs to his leather seats, Gigi tries in vain to pace her gasping breaths in the thick air.

Raising a jittery hand from its place balled in a fist on her thigh, she touches her lips in an effort either to relive or soothe the memory -she doesn’t know.

Elvis had kissed her.

Acting on her dare, he had kissed her. And it was no solitary peck or showy tongue plunge, it was a kiss so wanting and yearning and adoring as to make her feel it in her toes. Even now they were still tingling and her blood was roaring in her ears and if she wasn’t so overwhelmed with sensation and emotion, she might have found it in herself to touch herself to some completion just to make this pounding want for him moderate itself before the man himself appeared. Each passing second tore her between fretting over the unpleasant scenes that must be occurring inside the house and unadulterated glee over the thought of him finally helping himself to a portion of her.

She liked him a little selfish. It made her feel wanted, and it was a woozy, drippy, woolen headed feeling to be wanted by a real, red blooded man. Gigi hadn’t much experience with that, with the barrel chested, raspy voiced, brandy tempered men in their 40’s. Like a shot of whiskey after so many fruit drinks, his seasoned appraisals were flattering and dizzying all at once.

Her pulse roars and her thighs smack against each other with each shift against leather and helplessly Gigi closes her eyes and relives the feeling of his hands buried in her hair, cradling her face, thumbs anchored at her jaw, bending her to his kisses as his weight crushes her to the floor.

He’d been so large, so sturdy, so sure, ungiving yet plush all in the right mix. And she had felt him hanging low and prodding. The memory zaps her right where she had felt him thick and firm in his soft track bottoms and with a gasp tumbling from bitten lips she sneaks a hand beneath the hem of his jacket and into her sodden panties. As the time wears on she has some strange presentment that he’ll have lost the mood they were in and it’s out of a sort of despair that she chafes her slippery little hood in a quick bid for relief. She thinks about those thighs of his, sturdy and toned and furred as she’d seen them when in his swim shorts, she thinks about rubbing herself raw on them.

Her feet make a squeaking noise where they’re propped up against the glove box, her legs trembling from the sparks, widening as the feeling mounts. A quick squeak of friction and she catches herself and sucks on her lip, repositions those long legs to a sturdier stance and speeds up her hand in her knickers as the sweat pours down her neck, wets the back of her hair where it drapes down her back and his seats. Suffocated she yanks the zipper away from her neck, undoing the jacket down the glistening hollow of her navel. She flaps the edges to get a breeze.

Almost there, almost there.

What Elvis had not anticipated to find waiting for him in his Stutz after a predictably miserable finale with Ginger and Co. was the leggy beauty of his deepest, darkest, most far fetched daydreams fingering herself with unabashed gusto in the passenger seat.

Childlike in her concentration, with eyes closed and legs splayed so wide the entire windshield was like a projector for the damn show happening beneath a tiny nylon scrap, Gigi all bowed up under his unzipped jacket like a bowstring, teetering towards a damn good crescendo by the looks of her vibrating legs.

It was obscene.

Made more so by those fat titties of hers barely covered by his unzipped jacket, glistening with every heaving breath. All in stark constant to that angelic face. It was infuriating.

Something akin to jealousy animated Elvis enough to send him stumbling down the remaining step to land his bejeweled hands heavily enough on the car’s door frame to cause a clatter and frighten the daylights outta his lil nymphomaniac.

He’s not sure who’s blushing worse when those blue eyes fly open and she gasps,

“Elvis.”

in acknowledgement of his presence while doing nothing to remove the offending hand from between her legs. He had been able to hear the sopping wet mess between them and it takes him aback a little, this tangible proof of her carnal interest. He’d been doing a damned good job with Ginger, settling in for the quiet life of reading and tennis, no heady first encounters and only his stupid bouts of yearning causing him to commission stupidly erotic tokens of bygone potency like that welded belt with his name on it. A burdensome gift for an unwilling recipient.

Guess he’s gonna have to run by the jeweler and cancel that trinket, Ginger hasn’t any use for it now. But this, this is better than any of that. This is old fashioned and nasty, this way of Gigi’s cunt makin’ a sound like stirring Macaroni and Cheese between her legs. It’s both flattering and terrifying and his blood rushes to meet the challenge just as it had when he first found a woman lying in wait for him in his car after the hayride in ‘56. She’d had a husband, that lady, and a wet snatch that had dripped down to her very calves watching him put on a show. Elvis had put his whole fist up there and got fondled real nice for it before ending up with a busted face.

It’s been awhile since anyone laid in wait for him.

Finding such raw need for him oughta make him smile. Instead he finds it makes him pause, hand on the door handle. He didn’t think she was this sort.

“Lord forgive ya, you enjoyin’ yourself lil girl?” he mumbles with an edge to his tone as Gigi just sits there and shakes, teetering on the edge and not even ashamed, although her hand has stilled. He hates it, for one fierce second he’s irreparably cross with this virginal little harpy for having deceived him, for being so randy when he’d been so sure she needed protection and guidance.

He’s sick of being wrong about women, sick to death of it.

“Yessir, I am -was.” she whispers back to him, eyes wide and guileless, “I’m so glad you’re here.” she says with such obvious relief in her breathy voice and faith in his good intentions to satisfy her that he’s reminded suddenly what a baby she is, like a punch to the gut and kick to the conscience. He’s still leaning on the doorframe when she takes her hand outta those panties and he wants to be relieved until she stretches it towards him with all the pleading grace of a damsel in great distress, “I need you real bad.” she explains plaintively and all that well entrenched nonsense about how ladies oughta behave themselves when in public spaces like garages or pools, suddenly gets a little murky in Elvis’ head. Sorta floaty and fuzzy when met with the sticky, perfect, nectarine sweet smell of her want for him glistening on the tips of her fingers.

“The hell are ya, the serpent himself?” he grumbles even as he wrenches open the car door and heaves himself in alongside her, his belly wedged behind the wheel in a regretfully inelegant bulge. “Get that fuckin’ temptation outta my face, we’ve buisness to discuss. We ain’t primates, we’re adults and we’ll dee-s-cuss the various matters at hand like adults.”

Elvis slaps her hand away from his nose as he says this and Gigi clutches it to her chest as if his sharp words had scorched the soft flesh of it. He tries to ignore the way the whole car smells of thunderstorm trapped pussy musk. The way her eyes are brimming with tears over his refusal to suck the sticky strings of her horniness off her digits. And the way he feels so pressed to keep things sedate between them initially, simply because he knows “adults” is a kind word for them both.

He’s a dirty old man with what he wants and will eventually get around to doing with this fawnish young thing if she lets him. And holy lord!

- ‘Adults’-

it ain’t a lie in respect to her, they’re both adults, but it’s rather reaffirming of how shoddy that excuse is when he has to say it a million times to comfort himself and this over excitable girl who has her legs wide open and her thighs shiny from fingering herself to the memory of a make out session.

God, what he could do with such sensitivity…

“Alright, listen here, lil one-” He makes an effort to clear his throat and in a bid to make her eyes stop watering with unshed tears from his tone, Elvis tries to lighten the mood by aiming a little slap at the offending place between her still splayed legs.

It has a slightly more stimulating effect than he anticipated.

Gigi’s eyes fly wide in cerulean disks of joy at the ringing pain of his rings smacking against her petals, right before her body goes rigid and his hand gets trapped between two spasming thighs as an unmistakable little peak rips it’s way through her, taking its sweet time to zap her and compress her lungs. The sight is heavenly and it gives him a little prelude of what it would be like to make her lose her mind.

His irritation fades away at the sight of her trusting pleasure and the melted look of loneliness that flashes across her face as she endures it with ample room between them on the seats, no embrace to catch the slumping after effects. He’s a cruel man and his hand defends himself by rubbing at her soothingly, asking for forgiveness with fumbling swipes of the pads of his fingers along her inner thigh. His hand is drenched when he yanks it out and grabs at a knee, hauling her over across the bench seat, scraping her thighs over sticky leather, nearer to him.

She looks like she needs a hug after what he just did to her.

What had he done? Fucked if he knows, he had pussy slapped her…err, ok he made out with her on his floor…no, he led her on before that but it was all in good fun…he’d held her in the pool…no law against that…he’d made her a burger as any hopeless romanti-

-as any good host would do.

He takes out his confusion on the hapless gear shift, tucking this suggestively foldable girl into his side and reaching round her shoulders to yank at the jewel studded stick, desperate to get outta this garage before someone witnesses him losing his mind in there.

He gets the gear shift tacky from her traces on his hand. He should've guessed that, strings of slick connecting them still even as she calms down from the feel of him against her in the seat, just as he suspected, hoped, needed. No words as the car revs out and into the drive, just her little moans still bubbling up as the car moves and her legs jostle her.

“Baby, tuck yourself down beside me,” he pleads, “don’t want no one to see your precious self.”

Gigi wastes no time in getting offended over his secrecy. Instead she somehow folds further, head nearly between her legs and face smushed into the crease where his belly meets his thigh. It’s not what he meant, it’s not what he wanted. The bottom of the steering wheel is liable to knock her little nose with each spin. And his fat gut is folded against her forehead.

It’s not what he’d wanted.

But today seems to be going that sorta way. The screwed up, make a fool outta his hopes sorta day.

He still manages to be polite to his boy in the gate shack and it’s gratifying that there are a few folks outside the gate, loitering mostly but they animate when he drives out, happy and waving and caring whether he lives or dies or never drives outta there again. Gratifying, it’s real gratifying. He protectively lays his hand on Gigi’s head to keep her low, to keep her steady in her curled up position as the voices of his fans rise outside the automobile and the car spins out into the boulevard with enough force to send a frailer girl straight to the floor boards.

Instead Gigi just clutches at his leg and throws a tanned leg out to catch herself against the console, takes the turn like a champ and stays down as he asked. Her hand warms him like some forbidden shit coursing lava-like through his veins, pounding in that artery under her palm, there beneath his squishy inner thigh, so close to where he can feel himself getting heavy -if not hard- right there in the baggy tracksuit. He thinks he must be dreaming, that it’s just an action of readjustment, but no.

No.

God it can’t be, no but, he could swear she was nuzzling that crease of his. The one that used to be lean and cut during his army days, chiseled and contoured in the movies and always at least a little defined even as a boy but now -now it’s a soft roll of flesh dropping onto bulky thighs and she’s -

Fuck. She’s definitely nuzzling it.

Gigi’s head is foggy and fuzzy with the old terror of having messed up somehow and somewhere and not knowing what it was. It makes her pulse race and her eyes burn in that old crybaby way until she thinks she can’t take it anymore and just might pass out like an overwrought little maiden -until she feels him tuck her into the security of his warm side, until she hears his pleading command to hunker down, until his hand cradles her head as he presses her lower into the bulk of his soft belly: and then she is warm and safe.

Fuzzy and foggy then in a way only her silliest daydreams have ever promised her. The ones where she’s loved and permitted to be a little too soft for it all. One where her forehead is pressed against warm flesh beneath a tracksuit, her lips puckered out to feel the material glide against them, straining for the feel of his wiry curls beneath. She feels compelled to cradle herself in every nook and cleft of him, her arms winding around him as he takes a turn and her hand anchoring to his thigh, her cheek atop it. Her nose buried in that scrumptious fold of his that is as burnin’ hot and sticky to her senses as a Tupelo hothouse in august.

It makes her moan, a hot and puffy gust of appreciation, her thighs still smashed together. She could cry this time from gratitude at how close he is to her, how commanding the weight of his hand is on her head. She’d happily let him push her face into his crotch in payment for having messed up all his arrangements today. She’s never given a blowjob before, not properly at least, and maybe he’d be a little angry about it but she thinks she could take it. She wouldn’t like him angry but as long as she was near him and he was down her throat and gripping her jaw and pulling her hair -well, he’d have to touch her to do all that and she wanted that. She needed that. That would be ok. It would be kinda hot. She just needed him to stay close. Forever.

She’d never felt so safe as she did now, tucked under his arm with his hand spanning her whole skull and likely driving straight to a speedy deflowering. Nothing about that gave her pause. She was sure she could love him to some sort of compromise -one involving her being his pet and he her daddy for ever and a day. It was simple really. So simple it felt like it had already begun and that silly adult conversation he needed to have with her had been worked out and now they were off into the sunset.

Gigi feels a wash of contentment at this. Simple really, she thinks again to herself and acts on it as she feels him suck in his stomach in response to her nosing at his fold. It had made the hem of his jacket gape and she takes full advantage of that by discreetly sticking her whole face up in that musky little tent and peppering his soft belly with heartfelt smooches. His belly is still wet, maybe from his shower after the pool.

Kiss, kiss, just a little peppering of pecks.

She licks her lips. It’s salty. She pecks at him again. This time open mouthed. Definitely salty.

Kiss kiss kiss. Just little kisses. Little thank you’s.

Each one saying “we’re gonna be so happy.” It was simple really. They could make each other happy. Isn’t that how kids form their friendships? You make me laugh, you share your toys, you like my food. Let’s love each other.

Kiss kiss kiss.

The brakes squeal and the wheel bonks her head and maybe she wasn’t being as subtle as she intended with her affections but those were all minor distractions. They were gonna be happy together.

“Sweet merciful baby Jesus on the cross—“ she hears Elvis saying above her instead, muffled by his jacket and a few pounds of prime memphian beefcake.

“What is it?” she asks, yanking her head out from under his jacket to get some perspective on why they’ve stopped, all she can see is at endearing little extra bit of fleshy padding under his chin and the curve of his lips and maybe beyond that there appears to be an awning outside the window, like at a gas station. They must be low on fuel.

“What is it?” he mimics with a lifted eyebrow and a silly expression that just enhances his adorable double chin, a goofy little move she recognizes from his movies but likes it better from this vantage point. “The “it” is you, lil girl, as usual,” he laughs in disbelief, “and the “what” is that you’re gonna give this ole man a heart attack goin on like that while he’s navigatin’ a public roadway. Ain’t safe, ain’t sensible.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” she says and it’s so honest and accepting he melts right away at it. That and the fact she’s still laying down all shiny and golden across his lap with her hair pooling in the V of his legs and her smile lookin’ so fond at what she must consider a portly, middle-aged fussbudget.

Since when did he start soundin’ like fuckin’ Gingerbread? Whinin’ bout safety when he coulda been spurtin’ down an untried throat.

“You’re just so cuddly, Elvis, wanted to snuggle right in. Way you were drivin’ I figured I needed an airbag if things went wrong.” She explains teasingly and there goes that smile again and he’s so confused and so in love… “We low on fuel, Elvis?” she asks without missing a beat.

“Wha-?” he glances around and realizes he has peeled the car up next to a Seven Eleven’s dingy pumps. “No, I’s just tryin’ to get away from a lil snail that burrowed under my damn jacket.”

Gigi giggles at that and so he does too. Goes so far as to take his hand off the idle wheel and cup the sharp underside of her chin. He feels it again, that thrumming, electric, shocking and sedating connection all at once, everything that oughta be felt when you touch another’s soul, everything full of good intentions.

“I just wanted to kiss on ya some more.” she explains herself so very softly to him as her eyes flutter shut from his touches and her legs draw up and together unconsciously on the bench seat. “I do know givin’ road head’s illegal.” she says next with a laugh and it jars him, “And you’re a cop!” she feigns a little horror. “But since you’ve got us parked…” she trails off before opening those glittery eyes again and lifting her head just a little as she turns back on her side, intimating some intention to make good on her jokes.

Elvis would rather go to hell than face fuck so sweet an Angel, much as his leg twitches from want for it. Her face is so close, so, so close. He’d rather go to hell.

She ducks her head and her hair covers the revolting scene as he feels rather than sees Gigi nuzzle beneath his belly and press a wide open kiss to his (pretty neglected of late) ball sack, aiming at random, he thinks, from the way she just open-mouth-smooches him. His toes curl from it.

That’s all the reaction she’s gonna get from his useless body, those pills he took for the migraine this morning are gonna keep him as limp as those goddamn seaweed noodles Ginger tried to feed him in Hawaii. Just a couple of years ago he coulda easily choked this little thing to death with his firm meat but now she’s gonna find out he can’t even twitch when he’s this sedated. Ballsack smmotching and pussy slaps, regardless.

He’d rather go to hell.

“Don’t be crass, lil girl, that sorta act ain’t becomin’ on you.” he says it as gently as he can, in a fatherly way if he thinks about it, weaving his hand into her hair and savoring that visual ecstasy for just a moment before he pulls her head the opposite direction his body really wants, pulls her up and away from him. She’s surprised and saddened enough by the rejection that she jerks her head up faster than he’s guiding it and it bonks into the steering wheel again.

The blast of the car horn makes them both yelp.

She scrambles to sit up, doubly wounded.

There’s those tears forming again.

She’s frustrating in that way but he can’t manage to let it out on her, and that’s puzzling as only Yissa has ever elicited this amount of indulgence from him and he feels exhausted at that implication. He involuntarily shuts his eyes and he sighs and reaches over to pat her leg assuringly.

“You’re tired.” she deduces and there’s not a hint of judgment or disappointment in that voice.

“Yeah, and I gotta think.” he says, “All my thinkin’ spots are currently takin’ up by assholes.” he realizes, “And we’re gonna get caught out in the open here.”

She hums understandingly and he keeps petting that silky smooth leg, relishing how muscular those calves are, fingers itching to play with that anklet. He rubs his palm higher to get away from the dangly temptation, higher and in between her legs. He might as well give in a little. He rubs over the wet crotch of her panties and she sighs happily, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Same position he’s in, mirroring him, as he keeps his eyes closed and rubs. He spreads his index and middle finger, catches those outer lips and traps them together, rubs her that way with her wet petals gliding together and her moans go up a notch. They just breathe and he rubs, the sound of the car idling a heavy bass to her breathy percussion.

“I’m sorry everybody is taking up your space.” Gigi makes conversation while he’s at it, and somehow it just feels right to chat while he pets her.

In the dark of his closed eyelids Elvis has regained a little peace and he lets his fingers drift to her pantyline, flirting with the idea of going under the fabric. “S’alright. ‘M’used to it.” he slurs, “Where d’ya go when you gotta get away?”

Gigi hasn’t got any fans or a legion of family members but somehow he knows, just knows she’s like him and has to get away. Someone’s always got something to get away from, or least the sensitive ones do.

“I've usually got the track.” she answers

“Hmm.”

“But they don’t bother me. They might bother you.”

“Yeah, s’no to the track. Though I’d like to watch ya run sometime.”

“Really?!”

“Don’t be silly, ‘course I would.”

“I haven’t had anyone come watch me run before.”

“I doubt that, honey.”

“No! Really!”

“Bleachers cleared out whenever you’re up?”

“No! No I mean anyone I know, besides the footballers.”

“Yeah, I bet they show. That’s shitty though, baby. I’m sorry for ya.”

“It’s alright.” she is the one who says it this time, “It’ll be like nothing at all if you really come! Please, please!”

“I done said I would. I will!”

“Aww thank you!”

“Honey, I wanna.” he insists, it’s very important she understand that if her folks haven’t ever once made her feel special like that. Even if he’ll be more like the footballers, come to watch her jugs and tight lil ass bounce down the track. Unlike them though, he’ll make sure to make her know he’s proud of her. He'll reward her real good for it afterwards, too.

His fingers slip under the panty seam. Calloused fingertips swiping along bare and slimy skin, she’s pooling and her slick’s working against gravity she’s so hungry for him. But that ain’t the troubling bit.

“Lord baby, where’s your hair?” he asks her in concern, finding a perfectly bald mound the more he rummages in her drawers. “You not grown any yet?”

Gigi laughs so hard he can feel her belly sucking in with each giggle beneath his forearm. “I shave it, silly. Isn’t it nice?”

“Baby you oughta have hair.” he insists, his hand quite stalled from this development. “Just damn weird for a woman to be posin’ like a lil girl.” Maybe that’s his conscience over the age gap talkin’ but he’s really a bit flustered by it.

“I’ll grow it out for you.” she whimpers, stung again by his rejections and -he really can’t seem to stop hurting her feelings, can he?

“Ok.” he says softly, going back to rubbing her and seeing that it has the intended comforting effect on her, “I’d preee-fer that, Gigi.”

“Ok.”

“Good girl.” Her eyes open at that and if his were too he’d see how happy he just made her, telling her something he’d like, something she can give him, guiding her. It’s new and soothing and thrilling to her all at once and she whines as she starts to thrust her hips up to meet his hand, quickly getting worked up.

“Can we go to your place?” he asks her softly and realizes it's been absolute ages since he had to ask someone that. Usually he’s always got a place to take them, usually they’re inviting him to theirs right away after the initial chit chat about names and weather. That feeling of being young and normal takes over again and it’s saddening how foreign it is.

“Yeah, yeah of course, Tammy’s out too, so we’ll be alone.” Gigi explains through heaving breaths as she doesn’t stop riding his hand as best she can with her leverage disadvantage.

He wants to see her place, he wants to see those records of his that Tammy says she’s got littering her room. He wants to see what Gigi does with a space when it’s hers. He wants to devour her stupid little bald beaver on her college dorm bed.

“Alrigh’ let’s go to yours.”

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#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #but then…gigi #Marina’s #elvis smut #austin elvis smut #elvisaaronpresley #elvis one shot #elvis austin butler #elvis movie #elvis x y/n #Elvis

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samstree · 1 year

Text

Beneath the Winter Snow (1/2)

The care and keeping of one’s bard and winter garden. Jaskier falls ill. Geralt copes as best as he can. (sickfic, 3.8k ☆ AO3)

Winter arrives with a small cough that settles deep in Jaskier’s lungs.

“Oh, dear.” Jaskier rubs his chest, coughing a few times, breaths forming a white fog. “What is with me today?”

Temperature near the coast rarely drops so suddenly, but a cold gust has swept over the little fishing village along with freezing rain, catching them off guard. Frost covers the ground overnight, lining bare branches and fallen leaves with glistening silver.

Geralt tucks in the woolen scarf around Jaskier’s neck. “Perhaps you should go in,” he says. “I’ll finish in the garden.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier pushes Geralt’s gloved hands away. “It’s our winter garden. I will not leave all the chores to you, darling, no matter how adorable you look when you give the plants little pep talks. The next frost won’t be long, and we haven’t planted the honeysuckles yet.”

Jaskier’s voice breaks with another wheezing sound. Geralt’s worry only grows. He frowns in dissatisfaction and pulls the fur-lined hood over Jaskier’s head.

“I know,” Geralt ignores Jaskier’s protest and presses his ears to keep them warm. “Just don’t want you to catch a cold.”

The crow’s feet at Jaskier’s temples are beautiful when his smiles, understanding shining in eyes as blue as the sea. Hair peppered with silver streaks sweeps across his forehead in the wind, and Geralt brushes the strands away, tucking them behind Jaskier’s ears.

“You take care of me too well. I won’t be catching anything,” Jaskier says coyly, his cheeks pink from both the winter chill and a blush. “Come on. I’ll do the honeysuckles and witch hazels. You can trim the hydrangeas for us.”

“Hmm, just…be careful with your knees.”

Geralt isn’t convinced by Jaskier’s reassurance, but they start the chores while there’s still daylight. The air smells like fresh rain as Jaskier plants the seeds in damp soil, humming an absent tune. Geralt trims the bare branches with half of his senses tuned into every subtle cough under Jaskier’s breath.

The sun barely sets before Geralt calls it a day, the few pots of witch hazels still not moved into the ground. Jaskier’s legs wobble as he stands, his hands resting on Geralt’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Alright?” Geralt checks carefully, studying the tiredness in Jaskier’s features.

“Mm-hmm.” Jaskier’s eyes crinkle. “Getting old, is all. The good days of me walking all day without complaints are long gone, dear witcher.”

“Without complaints?” Geralt gives a look. “Sure.”

Jaskier gasps in offense, starting to ramble about how he was the picture of suffering in stoic silence, but Geralt only ushers him indoors, shaking his head. The warm air of their home surrounds them, and they begin another evening routine.

Geralt helps Jaskier out of his garden gears from muscle memory, helping him out of the sturdy boots and thick coats. He then puts all the tools in the closet, before retrieving the blankets to put on Jaskier’s lap so he can relax in front of the fireplace in the soft armchair.

He almost thinks Jaskier has drifted off if not for the occasional coughs that bubble up in his throat. The harsh sound interrupts the quiet crackling of the fire, piercing the most vulnerable part of Geralt’s heart.

So he finds the book.

It’s a leather-bound notebook Geralt keeps solely for Jaskier’s health, recording all the medicine he takes, all the trips to the local healer, and all the herbs that fill up that cupboard in their living room. The book is half full already, with pieces of notes and remedies pressed between the pages.

Geralt checks the herbs they used last time—a small cold Jaskier caught in the spring that didn’t bother him for too long. He finds the turmeric, slippery elm, and ginger root in the cupboard, but the peppermint leaves have dried up along with a few other things. He writes down the list of things to be restocked on the next trip to the herbalist.

“You and that book,” Jaskier grumbles, stretching in the comfortable chair. “Stop worrying and come sit with me.”

Geralt simply bends down to kiss Jaskier’s hair, passing him. He has water to boil and a herbal tea to make.

“Any headache?” Geralt asks from the kitchen, not sure if he should use willow bark in the mix.

“Only from your fussing,” Jaskier whines.

Geralt chuckles as he puts away the willow bark and adds a generous scoop of honey. Gods know how long Jaskier will complain if the tea is too bitter.

When he brings the steaming mug of pungent herbal tea to the living room, Jaskier deflates visibly, lips curling into a pout from the unfairness of it all. “You know, no amount of honey hides the taste.

“I know,” Geralt answers in sympathy, “but it helps.”

Jaskier sighs, wrapping his hands around the mug. “Urgh, the things I do for you.”

Geralt sits on the rug by Jaskier’s feet as he sips slowly, grimacing the entire time. In the end, Jaskier chugs the last of it with a full-body shudder, wiping his mouth clean.

“Proud of you,” Geralt says, rubbing Jaskier’s thigh in encouragement.

“Of course you are. I’m the bravest bard to ever walk the continent. Brave enough to drink this vile liquid.” Jaskier puts the mug on the table, tugging at Geralt’s arms. “Just come here, you.”

Geralt joins him gladly, squeezing into the armchair. With a bit of shuffling, somehow Jaskier ends up on Geralt’s lap, his head tucked in the space under Geralt’s chin, the scent of mixed herbs still in his breath.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums softly. “Your knees okay? Not bothering you?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier whispers, kissing Geralt’s neck. “Yours?”

Geralt moves his bad knee slightly and feels no pain flaring up. The chores they did earlier were not nearly enough to exert his old injuries. He just wants to focus on his human bard who needs a lot more care and attention than a witcher.

“I’m fine,” Geralt says. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Too late. I have to.” Jaskier sags, burrowing into Geralt’s embrace. “I made you my problem a very long time ago, in a most horrid tavern at the edge of the world. You are the one who should want to run away from all of this. You didn’t sign up for taking care of an old human, after all.”

Jaskier takes to coughing again, so Geralt strokes between his shoulder blades.

It’s true that Geralt wouldn’t have chosen this life back then, in a dingy tavern where an annoying bard decided to follow him around the continent like a lost puppy. Had it been up to him, he’d never have grown to care for Jaskier or anyone after. Had it been up to him, he would still be walking the path alone with only the company of Roach. He’d not need to build a winter garden, or keep a collection of medicine, or have Jaskier here with him, in his arms, soothed by his presence.

It would be a living nightmare, compared to the dream that is his life right now.

“Don’t,” Geralt whispers as Jaskier catches his breath. “Don’t say that. I’d fight anyone who tries to take this away from me. You know it.”

“I just don’t want you to take on too much, darling. You’ve spent the past few years caring for me. All you do is scribble in that damn book. Don’t get me wrong, I love the attention.” Jaskier huffs. “But I want you to feel supported too, and I fear—well, I fear I won’t be able to do that for you. Not anymore.”

It’s ridiculous Jaskier still puts Geralt’s needs before his, but he does, and he will always want to.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” Geralt repeats, not sure how convincing he is. “Everything I need is right here.”

He just needs Jaskier to be alright. As long as Jaskier is healthy and safe, Geralt doesn’t think of much else.

They stay there like this, in front of the crackling fire on a winter night, with Jaskier warm and tired, resting against Geralt’s shoulder.

The cough won’t go away.

As the days shorten and the chill sets in, Jaskier spends more and more time hacking up a lung, and his energy drains with it. The bad days will leave him exhausted. Even a good day can quickly turn into a bad one with a mere gust of wind.

The night stretches forever near solstice. With daylight waning, Geralt takes up all the gardening to keep Jaskier from the cold. He is just checking on the hydrangeas blooms when the faint strumming of the lute comes from their bedroom window.

It’s been too long since Jaskier last sang.

The coughs leave Jaskier’s voice hoarse, the brightness in his songs diminished by the constant exertion, but his spirit remains. It’s a ballad, a love story, as it always is. Unlike those famous works from his youth singing about heartbreak, this song is about a love that matured over the years. This song sings of quiet mornings and hushed conversations, of secret jokes and companionship.

It’s about them.

Geralt stops to listen as the melody wraps deep around his heart, smoothing over all the tension in his body. He listens as the song comes to an end, fading with the warmth of trust and security.

A cough wrecks Jaskier’s voice. The lute drops to the ground, the strings clanging. Geralt is in the cottage within a few strides, running into their bedroom.

There Jaskier is, perched on the bed, body shaking from another coughing fit, the rattling in his lungs like an old ship.

“I’m—” Jaskier wheezes, trying to smile but only manages a pained grimace. “I’m fi—”

“Hey.” Geralt brings Jaskier into his arms, stroking his back with long, patient movement. “Hush now, don’t speak. It’s alright. Take your time.”

Jaskier ends up slumped against Geralt’s shoulder, clutching at his chest, coughing erratically. The sharp, acrid scent of pain grows as he wheezes. Geralt’s hands act on instinct, soothing, comforting, his lips pressed against Jaskier’s hair in reassurance. None of it seems to help. The coughs pass in time, draining all the strength in Jaskier’s body.

For a moment, he can only let Geralt support all his weight, all his energy focused on taking in one broken gasp after another.

The lute lies by their feet, silent and still.

Geralt feels every slight tremor under his palm. He keeps rubbing Jaskier’s back, knowing he cannot ease the pain underneath. He thinks of the book, of all the medicine in their cupboard.

“I’ll get you something.” Geralt starts to leave, but arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back.

“No, don’t go,” Jaskier croaks, eyes watering. “I’m really fine.”

When he tries to squeeze out a smile, a tear streams down his pale cheek. Geralt wipes it away with a thumb.

“Let me get something for your throat, at least,” Geralt says gently, coaxing Jaskier to release him. His arms are so weak it’ll only take the barest force to push him away, but Geralt can’t bring himself to do it. He hasn’t been able to do it for decades.

Jaskier shakes his head, resting against Geralt’s neck. “In a bit. There’s no rush.” He huffs a small smile against Geralt’s skin. “Did you hear me sing?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Geralt lowers his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes in sincerity. “It was beautiful.”

Jaskier nudges with an elbow. “Such high praise for you. You were the most difficult audience member to satisfy on this continent. Did you even realize? For my entire career, you were always so picky. Can’t be too inaccurate, can’t make you sound too heroic. Had I known dedicated love songs were the way to go, I’d have professed my love much earlier.”

Geralt softens. “It would have saved me a month after that sleeping curse, looking for your one true love.”

When Jaskier looks up, remembering that day, his eyes sparkle with fondness. “But it was you all along, the love of my life who saved me with a simple kiss.”

“Hmm. If only those could cure coughs.”

Geralt hugs Jaskier closer, feeling the thinning of his waist and the sharp edges of his ribs. Something in his chest aches at the overwhelming powerlessness that won’t leave him since winter began.

True love’s kiss saved them from a curse then, but it’s nothing against a fragile human’s mortality.

He hugs Jaskier more tightly, somehow.

“How are the flowers today?” Jaskier changes the subject, sensing Geralt’s melancholy, exhaustion already seeping deep into this voice. “You won’t let me stay outside, and now I miss them.”

Geralt keeps his voice soft. “The hydrangeas are fine. Growing better than last year. We should be able to sell soon.”

“Remember to save some for us. We haven’t kept flowers in the house in a while.”

Geralt hasn’t had the mind to decorate since Jaskier became sick, but he promises anyway. “Of course. The pink ones for your study, blue for our room.”

“The White Wolf has such a keen eye for colors. Who would have thought?” Jaskier teases. “Come on. Let’s stop moping. I haven’t been out of this room all day. Let me at least go out in the garden, lest the plants miss me too much.”

“You make fun of me, but I know you talk to them too.” Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“You rub off on me, dearest, especially when you are being a sweetheart. Plus, they do grow better when you give them some encouragement. I thought I’d try, that’s all. Once I started, it was hard to stop. They are such great listeners.”

“Like Roach.”

“Not as good as Roach, I’m afraid. She’s the best.”

With much dramaticism, Jaskier tries to stand but his legs are too weak. Geralt pulls him up gently, supporting him by the elbows.

Jaskier smiles tiredly, opening his mouth to say something, only to suppress a sudden cough.

It’s a big, violent one that seems to rumble against his chest. Pain flashes across blue eyes that were relaxed a moment ago. Color drains from Jaskier’s face, leaving his cheeks white as a sheet.

Geralt is alert in an instant.

“Jaskier?” All of his senses turn towards Jaskier and every shudder in his breaths. There is nothing outwardly wrong, but the bitter scent of pain spikes, mixed with overpowering fear and panic. Geralt’s hands move frantically, touching and checking everywhere, not sure how to help. “Talk to me, Jaskier. What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jaskier looks like he’s out of his body, confused and unresponsive, vacant eyes fixed on somewhere miles away. He sways, before bending over and coughing up a mouthful of blood.

The crimson color cuts sharply into Geralt’s vision, stark against the paleness of Jaskier’s face. The world rings in Geralt’s ears, a dulled background noise behind the heaving of Jaskier’s lungs.

“G’ralt—” Jaskier’s eyes are round with unbridled fear, much like that fateful day in Rinde all those years ago. All he blindly searches for is Geralt. “Geralt, I…”

Geralt catches his hand, just like that day. He catches Jaskier’s hand, the same fear echoed deep within his ribs, enveloping his heart.

“Jaskier? Jask—”

Jaskier coughs again, spitting out more blood. “Hurts,” he chokes hoarsely. “Geralt, it hurts so much—”

With that, he collapses against Geralt’s chest, legs giving out. His body is light, nearly weightless in Geralt’s arms, but they are brought to the ground anyway. Jaskier’s head lolls listlessly, face scrunched up in pain, but his hand still holds onto Geralt tightly. He holds on as if Geralt is the single most powerful anchor in a storm, as if Geralt alone can keep him afloat when another wave of coughs topples him over.

But all Geralt can do is hold on in return. All he can do is call out for Jaskier helplessly as he struggles to choke in one breath after another.

It’s painfully clear to Geralt what is happening—what he missed. An infection has set in as the cough progressed. He should have recognized this disease and its symptoms. Witchers never fall to human illnesses, but he’s witnessed how many have been taken by it in his century-long life. The white plague, consumption, the names are unimportant, but knowing the danger of it nearly leaves him paralyzed with fear.

There is no cure on the continent apart from magic. Geralt has never been more thankful for the xenovox Yennefer and Triss left for them. For emergencies, Yen said at the time, but the meaning behind the existence of the small box is clear. For when you can’t protect Jaskier. For when you fail him, for when you’ve put him on the brink of death again.

Geralt doesn’t let his voice waver when he calls for Yennefer’s name. He doesn’t fall apart when he describes Jaskier’s condition to Triss, who listens patiently and without judgment. His chest twists with panic when learning the sorceresses are being held up for another two days by local matters, but a cure will be ready before they arrive.

He doesn’t fall apart, because Jaskier needs him, now more than ever. He stays by Jaskier’s bedside and watches as he sleeps.

It’s just that Jaskier is too still when he sleeps.

For two days, Jaskier is confined to their bed, only making a noise when the coughs rattle his lungs. A fever flares up and refuses to come down, making him drowsy all day. When he’s lucid, he can’t keep anything down, throwing up all food and medicine.

There’s a smear of blood on Jaskier’s chin. Geralt wets a cloth to wipe it away. Sweat soaks through Jaskier’s hair, his skin scorching to the touch.

Geralt sits through another night, dabbing Jaskier’s forehead with a cool cloth with little effect. He answers to the incoherent mumbling from fever dreams, but his reassurance is never heard.

“Don’t…leave…” Jaskier’s eyes remain closed, tears streaming down his temples. “I’ll be better… worthy travel companion…”

It’s one of the worst nightmares. Geralt’s heart breaks into pieces as Jaskier calls for a past version of him, begging not to be left behind. He holds Jaskier’s hand near his heart and murmurs his love quietly until the dream passes.

Dawn breaks. Jaskier’s health book lays flat on the bedside table, useless.

Jaskier begins stirring with the sunrise, the shimmering light under the curtains interrupting his fitful rest, so Geralt leans down to press a kiss to his dry, pale lips. Blue eyes crack open. There is so much happiness in the small, tired smile on Jaskier’s face when the first thing he sees is Geralt.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Geralt whispers their private joke.

“Oh…” Despite everything, Jaskier plays along. “You saved me, my brave knight. Now I’m all yours.”

He tries to say more but the cough takes over, shaking his whole body. The violent sound rips through the heavy silence in their home. Phantom pain echoes between Geralt’s ribcage with every wheeze.

Geralt helps Jaskier sit against the pillows and claps his back gently. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, dizzy from the lack of air. Blood stains his lips, grotesque against the paleness of his skin. He coughs until he’s gagging, muscles spasming and trembling all over.

“Yen will be here soon,” Geralt repeats what he’s been saying for the past two days, stroking Jaskier’s hair. “Triss too. They heard my message as soon as I sent it. It’s just something holding them up. They’ll be here.”

Jaskier breathes, and breathes, shivering against the pillows. He takes a sip of water from the cup in Geralt’s hand, and pushes it away, scared of it turning his stomach. “Just need—” he rasps, “just need you.”

“I’m right here.”

Their home smells of pain.

“Just you… No one else.”

Geralt looks away from all the love in Jaskier’s eyes, his trust unwavering. He finds shame and guilt weighing on his breastbone, overpowering and inescapable.

This is all his fault.

“I don’t know what to do, Jaskier.” Geralt wipes the sweat from Jaskier’s brow, patiently explaining. “You are sick, and I can’t make it better.”

Jaskier shakes his head in disapproval. “You make everything better.”

“Not right now,” Geralt nearly huffs. “I’m doing everything I can, but nothing is better.”

Jaskier gives a long, poignant look. His eyes dim in the way that says he’s seeing right through Geralt and finding the most guilt-ridden and self-deprecating part of his soul. It’s the same unhappy look Jaskier gives when he’s ready to give Geralt a lecture about thinking badly about himself.

Jaskier doesn’t give the lecture.

“Have you slept?” he asks instead.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “I don’t need to.”

“Not an answer.” Jaskier sighs, shifting on the bed. There’s so little strength in his body all he manages is lifting the cover by a corner. Even the small movement leaves him breathless, and Jaskier pauses with nearly every word. “You haven’t—haven’t slept for two days. You look awful, dear.”

“I don’t need much sleep. You should rest—”

“Please?” Jaskier rubs his chest pitifully, looking up at Geralt through his lashes. “I feel better when you are next to me.”

It’s a trick, an old one Jaskier uses to make Geralt take care of his own needs. It’s been working since Geralt found himself incapable of saying no to a cheeky bard who wouldn’t stop following him, and it works now, when Jaskier is sick and miserable and all he asks for is Geralt’s presence.

Geralt slips under the cover, curling around Jaskier’s too-warm body.

“I need to bring your temperature down,” he says, mind still alert.

“Shh…” Jaskier only hushes him, humming a contented sound. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll end up with wrinkles like me.”

The crow’s feet at the corners of Jaskier’s eyes bloom beautifully, and Geralt brushes away grey hair to see them. He feels his eyes crinkle in return.

“Sleep,” Geralt whispers. “You need rest. I’ll wake you later.”

Jaskier blinks slowly, exhaustion pulling his eyelids, but he frowns at Geralt. “You sleep too.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Am not.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier drifts off, knitted brows relaxing gradually. He listens to the subtle scratches in Jaskier’s lungs, the fluttering beats of his heart. They are lucky enough that the coughs don’t act up in Jaskier’s sleep.

But Jaskier is too still when he sleeps, too still that, for a moment or two, it looks like the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest have stopped.

Geralt’s breath catches. He blinks, shaking away the false sight in front of his eyes. He stays awake after that, counting Jaskier’s labored breaths, one after another.

It’s the only thing keeping him sane until the familiar sound of a portal appears comes from their living room, Yen’s magic humming in the air.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #old jaskier #sickfic #not sure if people still read my self-indulgent nonsense but here it goes...

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deepdarkdelights · 3 years

Text

Run Little Red (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 7.8k

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Werewolf Namjoon, Stalking, Obsession, Forced Relationships, Blood (Lots of it), Gore, Fear, Panic/Anxiety, Discussions of discovering dead bodies, People going missing, Devious Intentions, Depictions of Guns, Mourning, Wolf Courtship Rituals

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals.

<<Forbidden Fables Masterlist>>

Preview: A calm life in a small village was all you ever knew, your days spent in the bakery and keeping to yourself. You liked the quiet and gentle nature of your life, but one day a wolf stands outside of your window, a stranger arrives, and people begin to go missing. Do you dare don your red coat and enter the forest?

A/N: Hello babes! My fellow authors and myself decided to change up the order of our release dates for our Forbidden Fables Collab! And, since I recently finished this little beauty, I get to release it first. yay! Now I can sit back and savor the delectable writings of my fellow authors 💜 I hope you enjoy Run Little Red it was fun to make! I can’t wait to read the comments and asks 💜

There was a wolf outside your window.

It’s eyes gleaming in the early morning light like molten gold with silver fur that melted into the snow.

You sat up in bed, wrapping your patchwork quilt around your shoulders as you scooted to the foot of the bed. It was staring at you, that much you were sure of. And that startled you, the almost human like appearance to its gaze was intense and unsettling. It was an animal, but it appeared to be far more intelligent than you had first anticipated.

Maybe it was hungry, perhaps that was why it was so intent on peering through your window.

No, it certainly wasn’t, that was evident. What you had missed before was glaringly obvious now, its silver muzzle was stained in red. It had made a fresh kill before it had wandered over to your cottage mere feet from the woods.

So, if it wasn’t hungry, why was it here?

You watched in morbid fascination as its tongue slipped out of its mouth and laved over the fresh, thick, crimson blood that decorated its muzzle. You could see the rows of sharp canines hidden within its maw for mere seconds before the wolf clenched its jaw shut and settled on its hindlegs in the drift of snow.

“My, what big teeth you have.” You whispered to yourself, your voice seemingly louder in the empty room.

You couldn’t help but wonder what it had made it’s meal. Perhaps a deer, or a squirrel, maybe a bird, or even a small, innocent, little rabbit.

That would have been ideal. But, you knew it was most likely one of the poor farmer’s livestock. Your village was small and self sufficient, rarely reaching out to its neighboring villages and rarely receiving visitors of its own. So, when the cattle and the goats began to disappear, only their entrails remaining, the town quickly became suspicious.

It was either one of two things, rebellious teenagers making a hassle for everyone, or a wolf amongst you.

If only you had known what was to come.

You stared back warily out the window at the creature, suddenly realizing just how easily it could bust through your flimsy window if it wanted to. This wolf was probably the largest you had ever seen, it was almost the size of a pony, with long limbs that held thick muscle from the time it spent chasing down its prey. You were certain a simple snap of its jaws would kill you in an instant if it desired to do so.

It’s gaze had not left you, petrifying you to your very spot. You felt like the two of you were playing a game, waiting to see who would be the one to make the first move.

The call of your mother’s voice was the tie breaker.

You rose to your feet, your bare skin brushing over the cool wood of the floor as you retreated through your door, back first.

“Yes?” You replied, angling your neck to the hallway for a moment.

“Hurry, sweetheart! You’re going to be late!” She called back from the kitchen.

The bakery had been in your family for the past three generations now, starting with your grandfather, then your mother, and now you. Your mother was showing signs of her age now, her hands were unsteady and unreliable creating more of a mess than a sellable meal. So, it was your turn now. It was the only thing you could do for her, besides be married off and you weren’t quite ready for that. No one was.

At least that was the gentle way of putting it, in reality you had made yourself quite the social pariah. You were a determined woman, one who liked to keep to herself, one who liked owning the bakery and not having to sign over the ownership to a husband. You had your mother to care for, a business to run, and a grandmother that lived deep in the woods to fret over.

It didn’t really matter what you wanted, you did what was necessary to stay afloat.

“Just a minute!” You called once more before slinking back into your room.

There was a noticeable difference about the space now, the wolf was gone. The only sign he had ever been there being the large dip in the snow that his form had disrupted and a track of paw prints headed into the forest. How strange.

You shook your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts, you didn’t want to think about what you would have to do if the creature returned. The shotgun looming over you from above the front door said enough.

You couldn’t allow a predator to get comfy around your home, that would only invite trouble into your life.

You dressed yourself quickly that morning in as many layers as you could. The walk to the bakery wasn’t a far one, but it was a frigid one. You made sure to wear your wool stockings and your leather boots, the snow looked to be thick and you didn’t fancy the idea of wet feet all day while you worked.

You leaned over the side of your bed, scooping up your bag and throwing the keys inside of it in one motion. The extra sleep you had gotten the night before had cost you the time you needed in the morning to ready yourself.

Once you gave yourself a quick look over and ran through your mental checklist, you rushed out of your room and into the main room of the house. Your house was more like a cottage, it was incredibly small. With only your mother’s room, your room, and the kitchen in one corner with the fireplace in the other it made for a quaint and cozy home. Albeit a cramped one.

“Your breakfast is on the table.” Your mother said, smoothing a stray hair behind her ear with trembling hands.

You could see her cleaning up the mess she had made that morning in an attempt to show you kindness. Normally, you were the one to wake early and prepare the both of you for the day ahead. But she had also told you many times before that she was your mother and she was supposed to take care of you as well.

You eyed the bowl of steaming porridge that sat upon the rickety table. “I don’t think I’ll have the time to eat it.”

“Then you’ll make the time.” She huffed, wiping a wet rag over the counter in two swipes.

“I shouldn’t have overslept.” You sighed, resting your bag on the floor as you took a seat.

“You needed the rest, dear. You’re up every morning at the crack of dawn and you don’t come home until nightfall. You don’t need to work that much.” She chided you, smoothing her hands over your hair in a fond manner.

“I do, for you and for Grandmother.” You reminded her. The cost of living was not cheap.

“And what about you? You should be spending time with people your age, not working yourself to the bone.”

“I don’t need anyone but you, and Grandmother.” You smiled before sipping at your spoon quickly, hissing as you burned the tip of your tongue in your haste.

“Youth is wasted on the young.” She chided under her breath, spurring a giggle from your throat.

You finished your food as quickly as you could before excusing yourself from the table and heading for the door.

“Your cloak, dear!” Your mother called as you pulled the door open, the chill of the snow seeping into your bones.

“Yes, mother!” You chirped with an amused roll of your eyes as you curled your fingers around the crimson fabric of the cloak. Your grandmother had made it herself two winters ago, as much as you loved it and her you had to admit it was a tad ostentatious and you weren’t exactly one for attention. But it was warm and it served its purpose well.

The door creaked shut behind you, squeaking softly as it settled back into the frame. The snow had fallen much higher than you had previously anticipated. You tightened the ties of your cloak and delicately flipped the large hood over your head before gripping your layers of skirts and hiking them up as you began your journey.

It was rather slippery that day, you couldn’t restrain the slight squeals that fell from your parted lips each time the heel of your boot found a patch of ice and sent you sliding. You were certain you should have caught the attention of a few passerbys, but to your surprise a large group of them had become preoccupied.

There were about fourteen of them, all in one great circle fervently discussing something. They seemed to be worried, panicked even. It had caught your attention now that the group was made up mostly of men excluding the butcher’s wife and daughter. Both’s cheeks were stained red, their eyes brimming with unshed tears as they held onto each other tight in the crisp air.

Your face tensed in confusion as you approached the bakery, the group not too far away from you.

“Oh, poor Sarah.” A tender voice cooed worriedly from next door. It was the tailor, she and her apprentice were stood outside, thick shawls wrapped around the both of them.

You occupied yourself by rifling through your leather satchel, pretending to look for the shop keys you held in that very hand. You knew that eavesdropping wasn’t very polite, but you also were the curious sort, and that curiosity demanded to be satiated.

“Don’t worry, miss. I’m sure they’ll find him soon, you know how the young ones are.” The apprentice said, her hand resting on the tailor’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“It’s not like William though, he’s a sweet boy. It doesn’t make any sense for him to go up and missing at the crack of dawn.” She replied, her dark eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I just find it funny is all, that a stranger shows up here the same day that Sarah’s boy disappears.”

“Coincidence isn’t evidence.” The apprentice hummed, pulling her shawl tighter around herself as she began to back up against the shop door, aggravated by the chilly air. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, with a search party that size he’ll be back home in no time.”

With that, you finally retrieved your “missing” keys and unlocked the door, sliding into the safety of the bakery. You knew William as well, he really was a sweet kid...to most. Your heart did go out to Sarah though, you didn’t know the pain of a missing child but you could empathize. The sight of her broken face remained burned into your mind as you readied the shop, lighting the hearth and preparing your materials to start your first batch of bread for the day. Your late start was going to nip you in the behind, most of the women arrived by noon to get their first pick of goods and the two hours it would take to make your batches was going to loom over your head the entire time.

You were mid kneading your dough when the familiar tinkle of the bell above the shop door demanded your attention. You paused for a moment, your aching arms thanking you for the short reprieve. Almost immediately your breath was caught in your throat. You had been expecting one of the regular mothers wandering their way in, or perhaps even one of their children running errands. Not this man that stood before you.

This was most obviously the stranger the tailor had been referring to moments earlier, there was no mistake. Your village was small, everyone knew everyone and this stranger looked nothing like any of the people in your town.

He was so much taller than anybody else, broader too. But most astonishing was his pure silver hair and the deep honey shade of his eyes. You had never seen anyone as young as him with hair that light, it surely wasn’t grey, the shade far too bright to be mistaken with something that dull. He was damn near ethereal and unfairly attractive. His looks had almost distracted you from his attire but now that you were paying attention, he was severely underdressed for the weather. He had to be freezing cold.

“Hello, can I help you?” You asked softly, patting your hands against your apron to remove the excess flour from your skin.

He had a rather confident stance, like he was the owner of the shop instead of you, you who was slightly cowering and thrumming with anxiety.

He sent you a wide grin, his teeth were pearly white and for some unknown reason that sent your heart crashing into your stomach. You could have sworn they even looked slightly pointy at the ends, not unlike those of the creature you had seen outside your window that morning. You had almost been distracted by the sweet dimples that rested in his cheeks. What duality he had.

He tilted his head back slightly, peering down at you from above, “Hm, I’m looking for something sweet.” He hummed.

“Sweet?” You mumbled to yourself, resting your hand on your hip in thought.

“Oh! I made some sweet rolls yesterday, how about that?” You said with a snap of your fingers, retreating further into the shop without a response from him.

Now in work mode you busied yourself with preparing the stranger’s order. You couldn’t help but wonder why he had arrived, what his reason for being there was. Barely anybody passed through your village, and they certainly didn’t stay as long as he had.

Once you had retrieved the tray of rolls you set them on the counter before grabbing a pot of freshly warmed icing and gently drizzling it over top. Once each roll had been thoroughly coated, you set the pot aside and headed to the cupboard to retrieve a bag for them.

“Perfect.” You sighed in irritation, craning your neck back to see the top of the shelf.

Normally, you had endless amounts of bags and never needed the ones stored on the top shelf. But this winter had been far more difficult than past ones and your stock had not been refilled in quite a while.

Desperately not wanting to search for your wooden stool, you stubbornly resorted to balancing on the tips of your toes, your fingers just barely brushing against the material of the bags. You groaned in frustration, bouncing up slightly only to knock the bags back further on the shelf and worsen the ache in your shoulder.

Just as you were about to give up and resort to looking for your rickety stool, you felt a hand settle on your waist and a chest press against your back as the stranger reached up and grabbed the bags for you. He was incredibly warm, so warm you thought he may even be sick. He felt as warm as the heat emanating from a fire of fresh coals and that was incredibly alarming, but also explained his state of dress.

You flinched in surprise as you felt him set the bags aside and settle his other hand on your shoulder. It was deathly quiet, the only sounds being his slow, steady breaths underlying your panicked ones accompanied by the calm rise and fall of his chest against your back. You had never been this close to anyone before, it was incredibly uncomfortable.

You felt much like a rabbit, cornered, panicking, and believing that if you stayed still enough he wouldn’t see you and would go away.

He gently rested his forehead against your hair, nuzzling from side to side before reaching up and playing with a stray strand. You could feel him taking a deeper breath this time, humming softly like he was pleased.

“Sweet.” He mumbled to himself.

Oh. Oh, no. Who did this man think he was? You were not on the menu. You shuddered in fear before jerking away, smacking his hands off of you.

You turned on your heel, backing away from him as you fixed him with an annoyed glare. The look he gave you was one of clear confusion, a layer of hurt and frustration buried beneath.

“I’m not sure how things work where you come from, but normally you ask for permission before you go touching someone you don’t know.” You huffed, slamming the empty bag on the counter as you began to package the rolls.

It didn’t matter if he was attractive or not, you were not going to let him touch you as he pleased or get the wrong message that you weren’t even conveying in the first place.

The stranger rounded the counter, the block of wood effectively separating the two of you, making you feel a little safer. His eyes looked darker than before, less like honey and more like amber.

His confident demeanor had returned, effectively confusing you even more.

“Forgive me,” He said, another smile gracing his lips as he rested his forearms on the countertop, “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot? My name is Namjoon, and yours?”

So, he did have the capability to be somewhat of a gentleman. He was rather well spoken, and his strange mannerisms and quiet demeanor had all but disappeared in a flash.

So, begrudgingly, you replied with your name.

He repeated it after you, his tongue swiping over the full flesh of his lower lip like he was tasting it, sending a chill down your spine.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, you were correct in assuming where I come from we do greetings a little differently.” He said with a soft chuckle, his amber eyes tracing every movement you made.

You did feel a little bad now for how you had lashed out at him. Normally, you weren’t one who was quick to anger, but that still didn’t excuse what he had done.

“It’s alright,” You said, slowly, “You need to be more careful though, if that had been anyone else I don’t think you would have gone unscathed.”

“Are most of your people so quick to violence?” He asked, titling his head slowly, a strong sense of intrigue exuding from his form.

“I wouldn’t say so normally, but we’re all a little on edge as of late. Our livestock has been attacked and just this morning one of us went missing.”

“Missing?” He asked, a new glow to eyes.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The butcher’s son hasn’t been seen all day, it’s very unlike him.” You said, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, unsure if you should tell him more. But, considering it concerned him you felt maybe it was in his best interest to tell him.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around for too long. Some find it suspicious you turned up the same day that William went missing.”

“And what if I don’t feel like leaving just yet?” He asked, disregarding the information you had just given him as if he had no reason to be worried.

You had no answer for him, truly you didn’t. The packaged rolls sat between the two of you and a long stretch of silence as he stared at you and waited for a response that didn’t come. And, without another word, he dropped a few too many coins on the counter, gathered up the bag, and headed for the front door.

He stopped for only a moment, his fingers gently stroking at your red cloak you had hung up beside the door. His amber gaze trailed over each stitch as he lightly grazed the material a few more times.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, little red.”

~~~~~~~

After he had left, your day had not gotten any easier. Just as you had expected, it had been another busy day. You had managed to satisfy all of your customers, despite that late start you had made.

There were a few upsides to the job you had, one being that it allowed you to tune into any gossip you would normally miss out on. You were more of a hit with the older women of the village, the people your age finding you to be a tad strange and off putting.

That day your shop had been filled with hushed whispers of what had come to pass, the search party still had not returned from their trip to recover William. The outlook was not in the boy’s favor, not with the increase in predator activity you had been receiving as of late. You weren’t so sure you would be seeing William walking back into town any time soon.

Once the day had come to an end, the sun dipping just below the tree line and casting shades of red over the snow, you had extinguished the lights of your shop and were locking up, your hood drawn over your head. That was when you found out the horrible truth.

As you slid the shop keys into your bag and turned on your heel, you saw the search party emerging from the woods. And with them, you could see a blanketed form lying in the snow, the sheet swaddling the body slowing turning red.

You swallowed harshly, turning as quickly as you could and beginning to make your way through the snow and away from what you knew was coming. You didn’t want to see the look on Sarah’s face, you didn’t want to watch her go boneless in the arms of her husband. But it didn’t matter what you saw or didn’t see, you would never forget the sound of her screams piercing the crisp, snowy air.

Your breath was visible in hot puffs in front of your face as you felt the burn of tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. It didn’t matter if you didn’t care for William, it didn’t matter if you knew what he was really like, there was nothing quite like the sound of a mother’s heartbreak. It was enough to send anybody down to their knees.

Your numb fingers wiped away the warm tears rushing down your cheeks, and amidst your blurry vision you could have sworn you saw a familiar figure slinking off into the woods, a flash of silver hair that just barely materialized. You could have sworn that that was Namjoon disappearing like a ghost into the frigid depths of the forest.

You shook your head, you shouldn’t bother yourself with what he was doing, your main goal should be getting home before the sun completely dips below the horizon and plunges you into darkness. So, with that thought, you rushed home.

Once you entered the cottage, things didn’t get any better. Your mother was stood there, waiting anxiously for your arrival. As soon as you had stepped foot inside she whipped the door shut and helped you remove your cloak as you toed your boots off.

“No more working late, do you hear me?” She said, gripping your shoulders to get you to look at her. “It’s not safe out there.”

“Word travels fast then?” You asked humorlessly.

“It’s a shame what happened to that boy, and I’ll be damned if that happens to you.” She replied sternly.

“And what about Grandmother then? What do we do about her? She’s out there, all alone, with no one to protect her.”

“She has the lumberjack-”

“And he only checks on her every two weeks.” You interrupted, “Let me go out tomorrow and bring her back to us. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Your mother bit her lip, her hands shakily settling on her hips as she thought to herself. “I’ll go with you then.”

“No, you can’t possibly think you’ll be able to make the trip. The snow is thick and it’s a long walk there, you’ll exhaust yourself. It’ll be better if I go, faster too.” You said as you approached the fireplace, raising your hands to the flames to warm them.

“And your grandmother, you think she’ll be able to make it back through the snow?” She probed, raising her eyebrow.

She had a point, if you were saying she wouldn’t be able to make it there how would you expect your grandmother to make it back with you?

You rested your hand on the back of your neck, pacing the floor and causing your layers of skirts to swirl around your ankles. You came to a sudden stop, your eyes settling on the shotgun that was mounted above your front door. Idea.

You didn’t like the thought of her being out there all alone, but if you knew she had something to protect her from the wild animals that would make you feel much better.

“Alright, what if I bring her some supplies instead? I’ll grab some things that’ll last her a good while and I’ll show her how to use the shotgun. I’ve saved up some money of my own, I could purchase us a new one.” You mused out loud.

You loved your grandmother, she was the last living member of your father’s side of the family, she was the only connection you had to him at this point. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing her just yet, not when you could prevent it from those creatures that were beginning to terrorize your people.

Your mother was silent once more, her thumb settled between her lips as she nervously chewed at the nail. She didn’t like the idea of you headed out into the woods alone, but she was comforted by the thought of you taking the shotgun with you, that much you were certain of.

“We don’t know when the next storm will hit, and the last thing we need is for her to be stuck out there, all alone, with no food, surrounded by the wild. Let me go.”

And that was enough to break her resilience.

“Promise me, promise me that you’ll come back.” She whispered, her body visibly sagging as those words left her lips.

“It goes without saying.” You murmured, wrapping her up in your embrace.

It was easier this way, you didn’t want to make a promise you had no certainty in keeping.

The air in the cottage had lost all tension, everything was much calmer than before. But your peace could only last for so long. It was when you entered your bedroom that you realized something else was wrong.

The room was positively frigid, and upon further inspection you realized that your window had been pried open, the cold winter air surging forth and snuffing out any traces of heat.

You surged forward and grasped the window, attempting to swing it shut as quickly as you could to try and insulate whatever warmth was left. But the thick scent of copper quickly stalled your movements. Instead of closing the window, you found yourself leaning forward into the brisk air, sniffing intently as you tried to make out where the scent was emanating from. You didn’t have to look far.

Your hands sealed themselves over your mouth, smothering the scream that threatened to break through them.

Sitting in the snow where the wolf had once laid, was a human heart. The snow seemed to sizzle around it, the organ still warm and slick with blood that carved rivers and valleys into the pure ice.

You could feel bile rising up your throat, your vision shaking so violently it made it appear that the heart was vibrating with steady pumps like it was still alive.

And, to your horror, you could make out a form a few feet back in the snow. The only thing that was visible in the pitch black were it’s molten gold eyes, shining back at you in recognition before it scuttled away into the darkness.

You frantically slammed the window shut and drew the curtains closed tight.

There was no mistake now, someone or something had been following you.

~~~~~~~

When you awoke the next morning from a restless sleep, you elected to keep your discovery to yourself.

Although you were incredibly frightened by what you had seen, the last thing you needed was to scare your already frail mother. Your grandmother was still in need of assistance, and you couldn’t allow your mother to halt your plans. You had a mission to accomplish, and you were set on completing it with a shotgun slung over your arm and a picnic basket on the other.

So, you shakily grasped your red cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders in haste, your fingers struggling to do up the ties at the base of your throat. Once you had completed the normally easy task, you slipped your basket onto the inside of your elbow and pulled down the shotgun from its resting place above the door.

You regularly cleaned it, a task your father had enjoyed teaching you at a young age, so you were certain it wouldn’t jam if you needed to use it in a hurry. You slid a box of ammunition into your pocket, one for you, and another box into the picnic basket, one for your grandmother.

And then you were off, bidding your mother goodbye with a hug and a swift kiss to her cheek, and an unspoken promise tittering on the edges of your lips saying that you would be home for supper. But those words were better left unspoken.

The sun was just barely peeking through the thick clouds overhead, you were certain a blizzard was brewing. This only urged you to move quicker through the cleared paths.

But the clouds weren’t the only foreboding message that morning, it was the mother’s wailing in the town square. There were three more now, holding each other in a comforting manner as they wept into each other’s shoulders.

More children had been snatched from their mothers.

Sarah sat by herself, of her own volition, an obsidian mourning veil obscuring her tear stained features. A chill ran down your back as you urged yourself to walk by them quicker, she looked more like an executioner than she did a mourner, surrounded by a choir of weeping women.

You could still hear the echoes of her cries in the back of your mind, the raw chords striking your ears once more.

You tightened your grip on the strap of your shotgun, your pace slowing as you reached the bridge that led you into the forest. You felt like you could breathe now, despite the knowledge that people your own age had lost their lives in the thick overgrowth before you. The relief that you felt from the women in the square outweighed your fear.

The bridge creaked in protest as your boots tapped against the wood. It would need to be repaired come spring.

“Little red!” A voice called from the treeline causing you to suddenly stop, snow kicking up beneath your boots.

Moments later, a familiar figure emerged from the frost coated trees, tall, ash hair, and honey eyes. Namjoon.

“Where are you off to, little red?” He cooed, his voice low with a sultry edge that sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t tell if they were delighted or terrified chills.

“My grandmother’s, what are you doing here?” You asked, your body tense and defensive.

He drew nearer now, a wide grin gracing his lips with a set of teeth so white they resembled the snow beneath your boots. The closer he got the more you noticed about him. His perfect white teeth seemed a little sharper than most, and the clothes he wore were once more, not suited for the frigid weather.

“I caught sight of this old thing,” He hummed, his finger tracing over your cloak and the strap of your shotgun as he slowly circled you, “And couldn’t help but see you.”

You stepped back hesitantly, his presence was unnerving. Without saying anything more you pulled away from his reach and began to walk by him briskly, headed into the woods.

“Leaving so soon? We only just met.” He laughed, it would have been a nice contagious laughter had you not heard the bitter edge to it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to dawdle, Namjoon. I need to reach her before the storm hits.”

“Well then, won’t you let me accompany you?”

“I don’t need an escort, I know my way just fine, thank you very much.”

“And what about the beasts then?” He asked from beside you, sending you halting to a stop.

“Beasts?” You asked slowly, gazing up at him from beneath the cover of your hood.

“Well, surely you know?” He asked in a patronizing tone, his honey eyes narrowing. “Four people from your village have gone missing, red. Surely you know that wasn’t an accident. Great beasts have roamed this forest for centuries and they don’t take kindly to intruders. It would be much safer if I came with you.”

You stood there for a moment in silence, contemplating his words. He was not wrong, two people were much safer than just one.

So, begrudgingly, you accepted his offer.

His hand quickly captured your own, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pressed his side tightly to your own with a grin. How bold. You were struck once more by the fact that he was incredibly warm, it was no wonder why he wasn’t bundled up like you were. It felt like he had struck a fever.

Namjoon filled the silence between the two of you surprisingly well, telling you stories of the great beasts that roamed the woods, effectively scaring you and holding your attention. He had a way of speaking that drew people in, like a siren from the stories your father had read to you.

It was easy to forget with him, easy to forget why you had been frightened in the first place, easy to sink into his side as his warmth seeped into your flesh, and easy to get lost in his voice.

That was of course, until you felt him pulling you off of the path.

You dug your heels into the snow, tugging at his hand violently. “Namjoon!”

“Yes?” He asked.

“What are you doing? Her cottage is this way, we stay on the path, we never leave the path.” You said, gesturing towards the dirt pathway beneath the two of you.

That was a spoken rule in your village, never go off of the path.

“That’s ridiculous,” He chuckled, “If we continue the way you were going, that doubles the time it takes to get there, it’s better we take the shortcut.”

“No.” You sternly said.

“And why not?”

“Because, there’s predators out there! Mountain lions, bears, wolves!”

A mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of his lips, “Are you scared of wolves, little red?”

“I’m scared of anything that wants to eat me.” You replied with a dry tone.

“Well you do smell very sweet-”

“Namjoon!”

He took a deep breath, his eyes darting between you and the shortcut. “I promise you, nothing will hurt you while I’m here. Besides, did you know some flowers bloom in the winter?”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I am, there’s a field of flowers this way, all different breeds that bloom in the dead of winter. Don’t you think your grandmother would enjoy those?”

You chewed at your lip uneasily. He knew exactly what to say to make you question your own actions. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to see what he was talking about, and you knew that yes, your grandmother would be elated by something so cheery in the bleak winter months.

So, after a few moments of consideration, you agreed.

And Namjoon had not been lying. After a few minutes of trekking through the deep snow the two of you emerged into a clearing, and just like he said, it was filled with flowers of all different breeds.

You found yourself crouching down into the field, your fingers trailing over each velvety petal that had somehow found a way to survive in the clutches of an icy death. Your favorites were the deep red roses. They were a dead match for your cloak, a beautiful color that was delicately dusted with soft flakes of snow.

You couldn’t help but greedily pluck several blossoms from the foliage, slipping them into your basket.

And, amidst your excitement, you hadn’t noticed just how close your companion had gotten until you felt him. That incredible warmth had returned as he crouched down behind you, and just like he had in the bakery, you felt him lightly nuzzling your head and breathing in your scent as he pressed himself closer to you, his arms winding around your body in an attempt to pull you even tighter to him.

You froze, your finger mid pull on the rose’s stem causing you to slice the appendage on a stray thorn. You hissed in pain as you watched the blood drip from the tip of your finger before rolling down your wrist and carving a pool into the snow beneath you.

And, without a thought, Namjoon’s hand encircled your wrist and yanked it up to his face.

His once honey eyes appeared brighter than before, his long lashes fluttering as his warm breath misted over your skin. And before you could stop him, he licked a line up your wrist, collecting the blood, and pressed your finger to his lips swiping his tongue over the wound.

You yelped in surprise, wrenching your hand free from his grip as your heart pounded violently. You rose to your feet and stumbled backwards through the snow.

Namjoon remained where he was crouched, a sudden hunger evident in his honey gaze, a gaze that was not so unfamiliar.

“We-we need to go!” You stuttered, turning on your heel and retreating from whatever had just happened.

You held your hand close to your chest as you walked, frightened by what had just transpired. A part of you suddenly wished you had made your journey alone as you had previously intended.

But the harsh crunch of snow behind you reminded you of the choice you made, and the molten glare digging into your back exemplified it.

~~~~~~~

The rest of your journey was made in complete silence, a new tension had settled between the two of you. And, true to Namjoon’s word, the way he had taken you was indeed a shortcut. So, you felt no remorse as you sprinted toward the cottage ahead of you and threw a weak thank you over your shoulder.

You couldn’t stand the awkward tension anymore, you couldn’t stand being in his presence any longer than you needed to.

As soon as you approached the front door, you threw it open and let it shut behind you. You leaned against the door for a moment to catch your breath before you shrugged the shotgun off of your shoulder and strung it up on the hook beside the front door.

“Grandmother!” You called as you began to approach the kitchen door, “I’m here!”

And upon opening it, a blood curdling scream broke free from your lips.

The sight before you could only be described as a massacre. Your hands desperately tried to cover your eyes, but the damage had already been done. There was blood, so much blood amongst other things laid out atop the counter.

You fell backwards, your body sliding down the wall as hoarse screams raked through your throat. The unmistakable scent of blood was thick in the kitchen sending your stomach churning in your gut. You knew that scent, it was clear as day whatever had remained in that room had once been human.

“Sweetheart?” A familiar voice called out to you.

And upon opening your eyes, you saw your grandmother standing before you. The sudden feeling of elation surging through your body at the sight of her alive quickly died out. She wore a leather apron stained with blood, both fresh and old, and her hands were gloved. You quickly stood and began to back away from her, your sense of self preservation suddenly kicking in, your eyes zeroing in on the meat cleaver she held in her left hand.

“Sweetheart, calm down.” She whispered softly, carefully setting the blade down on the counter beside the gorey mess.

Your eyes were darting everywhere but her, panicked breaths leaving your parted lips. Your gaze finally settled in the corner of the room where a pile of clothing sat and a familiar axe. The lumberjack, she had murdered the lumberjack.

“Why?” You cried, trembling as if you had been drenched to the bone. “Why did you do it?!”

“I had too sweetie, I have to feed them.”

“Them? Who?” You asked, backing out of the kitchen as she followed your trail, her face soft with sympathy despite the flecks of blood that decorated her cheeks.

“The wolves, of course. I made a deal with them long ago, if I fed them in the winter I could stay here.” She replied, her voice alarmingly calm. “The lumberjack was a sweet man but this winter was a rough one, not many travelers I’m afraid.”

“You’ve gone mad.” You whispered.

“I know this is a lot to take in, but it’s best if you listen to me darling. Your grandfather was one of them, he courted me and then we had your father and your uncles. It’s always tricky with litters, you never know who is going to take after who. Your father though, he was the most human out of all of them. Poor thing couldn’t even shift.” She sighed, her eyes glazing over.

“You need help, you’re not well.” You tried again, doing your best to keep distance between the two of you.

“I know you’re a bit shaken up, but you need to listen to me, it’s in your best interest.” She sighed, untying the leather apron from around her waist.

“That cloak you’re wearing, it’s a symbol that you’ve come of age and Namjoon has had every intention of courting you. He’s been rather obvious really, he’s becoming quite frustrated with you.”

You suddenly became still, your mind flashing through every time Namjoon had ever touched the very item you were wearing. What she was saying, although deluded, had some semblance of truth.

“I-I have to go.” You mumbled, your throat tightening from the copper scent and smell of flesh that hung heavily in the air. You needed to get home and far away from her before she killed you too.

A deep sadness spread over her features as her head hung low, shaking from side to side. “Don’t run,” She breathed, “They find the chase seductive.”

All this time you had been slowly backing away from the person you loved the most, and now you had been stopped by the feeling of a solid form behind you. You quickly spun around, a shriek of horror escaping you as you met the bright, gold eyes of your escort, Namjoon.

And, without thinking, you ran.

Your cloak was fluttering behind you rapidly in the harsh, cold winds, the snow coming down thicker than it ever had before. And, to your absolute horror, a loud howl was echoing throughout the trees.

You peered over your shoulder as you sprinted to the best of your ability through the snow drifts. The wolf that had sat outside your window days before had returned and was chasing you down. Now that there was nothing separating you from the creature you were terrified, it was massive and hunting you down. It had the clear advantage, you were inevitably going to die. You were never going home again, another child was going to be ripped from their mother.

Tears were pouring down your cheeks like waterfalls as you blindly ran, unsure as to where you were going. You knew that you didn’t have time, four legs were faster than two and you were greatly impaired by the weather.

With no goal in mind, no destination in sight, you ran in hopes you would be able to live for a little longer. You did your best to weave between the trees, slide down hills of snow, and keep running for your life. Your lungs burned and your legs ached but still you ran, even as you heard the loud steps of the wolf coming nearer and nearer.

And, just as you had lost all hope, an outcropping of rocks became visible at the base of a snowy hill. And with every intention to save your life, you recklessly threw yourself down the hill allowing gravity to take over for you.

The second you felt yourself cease rolling, you rose to your unsteady legs and dizzily stumbled into the cluster of rocks, pulling yourself into the shelter away from the blizzard.

But your hope was fleeting as you came to a realization. The shelter was a den, one that had clearly been in use. It was littered with furs, blankets, books, and materials for a fire. The creature had been corralling you to this very location.

You turned as another burst of adrenaline shot through your body only to be stunted by the sight of the silver wolf blocking the exit to the den.

It’s bright eyes stared back at you with a gleam of satisfaction as it crouched down, shimming it’s way into the den and backing you up further into its depths.

You watched, horrified, as the wolf began to whimper, it’s body shaking violently as the sound of bones beginning to snap and crunch echoed throughout the space, reforming and distorting themselves into vaguely familiar shapes as it’s fur began to melt away.

Those bright golden eyes faded to a recognizable honey shade, and the silver fur disappeared and showed itself as ashen hair. On the floor of the den sat Namjoon in the place of where the powerful wolf had once stood.

He carefully rolled his head from side to side, his neck cracking loudly in response as he rose to his feet. A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips, a triumphant gleam to his eyes as he confidently approached your trembling form.

A broken cry escaped from your throat as you felt him press his forehead to your own, lightly nuzzling his head against yours. His strange behavior now made sense, he had been courting you in a way that was unfamiliar to you, but natural to him.

All of the people that had gone missing were male’s your age, he had been wiping out the competition.

And the bloody organ he had left outside of your window, had been a horrific present. A show of his dominance and his twisted affection.

You were crying uncontrollably now, everything you had experienced suddenly crashing down on you. You flinched in terror as you felt his fingers grip your jaw, his lips just brushing against your own and he hummed happily.

“You have nowhere left to run, little red.”

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animatorweirdo · 2 years

Text

Undying devotion

(Inspired by an scp - 1111 the white dog. This will have two more parts, so this is not a oneshot. Also gender neutral reader)

Warnings; blood and a lethal injury, dying and also mentions of other people dying.

Finrod x reader

Dying is a scary concept. Especially when you weren't able to live your life to the fullest, but nothing is more terrifying when someone or something won't allow you to have such a thing.

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

You were letting out rapid breaths as you run through the woods. Your body was scattered with injuries and bruises. Your eyes were swollen with tears. Your right hand was holding on to your neck as you tried to navigate through the thick fog your eyes were unable to see through. Your fingers tried to keep the cut on your throat shut, but the blood had made your neck slippery and dressed in red. It was also burning from the inside, and you were coughing blood after blood, Tearful gasps escaped your mouth as you tried to get some air, your eyes burned with more tears. It hurts

You yelped when your foot caught onto something and made you fall. Your body slammed against the mossy roots of a tree, and the jolt caused all the bruises, and your neck sting with agonizing pain. You coughed blood like a river, and now the cut on your neck was wide open to the world. Whimpers left your mouth as your body twitched and your vision of the world slowly faded. You crawled to rest against the tree you fell on. You laid your head against your hands as you slowly suffocated on your blood. You sniffed one last time, knowing what was coming for you. There was no escape from it. Death was near.

Moments of your life flashed across your eyes, and then you shut your eyes. I'm sorry, Eric. I didn't make it.

You opened your eyes because you wished to see the fading world you lived in one last time, but then something caught your eye. A blurry figure of a canine with pure white fur appeared in your sight. It sent a jolt of horror into your heart.

"No! Please let me go!" You gasped out, reaching your hand toward it, but then you couldn't breathe. Your body began twitching. Your mouth was flowing with blood, and your mind was then clouded with fog. "Please..." The silent whisper left your mouth as you lost sight of everything.

It was now nothing but darkness.

----

An elf with locks of gold yawned as he and his companion rode together on a single road. "I can't wait to get back home and take a nice warm bath," Finrod stated. "What would you like to do when we get back home?" He looked at his companion. "I think I go back on checking those reports and deal with possible threats outside the city," His companion explained. "Edrahil, my friend, you should relax a bit. This trip to visit my sister was quite long, and we're barely at home yet," Finrod said. "My lord, even though; I wish to take time off, there are still a lot of things to do," Edrahil explained. "Edrahil, you have done a good job for keeping Nargothrond safe. I think you should take some time off," Finrod smiled. "I feel flattered for your concern, but I rather continue protecting our city than letting its safety fall upon the hands of the sons of Feanor. I mean no offense, but I don't trust them that much," Edrahil stated. Finrod chuckled. "Well, Celegorm and Curufin can be obnoxious company," He said, he then noticed a village up ahead of their road. "How about we take a break at that village?" He asked. "If you wish, my lord," Edrahil said. The two continued forward to the village.

Finrod stroked his mare's neck as it drank water along with Edrahil's steed. A fond smile dressed his face as his animal companion refreshed itself. "Have you heard?" The dog got one of them again," His pointy ears perked up when he heard that from a couple of men passing by. "Who was the unlucky soul this time?" The other man asked. "I don't know, but from what I heard. The slaughter was brutal," His friend said before they walked out of Finrod's earshot. A dog killed someone?

His attention was caught by two ladies chatting at a nearby food stall. "I don't understand why they keep trying. If the dog doesn't want anyone near the body, then it should be left alone," The elderly lady stated. "But I heard the body moves and twitches like it's still alive," The younger one of the two spoke out. Still alive? A dog is protecting a dead body, and the body might be still alive?

"Hmm... interesting," Finrod said, thinking for himself. "Is something the matter, my lord?" Edrahil asked when he heard his lord mumble. "I will be right back," Finrod left, approaching the two ladies. Edrahil watched in confusion.

"Hello there," Finrod caught the ladies' attention. "Sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear something about a dog and a half-dead person," He said. "You don't know?" The elderly lady questioned. "It has been like this for a couple of days already. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it," She said. "Well, could you please enlighten me, milady?" He asked with a pleasing smile.

The elderly lady scoffed, rolling her eyes. "A dead person is lying at the roots of a tree at the north side of the forest. No one knows where they came from, but we know that the dog will not allow anyone to approach it," She started. "The dog?" Finrod questioned. "Yes. A large dog with snow-white fur and eyes like blood," She explained. "Eyes like blood?" Finrod tilted his head. "The reddest eyes you have ever seen," She said. "I have seen it, and it was like looking at a creature more terrifying than an orc," She said with shudders. Finrod nodded, picturing the dog in his mind. White fur and red eyes. That's a rare color combination, but he can't imagine a harmless creature like a dog killing a man.

"People tried to approach the body for a proper burial, but then the dog turns aggressive and chases away everyone who dares to approach it. Some tried using force, but then they ended meeting their early grave," The elderly lady explained. "It already took five young men. Today it took the life of one of our elders because he thought he could tame it," She explained. "Hmm..." Finrod thought about it. The dog must be powerful if it's able to kill six people. But why is it protecting a deceased person?

"But what about the body?" He asked. "Some people are saying they have seen it moving and twitching, so no one is sure if the dead person is alive or dead," She explained. "I haven't seen it, so I don't believe it, because how can you survive when your neck is split right open?!" She questioned. Split right open? Finrod burrowed his brows. So the person died by cutthroat, but they might be still alive? This piqued his curiosity even more.

"Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. If you want to go see it for yourself. Go to the northside of this village. You might find some people there," The elderly lady left with her friend. "Right, thank you for your time," Finrod gave them a polite smile before they left his sight. Edrahil has been listening by his side. "What do you think?" Finrod asked. "I honestly don't like the sound of it," Edrahil said. "Well, I'm curious. Let's go see this dog and the half-dead person," Finrod stated. "Is this wise? I'm not saying the lady was exaggerating, but it didn't sound so real?" Edrahil questioned. "I guess the only way to find out is to go and see it for ourselves," Finrod said, then walked toward the north side of the village. "Come on, my friend," He called out. Edrahil inhaled before shaking his head and following his lord with a bad feeling in his mind.

#finrod x reader #edrahil #silmarillion x reader #dark #death #finrod imagines #silmarillion #silmarillion imagines #silm fic #scp - 1111 #middle earth #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien #finrod

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Note

I have decided that there might be northern lights visible so high up in the mountains. I have Also decided that it might have (rumored or real) magical effects. Maybe around a very special time of the year. And that would be a lovely time and place and activity for a date! For any pairing 🥰

This will be short they say.. It won’t take long they say... Will I never learn? Have just under 900 words of wintery Geraskier fluff. ❤️

_________________________________

Jaskier was curled up under several furs in Geralt’s room and having the most wonderful dream about his lover’s really quite glorious….

“Jaskier!”

He groaned and rolled over, grasping at the empty space where Geralt should have been. He propped himself up on his forearms and glared at the sheets. Geralt couldn’t leave him too long at night in the cold winters of Kaer Morhen otherwise he’d freeze even under the furs.

“Get back in bed, you big lump,” he grumbled and buried his face into the furs.

Geralt didn’t answer. Instead Jaskier was pulled from his warm haven and slung over Geralt’s shoulder, which gave him a rather lovely view of his bottom, but that was not the point.

“Oi!” He cried “Geralt! Get off! It’s the middle of the fucking night!”

Geralt hummed and dumped him on the floor before throwing his thick teal woollen cloak into his arms. “Put this on and be quick.”

Jaskier scoffed and pulled on his cloak followed by his hat and gloves. He trailed after Geralt through the stoney corridors of the keep, climbing the stairs up to the roof. “I thought I wasn’t allowed up here.”

“Because you will fall and break your neck,” Geralt smirked at him, pulling him into a side hug and kissing his temple.

Jaskier preened under Geralt’s affection and then shoved his hands under his armpits. It was bitterly cold and they weren’t even outside yet. Geralt was going mad, it was the only explanation. They could have been wrapped up in bed together but nooooo… No Geralt had finally decided Jaskier was allowed to know the secrets of the great witcher keep. Geralt finally paused at the top of the ladder just beneath the hatch. He was buzzing with an excited energy that Jaskier had never seen on his lover before. It was contagious and Jaskier returned Geralt’s smiled with delight.

“Ready?” Geralt asked, his golden eyes glimmering from the flickering light of his torch.

Jaskier nodded, confused by Geralt’s sudden clandestine behaviour. Geralt chuckled and disappeared up onto the roof without a word. Jaskier rolled his eyes with a drawn out sigh. People liked to think he was the dramatic one but really Geralt could be just as bad; if not worse. He scrabbled up the ladder in the dark and then gasped as he finally made it outside. He stared in wonder at the sky above him, barely even looking at his boyfriend as he helped pull Jaskier through the hatch. The worn tiles were slippery and covered in ice. As predicted Jaskier’s foot caught some ice and Geralt had to catch him but he still couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sky.

Bright lights were dancing and swirling above him in waves of magic. Geralt smiled warmly up at them as Jaskier turned to face him. Geralt’s hand was wrapped around his wolf medallion and the other one was still holding Jaskier’s hand tightly. The waves of light were bouncing off Geralt’s silver hair and he looked absolutely ethereal.

“Geralt….”

Geralt squeezed his hand. “It only happens at the Solstice.”

Jaskier’s breath crystallised in front of him and his nose was beginning to sting but he never wanted to leave. It was beautiful, magical, enchanting. Oh the ballads he could sing, two lovers clutching each other on the top of the highest mountain as the skies lit up above them.

“No one knows why, not even the sorceresses of Aretuza. There were old witcher tales that said the lights would bless those who were undergoing the mutations, help us survive. They said it’s why our medallions react.” Geralt brought Jaskier’s hand up to his medallion and sure enough the little wolf was vibrating steadily in Geralt’s palm.

“It’s beautiful….” he sighed

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed and gently bumped their foreheads together. “Another fairytale says the lights bring lost souls back together, guide them home in the darkness. We used to get pilgrims to Kaer Morhen for Solstice before the siege, young couples hoping that the lights would bless their unions and bind them together.”

Jaskier was speechless. That was more than Geralt had ever told him about his history as a witcher and the trials they had faced. He cupped Geralt’s cheek and rubbed their noses together. “They are absolutely divine, my love, but I’ve never needed some silly lights to tell me that I love you before.”

Geralt chuckled as he brushed his lips against Jaskier’s in a chaste kiss. “It would be wise not to insult things you don’t understand, Jask.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I know that I love you, that’s enough.”

He pulled Geralt into another kiss, letting his lover’s breath warm his icy lips as he gripped onto the fabric of Geralt’s cloak. Geralt’s arms wrapped around his waist and Jaskier sighed happily against Geralt’s lips. He may have laughed but this was ever so romantic and it made him want to sing. Instead he settled for kissing Geralt underneath the dancing flashes of light in they sky, Geralt’s medallion thrumming between their chests as they pressed up against each other.

Two lovers together under the spirits of Kaer Morhen; a blessing indeed.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #established relationship #kaer morhen #northern lights #wolfie's witcher writing #winter prompts #i'm a bit tired so sorry for any mistakes!#dapandapod

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cavalierious-whim · 3 years

Text

Whelp (FE3H)

Sylvix | Pre-Game | Canon-Compliant AU | Teen

It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate. But Sylvain's not just a wolf, he's also a boy, and all he wants to do is enjoy his youth.

----

A/N: So let's consider this: Crests aren't a boon, they're a curse. What's it like to live with that? This is the first in a collection of stories called 'Of Crests and Curses'. The storyline is that of the game, which is why I've tagged it Canon-Compliant AU. Read here on AO3 for better quality! And follow mere here on Twitter.

----

It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate.

A boon, gifted to the bloodline by the Goddess. Nearly feral with rage and born to ravage the battlefield as beasts, the Gautier family see themselves as harbingers of death: if you meet one in battle, then you’ve met your end.

Time wears on and views change. The Gautier blessing is now a blessing only to their own. The rest of the world whispers of a curse instead, carefully concealed behind titles and lordship. Those who carry the burden are nothing but beasts, bred to bring death and destruction upon their foes, relishing it.

The Margrave Philippe Alexandre Gautier has a reputation to uphold. He’d done his duty for King Lambert, loping across enemy lines and battlefronts, and then later, he’d held the North against Sreng. He still holds the North against Sreng.

But, Philippe’s reign of terror is regrettably over; his bones ache a little bit more with every shift, and his nose isn’t good for much nowadays.

Miklan is a disaster. He’s got the bloodlust required of a Gautier but no crest to match it. Phillipe frowns at the mere thought. It’s a pity. Gautier men need that bloodlust, they thrive on it, but the beast is also required to temper it. When left alone, it’s more like gunpowder, prone to exploding when you least expect it. A careful balance is required.

There’s a scream from the other room and his head snaps up, fighting the instinctual urge to go be with his mate. Not quite a man and not quite a wolf, but that deep-seated connection thrums through his heart. The midwife won’t let him in and he does his best to maintain hope.

And so, Phillipe waits, pacing the long corridor of the Gautier fortress. Even in the summer months, Gautier can be frigid, the bitter cold seeping deep into the stones of his home.

Eventually, the screaming stops. The midwife opens the door and Philippe slips in quietly. There isn’t any crying, but his wife doesn’t look distressed. She holds a bundle close to her, her face tired and red and sweating.

When Philippe peeks into the folds of the blanket, he sees fur, wet and sticky, a deep auburn red.

“A crest,” says Philippe to his wife. “Our--” He pauses and waits, looking back to her, his tongue-tied.

“Son,” says his wife, her voice raspy from hours of crying out. “Our son has a crest.”

Pride swells within Philippe as he takes the bundle from her breast. Their son is a small thing, his eyes still closed. His maw is wide open, pink, and toothless gums on display. He’s the most beautiful thing that Philippe has ever seen.

But more importantly, he’s the most useful.

“There are big plans for you,” Philippe says, petting the downy fur at the crown of his son’s head. “Big plans indeed, my precious Sylvain.” Philippe pulls the boy closer so his son can learn his scent.

Yes, incredibly useful indeed.

If there’s one thing that Sylvain Jose Gautier can’t resist, it’s a good tail wag.

Well, that’s a lie. He also loves a really good smell, the kind that sticks in your nose all day. Or a really good cut of steak, tender and juicy and more on the raw side than not. Okay, so, there’s a lot of things that Sylvain loves and it’s too hard to pick just one, so he’ll try to enjoy them all, he thinks.

Fraldarius Manor isn’t as large as his home, but it’s busier. Servants bustle to and fro, guards stand here and there, and there’s a massive assortment of sights and smells and noises and--

Sylvain knows that he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but his foot twitches, ready to explore. Small as the manor is when compared to the Gautier Fortress, there’s not a doubt in his mind that it holds more secrets than he could ever sniff out. He’s excited to try.

There’s just one problem.

Before Sylvain can even turn to him, his father reaches out and grabs the back of his neck firmly. He doesn’t have a scruff in his human form, so Sylvain winces. Not painful but it doesn’t feel great, and Sylvain resists the urge to wiggle out of his father’s grasp like a slippery little snake.

“Sylvain,” says his father in a hiss. “Quit your fidgeting.”

Sylvian whines in response, but it only causes his father to grip a little bit harder. He’s not angry, Sylvain thinks. It’s just a warning, Sylvain tells himself. Sylvain doesn’t get very many warnings.

“Duke Fraldarius is meeting us here at the entrance and he’s bringing his sons. Be on your best behavior.”

“I don’t want to meet his sons,” says Sylvain, lips pulling into a terse frown. He wants to sniff out things, to explore, to get stuck in tight little places. He’s got a sense of adventure that itches to be scratched, nearly as bad as that one time he’d gotten fleas as a toddler.

“You will,” says his father, his grip pinching. Sylvain doesn’t whine this time, his mouth snaps shut in a grimace. It’s better to not show pain, to just put on a brave face and bear it. Finally, his father lets go with a sigh. “There’s plenty of time to satisfy your curiosity later on. Until then, behave. We are Gautiers. Act like one.”

Act like one. Sylvain huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Familiar words that he’s tired of hearing. Sometimes, Sylvain feels as though it’s the only thing that his father knows how to say. Gautier, this, Gautier that. Gautier boys are expected to hold the north and strike down their enemies.

Gautier boys are expected to do a lot of things that Sylvain has no interest in.

He doesn’t want to strike down any enemies, he wants to find that delicious grilled meat whose smell is stuck in his nose. Besides, there aren’t any enemies here at Fraldarius Manor. His father has spoken at length about the Duke and his kin. The Fraldarius family has long since been framed as something to both admire and admonish; their loyalty to the crown is unmatched, but also their downfall.

“Watch them carefully and learn,” said his father one night. “Learn from their drive and then their folly, and combine that with our strength. You will be unstoppable, pup.”

Servants of the Fraldarius household watch him and his father warily, skirting around them with a wide breadth. Their guards aren’t nearly so feared, but then again, they aren’t wolves. Sylvain had once asked his father about it.

“They know what we are, and so, they fear us,” said his Father. “As they should.”

Sylvain doesn’t want to be feared but he’s got little control over it, so he makes do. He’s ten and has other things to worry about, like the way that mud squishes between his paws.

Duke Fraldarius takes his time to greet them, but eventually, the double front doors open wide. The duke is a rat-like looking man, with thick and wavy hair, but a thinning goatee. A tall, slightly gangly teenager treks behind him, and their group is rounded out by a boy who looks younger than Sylvain.

They all have wild, wavy dark hair, but the boys have theirs tied back and out of their faces. The older boy looks tired but stands alert, and the youngest hides behind him, grabbing onto his thighs as he sneaks a peek.

“Philippe,” says the Duke with familiarity. He steps forward and they clasp hands, and for the first time in years, Sylvain sees his father smile the slightest bit. They must be actual friends. Amusing. Sylvain has always thought his father had none.

“Rodrigue,” says Sylvain’s father. “Thank you for having us.”

“Nonsense,” says the Duke. “There’s more than enough room and coming here is easier than traveling to the palace.”

Sylvain’s father nods. “When does his Royal Highness arrive?”

The Duke lets out an annoyed huff. “I have no idea. The King does as he wants, which includes showing up late.”

“So he’s late, then?” The Margrave laughs. “And Count Galatea?”

“Nearly here,” says the Duke. “The Count will be bringing Ingrid of course, to spend time with Glenn.”

Sylvain can’t help the face that he makes when he hears that. He’s never met Glenn or Ingrid, but his father has spoken of their betrothal before. Sylvain risks a glance at the older boy that stands before them. This must be Glenn. Sylvain’s not sure what he expected, but the somber-faced and weary teenager that stands there isn’t it.

He looks boring.

“How is the arrangement going?” asks the Margrave.

“Well, I would think.” There’s a pause as the Duke casts a glance in Sylvain’s direction. “I wish you luck in your efforts, of course.”

At his words, it’s as if his father finally remembers that Sylvain is there. He reaches out and presses his hand against Sylvain’s head, ruffling his hair. “I have no doubt,” says his father. “After all, Sylvain possesses a crest and good breeding.”

The Duke’s little smile twitches slightly at that, but then he nods in agreement. “Let’s lead you inside then and get you settled. We’ll talk about such things later. I’m sure you’d prefer some rest.”

“I’d prefer to explore,” says Sylvain before he can stop himself. His father’s smile slips and Sylvain can nearly smell the annoyance that radiates off of him.

The Duke, however, looks genuinely amused by this and before the Margrave can reprimand Sylvain, he says, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Glenn, as it turns out, isn’t boring at all.

The Duke had asked his sons to give Sylvain a proper tour of the place, but the moment that Rodrigue had turned his back, Glenn cocked his head to the side, gave Sylvain a wide smirk. “I bet that’s not what you want to do at all, is it?”

Sylvain likes to explore and Glenn likes to pull pranks and cause mischief. The two of them together are a hellish pair and they’ve barely begun their antics.

“So, what about your little brother?” asks Sylvain. They’re skirting around the eastern edge of the manner, Sylvain walking atop a parapet with Glenn following alongside below him.

“Felix?” asks Glenn. “What about him?”

“He’s not here?”

Glenn lets out a long and deep laugh straight from his belly. “Felix would never,” says Glenn. “Not unless Father made him. He’s too much of a crybaby.”

“A crybaby?” Sylvain then remembers how Felix had hidden behind Glenn’s legs. “How boring.”

“I pray to the Goddess every day that he’ll grow out of it,” says Glenn. “What’s the point of having a little brother if you can’t wreak havoc together?”

Sylvain can’t imagine. Glenn cares for Felix, something that Sylvain’s never seen in Miklan. Miklan only has curses and balled fists for Sylvain, and he’s learned the hard way that it’s easier to run and hide than try to play.

But then, Sylvain’s reminded of his father’s wish to befriend the boys. He opts to smile wide at Glenn and not think of Miklan. “I’m not your little brother, but I am younger than you.”

Glenn shoots him a smile back, but it’s a little more lopsided and a lot more conniving. “Want to go cause some mischief?”

“Not really,” says Sylvain, “I smelled some grilled meat earlier that I have to find.” He pauses, giving Glenn a knowing look. “But you know, if you want to cause some problems on the way there, I won’t say anything.”

Glenn reaches out to nudge his cheek affectionately. “I knew that I liked you the moment I saw you. Come on then; I’ll show you where Meryl’s stall is.”

“Meryl?” asks Sylvain.

“Meryl,” confirms Glenn. “Only the best cook in this entire complex. No doubt it’s her food that you caught a whiff of.”

Glenn leads him along the western side of the grounds. It’s not like the Gautier Fortress which is all cold stone and even colder weather. Fraldarius Manor is warmer and brighter, part stone and part wood, and bustling with activity. It’s like two different worlds, but Sylvain already loves it here because there’s too much to see in just one day.

And Miklan isn’t there, which is a bonus.

“You said that you’d smelled it,” says Glenn. They’re watching the stall from afar, leaning against a column. Trying to look inconspicuous. Glenn succeeds rather well, but Sylvain fails to capture his ease, looking awkward instead. The servants find it cute, giggling softly as they walk by.

“Smelled what?”

“The meat.” Glenn waves to the stand. “We’re not exactly near the entrance gate.”

Sylvain’s mouth parts slightly. “Oh, that.” He shrugs. “It’s part of being a wolf, I guess. I have a really good sense of smell.”

“Wait, the wolf thing is literal?”

“Haven’t you read the histories?” Sylvain frowns. His father’s made him practically memorize entire books; centuries of stories about Gautier men and women leveling the battlefield as Death incarnate.

You know, typical bedtime stories.

Glenn watches him for a moment, hand on his chin, thinking. Then he says, “I’ve always assumed that it was more of a metaphorical thing.”

“What’s metaphorical ?” asks Sylvain. Glenn laughs.

“Don’t worry about it, pup,” says Glenn in jest.

Sylvain makes a face. “Ew, no, don’t call me that. That’s what my father calls me.”

“All right, all right.” Then, Glenn gives him a mischievous grin. “Hey, I know how good your nose is, but how good are your stalking skills? You know, getting down low and sneaking up on prey?”

“As good as any wolf’s,” Sylvain says, sticking out his chest haughtily. It’s a lie. Sylvain hasn’t gotten a lot of practice in, but he wants to impress Glenn.

“I’ll distract Meryl while you sneak up and grab a couple of meat sticks grilling over the coals.”

“Wouldn’t she just give them to you, if you asked?” Glenn is the Duke’s son. There’s no way that the vendor wouldn’t just comply with his request.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Sylvain shoots Glenn a conspiratorial glance in return. He decides right then and there that he likes Glenn, and wishes he were his big brother instead. Maybe Felix will want to be his brother too.

Sylvain hasn’t met a lot of girls in his short life, but he’s fairly certain that most aren’t like Ingrid.

He’s read books, both fiction and non-fiction. Girls and women have their place within packs. Sylvain thinks of his mother, lovely and demure, always dressed nice and smelling like flowers. Quiet unless she’s spoken to, with kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The only person that his father genuinely loves, most like.

And then there’s Ingrid, a wild child covered in dirt and dust, smells like sweat, and whose eyes gleam with a challenge. She wears trousers like a boy, she wields a wooden lance, and she curses like a sailor when Glenn knocks it from her grip.

Sylvain’s mouth falls open in surprise. Ingrid’s only a year younger than him and at nine, she shouldn’t say such things. But Glenn doesn’t mind, shooting her a menacing little wink, and Sylvain is certain that he’s figured out who she learned such words from.

It’s not that women in the Gautier family don’t fight, only the wolves do. And there hasn’t been a female crest bearer in the Gautier line for decades. Ingrid isn’t a wolf, therefore seeing her in the training grounds with the rest of them is a bit of an adjustment.

Sylvain learns that he likes things that are a little different, though. His father drones on and on about propriety and the way that things are supposed to be, but Sylvain only finds expectations to be confining. He longs for the freedom to be himself and do what he wants.

He knows he won’t have long to enjoy it.

“What’s he staring at?” asks Ingrid rudely, and Sylvain realizes that she’s talking about him.

“You,” says Glenn, unapologetically. “And all those sticks in your hair.”

Ingrid gasps, running her hands through her blonde locks, but when there are no sticks, she lets out an annoyed shriek, throwing a rock at Glenn. Glenn throws his hands up and runs the length of the training yard, Ingrid chasing after him.

Not for the first time over the last few days, Sylvain wonders what it’d be like to have a brother like Glenn in his life.

And then, Sylvain thinks of Felix. Glenn had told him that Felix was a crybaby and scared of everything. Sylvian’s barely seen the boy-- once or twice, and the moment they lock eyes, Felix hides away again. Behind Glenn’s legs, behind their father, around a corner or even running from the room entirely.

Sylvain frowns. Crybaby indeed.

“Ridiculous, chasing each other around like that.” Sylvain turns to his father who stands beside him. The Duke is on his other side.

“Philippe, it’s harmless,” says the Duke. “They’re children.”

“It’s never too soon to learn manners.” Sylvain’s father gives him a pointed look. “Take Sylvain for instance. Always properly behaved. Always an example.”

Sylvain hides a smile behind a cleverly placed cough. The Duke smiles at him, just a little quirk of his mouth. So, maybe he hadn’t hidden his smile well enough. Rodrigue then gives Sylvain’s father a disappointed tut. “I’ll say it again: they’re children. Let them enjoy themselves. Eventually, they’ll answer the call of duty and they’ll never have time for fun again.”

Sylvain’s father huffs at that. “There’s no room for fun when you’re a lord.”

“There’s a little bit of room for it,” says the Duke, measuring a small gap between his fingers.

“You sound like his Royal Highness.” The Margrave sighs wearily. “That’s not surprising though.”

“His Royal Highness knows how to balance work and family.”

“Speaking of family, where is Felix?” asks the Margrave.

“Ah, Felix,” says the Duke. “Off hiding, no doubt.”

“Hiding--”

“It’s nothing, really,” says Rodrigue. “He’s young yet and he’s shy. It’s as simple as that.”

“Sylvain used to be shy.”

“Used to be?”

“We fixed it.”

Sylvain’s not smiling anymore. Instead, Sylvain’s thinking of kneeling on his knees for hours on end during his father’s meetings, listening to political talk. He’s thinking of reciting lines and missed meals when he’d cowered before another adult. Not really in fear, but overwhelmed by smells and sights and sounds.

He’s not overwhelmed anymore. Sylvain’s learned to tune things like that out.

Sylvain thinks about what his father likes to say.

“It’s not a matter of whether you want to, it’s that you will. Until then, it’s on your knees.”

Sylvain tells himself that his father isn’t cruel, that this is just the way of the wolf, but the older gets the less he believes. Just like Miklan. Sylvain knows that it’s not normal to throw fisticuffs at a boy half your size and age.

But if he tells himself that it is, it’s easier to pretend.

The Duke’s gaze slides from his father to him, and his lips tug downward slightly. Sylvain thinks that Rodrigue is good at reading people, and maybe he sees more of Sylvain than Sylvain wants him to.

“I’ve been thinking,” says the Duke, “What if Sylvain came to stay with us during the summer? He would be exposed to a different part of the court and different advisors. He could spar with Glenn, and perhaps even Dimitri. Spread his legs, as it were. And, it would give you and Amelie a break; I daresay you haven’t had one since your boy was born.”

The Margrave considers this for a moment so long, that the Duke continues.

“It might be good for Felix. He has no one else his age aside from the prince. And I know that you’re all about opportunities.”

“Perhaps Felix can come to the Fortress and spend winter with us, then. We’ll make it an exchange.”

The Duke considers and then nods. “I’m amenable to that.” They shake on it, a strange gesture that Sylvain’s come to learn as a show of good faith.

Except, anything that concerns his father is rarely in good faith.

“Sylvain,” says the Duke, snapping him back to attention. “Why don’t you go off with Glenn and Ingrid? I’m sure that you can learn something.”

Sylvain wrinkles his nose at the mention of Ingrid, mostly because girls are gross and Ingrid is the grossest of them all, but anywhere is better than being here. So, he scampers off.

Sometimes, Sylvain forgets how natural it feels to be a wolf. He spends so much time as a boy walking awkwardly on two feet, that he forgets the relief of sinking his paws into the soft earth.

And you know, claws are pretty neat too.

“Sylvain?” hisses Glenn when Sylvian pads around the corner. Glenn had told him to sneak out from his room half-past ten for some late-night fun. He hadn’t been expecting Sylvain to show up like this.

Sylvain runs a circle around Glenn’s legs. He’s the size of a large pup, not fully grown into his paws. Long and lanky legs, massive pads, and a head that’s just a little bit too large for the rest of his frame. He’s got growing left to do. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as he beams at Glenn.

“Are you smiling? I think you’re smiling. Oh, that’s a little weird.” Then Glenn pauses, pointing down the corridor. “I’ve already got Ingrid waiting around the corner.”

Ingrid doesn’t like dogs, Sylvain learns, but she’s not afraid of them. It’s just that she prefers horses. Ingrid relaxes a little when Glenn explains that he’s Sylvain, and then her eyes narrow as though she realizes how odd it is that he’s a shape-shifting werewolf.

She keeps a solid three feet between the two of them at all times.

Glenn doesn’t have much of a plan aside from wandering the manor grounds. “Even though it’s been nearly a week, there’s still a lot that I want to show you,” says Glenn as they round a corner.

“Glenn?” The three of them freeze at the sound of Felix’s voice, and Glenn shoots Sylvain a panicked look.

“Change!” hisses Glenn, shaking his hand at Sylvain. “Change back!”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Felix must be afraid of dogs. Or animals. Or anything, really. And, while his wolf form feels as natural as the moon high above them, he hasn’t quite mastered shifting back.

Sylvain had once asked his father if they were human or if they were a wolf, and his father had only laughed, citing that it was a ridiculous question. They were human, of course, gifted the boon of Death. Sylvain had told him that being a wolf had felt better, and his father had given him a weird look before a feral smile covered his face entirely.

Then, Sylvain’s father had quoted some archaic Gautier family motto and promised him the Lance of Ruin upon adulthood.

Sylvain snaps to attention, trying to pull his human side forward. He imagines standing on two feet, unbalanced and awkward. He thinks of blunted teeth and a shorter tongue, and a dull sense of smell. He blinks, pulling forth those feelings, urging his body to shift back into place. His bones creak and he pants.

It’s not a fun transition and it’s slow going.

“Sylvain,” warns Glenn, which spurs him into action.

Sylvain’s a boy again the moment that Felix rounds the corner. He’s wearing a loose shirt, half-tucked into a pair of trousers. His hair is tousled but his eyes are awake and alert.

“You’re playing without me,” accuses Felix, cheeks pink and eyes narrowed right at Glenn.

“Felix, it’s late,” says Glenn, rubbing at his neck sheepishly. He shoots Sylvain a look that’s half relief and half worry.

“Ingrid’s here. We’re the same age.” Felix pouts and Sylvain finds it adorable. Not that’d he’d ever tell him that; Felix might be a scaredy-cat, but being perceived as one is his biggest fear. He tries to bluff, playing it cool. Especially around Glenn.

“Ingrid is--” But Glenn doesn’t finish, because Ingrid kicks him in the shin.

“If you say that I’m special, I’ll kick you again.”

“But you are--”

Ingrid kicks Glenn again and Glenn lets out a groan of pain. Sylvain winces because he knows that she packs a punch, even with her tiny size. Not that Sylvain’s much bigger. Felix rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“A brute, isn’t she?” asks Sylvain in jest, leaning toward Felix.

Felix moves toward Glenn in response, half hiding behind his leg. Sylvain sighs. Felix knows Ingrid, he’s used to her because of her betrothal to Glenn. Sylvain’s still new to him and Felix is a boy that likes the well-familiar. He doesn’t like change.

Glenn sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t planning on babysitting tonight--”

“You said you wanted to play,” says Sylvain.

“And I do, but three against one? That’s a little unfair.”

“Then we’ll just explore,” says Sylvain. “That’s what I wanted to do anyway.”

Glenn thumbs his chin and then cracks a smile. He ruffles Felix’s hair, and then Sylvain’s, and then he presses a dainty little kiss against Ingrid’s knuckles. She makes a face and mimics vomiting in response.

“Exploring it is then,” says Glenn. Then he leans over slightly, his tone pitching soft. “It’s too late to be out of bed though, so we’ll need to keep quiet, alright?”

Ingrid’s eyes flash at that. “Beyond the gate then?”

Glenn shoots her an impish smile. “Beyond the gate,” he confirms. “Just a bit. Should be fine if we all stick together.”

Felix is the one that looks troubled. “Glenn, we’re not supposed too--”

“That’s the point, little brother.” Glenn gives Felix a steady look, brows raised. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to go back to bed.”

“No!” The three of them shoot Felix a look after his outburst, and Felix fidgets behind Glenn’s leg. “I’ll be fine,” he then says bravely, face held high and pert little nose in the air.

Glenn shuffles them to the front gate, a finger held to his lips. He’s on good terms with the gatekeeper, chatting a few friendly words and then slipping a few gold coins into his palm. Then the gatekeeper winks at the kids before turning a blind eye.

Ingrid and Sylvain bounce on their heels, but Felix walks rigidly beside Glenn.

“There’s nothing out here to be concerned about. We’re close to the manor,” says Glenn, ruffling Felix’s hair once more.

“It’s--”

“Spooky,” cuts in Ingrid, a delightful little grin spreading across her face.

“I was going to say that I wasn’t scared.”

“It’s alright, you know,” says Ingrid, matter-of-factly. “Glenn will protect us.”

Glenn does, not that it’s hard. The three of them are eager to enjoy their outing, so they play by the rules and keep close to his side. They don’t go far, barely dipping into the trees. They chase each other around, digging underneath rocks and even climb low-hanging limbs.

Even with his dulled senses, Sylvain follows the smells of the wild, his heart beating wildly. He’s entirely unused to the freedom of exploring. While his father actively encourages his wolf, he also keeps him on a tight leash. Ingrid inches closer to him, seemingly having forgotten that he’s more wolf than man, asking him what it is that’s caught his attention.

Felix still shies away when Sylvain tries to engage, albeit with a brave and determined face. He even meets Sylvain’s gaze head-on.

“Glenn’s read me the stories, you know,” Felix says. “I know all about your family.”

“Our fathers think we should be friends.” Sylvain nearly laughs at the way that Felix’s nose crinkles in response. “They are friends themselves.”

“Ugh. Who’d want to be friends with my father?”

Sylvain does laugh this time. “Who indeed?” Rodrigue seems nice at a glance, so different than his own. Sylvain can’t imagine the Margrave with a friend; he barely sees him with his mother. Felix doesn’t come closer or say anything else, but he doesn’t go to hide behind Glenn either.

When they slip back through the front gate, the Duke and the Margrave are waiting for them. Rodrigue stands with his hands clasped behind his back, but there’s a soft hint of a smile on his face, amused.

The Margrave isn’t amused. He stands there tall, arms crossed over his chest and his face hardened into a frown. Sylvain winces at the sight; his father had already been in a sour mood and this will only worsen it.

Glenn stands tall and says, “Father--”

Rodrigue holds up a hand. “Out late I see, and with the others in tow. I hope that your little adventure was fun?”

Glenn’s mouth snaps shut and he nods. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ve played my share of games when I was younger,” Rodrigue says, “but never the night before Royalty is due to visit. I usually waited until Lambert was here.” A pause. “Are you trying to get out of your duty tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” says Glenn.

Rodrigue watches him for a long moment and then sighs. “Phillippe,” says the Duke, turning towards Sylvain’s father. “What are we to do? Extra training? Perhaps a proper spar with Dimitri?”

Glenn turns a little pale at the suggestion and Sylvain doesn’t understand the hesitation. Training with the crown prince doesn’t seem like a too-terrible punishment. Sylvain thinks of worse ones, looking to his father.

He’d rather a bout with the prince.

“You can handle your sons,” the Margrave says, leveling Sylvain with a stern gaze. “I’ll handle mine.”

“They were only having fun. Nothing too egregious, surely.”

“Propriety is still expected,” says Sylvain’s father. “There’s much to be expected from the heir of the Gautier line.”

“Phillippe,” says the Duke quietly, “perhaps--”

“I will handle it,” repeats the Margrave.

Rodrigue drops the subject and nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to impose.” There’s a pause before he continues with, “My boys will extra rounds in the field tomorrow with Dimitri. You should send Sylvain.”

“Rodrigue,” warns Sylvain’s father.

The Duke turns to Glenn. “Boys, off to bed. Ingrid, you too. I’ll speak to your father in the morning.” He turns to take his leave but then stops to give one last look at Sylvain. Hesitating. But, in the end, all he does is big them a good night.

The moment they’re alone, Sylvain’s father lashes out and grabs the back of his neck roughly, like he would his scruff. Then he tugs Sylvain along, back to the rooms where they’re staying.

His father loves him, Sylvain tells himself. He tries to think of those good moments; being taught how to shift. How to sift through scents and recognize a pack. How to track your prey.

The worse memories always weed their way in, though. Punishments that bend the will, but don’t entirely break it. Just enough to crack the slightest bit under pressure. Like Sylvain kneeling against raw grains of rice.

Or throwing him into the ring with Miklan and coming out with bruises instead. Miklan likes to hit and Sylvain isn’t quite fast enough to always avoid him.

Eventually, his father deems the lesson learned and Sylvain rises on tired limbs. He brushes the rice from his knees as his father calls a servant to come to sweep them up. Sylvain goes to bed, legs aching, but not nearly as busted as he feels.

Your father loves you, he thinks. Your father cares. This is how he teaches.

The older he gets though, the emptier the words feel.

Dimitri is a short little thing with blonde hair styled into the world’s worst square-cut bob. He stands there in the training grounds, feet shuffling awkwardly as he holds a wooden training lance in his hands. Glenn reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Sylvain shoots the crown prince a smile and a wave, and Dimitri returns the gesture, a small smile on his lips. He’s the same age as Felix and a few years younger than Sylvain, but unlike the youngest Fraldarius boy, Dimitri isn’t terrified of everything.

He’s just reticent about sparring.

“Glenn,” says the Prince, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“I agree,” says Glenn bluntly. “The last time we sparred with each other, you broke my rib. I’d prefer the dummies just as much as you.”

Sylvain gapes at the idea that Dimitri could have landed such a hit on Glenn. Dimiri is smaller and slim when compared to the wiry muscle of Glenn. And it’s not that the elder Fraldarius boy is that much older or larger, but he’s more honed in his ability.

Not to mention it’s Glenn’s job to protect Dimitri, not the other way around.

Felix watches the lot of them, standing closer than usual. He and the prince seem to get along well. Ingrid, on the other hand, watches Dimitri through narrowly slitted eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re holding it wrong,” says Ingrid, pointing to the lance.

“Oh,” breathes Dimitri, changing his grip on the practice weapon, fingers tightening just the slightest bit. There’s a sudden crack as the wood splits between his palms, and Dimitri’s left holding to splintered pieces of teakwood in each hand.

Sylvain’s mouth drops open in surprise, but everyone else seems to have expected it.

Glenn sighs. “Well, better the lance than me this time around, right?”

“This is why I prefer the dummies,” says Dimitri, resigned. He motions for a new lance.

“Glenn, put him in the ground,” says Ingrid none-too-lightly. She’s always rooting for Glenn and Sylvain suspects that she doesn’t find their betrothal as gross as she likes to pretend.

“He’s the prince,” hisses Felix, leveling her with a disgusted look.

Ingrid sniffs. “Put him in the ground, please,” she amends. Then she rolls her eyes. “It’s your job to follow him loyally. I’ll talk about him however I like.”

“Ingrid,” says Glenn, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

“Your highness--” starts Sylvain.

“Dimitri, please,” says the prince. Then he looks at Glenn. “Glenn, do we have to?”

Glenn winces, looking off to the side where his father sits in the shadows. Sylvain’s father is there too, sharing a pot of tea, his dark gaze penetrating as he watches on. Waiting. Expecting. Sylvain swallows thickly.

“It’s a punishment,” sighs Glenn. He rubs at the back of his neck. “We snuck out last night.”

Dimitri looks a little put-out. “You couldn’t wait until I arrived?”

“Well, the plan was to sneak out again, but I think that’s been speared in the foot.” Glenn pauses, eyeing the new lance in Dimitri’s hands warily. “Just keep it below the neck and above the belt, okay?”

Sylvain snorts out a laugh, Felix turns bright red in the face, and Ingrid looks between them utterly confused. Girls, Sylvain thinks.

Sylvain and Felix stand off to the side, watching Glenn and Dimitri stand opposite each other in the center of the field. Glenn isn’t afraid, but he’s hesitant, and once the match is started Sylvain sees why.

Dimitri hits hard without meaning to, seemingly unable to hold back his strength. Sylvain’s watched Glenn spar with others over the last few days, but never quite like this. Glenn usually charges into the fight, blade raised and mind focused, calculating several moves ahead.

With the prince, however, he’s on the defensive, dodging to the side and trying to avoid a glancing blow. You broke my rib, Glenn had said earlier. There’s power behind Dimitri’s sloppy swings and now Sylvain can see just how he’d managed it the last time he and Glenn sparred.

Ingrid looks annoyed that Glenn is only blocking hits instead of giving them, her mouth tugged into a disapproving frown. Felix watches, enraptured. Sylvain knows that he wants to be a knight just like his father and brother. And, just like Felix who’s read about the Gautier family, Sylvain’s read about his in turn.

The Fraldarius’ are born and bred to protect the crown. Felix is no exception.

Finally, Glenn sees an opening and lashes out. Dimitri skids to the side, barely avoiding a glancing blow. He retaliates, sweeping his lance to the side in an arc-- and entirely misjudges his move.

Dimitri trips over his own feet, stumbling slightly. His lance swings wide, flinging towards Sylvain and Felix. He doesn’t see the two of them, preoccupied with finding his footing and narrowly avoiding Glenn.

Sylvain doesn’t think as he feels his bones shift and change, as instinctive as the rough howl he lets loose. One moment he’s a boy and the next he’s a wolf, his coarse fur ruddy under the midmorning sun. He darts forward and grabs Felix by the hem of his shirt and yanks him back with his teeth.

Felix tumbles overtop Sylvain. Everyone in the training yard freezes: Glenn’s eyes are glued to Sylvain. Dimitri stumbles in the opposite direction upon the sight of Sylvain as a wolf. Ingrid stands before Glenn, high-alert like she’s the one who’s going to protect him instead.

And then there’s Rodrigue and Sylvain’s father, the Duke pulled to the edge of his seat, mouth parted as his gaze flashes to Felix, worried. Because he knows that above all, Felix is a crybaby and scared of everything. A ticking bomb, really.

Sylvain’s father doesn’t seem angry, he seems proud, smug even, like the speed of Sylvain’s shift had pleased him. It’d been second nature, Sylvain acting entirely out of instinct.

He sits back on his haunches, heaving heavy breaths. Waiting for Felix’s inevitable yowling. But it never comes. Felix sits up and regards Sylvain with bright eyes and pinking cheeks. He looks at him with a strange mixture of awe and wonder.

Glenn is the first to seem confused.

Then, Felix stands and ambles over to Sylvain. Sylvain barks, tongue lolling out of his mouth, pleased that he’s at least prevented a terrible head wound. Or a fatal one, considering Dimitri’s apparent strength.

Felix rushes forward and wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck. “Puppy,” he breathes, incredulously. “You’re a puppy.”

Sylvain wants to take offense to that, but he doesn’t. It’s the closest that Felix has gotten to him over the week and all it’d taken was for him to just be himself. Felix’s hands tighten in his fur, scritching over his skin and Sylvain just can’t help the way that his leg kicks at the touch.

Rodrigue looks utterly baffled. Sylvain’s father looks like he’s eaten a lemon and Sylvain can already hear the monotonous speech about how wolves are proud creatures, not pets. But, at that moment, Sylvain rather likes being like a pet, his lineage be damned. His father talks a lot about his future and legacy, but this is the first time that he’s felt like he means something.

“I’ve never been able to have a dog,” says Felix into his fur. “But I guess a wolf as a friend is even better.”

Sylvain licks the side of his face and instead of cringing, Felix laughs, a soft sound like a calm breeze on a warm summer morning.

That’s when Sylvain falls in love, even if he doesn’t yet realize it.

#felix x sylvain #sylvain/felix #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem fanfiction #fe3h

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mamabearcatfanfics · 4 years

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Instinct - Part Two

You can read Part One here - I’ll post the whole thing on AO3 and FF.net when it’s complete. Still another part to come...

She awoke with a start, her breathing heavy and laboured. A nightmare of cruel eyes and a voice in the darkness that mocked as she was being burned alive still lingered, but when she opened her eyes she was alone, and the laughter was gone. There was still a crackling snap of flames, but it was accompanied by rolling thunder and the sound of trickling water nearby.

She blinked in the firelight, the dancing shadows making her vision spin even though her body was still, her cheek resting on something soft. Water spilled down the dark rock wall in tiny rivulets, its downward course highlighted by the crackling fire. There was a yellow backpack nearby, and something was still restricting her movements, just like in her nightmare.

She fought one arm free from the soft fabric of the sleeping bag, swiping clumsily at her sweaty face. She had too much hair, it felt heavy on her neck, damp with perspiration. Why was she in a cave? She tried to remember, but any coherent thoughts besides heat and thirst refused to come, like she was dragging to them to the surface through endless treacle, and she abandoned the struggle as too much effort. Looking out into the dark night, there was nothing to see but rain. A lightning flash illuminated the surrounding forest, the glistening leaves bending under the weight of heavy rain drops. Her throat burned with thirst.

Pulling her other arm free with an effort, she sat up, trying to ignore the worsening dizziness and thumping headache that accompanied her change of position. The sleeping bag felt restrictive and hot and vague memories of being trapped in her dreams seized her, making her panic. She had to get out. She struggled out of the sleeping bag, hands pushing clumsily at the shiny polyester, each movement costing precious energy, but felt relief once her legs were free. So tired.

Her hair was still sticking to her face, and she felt clammy and sweaty, so she shrugged off the weight of the thick red jacket wrapped snugly around her, her fingers fumbling with the knotted belt. Too hot. Too heavy. Even her shirt felt like too much. She tugged at the light cotton fabric, trying to pull it away from her body. And she was so thirsty. There was a water bottle near by, but when finally managed to twist it open and tip it towards her mouth only a few meager drops spilled out onto her tongue. She looked longingly at the rain outside the cave, wondering if it was cooler out there.

Staggering to her feet, she took a tottering step forwards, then lurched towards the cave wall to stop herself falling face first into the flames. Flinging her hands out to stop her fall, she landed against a large boulder, her knees scraping against the sharp edge. The horizon tilted, and she rested her forehead against the cool dark stone for a moment, heart beating fast after the shock of her almost fall. A sudden urge to cough overtook her body, and she lay against the boulder, her shoulders shaking with the effort, the dragging ache between her shoulder blades almost unbearable.

Turning her head when the coughing fit finally eased, she watched the rain falling, listening to the calming noise as she took deep rasping breaths. The world was going topsyturvy, the cave entrance seemed to be moving away from her, but she was determined. Staggering upwards, she leaned her shoulder against the cave wall, using it like a crutch to stop her downward descent. So hot and thirsty. The rain would make it better.

Finally she made it through the opening, her bare feet slipping on the damp moss covered rocks. Taking a few tottering steps out into the storm, she stood shakily, an inner voice warning her not to move too far away from the light of the fire, and raised her face up into the rain falling from the sky. Cooling water soaked into her clothes and her hair, and she opened her mouth to catch the raindrops, drinking them in eagerly. Shaking legs refused to carry her weight any longer, so she sat down with a sudden thump, uncaring of the sharp sticks and rocks underneath her bare legs. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the rain again. It felt so much better out here than in that hot sticky cave.

She was so focused on the sensation of the rain running down her heated cheeks, she didn’t even hear the low growling noise as it approached, not until the growl suddenly turned into words.

“What the fuck do ya think ya doin’ Kagome?!”

Inuyasha stared down at the girl, who he’d left sleeping, safe and dry in a cave he’d found to protect her from the storm while he went out to hunt for something for her to eat. Now she was sitting in a mud puddle, her hair and clothing soaked, the faint scent of her blood being washed away by torrential rain. Kagome opened her eyes, which rounded in surprise as if she hadn’t heard his approach at all.

Inuyasha tossed the dead rabbit into the mouth of the cave to be dealt with later, then picked Kagome up, carrying her limp unresisting form carefully down the slippery rock surface. He plonked her down at a safe distance away from the heat of the fire, then moved back towards the front of the cave so that he could pull off his own soaked undershirt and shake himself mostly dry. His hakama, made of the same fire rat fur as his suikan, would dry quickly on their own, the water beading on the tanned surface and dripping off onto the cave floor. He turned to survey his wench again, a grumbling growl slipping past his teeth. What on earth did she think she’d been doing?

She was sitting exactly where he’d left her, her head nodding like she was almost asleep where she sat. The once untamed waves of her dark hair were lank, water dripping down from her head to continue saturating her thin cotton shirt, which was already sticking to her pale skin. The usually leaf green skirt was dark and heavy with mud and rain water, and there were bloody scrapes on her legs where she’d grazed them on rocks and twigs.

Dammit. He took deep breaths, trying to calm the sudden surge of fear that had risen up to choke him when he’d returned to see her sitting in the rain with the scent of her blood in the air. He shouldn’t have left her, even for the short amount of time it had taken him to catch the rabbit to roast over the fire.

Keeping one eye on Kagome, in case she had any more crazy ideas about going back out into the rain, he rummaged through her backpack to find the towel she used to dry herself when she bathed. Finding both it and her hairbrush, he dropped the cloth over her head unceremoniously, ignoring the unhappy noise she made.

“Yeah, well, shoulda thought a that before you decided to go sit in a puddle while you’re sick”, he muttered, rubbing the towel over her head, squeezing to try and get most of the moisture out of her thick hair. She was worrying him, even more than she usually did. On a normal day if he did something like this she would be fighting back, threatening him with sit commands galore, but she was just slumped there in the same position that he’d placed her, her eyes looking slightly unfocused. He pulled the towel off her head and examined her glazed expression anxiously. “Why on earth were you sitting in the rain wench?!”

“Hot”, she managed to croak out. “Too hot.” Then she coughed, the fit seeming to last forever before she could take a wheezing breath inwards.

Inuyasha’s hand moved from where it had been rubbing her back then moved to her forehead.

“Tch. You’re burnin’ up.” He brought over the medical kit and placed it in front of her. “What medicine were you takin’ for the fever Kagome? You need to take some more.” Kagome blinked at him blearily, as if she didn’t understand the question. He opened the pack to find the little packages of pills. There were two, both of them opened. “Kagome which one?”

Kagome coughed again, the attack wracking her small frame. He supported her as she coughed, then cupped her face in his hands. “Listen Kagome, this is important. What medicine were you taking?” Kagome’s head pulled backwards, trying to escape his grip.

“No, don’t”, she moaned. “Too hot.” A thin sheen of sweat coated her face now that he’d dried away the rainwater, and she tugged listlessly at her shirt, as if looking for a way to pull it off her body.

Sighing in frustration at the situation, Inuyasha picked up both boxes. They were still at least another days journey away from the village, as he’d had to stop and find shelter when the storm began, even though he’d planned to keep going until late into the night. He needed to get her back to Kaede’s – she would have the right herbs to help with her fever, but until then he would have to do the best he could.

He glared at the little boxes, as if staring at them would make them submit to him and give up their information. He only recognised some of the kanji on the shiny paper boxes, the rest were totally illegible to him. Cautiously, he held each paper box under his nose and sniffed - one smelt extremely bitter, with a slight trace of vinegar, and the other smelt vaguely plant like. But on the bitter one, the overlaying scent of Kagome was a little stronger, meaning she had handled it more recently. He opened up the package, noting that there were only four of the little white pills left. Damn.

He racked his brain, trying to remember if Kagome took one or two of the pills. He was pretty sure it was two. But was he sure enough?

Kagome tried to lurch to her feet again, and he dropped the box to catch her gently by the shoulders.

“Oi, where do ya think you’re goin?”

“I’m thirsty”, she whispered. He leaned over to her backpack to grab her water bottle, keeping one hand on her in case she decided to get up again, and then realised it was empty. He took the water bottle and held it out under a rivulet of water running down the cave wall close by – the rock was sandstone, so the water should be filtered and clean.

“Kagome, here’s some water. But I need you to swallow these as well. They’re medicine.”

She raised an arm as if to make an eager grab for the water bottle, but then dropped it listlessly. “So tired.”

“You can sleep again as soon as you’ve taken your medicine. Open up Kagome.” He popped one of the little pills out of the shiny package as he’d seen Kagome do, and pushed it into her open mouth, then tipped the water bottle until she swallowed. “That’s it. Good girl. Just need to take one more.” When she’d swallowed another tablet and the last of the water, he stroked her damp hair, trying to get most of it away from her face.

“Kagome, ya can’t go wandering off when I’m not here, okay? You’re too sick. Somethin’ bad coulda happened when I wasn’t here to protect you. ”

“Huh?” She blinked slowly.

He sighed. “What am I gonna do with you wench? C’mon, I’m gonna put you back in bed while I cook us somethin’ to eat.”

He picked Kagome up, and carried her back over to her sleeping bag. Her clothes were still dripping wet. Damn, he’d have to take them off her. Shit.

“Kagome. We need to get you out of these wet things alright? I know you’re not feelin’ well, so I’m gonna have to help. I’ll do my best not to look at… well, you know…” He went back over to grab the damp towel, trying to work out the best way to do this while preserving Kagome’s modesty, then grabbed a soft shirt from her backpack, one he’d seen her wear for sleeping. “Alright Kagome, arms up.” She blinked at him, then coughed, doubling over while he tapped on her back.

“Fuck it, let’s just do this fast.” He tugged the shirt up off over her head, keeping his eyes averted and then shuffled around behind her. This was not what he’d invisaged the few times he’d longingly daydreamed about taking off her underclothes, but there was no room in his brain for lustful thoughts right now. He was too worried. Her skin was pale and clammy, hot to touch. The fever seemed to have escalated quickly, and she didn’t seem to be too aware of what was going on around her. It took a few fumbles before he could get the fasteners undone on the underclothes that covered her top half, but he managed, only bending the little metal clasps slightly. He pushed the t-shirt over her head, trying to be gentle, then managed to feed her unresponsive arms through the holes. Now for the bottom half.

Taking a deep breath, he unzipped the back fastening on her skirt, and was relieved to discover that the skimpy underclothes that covered her lower half weren’t as wet. He decided they could stay on. Lifting her up, he let the damp skirt fall to the cave floor, then dried her legs with the damp towel, scowling at the scrapes and scratches marring the pale flesh on the backs of her thighs and her knees. They weren’t too bad, and had already stopped bleeding. He would deal with them in the morning, before they set off to the village.

“C’mon Kagome, back into bed.”

“Nooo.” She pushed at him listlessly. “I’m hot.” She blinked up at him, her eyes focusing on his face for the first time. “Inuyasha?”

He sighed in relief that she’d finally shown some sort of recognition as to what was going on around her. Worrying about this small slip of a girl was going to be the end of him. Gently tucking a wayward lock of damp hair behind her ear, he smiled softly at her.

“Keh, yeah, it’s me. Who else would be looking after your clumsy ass Kagome? Look at you - I can’t leave you alone for ten mintues without you scraping yourself up.”

“I’m sorry”, she sighed, her head nodding forward, as if it were too heavy for her to keep it upright. She rested her forehead against his bare chest as he pulled the weight of her damp hair off her neck, twisting it up into a sloppy bun and securing it with a stretchy band he’d found wrapped around the handle of her hairbrush. It didn’t quite look the way it did when she did it herself, but it would do.

“N’yasha, I don’t feel… so good” she coughed.

He stroked her back. “You’ve got a pretty high fever, so I’m not surprised. You took some medicine, so now you need to lay down and get some sleep and let it work.” Her hands wrapped around his back and she shook her head, the damp hair on her forehead rubbing against his chest.

“Wanna stay with you.”

His own arms wrapped around her, his heart thumping at her request to stay close to him. Every time she said she needed him by her side made a longing rise up in his chest, one that he couldn’t explain in words. He’d almost forgotten his initial reasons for pushing her away. Maybe it would be okay to let her sit up for a while until the medicine took effect and her fever cooled.

He stroked his hand up and down her back soothingly, ears focusing on her rattling intakes of breath now that she was mostly dry. He didn’t think it was much worse, but it definitely wasn’t better. They needed to get back to the village.

“You wanna sit by the fire then? I need to put the rabbit I caught on to roast.” He looked up towards the mouth of the cave, just in time to see a small fox wrap his jaws delicately around one of the dead rabbit’s back legs and begin dragging it slowly backwards. “Hey asshole, that’s mine! Go get your own!” Grabbing a small rock, he threw it to land right near the fox, smirking in satisfaction when it backed off with a small yelp. “Damn foxes. Even with Shippou left behind I gotta deal with their sneaky shit.”

Gently unwrapping her arms from around his torso and making sure she was sitting safely upright, Inuyasha moved over to the mouth of the cave, using his claws to skin and gut the carcass quickly then threw the skin, head and entrails out into the darkness, figuring that would keep the fox satisfied and away from any other food in the cave. He pushed the meat onto a stick and set it above the flames to cook, then stretched out both his damp kosode and Kagome’s wet clothes on some dry rocks near the fire. Hopefully they would be dry by morning. He sat back down next to Kagome.

“You feelin’ any better?”

She managed a small smile for him, no where near her usual cheesy grin, but a smile, nonetheless. He’d take it.

“I don’t feel so feverish now. But I don’t know if I really want to eat anything.”

“Just try a small bite, you haven’t eaten anythin’ all day. It’s a shame we left the tea kettle behind with the others, or I’d make you some tea too.” She rested her head against his arm, and he reached out to grab his suikan, draping it around her shoulders again.

“Inuyasha? Why aren’t I wearing a skirt?”

“Because you went outside and sat in a puddle wench, when I was off catching dinner.”

She blinked at him blearily. “I did?”

“You don’t remember that?” He waited for her anger, her revulsion at his removal of her clothing without her consent when she was ill and vulnerable, but she merely shrugged, shaking her head, then slumped against him, yawning.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can stay awake for the food.”

Inyasha touched his hand to the back of her neck. She was still warm to the touch, but her fever seemed to have receded a little. Sleep was probably what she needed more right now.

“Then go to sleep Kagome. I can always find you somethin’ else later.”

He reached out to snag her sleeping bag, then stretched his legs out, so she could lay down with her head in his lap, a sudden memory pulling at him of when she had done the same for him. She gazed up at him, a thoughtful look on her pale face.

“Why do you take such good care of me?”

“Can’t help it.”

“Am I that pathetic?”

He snorted. “No. I just… I feel good when I take care of you.” His eyes flicked away from her steady gaze, and she settled down with her head in his lap. After a few moments, he stopped trying to resist the urge to run his clawed fingers through her damp fringe, doing his best to ease out the tangles that he’d created when he’d dried her hair with the towel. Maybe he had been a little rough.

“Tha’s nice”, she murmured sleepily, and he felt that strange tugging sensation in his heart again. “G’night N’yasha.”

“Goodnight Kagome.” He eased them both back a little so he could lean against a convenient boulder, then looked down at the girl fast asleep in his lap, the darkness of her hair and her pale face such a contrast to the deep red of his hakama. So trusting. Had anyone else ever trusted him with their life the way that Kagome did? He didn’t think so. No one else saw him like Kagome did. She was special. A precious light in a world that all too often held darkness and pain.

His previous fears somewhat allayed now that her fever had settled and she was warm and dry, he couldn’t help the contented grumble that emanated from his chest. It was a sound that he didn’t make very often, it only came unbidden when he was calm and content around her. He wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but that wasn’t important. It felt good to make it, in the same way that feeding her, protecting her, keeping he safe felt.

He was so focused on the precious girl in his lap, listening to her breaths and the way her heartbeat slowed and steadied as he continued the rumbling vibration through his chest, that he didn’t notice the fox creeping into the cave, not until it had successfully grabbed the stick and absconded with his half cooked dinner.

PART THREE

#Instinct #mamabearcat fanfics #inukag fanfic

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thenakedgingerwrites · 4 years

Text

My Personal Trainer

I met Nick five months ago when he became my personal trainer. I joined the gym in the summer to finally work my body towards my personal goals. I had been skinny all my life and knew that if I wanted to change it I would have to get serious. Five months of 3-5 workouts a week and heavy carb/protein loading I was pushing towards my goal. I was up 20 pounds of muscle and my progress pics were really showing obvious changes. I of course had taken photos every step of the way, but hadn't really shared them with anyone until recently. Nick and I had our weekly Monday appointment scheduled. Today was chest day for me and he pushed me hard through it. I was actually pretty lucky getting Nick as my trainer. He was attractive but not instantly my type. It was easier to get a solid workout in if I wasn't drooling over my trainer the entire time. Nick was probably 5'11. He had a lot of muscle but was rounded since bulking season had set in. His arms were massive, chest was broad, and butt (from what I could tell) was quite a bubble. His legs were probably the most underdeveloped part of him but they weren't thin by any means. Definitely thicker than mine. Nick was pale but had clear, unblemished skin. His hair was dark and kept short. In fact sometimes his beard would get longer than his hair before he trimmed everything up. He was one of the few trainers that didn't seem to shave everything. His legs and arms had a nice layer of thick dark hair.

I tried not to fantasize about him but couldn't help the occasional naughty thought, especially when he would demonstrate squat formations or anything that popped his butt. However, I really tried to keep things professional. No harmless flirting or ogles were done by this guy. Nick figured out I was gay probably 2 months into our routine. It didn't phase him at all and things continued as normal. He would occasionally ask about my personal life, if I was seeing anyone, and I'd ask the same. We were both helplessly single but he was straight so there were no possibilities there. I didn't shower at the gym since I lived so close and Nick always did his workouts in the afternoon before I arrived. What this meant is that I'd never even seen the guy shirtless. The most skin I'd ever seen on the man was his calves, arms, and occasional upper thigh depending on the workout. His body was still a mystery, and that was probably a good thing for me. That all changed in the 4 month mark. We were talking after my workout and just shooting the shit. He asked if I had taken progress pictures and I explained I had, but wasn't quite ready to share. Maybe one day, I told him. He understood, but offered up his own. He flipped through his phone and then handed it to me. "Don't flip too much though," Nick said with a nervous laugh. He obviously had nudes on his phone. Of him or of someone else I wondered? The screen was zoomed in to a 3 picture side-by-side, each 6 months apart. I should probably mention that it was his neck down in nothing but some tight underwear. My eyes must have bulged. His body was amazing. I mean he definitely was a 'round' muscled guy but that was absolutely my type. His chest had a light dusting of dark hair which picked back up around his belly button and continued south, growing in intensity until it was hidden below his waistband. He kept his body hair trimmed but definitely all there. I couldn't help but focus on his package. Fuck keeping things personal, I thought. The pictures weren't amazingly lit, but I could easily see the large bulge in his briefs. Whether it was cock, balls, or both I couldn't tell. Whatever it was though, it was hefty. "... and if you blend that all together, it makes a wicked easy meal with tons of calories." Oh shit! I had completely zoned out while looking at his pictures. Quick, say something. "Well it's working out really well for you Nick. This is great progress. I'd be happy with any of them, honestly." Nick laughed. "Like, for your own body or as in your boyfriend?" It had seemed innocent enough but a million thoughts were running through my head. "Umm, well I meant for my own body, but if I was lucky enough to snatch someone up with a body like yours, I'd hold on tight." Nick just gave a cheesy grin and said thanks. We talked for a few more minutes about our weeks and what I would focus on while at the gym. Unfortunately, that night I jacked off thinking about those photos. The next night, I texted Nick telling him how raw I was from the workout yesterday and he responded with the picture he showed me. "Pain builds progress" he wrote with it. That week I did nothing but masturbate to that photo. The slippery slope had started and there was no turning back. Another month went by without much significance except how I looked at Nick. He was no longer just my personal trainer, he was now an object of my lust. Every workout he showed me I couldn't help but turn it dirty in my mind. I was losing it. We had hung out a few times outside of the gym. It had always been with a bunch of the gym staff for a game or just a night out in downtown. I got a text on Saturday morning asking if I wanted to hang out and drink some beers. His roommate was out of town and he wanted to enjoy the apartment to himself while watching the football game. I agreed, trying not to fantasize about unrealistic outcomes. When I got there he was basically in gym attire. I felt a bit dressed up in my nice jeans and button up shirt but oh well. We drank while watching the game, Nick drinking much faster than me. Near the end of the 3rd quarter, it was obvious our home team was going to win and interest in the game subsided. We talked about the gym, work, girls, guys, and continued to drink. I was getting tipsy at this point but Nick was sufficiently drunk. "When are you gonna show me your progress photos, man?" Nick asked me. He actually didn't need to beg much. The alcohol helped, but it only felt fair knowing how much I'd stared at his almost naked body. "Eh, I'll show you. Remember, I was SKINNY. Don't make fun." "I would never! Plus you've grown so much. I'm so proud!" He was smiling ear to ear. It made me swoon a little. I flipped through my phone to get the most recent. It was my 5 month comparison photo. Nothing too crazy. Just standing in front of the mirror flexing one arm in my underwear. I wore skimpy briefs but it was nothing x-rated. I had clearly changed. My ribs were no longer visible and every muscle and it's own definition. Where a flat chest had been there were now pecs. Where a stick arm was there was muscled girth. "Wow! I'm so impressed; you've changed more than I imagined." "Thanks Nick." I was genuinely appreciative of his compliments. "Although, you need to get better at posing." "What?" Nick continued, "You're not showing off the right muscles in these. Like, you've grown a lot in your back but you can't tell in these." "Oh, haha. I didn't realize there was an art to gym selfies." I chastised him a little sarcastically. "There is!!" Nick was drunkenly serious. This was clearly a subject he was passionate about. "Okay, how do you feel about practicing some?" "Sure, that's fine." I said. "You'd have to take off those clothes though to see what I mean." Nick was very direct. I played along, my mind secretly hoping for something like this or more. "That's fine. You would too, right? To show me?" "Yeah, yeah. Obviously." With that Nick stripped. There was no romantic tease to it. This was clearly just what Nick said it was and nothing more. In a few seconds he had peeled out to just his tight boxer briefs. I stood there for longer than I should have because he cleared his throat and said, "you're turn." I quickly snapped back to reality and disrobed as well. I wore my tight AussieBum red briefs tonight just in case something like this happened. What can I say, I'm a planner. "Nice briefs man." Nick offered. "Nice body." He laughed. "Okay, so the first pose is really to show off your Lats and all the work you've been doing on your back." He walked through a couple poses and I imitated him. He would correct me a few times and move my arms or body in the right way. I was really proud of myself for not popping an erection at all with the contact. Minutes passed and things started to get warm in the living room from all our flexing and holding poses. Nick offered to take some photos for me on my phone and I happily agreed. They would be much better than selfies. After taking some photos Nick asked if I would do the same. I obviously agreed. We got to a pose that Nick wanted to try to accentuate his butt. He stood sideways to the camera and twisted his torso towards the lens to accentuate the roundness of his bubble butt. I took a few photos, wishing they were on my phone instead. "Does it look good? Does my butt look good?" He asked me. "It looks incredible Nick. Easily one of the hottest asses I've ever seen." I didn't really think about what I was saying anymore. We were both getting drunk by this time. "Coming from you that means a lot, thanks!" Nick replied with a cheesy smile. "Hey, I kind of want to get some more but without my briefs. Is that okay?" "You want me to take your nudes for you?" I sarcastically asked. Probably should have played that differently. He laughed loudly, "No! I can take my own dick pics thank you. I'll still cover the goods up, I just want some sexier ones without underwear." "Sure, why would I mind?" Nick shrugged, "I dunno, just wanted to make sure, ya know?" He turned around to slip his briefs off. His butt, was amazing. Two large globes of muscle sat atop his legs. They were dusted in his dark fur but he kept his butt trimmed as well. He went through the same poses but was really good at covering up his cock with either his legs or his hands. As much as I wanted to, I never actually saw what he was packing other than some heavy pubes. When Nick felt he had enough shots, he plopped down onto the couch. He grabbed his briefs and placed them over this crotch but didn't actually put them on. He asked for his phone and flipped through the photos when I handed it to him. He was clearly pleased with the photos. "Is it bad that I find myself hot?" he asked. I laughed, still standing there in my underwear. "No. Is it bad if I do?" Oops. He looked up at me. "You think I'm hot?" I didn't know what to do. I scrambled to find words that would make this alright but the drunken haze was cast over my thoughts. "Well, never mind. That answers that question." Nick was looking down on me. I followed his eyes to see my obvious erection in my briefs. Shit!! I covered up quickly and turned from him. That's when he started laughing. "Don't worry about it dude. I'm flattered. Can't say I've given a guy a hard on before. Nice to know I can." "Ha, ha" I said sarcastically, still trying to will my cock to shrink. "Really, it's not a big deal. Come'on. Come here and help me figure out what shots are the best. You'll clearly have an eye for what looks good here." I looked over my shoulder and he was patting the seat of the couch beside him. I said Fuck it in my head and went to sit by him. My erection wasn't gone at all, but at this point in my life I wasn't really that shy about nudity anymore. A few minutes of flipping through shots and adding filters here and there, Nick asked me a question out of the blue. "So you really like cocks? Like, they look good to you?" "Yeah. Don't you like the look of your dick?" I replied. "Well yeah, but that's mine, ya know. I've never thought any other dick was nice." "I guess that's the difference in being gay," i laughed at that. Nick laughed too. "I guess you're right. But like, what exactly do you like about them?" I couldn't really explain it well after I thought for a moment. "I'm not really sure there's specific things or features I like about dicks and balls. It's just linked so closely with arousal that even seeing one triggers so much sexual endorphin release in me. And it's a muscle that can't hide sexual feelings, as we've clearly seen tonight. I like how honest cocks are." Nick lost it at that. "Hahaha, you like how 'honest' cocks are! That's a new one." "I'm a sucker for an honest dick, what can I say?" I laughed with him. Nick put his phone down. "Okay, then tell me. Do I have an honest dick?" He pulled his briefs off his cock. I stared without caring how obvious I was being, plus I assumed that's what he wanted. His cock was awesome. It was still pretty soft, cut, and pretty thick from what I could tell. However, it was his balls that was giving the bulging briefs in his photos. They were massive. He kept almost all his hair closely trimmed but Nick shaved his balls. "It's um... it's... honestly awesome. Nick, your balls are huge!" was all I could put together. "Haha, yeah. They've been big since I was a teenager." He handled them with palm and moved them around a bit. I swore I saw his cock twitch a bit too. "So, this is hot to you? Like, you actually think my cock and my balls are sexy?" "Do you need reassurance?" "No, no. It's just, I'm trying to figure it out. I'm.. I just can't believe someone would find someone else's dick hot." "Well, I could prove it to you." I offered. "Oh yeah? How?" Nick said. He's not a very good actor and it seemed obvious where this was going. I played it safe though and went with another slow tell. I moved my hand to his thigh. "I could show you how much I like your cock." Nick smiled. "You may have to. I still think you're fibbin'" "I would never lie," I joked. I moved my hand the extra few inches to his soft package. It felt even bigger in my hands. I had to skip to his balls first though since they were so incredibly. I moved them around and massaged them with my fingers. I would pull on them a little bit and stretch the skin which elicited light moans from Nick. I felt adventurous for a few reasons and leaned in. I kissed his balls, first lightly, and then heavier with some wet tongue. Nick moaned more. I continued to kiss and lick his balls while loosely gripping his cock. It was filling up quickly. A few seconds later, he was hard in my hand. I backed up from his balls to take a look at his meat. It was thicker than I thought. Probably 6 inches or so in length but probably the same around. It was the hottest cock I'd ever seen. I looked up to Nick just to reassure myself it was him and that this was honestly happening. He caught my eyes and just whispered, "Please don't stop." Oh that made me wet. I got down onto the floor and moved in between his legs. I took hold of his shaft and licked that cock from base to head like a popsicle. It was delicious. He had already started to precum a little for me. I wasn't in the mood to tease and went right into it. I took as much of Nick's cock into my mouth as I could. He wasn't super long but the girth prevented me from taking him all in on the first go. As I sucked with his member filling my mouth, Nick's light moans evolved to deep rumbling groans. He was loving this which made me even hornier. A couple of bobs was all it took for me to get most of him in my throat. After that I could try my different techniques (which were admittedly rusty). I swiveled my tongue around his head, used my hand to match pace with my mouth, and used a little teeth on the retract. Nick was loving each skill and would buck uncontrollably at some. I was surprised what a gentleman he was. He didn't try and grab my head to face fuck me (although I would have been fine with it) and made it very audible how much he appreciated what I was doing. "Fuck yes. That feels so good. You're amazing. You're incredible. Please don't stop." were the only things he could muster between groans. It only took a couple of minutes before Nick's balls began to tighten. I knew he was getting close. He finally did take hold of my head, but to remove it and saying, "I"m about to cum, man." What a fucking knight. "Good," I said and fought against his grip to latch back onto his cock. He tried to pull me off him again, "No, you really don't have to do that. I don't want you to feel like you do." I continued to stroke him with my hands as I popped off to say, "You don't know what it's like to be gay, but fact one, I WANT to do this." I batted his hands away and took his cock back into my wanting mouth. He just said, "oh god, oh god." over and over as he edged towards the finish line. Nick tried to hold back his orgasm as long as he could but finally he couldn't fight anymore. I took hold of his balls with a free hand as he erupted into me. His tank had definitely been full and I almost struggled to get it all down. Jet after jet of warm seed filled my mouth and was swallowed down. Nick tried to remain still but was bucking and shaking uncontrollably between his heavy breathing. When I was sure he was done, I milked him dry with a last squeeze and popped off his still hard cock. "So," I said, "believe me now that I actually like cock?" He tried to laugh but didn't have the energy. "That. Was. Amazing. I've never gotten head like that before. You're a master." I laughed. "Stand up," Nick said. I did as commanded and rose before him. I was still rock hard in my briefs, and had actually popped out a little on top. He put his hands on my ass and pulled me in closer. I had no words for what was happening, so I just went with it. He fondled me through my briefs for a bit, getting used to the feeling of a hard cock in close proximity to his body. He swallowed, and shucked my briefs to the floor. My cock sprang out and almost hit him in the face which he wasn't expecting and jumped back a bit. I couldn't help but laugh, "You're right to be scared. He bites." "You're huge, dude!" I was definitely longer than Nick. Around 8 inches, but not near as thick. And my balls were only average compared to his massive globes a few feet below. He hesitantly took hold of my cock with one hand and slowly stroked it. This was clearly more for him than it was for me. He was exploring what another man's cock was like and I didn't want to rush him through that. Plus it was incredibly hot to see him oaf around it like a foreign object. After giving me a slow, steady hand job for a few minutes he swallowed again and licked his lips. He inched closer and closed his eyes. I was now feeling bad about this. "Nick, stop. You don't have to do this. You don't owe me anything." He finally looked up at me. "No, I know. I just, I want to see what it's like." "Okay, but go slow. Don't do anything that makes you uncomfortable and you can stop anytime." He was looking at my dick again and nodded. He inched close again and closed his eyes to lick my cock head. Once he had a taste he moved his tongue around in his mouth to figure out if he liked it or not. "It just tastes like, skin?" I laughed, "yeah, they don't come in different flavors." "I guess I just, I thought it would taste different." I explained to him that it can if a guy precums a lot, but that I didn't. My cock was a great 'beginners' cock. We both laughed a bit. He then took hold with one hand and tried to wrap his lips around my cock. He could, but didn't take too much into his mouth. He bobbed on my cock like he thought he should but only took an inch or two in at a time and without any suction. What should I have expected from a straight guy. However poor the actual blow job was going, it was Nick who was giving it and that was incredibly hot. I was loving every second of it regardless. I must have began to leak a bit because Nick pulled away with a slight disgust taste on his mouth.

"That's what I expected they tasted like." Nick said with some nervous laughter.

"Yeah, if you don't like that you definitely won't like the ending."

He looked visibly nervous. I leaned down and pushed him away from my cock. "You're done. I'm not letting you go any further. Thanks for trying."

He sighed some relief, "Thanks for letting me try. And for that amazing blow job you gave me. I just wish I could return the favor."

"Trust me Nick, I loved every minute of that probably as much as you did." We both smiled.

"Well, do you wanna shoot on my chest?" Nick said.

I froze for a second and then began dying of laughter.

"What? People do that right?" Nick looked at my confused.

"Hahahaha, sure Nick, sure they do. But rarely does a straight guy just go, 'hey wanna cum on my chest?' It was just too funny."

He leaned back and rubbed his chest seductively, playing with himself a bit too. His cock had softened up almost entirely. "Do you wanna cum on this hot piece of man or not?"

I did.

I leaned into him and put one arm on his shoulder and the other on my cock. Nick just stared at the barrel of the gun in somewhat excited anticipation actually. Having this hunk below me, wanting my cum all over him, was enough to help me finish quickly. My balls tightened as the first blast shot forward onto his pecs. 8 steams of hot spunk fell onto Nick, coating his chest, abs, and cock in my cum. I sighed in relief.

"Hot." was all Nick had to say before we both started laughing.

We stayed there for a minute while I got my breath back and then he offered we take a shower. I rubbed his back, he rubbed mine. I probably washed his ass more than I had to but he didn't stop me or protest. By the end of the shower we both had erections again but heading into the living room he put on his briefs which signaled the nights fun was over.

We both fell asleep on the couch that night and I woke up spooning him in the morning. He was snoring. I got off of him and got the rest of my clothes on to leave. Before I left I looked back at this amazing, delicious man I had known for the past few months. He was sprawled out, chest up, almost naked in his tight white briefs. He had a serious case of morning wood going on that was clearly visible.

I felt naughty and probably was risking more than I should have, but I gave into the momentary idea. I got down on my knees and fished his cock and balls out of his briefs and gave them some light kisses. Nick continued to snore obliviously.

I took a step back to admire the view. I decided to take a picture of him like this for later use. I was going to put his junk back in but last minute decided instead to bob on it a couple times for one last taste and leave.

When I got home I felt guilty about the picture. I didn't want to delete it for obvious reasons but felt like I crossed a line. I decided to text him the photo with the caption "Had a great night. Took this souvenir. Hope you don't mind ;)"

That way if he wanted me to delete it he could tell me, but at least he would know that I had it.

I woke up from a nap to a response from Nick. "Likewise"

A few seconds later a video came through. I opened it and saw myself giving Nick head, his loud moans were close to the speaker. That little shit took a video of me blowing him without me knowing. The anger was only a reflex and I quickly found it hilarious that he captured that moment.

I texted him back, "That's blackmail!"

"Maybe it is. I need something to hold onto to remember last night."

"You could always just get the real thing again if you needed a reminder."

"Deal! Deleted."

"You don't really have to delete it, you can keep it for your own spank bank."

"haha good. I wasn't actually going to delete it anyway."

"lol, dick."

....

Bling. A picture of his hard cock and balls came through.

"This one?? ;P"

I was definitely jacking off today. "Tease!"

He replied, "I think we need to have a special work out session each week after our gym sessions. There are some special muscles we need to work out."

"Deal, see you Monday."

My training sessions had become something more, and I was absolutely, fucking floored about it.

#straight-to-gay #aware #vanilla

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babbushka · 5 years

Text

Bedding

Medieval!Kylo x Reader (Set in the All My Stars universe)

2k ; N S F W :)

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You are radiant, he thinks, as they disrobe you. Your ladies in waiting slide an outer robe of velvet away from your shoulders, leaving you in only your smock and veil – for now that you are a wedded woman, you dare not show your hair to the crowd which fills the room.

He is next, and his squires remove his fur coat in much the same manner, leaving him in a smock of his own, and you appraise him, look him up and down, smile at him with so much adoration that Kylo wishes he could marry you all over again.

As Kylo stands across from you in your bed chambers, a thrill runs through him, for this will be the first time he lays beside you as man and wife, King and Queen.

You sit atop the bed primly, properly, and Kylo follows, sitting on his side stiff as a board. He wants nothing more than to embrace you, wants nothing more than to hold you so tight, so close, so sweetly. But first you must be blessed, and then the drapes of the canopy must close, and only then can he lift the fabric from your body which conceals you to him, your body which he has seen so many times by now.

Each and every time, you are magnificent in his eyes, perhaps even more so, with each glance at your curves.

The Bishop, Lord Luke stands at the foot of the bed, crosses the air with his hand and recites some Latin. Everyone in the room bows when he finishes, the blessing over. There are nearly twenty people there, all members of your family, your friends, the royal court.

It is a privilege to be able to witness the consummation of a royal marriage, but Kylo can’t help thinking how strange it is, that they’re going to listen to the sounds of you getting fucked.

If previous experience were anything to go by, they’d be in for quite the evening.

You must be thinking the same thing, because as the squires close the drapes of the canopy, thick velvet things which block out the romantic candlelight, you give him a knowing look. Still, he can see the hint of apprehension in your eyes, and Kylo immediately frowns.

“You’re nervous.” He says, because it is not an expression he sees you wear often, not something he is familiar with, with you.

He worries, worries that perhaps you have changed your mind, perhaps you don’t want to be his wife any longer, but you only glance at the crowd, give them a lingering look even when the drapes fully close, and they all turn their backs to you, some semblance of respect.

“It’s just strange having people here.” You whisper, and Kylo’s temper flares, that they would dare make you so uncomfortable with their petty traditions.

With the drapes now closed fully, they cannot see him pull you towards him, cannot see the way his strong hands loop underneath your arms to hug you close.

“Leave us at once.” He orders, startling the crowd outside the fabric walls.

“But, but your Majesty – ” Luke begins, and there is a deathly silence as they all try to figure out what to do.

“Your Queen commands privacy.” Kylo insists, but you’re grabbing for his face in the dark, shaking your head.

“Just kiss me, I’ll be alright.” You stop him, for you know how important this ceremony is.

“Are you sure?” Kylo asks, “I will not have you do something you do not wish.”

“I am.” You reassure him, guiding his face to yours in the velvety blackness, whispering against his cheek, his chin, his lips, “Please, just kiss me.”

Kylo needs not be told again, and his big warm hands undo your veil, removing the pins and tossing them off of the bed so that you do not accidentally poke yourself throughout the night. With your hair freed, he runs his fingers through the locks, detangling it and twining it around his fingers for a moment.

Someone coughs, and you both awkwardly grimace at one another before dissolving into a fit of silent giggles, Kylo finally pulling your smock away. You give him the same treatment, and he lays you down on the downy pillows, kisses you to get you to relax for him.

And relax for him you do, as your sighs fill the enclosed space of the canopy bed while his deft fingers work in and out of you. He knows you, knows what your body likes, knows the right way to touch you to ensure you’re prepared for him.

You’re wet for him, as always, like your body seemingly never stops, never runs out of slick to coat your cunt, never not ready to take whatever he gives you. He fingers you like this only for a few moments, until you’re moaning softly, your legs fallen apart entirely. He smiles into your neck as he has to press your hips down with his other hand, for they keep rising of their own accord.

You tug on his ear, and that’s a sign that you’re ready – or at the very least, you’re impatient, and he swallows hard around the lump in his throat as he settles on top of you, withdraws his fingers and replaces them instead with his hard cock.

“Kylo -- !” You clamp a hand over your mouth in a gasp, and this time when your hips rise he lets them, for it allows him to slide in deeper, allows him to bury himself to the hilt.

The two of you fuck so often that now it takes little time for your body to adjust to his huge size, and you grin at the feeling, grin at the deviancy, for if the Church knew you had fucked before marriage, well then perhaps this wedding wouldn’t be such a joyous one.

It matters not, Kylo thinks, for it was he you fucked, and it was now he you had wed, so in the end, it all balances out.

“Pretend as though they’re not here.” He whispers in your ear, “You need not quiet yourself now, not that we are finally wed.”

With those words of encouragement, your hand drops from your mouth, and he can see the pretty ‘o’ of your lips as your jaw hangs down. He rolls his hips against yours, bodies flush together, and it drags a loud moan out of you that is sure to make the crowd uncomfortable, hot in their robes.

“Oh, yes!” You throw your head back as the roll of his hips give way to proper thrusts, “Yes, yes, yes!”

Kylo can only grunt in his own pleasure, his own eyes closed as he grabs hold of your thighs, yanks them down and around his waist so he might fuck you deeper.

You are heaven around him, the hot wet clench of your cunt on his cock has him groaning, the slap of his skin against yours has his head dizzy. All of you makes him dizzy, and he can only bury his face between your breasts, nose at the underside of your chest, can only suck dark cherry red marks into the skin there to keep himself from growling too dramatically.

But oh how he wishes to be dramatic, for you stir such feelings in him. Every time he is graced with railing your pussy he is drowned in pleasure, all of his nerves on fire, so consumed by you, by your hands on his body, your legs around him, your mouth on him. You are slippery and slick from the combination of spit and sweat, drool and pre-come, and the sounds are practically sinful.

“Kylo – harder, harder please.” You beg, moan, whine for him, and he would rather die than disobey.

He fists his hand in your hair and pulls hard, hard enough that you yelp from it, tugs your head to the side so you might bare your neck for him. He sucks hard on your throat as his powerful thighs and hips use all their strength to ram his cock into you.

He knows just where that special spot inside you is, the one that’s right along your front wall that makes you babble for him, and he finds it with ease as he shoves you up and up and up the bed, each punch into your throbbing pulsing pussy punctuated by a sharp gasp or moan.

“Oh please, right there – right there!” You encourage him, loudly, so loudly that pride fills him as you arch your back and tremble for him.

He releases your hair so that his free hand can grope one of your breasts, pinching hard at the nipple. He tugs on it, tweaks it enough for your knees to clamp down hard around him, and he can tell your orgasm is going to be creeping up on you soon.

You exchange sloppy kisses, the smack of your lips and your cries of pleasure almost drowning out the sound of his balls slapping your ass, until your moans grow higher and higher, rising in octave until you’re clawing at his back, toes curling in bliss as he licks his thumb and uses the saliva to lubricate your clit, zig-zagging his finger back and forth over it, making you come on his cock.

You always did come loudly, he thinks with a possessive pride, proud that he did that, that he was the only one who ever got to do that to you.

But he still isn’t done, and you whine as he fucks you through your orgasm, drops his head into the crook of your neck as his cock continues to split you in two. He is so far inside you that he can feel your cervix, can feel the resistance when he has filled your cunt fully, and that makes him groan, makes him grunt through gritted teeth because it’s just so good, so right, that you were made exactly to take him.

You’re oversensitive and he knows this, can tell by the way you’re squirming, gasping, pawing at his sides. You’re pliant and malleable in his hands, and he adjusts your legs, throws one over his shoulder so that he might hit at a different angle, one that hasn’t made you so raw.

Kylo shouts out a loud, “Fuck!” When he comes, hips going still against you.

He rolls his hips against yours once again, just as he had in the beginning, pushing all of his come as far into you as it will go, and though it is dark he swears he sees white, swears he sees you grinning up at him. You both take a few panting breaths, deep gulps of air as your limbs fall away from his body, completely blissed out and floaty, as if you were laying on a cloud.

But you are very much not laying on a cloud, the two of you are metaphorically brought back to earth when there is applause coming from just beyond the drapes of the canopy, and you both go bright red in the dark, having completely forgotten all about the crowd that has been eavesdropping on the entire affair.

The applause is not polite either, it is filled with wolf-whistles, and Kylo wonders how many of them are hard, how many are wet and clenching their thighs together? He himself is nearly hard again just from still being inside you.

“Well done, your Majesties.” Luke says, and he sounds impressed, very impressed, with the way the evening has gone.

Virgins did not sound this way, and the applause only makes you and Kylo grin into each other’s arms, hands covered over your mouths to try and stifle the laughs which seek to escape you.

The crowd files out in two neat lines, the members of the wedding party no doubt desperate to get themselves off. Left alone at last, Kylo rolls over onto his back and pulls you with him so you may tuck yourself against his chest, and the two of you chuckle in a post-sex glow for the rest of the night.

He is elated, as he closes his eyes, thrilled that this is only the beginning, only the first night of the rest of his life, with you beside him, his wife.

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As always tagging some medieval pals lol <3 @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kyloxfem @autumnlovesadam @solotriplets @driverficarchive @kylo-renne @formerly-anonhamster @thepilotanon @joannapenguin @whiskey-bumblebee @passengereve @venusianmaiden @callmehopeless @sarcasticallyhateful @ilikebritsandbands @tinyplanet-explorers @kittyofalltrades @princessofpow @softcrybabykid @inkstaineddaughter @wonderneverland562 @magikevalynn @ellie-emb

#reader inset #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo x reader #kylo/reader #medieval au #kylo ren imagine #my writing #medieval knight #knight kylo

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toxophilitis · 3 years

Text

The Night Shift Nurse

CHAPTER ONE

Nancy Cherry walked through the familiar halls of her small-town hospital as she looked at the charts on the clipboard she carried. The attractive young nurse had been born and raised in this small, mountain village. The only time she had gone away was to attend college. Returning, she had married her only lover, ask him who had high plans for a career as a downhiller. A year later they were divorced.

Even though she was only in her mid-twenties, Nancy dressed, and acted, like somebody's old-maid aunt. She wore her long hair up in a bun under a nurse's cap. The lush, voluptuous body that she had been so proud of once before was now hidden under a heavy, loose uniform.

At one time Nancy had been one hot little item around her small community. She and her handsome ex-husband had been the talk of the town. She was the best cheerleader in high school, then became a nurse. He was the top prospect on the ski team.

In the two years since her marriage, Nancy hadn't been with a man. She might as well be an old-maid. Two years without fucking was enough to make her one.

Nancy stopped as she heard sounds coming from the room she was passing. She could hear whispering and giggling through the partially open door. The pretty nurse tiptoed up to the crack, peeking into the room to see what was happening. What she saw made her draw in a hissing breath of air.

Dr. Harbo, the orthopedic surgeon, was in the room with the new candy-striper, Kitty. In her small hospital, Nancy was the only one on the night shift one regular basis, and Dr. Harbo had volunteered to take the unpopular shift tonight for another doctor.

The tall, dark-haired doctor was kissing the young blonde. His hands were on her chest as she made a weak effort to push them away.

Nancy stared, seeing their deep steamy tongue-kisses.

"Ooooh, Dr. Harbo," the little blonde girl moaned. "What if Nurse Cherry finds us? It's not safe."

"Relax, Kitty," he assured the panting young girl as he worked to unbutton her uniform. "Nobody will come back here. We've only got one patient. Besides, you can't let me walk around with this hard-on. Don't be a tease, Kitten."

The handsome doctor pulled the blonde girl into his arms and kissed her again.

Nancy saw his tongue slipping into her mouth as the candy-striper moaned.

Nancy felt a strange sensation passing through her body as she peeked in on the pair in the room. She knew that she should walk straight in and stop this older doctor from molesting the young girl, but something about the way that Kitty was responding had stopped her. She felt a moist heat building between her legs that she hadn't felt in a long time. The big titted brunette nurse was getting excited as she watched.

Nancy was the best built girl in the mountain community. She was tall and dark and beautiful. Her big firm tits still stood up high and proud on her chest, even though no man had seen them in two years. The feelings she had so loved were starting in her supple body again. The pretty nurse moaned, feeling that deep aching need for a man.

The doctor's hands went inside Kitty's open uniform top and bulged out the pink and white material as he cupped her titties.

From the way the bulge was moving, Nancy figured out that he was pinching and rolling the young girl's nipples. As he pulled the sides of the uniform apart, she saw that she was right.

"Ooooh, Dr. Harbo!" Kitty groaned as he pushed apart her dress and exposed the lacy see through bra while he kissed the side of her neck. "You know that drives me crazy."

"Really?" he teased. "How about this?"

He found the front clasp of the little girl's bra and flipped it open. The grapefruit-sized mounds of pure white tit-flesh popped out. Her nipples looked all hard and long as Dr. Harbo cupped and squeezed the naked round globes.

Nancy put her eye closer to the crack as she watched the older man fondling the girl's luscious young tits. She felt her own pussy growing wet and hot as the young girl quivered from the experienced man's touch. Nancy wished that it was her who was leaning up against the bed with Dr. Harbo's hands on her huge tits. She glanced down, seeing a bulge in his green surgical pants -- Dr. Harbo's cock was rock hard.

"Jesus, Doctor!" groaned the little candy striper. "Let's wait. I'll go back to your condo, like we did before. Ooooh, God!"

Dr. Harbo slipped down and sucked on the little girl's lovely white tits to silence her objections as he guided her band down to his raging bulge in his pants.

Kitty's hand didn't shy away. She rubbed the bulge in his pants.

"Take him out."

"I want to," gasped the little blonde girl, "but Nurse Cherry is right dawn the hall. She's gonna catch us!"

"Don't worry," he urged as he unzipped his fly for the young teenager.

Kitty's hand slipped into the gap and dragged out a huge cock. It was nice and hard. All stiff and throbbing.

The sight of his lovely naked hard-on made Nancy shudder. One hand dropped to her crotch, rubbing obscenely off the soaking wet patch of pink passion between her legs.

"Remember what I taught you?" he asked.

"Here?" Kitty giggled.

"Yeah," he said, pushing down on the girl's shoulders. "Why not? You loved it. Remember?"

"I sure did!" she cooed, dropping to her knees as she stared at his hard cock.

Kitty wrapped her fingers around the doctor's cock as it stuck out from the loose green pants. She ran her fingers up and dawn the stiff tube of his cock meat. Drawing close to the raging hard prick, the half-naked teenager licked the fat purple head of the man's cock.

"Mmmmmm!"

Nancy had always loved doing that. She had been born to suck cock, her ex-husband had told her that in high school. Oral sex had come so naturally to her. She had never lost that love for the taste of a hard cock, and for the lovely white stuff that spurted from the tip of it when she sucked one off.

"Ooooohh, yes, Kitten!" the doctor sighed with obvious delight. "Lick him. Suck my cock nice, honey."

Nancy saw that she wasn't the only young girl who had taken to sucking cocks. The girl in the pink and white uniform was licking and sucking over Dr. Harbo's meaty thickness as if she loved it. The glistening head of the man's prick was leaking a steady flow of pre-cum. Kitty wasn't letting it go to waste. She was slurping up the clear drops as quickly as they appeared.

Rubbing her hand over the mound of shivering flesh between her legs, Nancy was breathing heavily as she peeked in on the couple in the room. Dropping her hand, the gorgeous woman slipped it up under her uniform. The moist heat seeping out from her excited cunt had dampened her panties already. As she cupped the mound of her cuntal flesh, one finger slipped under the band of elastic at her waist. The tips of her fingers touched the thick curls of her pussy-hair. The silky fur-lined outer lips of her hot pussy opened as she parted it with her middle finger. As her eyes bulged, she sank the finger up into her smoldering wet fuck-hole.

Looking around nervously, the young nurse was beginning to feel guilty about watching the couple in action. It wasn't as if they were neglecting the patients. There was only one, a young man with a broken leg waiting to see if his knee was injured. Dr. Harbo and Kitty weren't hurting anyone, and it was obvious that the young girl was going along with the man's seduction willingly.

Nancy decided that she wasn't going to turn them in, but she wasn't going to stop watching, either.

Kitty was still bathing the doctor's hard prick with her sweet tongue. The man had his hands down in the open front to her uniform, fondling those grapefruit-sized tits as he pumped his cock into her sucking mouth. She was groaning, making gurgling noises as she slobbered all over the hardness in her hands.

"God, Kitten!" he hoarsely groaned. "This feels good, baby, but I've got to fuck you again!"

"Can we take the chance?"

"Don't you want to fuck?"

"Jesus!" she hissed. "I wanna fuck you so bad, Dr. Harbo! I just don't want to get in trouble."

The doctor pulled the little candy-striper up. He spun her around.

The bed in front of the teenager had the rail down and was raised to the highest position.

As he bent her over the mattress, the doctor stripped off the pink panties under the short dress. His steel-hard prick was sticking up.

Kitty spread her legs and fell forward over the bed.

"I've been thinking about you ever since you came up to my place last week," he groaned, his lust-filled voice carrying out to the nurse in the hallway. "I can't wait to fuck you again."

"Me, too, Doctor!" Kitty looked back over her shoulder. "Let's do it! Fuck me! Fuck me, Doctor Harbo!"

Nancy's middle finger was fucking back and forth over the hooded lump of sensitive flesh at the top of her juicy hot cuntal slit. The feathery soft touch of her own fingertip was making her cunt throb with desire. She could feel the overheated liquid overflowing from her pussy and gushing out around her fingers. Dipping down into the swampy wetness once more, she scooped up more of the slippery oils to add to her growing lust.

The man bent the little girl over the bed as he held his cock in his hand. She let out a feverish groan as the head of that long thick tube of cock-meat disappeared between her legs.

Nancy whimpered right along with the girl as that hard hunk of prick-flesh sank up into Kitty's pussy.

Kitty was pushing back, humping against the man's thighs as she urged him to give her more cock.

"Oooh, yes!" the little girl hissed with her uniform up over her hips. "God? He's so big like this, Doctor! So big and hard!"

"Aaaauuuuh!"

When his cock was fully inside the girl's cunt, he gripped into the softness of her hips.

Nancy could see the wild fuck developing as he reared back and started to really pound his prick into the candy-striper's hot cunt-hole.

The nurse fluttered her fingertips over her pussy as she reached up to unbutton her uniform top. She bent her knees slightly as she watched the young girl getting fucked doggy-style on the hospital bed. Nancy's fucking fingers were bringing on the wild ecstasy that she hadn't felt in so long. Her pussy was dripping, the sticky fluid seeping into her palm as she curled her fingers up tighter into the slash of pure heat between her legs.

Nancy cupped her own big mounds of tit-flesh. She reached down into her bra, pinching at the hard buds capping her perfect tit-globes. Nancy had beautiful big tits. Sensitive, too. She hissed out in passion as she twisted her nipple cruelly. Her finger eased all the way into the tightness of her fuck-tunnel, pumping in and out slowly.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!" Nancy moaned as she leaned heavily against the doorframe.

"God, Doctor Harbo!" The young girl was groaning, fighting back the scream she felt building in her throat. "Do me! Ooooh, yes! Do it to me, honey! Fuck me!"

"Ooooh, I will!" he growled. "I'm gonna fuck the stilt out of you, you sweet little thing your pussy is so fucking tight and wet! Take it, honey! Take my cock!"

Nancy slipped a second finger into her clenching cunt as she heard their voices reaching a peak of passion that told her of their approaching orgasms. Her tingling nipples were pressing into the palm of her hand as she switched from one marvelous tit-mound to the other. Her swirling fingers were penetrating as far as she could reach up into her pussy, pumping in and out faster. The rushing tidal wave of passion that she could feel building in her belly was right on the ragged edge of washing over her senses.

The doctor hammered his cock into the little girl's pussy. She was arching her back, grinding back against him on each stroke. The lewd sound of their bodies slapping together was helping Nancy bring herself off.

What am I doing? Nancy thought as her fingers finished the self-induced orgasm that was shaking her lovely body. Kitty was doing it. She wasn't sitting around feeling sorry for herself. She was getting fucked, and by Dr. Harbo. Why was she keeping it from the men who had been asking her out? Her husband was long gone. The only one still worrying about him was Nancy.

Gritting her teeth in ecstasy as she squealed softly, Kitty arched her body to take the hammering cock deeper into her sucking cunt-hole. She stiffened as he growled behind her. Then she shook all over, grinding back vigorously.

"That's nice," he groaned.

"Feel it?" she whispered.

"Oooooh! Milk it! God, Kitten! Milk my cock with your pussy!"

"You gonna come for me?" Kitty cooed.

"I'm right on the edge!"

"Yes!" she hissed. "Squirt it in me, Dr. Harbo! Ooooh, God! Come in me, honey!"

The total ecstasy of the moment filled Nancy's mind as she creamed all over her knuckles. Her hand was cupping tightly over the puffy mound of delight that she was finger-fucking. The wonderful orgasm seemed to go on and on and on.

"Yes!" Kitty sobbed biting her lower lip as she fought not to scream in pleasure. "You're making me come, Doctor! Making me come so nice!"

"Shit!" he suddenly hissed.

"God! I can feel your cum, honey! Ooooh! It's so hot, Dr. Harbo! Come up in me! Keep coming in me!"

The nurse in the hall realized that he was finishing. She watched the young girl face as the hot juice gushed into her body. A smile split Kitty's lips as Nancy eased the door closed. She knew that she had to slip away before she was caught. Her hand came out of the soaking wet panties. Nancy caught the scent of a woman needing to get fucked as she re-buttoned her uniform top. As she walked past the nurse's station, she saw her reflection in the hallway mirror.

Stopping, Nancy saw that her lush figure was wasted in this loose uniform, but she could still see the hints of it. Right now, she looked like she was ready to take on a company of men.

Na more hiding behind this uniform, she thought. No more hiding from her feelings. Her needs.

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cannibalisticapple · 5 years

Text

So around a week or two ago I sent an anonymous ask to @corndog-patrol suggesting Villain Mic finding a Cat!Shouta. When I saw it on my phone in the car, I had to stop myself from reading until I could get home and look at it in full on my computer. It has been so much better than I could have ever imagined.

Seeing all the doodles and artwork so far has been a HUGE inspiration for me, and I ended up writing this over the past week. Because I am physically incapable of writing anything short, it kinda ballooned to almost 8k words, partially because I ended up adding to it as more art was posted. The majority of it was written before the bowtie pic though, including the opening scene. (Fun fact: I originally called Shouta “Pepper”.)

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, well, anything to Tumblr, so apologies for any weird formatting issues! And thanks again to @corndog-patrol for making such a great Villain Mic AU! Anyways, enjoy!

The Adventures of Puddles

Given his known fondness for cats, most of Shouta’s friends and colleagues often teased him about how getting hit by a Quirk that turned him into a cat would be a dream come true for him.

They were wrong.

The hero-turned-feline felt thoroughly irritated as he loped down the street, the heavy downpour soaking him thoroughly and weighing down his thick black fur with water. He’d been turned into a cat while heading to UA just that evening, and since then he’d been rather unhappy. Nemuri had laughed her head off when she found him halfway to her apartment with his goggles around his neck and his capture weapon dragging along the ground behind him, which really hadn’t helped much.

Considering he’d been found by Nemuri relatively fast, he should be safe and dry right now, but then Nemuri had taken him to UA. Logically it made sense of course, Shouta would be safe there and he’d have easy access to a support network to find a way to reverse the transformation. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for how the kids would react. One of them had sighted Nemuri carrying him inside, and Nemuri had no hesitation dumping him on the student with a sadistic grin while she went to meet with the other staff.

After spending an hour being assaulted by his students cooing over him and ruffling him from twenty different directions at once (literally), he’d desperately craved some space and alone time. The sight of Snipe and Cementoss sneaking around with cameras and phones ready, clearly intending to take photos of his ordeal, had been the last push he needed to jump the wall and get away from UA for a bit. He knew the area well enough, he should be safe to walk around a couple hours even as a cat. Key word: should.

It was just his luck he’d get chased by someone’s dog for what must have been half a mile, ending with him lost in an only vaguely familiar part of town. His attempts to find his way back had only succeeded in making him more lost over the ensuing hours, the vaguely familiar scenery giving way to buildings he absolutely did not recognize. And of course, it also had to start raining shortly after that.

Right now, he just wanted to get out of the heavy rain. He was wet, cold, tired, and felt sore in ways he didn’t even know possible until being turned into a cat. Turns out having your body undergo a radical physical transformation tended to put some stress on muscles and preexisting injuries. Go figure. At least his dry eye hadn’t seemed to transfer over, but that didn’t make him any less stressed.

The feeling only amplified when he stepped in a puddle and proceeded to plummet into it with a startled yowl, water splashing everywhere. Of course this sidewalk would have a giant hole in it that flooded with water and turned into a miniature, cat-sized bath. The hole was deep enough his head barely stuck above the water, the chilly temperature making him shudder. He scrabbled at the edges with an annoyed growl, trying to pull himself out.

“Hey, you okay little buddy?” The voice behind him made him freeze, the fur on his back standing on end. Shit. He knew that voice. His head whipped around to see a man crouching behind him, and while he wasn’t wearing his costume, Shouta couldn’t think of anyone else with a loud voice who also sported a stupid mustache like that. This had to be Present Mic.

Great, just great, he thought sarcastically. For some odd reason the idiot wasn’t wearing a raincoat in this weather, his long blond hair partially pulled into a bun with the loose strands plastered to his face and shoulders by the rain. How the guy could even see with all those water droplets on his glasses was beyond Shouta. “Oh man, I always said someone was gonna fall into this stupid thing. Come on, let’s get you out.”

Shouta silently glowered at the villain as he reached out to him but made no effort to push him away. Trying to get a good grip on the pavement was tricky with the rain making everything so slippery. Maybe if he could figure out how to get his claws to pop out, but he’d yet to figure out a lot of his new form’s functions. Frankly, the fact he could walk at all was a miracle considering he’d never used a four-legged body before.

So the sulking cat allowed the blond villain to carefully slip his hands around Shouta’s... armpits? Well, his hands went between around the edges of his front legs and shoulders, so, close enough—and pull him out of the hole. Rather than put him down like he expected though, Mic shifted his hold to carry the grumpy feline, turning to walk to a nearby apartment building. “Come on, let’s get you inside so we can dry you off. My place is just over there!”

...And now Mic was taking him to his apartment. Crap. Shouta naturally began to struggle, wanting to get the hell back to UA instead, but Mic had a surprisingly strong grip. In the end he gave up and just sulked in the villain’s arms with a grumpy scowl as the blond draped a towel over him, resigned to his fate. At least he was out of the rain.

“Oh man, you’re lucky I found you!” Mic commented, looking down at him with a concerned frown. “A lil’ fella like yourself could drown in all that rain!” He switched on the light switch by the door, illuminating one of the most rundown and shabby apartments Shouta had ever seen. And considering his meager salary as an underground hero, he’d seen a lot of crummy places while apartment hunting. “You’ll be safe here, just make yourself at home you little cutie!”

Shouta just silently scowled at his current predicament. He just wanted to get warm and dry and take a nice, long nap until this stupid Quirk wore off. (It better wear off.)

The Quirk did not wear off.

Morning found Shouta still very much a feline, much to his ire. He woke up well before Mic, the blond snoozing away in his bedroom (Shouta had chosen to sleep on the couch, which had literal patches sewn on it, he’d never seen that outside cartoons), and Shouta felt no small amount of irritation at the fact he still had this stupid feline body. At least he was warm and dry now. That didn’t make him any happier about the situation though.

A glance at the bathroom mirror had revealed himself to be particularly mangy and stocky rather than sleek and agile-looking like most cats. His long hair had turned into thick, shaggy fur, the black coloration adding an air of dirtiness as opposed to the soft and fluffy feeling exuded by Mic’s actual cat. Sprinkles, if the name written on the food bowl was accurate.

Speaking of the food bowl, Mic was now beaming down at Shouta as he sat next to the now-full bowl. “Come on, it’s safe to eat!” Mic goaded—nay, practically pleaded with him, his mouth pulled into a pout as he looked down at Shouta. “You have to be hungry, little guy!”

Shouta just glowered at him, ignoring the bowl. Nope. Not gonna eat that. He might be a cat for now (seriously this stupid thing better wear off on its own), but he was NOT going to eat cat food.

Mic sighed, seeming to accept the fact as he turned to begin rifling through the cabinet. Good, looks like he got the picture and was looking for something else to feed him. “It’s the bowl, right?” he muttered. Wait, what? Mic turned around holding a cracked plastic soup bowl, dumping another scoop of kitty kibble into it before setting it next to Shouta. “There! This bowl doesn’t smell like Sprinkles, so it should be good, right?”

He beamed down at Shouta, clearly proud of his understanding of cats. Shouta just stared at him blandly, making no move to touch it, and Mic soon deflated. “Eh, you’ll get hungry try it eventually,” he muttered, turning away with a sigh and trudging off to his bedroom. Shouta watched him leave with a blank face, still pointedly ignoring the bowl of cat food.

As he sat there Sprinkles sauntered over and plopped down on the floor next to him, blinking her large eyes at him as she studied him curiously. Normally, Shouta would be happy to be in the presence of a cat, especially one who seemed as sweet and friendly as Sprinkles. Seeing as he himself was currently a cat, however, he found his joy slightly diminished. He couldn’t exactly pet her with paws, which sucked since her fluffy white fur looked particularly soft and silky.

For now, he settled for patting her leg with his paw to try to satiate the urge. Sadly, it did not have the same effect as running his fingers through her fur. He sulked up until he heard a gasp, and turned to see Mic staring at him with sparkly eyes from the door to his bedroom. He bounced over with a giant grin and bent down next to them. “So adorable!” he gushed, rubbing Shouta’s head affectionately.

At this point, Shouta’s broody mood outweighed the urge to claw off his hand.

“So, I already have Sprinkles,” Mic mused aloud, “So what do you think of the name... Pickles?”

Scratch that. Shouta proceeded to do so literally, highly satisfied by the startled and pained yelp from the blond.

“Ow! Ow! Okay, not Pickles! Ouch, that really hurts!”

Day two of being a cat. Shouta was now covered in clothes while Mic loudly rooted through his dresser.

“Where is that shirt?” Mic grumbled to himself, tossing a pair of jeans over his shoulder. Why he apparently stored pants and shirts in the same drawers, Shouta had no idea. Why did a person need this many clothes? Granted, he barely bothered with more than the minimal amount needed himself. But still.

Also, what was that guy even aiming at? Shouta was sitting in the doorway, not even fully in the room!

Mic made a sound of triumph as he held up a shirt in an eye-searing chartreuse, on the more yellow end of the spectrum. A fact Shouta knew only because he’d spent an hour arguing with one of his students over demanding to use the color in their costume two years ago. Why. Why did anyone have clothing in that shade.

Mic turned around with a grin, but his smile quickly faded to a look of confusion. “Puddles? Puddles, where are you?” Shouta’s eye twitched, still displeased with the name (seriously, what was with this guy’s preoccupation with English words?), but it beat literally every other suggestion the villain had. Even if he didn’t like the whole reminder of being pulled out of a puddle.

He gave a displeased mrow and Mic blinked and bent down next to the discarded pile of clothes, lifting up a pants leg to see Shouta’s eyes glowering up at him. “Oh, there you are, you silly baby!” Shouta glared at him, willing all his disdain to show through his eyes. Mic was unfazed. “Aw, geez, now I need to wash the hair off this stuff!” Mic playfully scolded as he started picking up the clothes.

You literally threw it on me, Shouta thought silently. You have no one to blame but yourself for this. He waited patiently for Mic to lift the clothes off him, depositing them on his bed to be washed later. Shouta took silent pleasure in the glimpse of black hairs stuck to them.

Mic pulled on the eye-searing shirt while Shouta continued to sit and brood, chattering all the while. “Man, I am so stoked to see this band tonight! I feel kinda bad leaving you alone here all day when you’re still getting used to the place, but you’ll have Sprinkles to keep you company so you shouldn’t be too lonely!” He grabbed what Shouta presumed to be his work uniform and folded the shirt over his arm, giving Shouta a final pet as he strode past him. Shouta remained in place, pointedly ignoring him as he continued to sulk and brood.

Approximately ten seconds later Mic returned, looking notably dejected. “Your bowl is still full,” he said glumly. “Are you seriously on some sort of hunger strike?” Shouta made a rumbling noise halfway between a meow and a grumble, and Mic groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “C’mon, Puddles, I’m on a limited budget here! Do I need to steal expensive food for you?”

Shouta responded with a pointed glare. He would NOT condone Mic stealing cat food for him. As a hero, he couldn’t allow even the most trivial of crimes, even if they had good intentions behind them. Plus, he had a feeling the blond would try feeding him a wet canned food next, and the thought of the slimy-looking can-shaped meat chunk just made him want to shudder.

(He pointedly ignored the fact he stole one of the pieces of chicken from Mic’s dinner last night when the blond wasn’t looking. He was a cat right now, cats did not need to obey any laws, and snagging food from someone’s plate wasn’t exactly illegal anyway.)

“I still have that concert tonight so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Mic sighed, and then nodded to himself with a look of renewed resolve. “I can’t let you starve though! We’ll have to improvise for now!” He marched off to the kitchen, and Shouta followed silently, letting himself feel a glimmer of hope. That hope was soon rewarded when he found Mic rooting through the fridge, pulling out a can of sardines.

Not my first choice but I’ll take it. Shouta trotted over as Mic put it on a paper plate, hopping onto the counter to begin chowing down before he could even pick up the plate. Relief visibly flooded Mic’s face as he ate, his shoulders slumping and a breath of air escaping him. “Oh thank goodness, I was getting worried there! Kinda picky for a stray though, aren’tcha?” Shouta just rumbled in the back of his throat, too busy eating to respond otherwise.

“Welp, I gotta run if I want to get to work on time,” Mic said, glancing at the clock. “See you later, cool cats! Sprinkles, make sure Puddles doesn’t get into trouble while I’m gone!” The white cat meowed in response, and with a jaunty wave Mic departed, the click of the door shutting and locking ringing particularly heavily in the ensuing silence. Shouta’s head snapped up, eyes locking on the door.

Okay, he’s finally gone. Time to see if I can find an escape route. Shouta had no intention of staying here absolutely longer than necessary; the sooner he found someone he knew, the better. Finishing off the sardines, he leaped off the counter and made his way to the door, determined to get out.

Ten minutes of trying to open it later, he found his resolve faltering though. Cat paws just weren’t good for turning round doorknobs, even with the advantage of knowing how they worked. And that didn’t even account for trying to just reach it. There were no convenient surfaces near the handle to stand on, so he spent most of those ten minutes just hopping up and down trying to reach it.

As he found himself clinging to the knob with all four limbs trying desperately not to slide off, he finally conceded this probably wouldn’t work.

Letting himself fall to the ground, he proceeded to sullenly slink to the rest of the apartment to search for an alternate route. He’d neglected to explore the apartment the previous day beyond the bathroom and the main living space, as he’d rather not look around a villain’s place too much. Beyond the whole “don’t intend to stay more than a day” thing, he didn’t really feel keen on the “invasion of privacy” thing. The man might be technically a villain, but honestly, Shouta viewed him as more of a nuisance than dangerous.

After checking the window in the living room and confirming it would be even more of a hassle to open than the front door, he reluctantly turned his attention to the bedroom. The door was half-closed, and he felt apprehensive as he crept towards it because, again, invasion of privacy. He’d only sat outside the door that morning because Mic was being noisy and he was curious. He hadn’t been able to see a window then, but there could be one on the wall outside his view, and if he got lucky it would be open. So he nudged open the door, looking around, and—

............

That was a lot of Eraserhead merchandise.

Shouta just stared at the collection of posters and other objects in the corner where two dressers met, as if staring would make it disappear or somehow become... something else. Anything else. But nope, it all stayed in place, from the folded shirt to the homemade banner with ‘ERASERHEAD’ written in large English letters.

I don’t even HAVE merchandise. What the actual hell. Those looked like replicas of his capture weapon and goggles, though the color was slightly off, and... Was that a plushie of him? Hopping onto one of the dressers and prodding at the small doll curiously, he confirmed it was, indeed, a hand-made plushie of him.

Mic returned several hours later to Sprinkles pawing at Shouta as he hid under the couch. Mic, naturally, just assumed Shouta was spooked and proceeded to spend about half an hour trying to coax him out. Shouta pointedly ignored his cooing and just remained curled up in the safe embrace of the darkness, wishing desperately he could unsee what he had seen.

Day three of being a cat. Shouta had finally emerged from his spot under the couch to dine on more sardines, having resumed his usual cool demeanor after the initial shock and embarrassment at seeing the shrine. What shrine? Shouta saw absolutely no hand-made plushies or other merchandise of himself, Mic’s room was absolutely normal. Well, as normal as a bedroom belonging to Present Mic could be.

More important than nonexistent merchandise, he was starting to wonder if the Quirk had a time limit. Was he doomed to be forever a cat? No, no, he’d give it a week before he started to panic. A lot of long-lasting Quirks had a week-long time limit, there was no reason to assume it didn’t have a limit. No need to freak out just yet—

What was that spot?

Shouta froze, transfixed by a yellowish dot moving on the floor next to him. Gaze following it intently, he tentatively slapped his paw over it, only for it to appear on top of it. He blinked in mild surprise, and when he withdrew his paw the spot didn’t move with it instead, remaining in the exact place on the floor.

Had he been human he would have frowned at it, so for now he settled for squinting. What is this thing? After a few seconds the weird spot moved away and bounced in a small circle along the tile floor. Eyes narrowing, he slowly crept towards it and pounced again, only for it to once more appear atop his paw.

Another confused blink, and he quickly retreated, circling it warily. He slowly reached out to tap it, watching the spot overlap with his dark fur before quickly withdrawing his paw. Nearby he heard Mic give a soft giggle, which he chose to ignore as he inspected the spot more thoroughly. Obviously it wasn’t a bug, or even anything physical.

Is it a light? he thought. It was the most reasonable explanation. But what kind of yellow light is that small and able to move like that? The only light he could think of were—wait.

Shouta abruptly froze as the spot zoomed away, just staring into space as gears clicked into place in his mind.

Did I seriously fall for a laser pointer? he thought in disbelief. Another soft giggle from Mic drew his attention to the blond, and he confirmed his suspicion instantly upon seeing him pointing a pen-like device towards the wall. His left hand pressed against his mouth as he watched the two cats from a distance, an amused smile peeking through his fingers.

I fell for a laser pointer, Shouta mentally reiterated in mild shock.

In his defense, his new eyes had a more limited range of color so he couldn’t exactly tell the light was red. Had he been able to see its color, he would’ve made the connection right away. Somehow, his newfound red-green colorblindness had slipped his mind with everything else going on. Come to think of it, that hideous shirt Mic wore yesterday might not actually be that hideous. Huh.

As Shouta stared at him Mic’s smile faded, his hand lowering from his mouth as he frowned. He looked kind of... disappointed? Shouta blinked, briefly confused by the change in expression, until he saw the laser zoom past his paws again. Oh. Mic was still trying to play with him. Yeah, Shouta got pretty dejected too when his own cat lost interest.

As he watched Mic’s shoulders slump he felt a twinge of guilt, and decided to take pity on the man. He abruptly spun and pounced onto the light, the laser bouncing wildly as Mic startled. As the laser swerved away and Shouta chased after it, he snuck a glance at Mic to find him grinning brilliantly, his eyes sparkling. That looked much better than the sad look he’d been sporting.

Shouta was only doing this because he was bored. Cats had very limited options for mental stimulation, it was only logical to take advantage of a distraction when he had the chance. The fact it made Mic happy had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Day four of being a cat.

Shouta was learning more about Mic than he ever wanted to, and not just because he was forced to inhabit the same space as the man. No, Mic had apparently decided that cats made perfect receptacles for venting.

Shouta felt ready for a villain to burst through the wall and end his misery now as Mic laid on his bed, venting to him in a manner eerily reminiscent a teenage girl. The comparison was more apt than Shouta expected actually, given the man’s obsession with appearances and melodramatic tendencies in his villain persona. He kind of reminded him of an unholy fusion of Ashido and Jirou.

So far he’d heard everything. Rants about the awful music selection played at the convenience store on the way to his job. The atrocious battery life of his cell phone and the hassle of carrying a charger everywhere. The apartment manager who always drew out and loudly over-enunciated her words after she first noticed his hearing aids, making it even harder to understand her (actually a valid grievance, Shouta admitted).

And Shouta just sat there with a grumpy look, trying to convey his utter lack of interest through his sour glare. Part of him contemplated just leaving, but he had actually been quite comfortable sitting on this pillow before Mic came in and flopped onto the bed with an exasperated, “You won’t believe the day I’ve had!” Aside from the noise, this pillow was still quite comfortable, much moreso than the couch, which was worn enough he could feel the springs creak under his weight. So he just tried to ignore the venting.

It was not as easy as he hoped.

“—And then there’s my shitty job—god I hate that place!” the blond muttered, poking Shouta’s ear. His ear twitched away from the touch, just squinting at him with disdain. You seem to hate a lot of places, he thought sarcastically. “They treat me like shit!” Most “villains” would try destroy a place if they really hated it that much.

“It’s all just so horrible!” the blond finished with a dramatic groan, while Shouta watched on with absolutely no sympathy. Screw this, the couch is lumpy but at least it’s quiet there. He was about to get up and leap away when the blond perked up, a bright smile lighting up his face. “But y’know what makes everything better?”

No, what? Shouta thought sarcastically, knowing he’d find out either way.

“Eraserhead!” Wait what? Shouta tensed at the mention of his name, staring wide-eyed and starting to feel rising panic as Mic began gushing about him. “Seeing him always makes me so much happier!” Okay, he really should have seen this coming, since the villain was pretty overt about his romantic intentions towards Shouta in... literally every encounter they had. “He’s my boyfriend y’know? Sooo cute!” Wait, wait, what—no, back up!! We’re not dating— “He kicks my ass a lot but only ’cuz that’s his job!”

Don’t say it like! That makes it sound like an abusive relationship!! A distressed hiss nearly escaped Shouta, but it was silenced by the all-consuming panic and embarrassment that had gripped him. Mic had a dreamy-looking smile on his face, his eyes almost glittering as he loudly proclaimed, “I love him a lot!”

Oh my god. He really IS a teenage girl. Shouta felt like he was watching a disaster movie play out in real time, and in a way he was. The disaster that was Mic’s delusional take of their relationship. Did this idiot even understand how healthy relationships worked!? Why do you even love me so much!?

Maybe his feline features were more expressive than he thought, or maybe Mic was just in a mood to gush over him, because the blond gave a dreamy sigh and proceeded to elaborate.

“Man, you should see him in action. He’s so graceful and agile, like a cat.” More literally than you know right now, Shouta thought sullenly. “And he totally doesn’t back down even if the other guy’s, like, ten times his size!” That would be a sixty-foot-tall person, Mic. That would be unrealistic and just makes me sound reckless. “And he manages to take them down with nothing but his skills and his awesome scarf!” I wish I could take down a sixty-foot-tall giant with just that.

“And plus, he totally punched a reporter in the face this one time!” Mic continued, and that one admittedly caught Shouta’s attention. Usually people highlighted that incident as a bad one, not a good quality. “It’s just, there’s so many heroes out there who only seem to care about the press, y’know?

“Don’t get me wrong, I love big and flashy stunts as much as the next guy—I mean, as long as I’m not, you know, actually facing All Might myself, haha, oh thank god he’s retired now and that won’t ever happen—but some of them just feel... hollow.” Mic waved his hand with a vague frown. muttering. “Like, they do it more for the cameras than a feeling of doing good, I guess?

“But Eraserhead,” he breathed with a small smile, rolling onto his side to gaze at the totally nonexistent shrine as he rambled, “He doesn’t care about that stuff. He’s willing to put his life on the line to save everyone! Hell, that poster of him over there” which does not exist “doesn’t show it, but he has this big scar under his eye. Like this, see?”

He twisted his torso to face Shouta again and traced a crescent-shaped line under his right eye, mirroring the one currently visible on Shouta’s face at that very moment, seriously how dense could a guy be!? “And you know how he got it?” Mic asked, and yes, he did. It was hard to forget having his face slammed into the pavement and ground against it by a Noumu while his students were watching nearby—

“He got it protecting his students, barely even a full week after meeting them.”

The sheer reverence in Mic’s voice silenced any snarky internal commentary, Shouta just blinking slowly. Any lingering traces of the dopey smile had faded by this point, replaced by a more serious look he rarely saw on the blond. “Eraserhead almost died then. I heard he was lucky to even still be able to see. I sent him a card of course, and took over his patrol route for him until he got better,” wait, was THAT why there wasn’t a massive spike in crime while he was gone, “but man, it was such a close call...”

He sighed, letting his head flop back onto the mattress as he stared into space. “It’s just... He went to work expecting a normal day, and instead he ended up facing a giant ambush of, like, two dozen guys or more. And he just went in anyway, knowing he’d probably die. And that—that takes a lot of guts. Guts, and heart.”

Shouta remained silent, just... staring at him. Slowly he slumped atop the pillow and rolled onto his side, staring into space. He had a lot to think about now.

Night four of being a cat. Shouta was currently in Mic’s bed. Repeat: Shouta was currently in Mic’s bed.

Don’t move, he silently commanded himself, staring wide-eyed into the darkness as he remained perfectly still. At some point after listening to Mic confess his undying love he’d fallen asleep, and apparently Mic had taken it as invitation to use him as a teddy bear. The sleeping blond had one arm tossed over Shouta essentially trapping him in place, the hero-turned-feline pressed close to his front. By “close”, he meant he could feel Mic’s breaths tickle the fur on his ears, feel his steady heartbeat against his back.

�� Had he been human Shouta would probably be blushing right now. Actually, he might still be doing so underneath the thick fur judging by how warm his face felt. This was the most intimately close he’d gotten to another person in... well, ever. Aizawa Shouta was not a tactile person by any means. ...But even with his limited experience he’d never been this physically close to someone.

They were sharing a pillow, for crying out loud!

Part of him wanted to worm his way out and abscond to the couch, pretending this never happened, but... at the same time, he didn’t really want to move. Mic’s body felt so warm. The arm draped over Shouta didn’t feel heavy, but instead oddly comforting. The rhythm of Mic’s heartbeat and the steady rising and falling of his chest gently pushed against his back, providing a silent lullaby that put him strangely at ease.

This was so illogical. Mic was a villain—well, more of a public nuisance, but still—Shouta shouldn’t feel so safe around him. But something about being pressed so close to the blond, half-covered by the blankets and with his head laying against the surprisingly soft pillow, just filled him with an odd sense of contentment.

He could feel Mic shift in his sleep, unconsciously pulling Shouta just a little bit closer. “Soft,” he mumbled, the word slurred and quiet, barely recognizable, yet still full of a deep fondness that tugged at Shouta’s heart. He exhaled slowly before closing his eyes, willing the tension to fade from his body as he curled a little closer to Mic.

Just one night won’t be too bad. I just need to make sure he never finds out I’m the cat.

Day five of being a cat. Shouta took back anything nice he ever said about Mic.

“How do you like your new bowtie Puddles?” Mic asked enthusiastically, hugging a very unenthusiastic Shouta with a giant grin.

“Mow,” he replied dejectedly. This is the worst thing I’ve had to endure in my entire life.

“I agree!” Mic proclaimed cheerfully.

“Mow.” No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be doing this to me.

Now that he was aware of his current colorblindness, Shouta had no idea what the bow tie actually looked like, but he didn’t think any color scheme could make it look less tacky. It had polka dots. Nemuri might claim Shouta had a horrific fashion sense (not that he cared enough to agree or disagree), but even he acknowledged that a polka dot bowtie was the epitome of stupid looking.

Sprinkles mewed loudly as she pawed at Mic’s leg, blinking up at them with those large green eyes of hers. Similar to Shouta, she also wore a bowtie, this one a sparkly sequined thing that might be either green or pink. Unlike him, Mic positioned it so the bow was on the back of her neck, which Shouta found to be a perfectly practical and overall lovely choice for a female cat. Clearly she was used to being dressed up, as she made no fuss over it.

“What’s that, Sprinkles?” Mic asked, bending down and finally releasing Shouta from his hold. Shouta promptly began tugging at the bowtie with his paw, silently cursing his lack of opposable thumbs to aid in removing it. His tiny toes couldn’t get a good enough grip to do anything but pat it, much to his dismay.

While he sulked over that Mic held out his arms, Sprinkles jumping into his hold without further prompting. As she did her poofy tail coincidentally whacked Shouta in the face, making him jolt and sneeze. He shot her a sour look, while Mic just laughed as he swept her up and hugged her to his chest. “Hey, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he accused playfully. The white feline meowed and bumped her head against his chin, eyes sliding shut as she purred.

The accusation made Shouta’s eyes narrow, his glare growing harsher. Mic snickered at his expression before turning his attention back to Sprinkles, his grin softening to something more gentle and fond. “I get what you’re doing. You’re just jealous of all the attention I’m giving Puddles, aren’t you?” He adjusted his grip to scratch her chin and Sprinkles seemed to melt in his arms at the attention, a look of pure bliss on her face. “But you don’t need to be jealous. You’re still my adorable sweetheart.”

As he watched the pair Shouta felt his ire melt away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment. The love and adoration in Mic’s face as he gazed down upon Sprinkles was nothing but genuine, the relaxed slump to her body an indication of total trust and happiness.

A guy who cares about cats that much can’t be that bad, he thought to himself quietly.

Half an hour later, he rescinded that thought when Mic posed with him and Sprinkles, all three wearing matching hats and bowties as he tried to angle his phone for a good selfie. He silently vowed to get his paws on that phone and dump it in the toilet as soon as he had the chance.

Day six of being a cat.

Mic had returned from his job a few minutes prior, which was just as well since Shouta had unfortunately confirmed that operating a laser pointer without thumbs was hard. He had a feeling Sprinkles had been more frustrated by the erratic movement and blinking of the dot than usual during his attempts to play with her. At some point she’d clocked onto Shouta as being the source of her frustration, because she had decided to ignore the laser in favor of jumping at him.

“Wow, you two did a lot of roughhousing today, huh?” Mic asked as he sat on the floor with Sprinkles in his lap, running a brush through her fur. Strands of black had gotten mixed into her otherwise pristine white coat, the usually fluffy and silky texture more ruffled and messy from their small wrestling match. Shouta himself looked no better; he could see white furs spot his paws, almost seeming to glow against his own pitch black coat.

He had taken refuge atop a cabinet in the far corner to get away from Sprinkles, and now took advantage of his vantage point to just... observe them. Mic clearly brushed Sprinkles often judging by her reaction. She purred contently as he gently dragged the brush along her head, her ears briefly flattening beneath the bristles before popping back into their usual perky position. She leaned into the strokes, arching her back slightly while her cheek rubbed against his chest.

The sheer love in Mic’s expression was visible to anyone, his smile so much softer than Shouta ever thought the loud and hyper man to be capable of. Plucking a few lingering strands of black fur, he set the brush down and lightly nudged her off his lap. Sprinkles hopped off his lap and strutted away, the blond watching with obvious fondness.

Those warm green eyes turned to Shouta, making him stiffen. “Okay, your turn,” he said, patting his lap invitingly. When Shouta didn’t move he got up and walked over, stopping next to the cabinet. “Come on, time to get down.”

“...Mrow,” Shouta responded in a surprisingly meek way. I would, but I’m kinda stuck, he thought sheepishly. Climbing the cabinet had been one thing, but now that he was on top of it... well, the drop to the floor looked much higher than he thought.

This is so illogical, he thought sulkily. As a human he’d made plenty of larger jumps (with the support of his capture weapon of course), but as a cat the drop seemed a lot bigger. He also lacked the fine-tuned reflexes and familiarity with his body he’d developed from years of training with it, so he felt considerably less confident about his ability to safely jump from such a height without hurting himself in some way.

Mic seemed to pick up on his unease, a small frown settling on his face. “Hey, Puddles, are you nervous?” he asked. “Here, come on, just hop on down. I’ll catch you, okay?” He held out his arms, and Shouta blinked, slow and catlike. Seriously? He was asking a cat to jump into his arms? The rational part of him scoffed, since he knew a normal cat wouldn’t be able to understand such a thing.

But... the less rational, cat-loving part of him, understood. How many times had he tried to coax a cat to jump down from a branch, to leap right into his open arms, logic be damned? Seeing that earnest look on the blond’s face, the encouraging little smile silently asking him to trust him... It made something feel content in Shouta’s chest.

And so, he jumped.

His jump was clumsy and awkward, his mobility just as hindered by his lack of familiarity with this body as he suspected. One of his hind paws ended up catching on the edge of the cabinet, turning a would-be graceful leap into a fumbling tumble. Mic shot forward and caught him, the drop to his arms nowhere near as long as it would be to the floor.

Shouta blinked dumbly as he stared up at the blond, cradled almost like an infant. He had a perfect view of the blond’s smile, relief clear in his face. “Oof! Almost slipped there! Don’t worry though, I got ya buddy.” He carried Shouta over to where he’d left the brush and sat on the floor, rolling Shouta onto his stomach with the feline settled in his lap. He picked up the brush and pulled off the fur already caught in the bristles before he began running it through Shouta’s fur, the strokes light and gentle.

Shouta tensed, memories of painful attempts to brush his own hair flashing through his mind. Tugging his brush through particularly bad knots sometimes felt just as painful as getting slammed into the wall by a villain, and he didn’t look forward to feeling it all over his body. To his surprise the strokes were light and gentle though, each one strangely soothing, and—dare he say it... nice.

He practically melted in Mic’s lap as the bristles stroked through his thick fur, Mic using his free hand to pluck individual white furs that the brush couldn’t capture. “I bet you’ve never been brushed before, have you?” he mused aloud. “You look like you’ve lived your whole life on the streets, you poor thing. Don’t worry though, those days are over.”

Shouta gave a throaty hum, his eyelids sliding shut. It was exactly the kind of thing he had told his own cat when he’d first brought her home, some distant part of his mind noted. He didn’t know how much time passed with Mic brushing him, his mind slipping into a content haze.

It felt like all too soon Mic finished, setting the brush down. He didn’t nudge Shouta off just yet like he did with Sprinkles though, instead pulling Shouta into a small hug. The mellow haze which had consumed his senses lifted slightly at that, a single golden eye peeking open as he felt the blond scratch his ear.

“Hard to believe it’s been a little under a week since I found you.” Mic had a gentle smile as he stared down at Shouta, his eyes soft and lidded. “It already feels like you’ve been part of the family a lot longer.” His hand fell away from Shouta’s head, joining his other arm to wrap around him in a slightly tighter hug. “It might be silly, but I’m glad you’re here—it gets quite lonely at times. Pathetic, I know.”

The blond gave a self-deprecating chuckle while Shouta just sat in his arms, staring forward blankly. Right now, he could feel nothing but pure love radiating from Mic, his genuine and powerful fondness for what he believed to be a normal cat quite evident despite only knowing “Puddles” for less than a week. And hearing him call himself pathetic so easily didn’t sit right with Shouta.

Before he knew it he’d twisted in Mic’s hold and bumped his head against the man’s chest, purring lowly as he rubbed his head against him. He could feel the blond perk up, sitting a little straighter. “Oh! You’re a cuddly kitty!”

Shouta just kept purring, eyes sliding shut as he felt the blond gently scratch his back.

This, he thought distantly, was contentment. This was happiness. Just being in the arms of someone who cared about you, and showing you cared about them back, even if just a little.

Maybe being stuck as a cat wasn’t so bad after all.

Morning seven found Shouta rousing to consciousness slowly, his eyes feeling crusted shut and refusing to open. His muscles felt notably more sore than they had the past week, making him groan lowly and curl up a little tighter. Ugh, stupid cat body... He forced his eyes to blink open, and for a moment he was confused.

Doesn’t the room seem a bit... brighter? He frowned, squinting blearily at the shrine (not a shrine, what shrine, those were just random posters of a random guy who happened to resemble him) which seemed a bit more colorful than he remembered. The sand crusting his eyes made it hard to focus, and he reached a hand to rub it away before pausing. Wait a minute, is my hand human?

Behind him Hizashi slowly stirred to consciousness as the mattress shifted, a distant part of his mind registering it dip heavily to the side. A sleepy little moan slipped past his lips, barely audible to even the keenest ears, his eyes drowsily fluttering open to see something dark and furry in front of his face.

Puddles? he thought hazily, but as his vision came into focus his still-drowsy mind quickly registered that it was not his feline. No, it was the back of a human head, a man sitting up on the other side of his bed. A flash of peach near the blankets drew his eyes to an arm with a starburst-shaped scar on the elbow, the blanket falling slightly as the man lifted his torso and wait his back was totally bare, holy shit this guy’s totally naked and he’s in my bed. Any lingering drowsiness vanished instantly as he bolted upright.

“What the fuck!?” Hizashi screamed as he bolted upright, Quirk unconsciously activating in his shock.

Shouta flinched and sat straight up, his hair whipping around his face in the voice-fueled blast of wind as he gripped the blanket against his chest. Well, the Quirk finally wore off at least. Okay, he doesn’t have his glasses yet. Hopefully he won’t be able to recognize you and you can just run before he gets them—

“Wait, wha—ERASERHEAD!?”

So much for that. As Mic’s voice devolved into a high-pitched squeak of horror Shouta rubbed at his eyes with a quiet groan, doing his best to ignore the sudden silence that fell over the room. After a few seconds past he turned his head slightly to look at the blond, finding him staring at him with an ashen look of shock and disbelief, mouth open but for once producing absolutely no noise. Only took waking up next to me in bed to finally get him to shut up.

“So,” Shouta said awkwardly. “Got any pants I could borrow?”

#erasermic #aizawa shouta #aizawa x hizashi #yamada hizashi #mha #fanfic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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dzamie-oc · 4 years

Text

Smaugust 08 - Glass

Dzamie, HM, and William experiment with a glass dragon eating two of them. Y’know, for science. Or something.

Contains vore; do not read if you object to vore existing.

An unusual trio gathered around the table, looking at a small, hollow, glass figurine of a dragon. A green-scaled dragon, inspecting the tiny version of his species, a blond human idly swirling a gently fizzling solution in his hand, and a smiling anthro cheetah with a rapidly swishing tail betraying his excitement. "Okay, so run this by me again," William requested of the nonhumans. He knew what they needed the potion for, and, if not for the dragon, could probably guess the plan.

"And, what am I here for?" HM asked, reaching forward to poke at the transparent figure, "seeing as I'm certain you know I'll sooner melt this thing down than be eaten by it." The cheetah drummed his paws on the table, harmless trails of green magic flying off as he burned through some energy. "I'm so glad you asked; exposition is a forte of mine! Now then..." He set his paws down flat on the table and drew up an illusion of a blueprint for the other two to see. "This is a three-part - well, five, really, but who's counting - three-part plan of action. Now that I've got this ADORABLE dragon statue, I'm gonna-" Dzamie traced two furred fingers through the air, trailing a spell circle behind them that dissipated into sparkles, "- put together a quick spell to animate it. Then, you have that fantastic growth potion to make him get-" he threw his arms open for emphasis, "- nice and big, and then he'll eat us. Probably you, then me," he said, physically pointing at William, then himself, "so I can observe, record, all that fun stuff." HM watched his energetic explanation dispassionately. "That better not be all you have to say." Dzamie reached over to the dragon and pat his head, earning a quick snap of his jaws that his paw just barely escaped. "Me? Nothing more to say? Why, HM, I thought you knew me. Now," the cheetah giggled before holding up one finger to forestall an interruption, and addressed them both, "so, it turns out that making life, like, through magic, is REALLY hard. And also, even if I DID - which I could, it's just too much effort - I have, like, a TON of moral reservations about magically altering the being's entire mind to a specific state for the purpose of doing some observation and also fun. Now, you know what's actually super very much easier than creating actual life, AND gets the soon to be big glass dragon to do exactly what we want it to do?" The cheetah put a finger to each of his friends' mouths - and once again dodged a bite from HM - before continuing, "now hold on, I'm gonna tell you. "Right, so, it turns out it's a heck of a lot easier to just make something able to move, like a puppet but much, much, MUCH finer controls, if I then also have someone pilot it around. Like an Eva. Or full synchro Megaman. Or- actually, there's a ton of stuff that did it. Anyway, that's what you're here for, HM! According to my notes, you have-" Dzamie traced a few numbers in the air, mumbling "carry the six," then went on, "- nearly twenty-four years of experience being a dragon! So this should be super easy for you. All you have to do is continue being a dragon, just one that's not made of flesh and blood and bone and all that nasty stuff. Well, scales aren't nasty. They're pretty cool." He shook his head. "Anyway, so in a way, you're gonna be eating us! It'll just also be a big glass dragon. So, any more questions?" William asked, "so why are we doing this in the first place?" This got an even wider grin from the cheetah. "For SCIENCE! ...and cuz I have a thing for being eaten, and I suspect you have one too, mister 'dating an aroma dragon.'" He rubbed his paws together, then summoned a clipboard and pen with a snap. "But officially? I'm using these funds for a scientific studie of dragon-shaped elementals, which this will technically be." Neither HM nor William had anything further to ask, so they looked back at the dragon. HM watched as several green circles formed in the air in front of the glass figure, populated with shifting, arcane symbols. After Dzamie drew another circle in front of him, the dragon blew a lick of his flame into each circle. With a quick gesture, the circles settled over the dragons - one glass, one scaly. HM took a step back shortly before going limp, and the small glass dragon jerked to life. It shook its head, then looked down at its see-through paws, back along its body, and stretched out its legs and wings, before staring up at the human and cheetah. "This is just... unnatural," HM said, "you should absolutely not be that big compared to me. I don't know how Sylvia does it." "She's... used to it, I guess, like I'm used to being human," William hazarded, then offered the growth potion. "And hey, at least you won't be tiny for long." "Fair." The little glass figure strolled up to the potion and stuck his head in, lapping at the liquid. He withdrew once the effects began to kick in, growing his body a good inch or so in each direction, then changed strategies, wrapping his jaws around the mouth of the bottle and tipping his head back. Dzamie scribbled on his clipboard as he watched the trail of potion snake down the inside of the glass dragon's neck, then pooled in his paws, with a small puddle having landed in the curve of his belly. It didn't stay there for long, and the trio could each see or feel as the power of the potion - and the potion itself, it seemed - dissipated into the transparent body. After lapping out the last drop with a glass tongue, he climbed down off the table, still growing in size. William and Dzamie stepped back to give him some room, but HM reached a paw out and casually pinned the cheetah to the floor. He smirked down at the now much more bite-sized friends before him. "Yes, this is much better," he said. "Was this strictly necessary?" Dzamie asked from under his paw. The paw was perfectly smooth, and easily clear enough for the feline to see his body through it. "Obviously, or you would've teleported out from under it already. Now then..." he swung his head right in front of William and made a show of licking his muzzle. There was no drool to leave streaked across his snout, however. "I believe he said something about you going first?" "What, I can't even take notes? At least let me move my arms." The dragon and the human looked skeptically at the mage, who rolled his eyes at them. In a flash of light, he vanished and reappeared a few feet behind William, sticking his tongue out at HM. "You're no fun." "It is serious sciencing time. Now, in you go, Will..." HM opened his jaws and lowered them over the human's body. The curves in the glass slightly distorted him from view - and the way he saw the world outside the glass dragon - and William reached a hand out to the mouth, exploring its texture. Slowly, carefully, the dragon clamped down and lifted his head, bringing the man horizontal, and parted his jaws once more to scoop the rest of the human inside with a glass tongue. A quick lick, and a swallow, and then William was sliding down the neck, only a couple inches of glass separating him from the outside of HM. He put his arms out to brace himself, and managed to avoid slipping into the dragon's legs, coming to a stop in his belly. Out of habit, William began to rub at the dragon's "stomach." Dzamie walked around HM's temporary body, taking notes, then stood under his belly directly, staring up at William. He reached a furry paw out and ran it along the underside. It felt smooth, like the shallow glass bowl it looked like. When he pressed against it, there was no give at all. "Can you hear me?" he asked. "Yeah, I can. Little muffled, though." The cheetah nodded. "So, similar to normal glass. That's cool." He turned to walk back to HM's head to present himself for the dragon, when suddenly, the dragon's belly dropped towards him. As HM laid down on him, Dzamie noted that the previously static, unmoving glass shifted, bent, and curved to cover his body more evenly. And, as a quick struggle showed, the dragon being hollow did little to make his weight any more tolerable. "What, exactly, is your damage?" he grumbled. "I'm being fun, my dear, and you know it," HM replied, resting his chin on his front paws, "you know exactly how to get out of that, you could've easily avoided it, and you're still there. I know how you act around dragons!" His voice carried a smug, but not quite mocking, tone. Another flash of magic, and Dzamie popped back into existence in front of the dragon's snout. "Rude. But not wrong. Open up, please, and stay open. I do have some actual observations to make on this." HM opened his jaws wide. Dzamie summoned his phone, snapped a photo, transferred it to his notes with a quick spell, and dispelled the device as quickly as it had arrived. With the mawshot on record, he stepped one foot into the mouth, and nudged the glass tongue aside. Two yellow-and-brown-furred hands tried to touch each other through the glass, and the cheetah copied down the dragon's thickness onto his notes. With a snap, the clipboard, pen, and paper vanished. He stepped fully into the transparent maw, taking a seat on the smooth, cool tongue. "At your leisure, then." The dragon coiled his tongue around the feline, earning a quick laugh, before lifting his head up once more and letting him slide down the smooth slide. Dzamie pressed out against the firm, hard neck, noting that, while it was obviously much drier than most dragon throats, it was just as slippery - he could barely slow his descent at all. His trip to the dragon's body was swift, and rather fun, not unlike a plastic slide one might find at a funfair. His momentum carried him into William, though they didn't slide too far. "Oof. Whoops, didn't think I'd keep that much speed," Dzamie apologized. HM chuckled, curling his neck to look at them through his body. "For once, the cheetah admits to going TOO fast for his comfort." "For my comfort OR my necessity," the feline added, "someone call Ripley's. Oh, but really," he said, changing topics as his clipboard and pen reappeared in his paws, "opinions, both of you?" "The throat was a lot of fun," said William, "I mean- er, you can leave the personal bits out of the notes, right?" "Out of the report, absolutely," Dzamie nodded, "out of my notes? ...maybe. For my eyes only, though. And HM's." William thought for a few moments before nodding. "Right. Well, this doesn't really do anything for me in terms of... well, what I usually get when Vanille does it. This feels more like a theme park attraction, complete with this... observation deck sort of thing. Actually, HM, Dzamie, if there's a way for him to make this watertight, I bet it'd be really neat to visit the sea in this glass dragon." "That is," Dzamie remarked, pointing his pen at the human, "a really cool idea. We should do it sometime. At the very least HM and I. And it was neat to see that HM didn't manifest a throat and stomach to eat us, although I think the tongue is new. It makes me wonder what other sort of anatomy he could have that's inaccurate to the original statue." HM laid down again, then slid to his side, giving his two prey a place to rest that didn't have hollow legs to fall into. "For science, huh." Dzamie waved him off. "Don't be silly, it's for horny purposes. Though I would catalog it all scientifically and see if it'll get accepted, too. But that can wait." He yawned and stretched out inside HM's side. William gently shook the cheetah. "I'd still like to get out. Glass isn't the most comfortable thing to lay on." "Plus," HM chipped in, "I can end the spell, myself, and I don't think either of you are interested in guessing what happens if I do. The growth potion only works on living things, after all." Dzamie looked at William, then at HM, through the glass body, then snapped his fingers. He and William found themselves back at the table, and HM walked over before assuming a rather statuesque pose. A darker green magic flickered across the glass dragon's form, then over the dormant, green-scaled dragon body laying nearby. And just like that, HM was back in his body. The glass statue rapidly shrunk back to its original size, and Dzamie quickly put it back on the table. The three of them got up, talked for a bit about various things, and ultimately, William bade them goodbye to go check on a few of his own experiments. HM looked at Dzamie. Dzamie looked at HM. The dragon opened his jaws, revealing a soft, saliva-coated maw, pink flesh glistening and framed by white teeth inside a green muzzle. "Still wanna nap?" The cheetah smiled placed his head in his friend's maw, purring as the dragon lapped warmly at his fur. "Thought you'd never ask."

#dragon #smaugust #soft vore #safe vore #extreme cuddling #writing #writers on tumblr #smaugust 2020 #ocs #oc: dzamie #oc: william #oc: hm #furry #furry cat #furry cheetah #text

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sterekshaven · 4 years

Note

3 & 16 i just need a nice lil spa day for my bois

Hi Nonnie! I’m so sorry this has taken me so long to post (three weeks, jeez!). Thank you for the prompt though! ♥ I have written several fics with bathing/showering/massaging/pampering, so I tried to do it with a twist this time, so it’s a spa day for wolfy Derek =D I hope you like it! (for the Non-Sexual Intimacy prompt list)

Spoiled puppy ao3 - pillowfort

2211 words | Teen characters: Stiles, Derek, Minor Characters tags: Established Relationship, Bathing/Washing, Pampering, Fluff, Non-Sexual Nudity, Derek is a spoiled husband (but so it Stiles so it’s fine), Wolf Derek, Full Shift Werewolves, Spells & Enchantments, Forced Wolf Shift

Summary:

Derek walked into the bathroom and climbed into the bathtub, so Stiles raised his eyebrows at him.

”Oh, yeah?” he asked, and Derek opened his mouth in a big wolfy grin. ”It’s like that, huh?” Derek nodded with a soft little whine. ”Yeah, okay, no need to bring out the puppy eyes.”

As if he could ever say no to Derek.

The first time it happened was because of a curse. Derek was trapped in his wolf form, distressed and miserable and hating every second of it, so when Stiles was washing up he asked Derek to join him, then he spent a long time washing Derek as he slowly relaxed and calmed. Derek had never asked for it in words after that, but it happened that he came to Stiles in his wolf form and whined softly, only to lead Stiles to the bathroom and climb into the tub, and Stiles had smiled and pampered him.

Read here or on ao3!

It had gotten rare that bad things happened to them. It did, occasionally, and the latest time was thankfully mild. There was a witch, but he hadn’t known Stiles and Derek at all, so in a futile attempt to gain the upper hand, he had forced the full shift on Derek, thinking it would scare them and keep them from communicating enough that he could get away. It didn’t.

Stiles had briefly worried about the spell, concerned it wasn’t temporary, but not enough that it hindered him, and he and Derek knew each other well enough that they didn’t really need to speak to work well together. It was quick work to disarm and neutralize the witch and once he was out of the way, Stiles looked Derek over.

“Okay, it’s just temporary,” he said, cradling Derek’s head in his hands to properly sense the magic of the spell. “It should be gone by tomorrow, but I can reverse it if you want to.”

It would take a lot out of Stiles to reverse the spell, but he could do it. Derek shook his head though, so Stiles pressed a kiss to his head, then turned to deal with the cuffed witch, an angry frown on his face. No matter how mild the spell was, Stiles was protective of Derek.

It took a while to get rid of the witch, but Stiles enjoyed arguing with his dad and Chris Argent about what to do about him while the witch grew increasingly worried. Chris had three burly looking men with him, John and Jordan were both in uniform, and Stiles spoke as the Hale alpha’s mate and emissary.

They made a show out of it. Chris’ guys weren’t even hunters and they were all planning to let him go, but the witch didn’t know that, so Stiles talked loudly about retaliation, Chris about killing threats, and John about following the law. In the end John ”won” and Chris dramatically stormed off while Stiles crossed his arms and glared at the witch, Derek growling lowly beside him. John talked quietly to the witch, told him to behave, that both hunters and packs had their eyes on him, and that he could only do so much to help him, then he sent him off with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

Then they could finally go home.

Derek was at ease in his wolf form, while he rarely spent time in it at home, he liked to shift and run as a full wolf, so Stiles wasn’t concerned about it. He would notice if he started to get distressed, and he could reverse the spell at any time.

As soon as they got home, Stiles headed to their bedroom.

”I’m taking a shower, get this witch smell of me,” he said.

Witches’ magic smelled different from his, a little sharper, and while he didn’t smell it much he didn’t like it and he knew Derek liked it even less.

As he undressed and put his clothes in the hamper, Derek walked into the bathroom and climbed into the bathtub, so Stiles raised his eyebrows at him.

”Oh, yeah?” he asked, and Derek opened his mouth in a big wolfy grin. ”It’s like that, huh?” Derek nodded with a soft little whine. ”Yeah, okay, no need to bring out the puppy eyes.”

As if he could ever say no to Derek.

When Stiles was naked, he joined Derek in the tub and started the water. He quickly washed himself off while Derek stood with his head in the spray, squinting as he looked at Stiles, his mouth slightly open in what Stiles had learned was a smile.

”Bath or shower?” Stiles asked as he was rinsing, and Derek carefully turned to get the plug to the tub. He was a big wolf, turning, or moving at all, in a slippery tub wasn’t the easiest, but he had good control of his body and the tub was big too, so he managed fairly easy. Stiles accepted the plug from him. ”Okay. Want me to wash you up first?”

Derek shook his head, so Stiles bent down to put the plug in, then he sat on the edge of the tub, and Derek laid down with a groan.

”There’s hardly any water yet,” Stiles said, amused, but Derek sighed and groaned again, his mouth open. ”Okay, if you say so.”

Stiles got out of the tub to get everything he needed and to put a couple of towels on the floor, then he sat on the edge again and started to scoop water over Derek’s back using a big plastic cup. Derek let out a sigh-groan, and Stiles grinned and kept going.

When Derek was wet enough, Stiles got their body wash and poured a generous amount in his hands, then he started to knead it into Derek’s fur. He massaged and soaped him as the tub slowly filled up, and when Derek grunted and sighed and looked at Stiles, he put a bath tray with a folded towel on for Derek to rest his head on.

Derek made a little sound, Stiles was fairly sure it meant Thanks, then he closed his eyes with a big and content sigh.

”My spoiled husband,” Stiles said softly, and Derek rumbled lowly. ”Yeah, I like it too.” Derek huffed and Stiles smiled as he kneaded soap into the fur on Derek’s neck. ”Yes, Mister Nitpick, I do love it.” Derek had to lift his head to open his mouth in a big smile, and it was Stiles’ turn to huff. ”So smug. You’re lucky I love you.”

Derek nodded and put his head back down, and Stiles pressed a kiss to his head, then he ran a soapy hand up between his ears. He gently kneaded his ears, then his cheeks before going back down the front of his neck.

When the tub was filled enough, Stiles turned the water off, then he kept massaging Derek. He did his legs, kneaded his paws, between his toes and on his toe beans. He left one of Derek’s hind legs since he was lying on it and didn’t want to move, and he was sloppy on the hind leg he could reach, but he’d do them better when the water was drained.

Stiles kept kneading Derek, everything he could reach, though it wasn’t for soaping him up anymore, not when nearly all of him was submerged in water. No, it was just pampering and massaging his big ass wolf husband, who looked to be very close to sleeping, his eyes closed as his grunts and groans became both fewer and quieter.

He didn’t know how long they had been there, just that his fingers were getting pruney and the water tepid, so he stroked Derek’s head to get his attention.

”I’m draining the tub now,” he said when Derek squinted an eye open to look at him.

Derek sighed and closed his eye again, didn’t move at all, so Stiles smiled and pulled the plug. He started soaping Derek up again as the water level sank, and when the tub was empty and Derek was properly soaped up, he got the brush. Derek’s groan when he started carding his fur had his smile grow bigger, Derek really loved that.

He brushed him thoroughly, all he could reach of him, then Derek grunted, sighed, and stood up so Stiles could do the rest of him.

”Good puppy,” Stiles said softly, and Derek huffed and lazily snapped his teeth. ”Aw, yes, so big and bad, my scary hubby.”

Derek opened his mouth in a grin, and Stiles grinned too as he pressed a kiss to Derek’s head. He soaped and massaged the parts of Derek he hadn’t reached before, then he brushed them too. When he was done, he stroked Derek’s head, which was hanging low with how relaxed he was.

”Okay?” Stiles asked, and Derek lifted his head and blinked at him, then he nodded. ”Okay.”

Stiles started the water again, hot, warmer than he could handle himself for a shower or bath, but a temperature he knew Derek liked, then he grabbed the showerhead to rinse Derek, starting on his head. He stroked him as he went, gently tangled his fingers in his fur to make sure he got all the soap, and the longer he kept going, the lower Derek’s head got as he relaxed more and more.

He stroked some excess water from Derek when he was done, and Derek lifted his head again, his eyes droopy and a little unfocused.

”I’ll get a towel,” Stiles said, pressing a kiss to Derek’s head before getting up. He took one from the floor, held it out next to Derek to shield as much of the bathroom as he could. ”Okay, shake it off, baby.”

Derek huffed at him, but he shook himself, and Stiles beamed as he put the towel back on the floor and grabbed a clean one to dry him with. With how thick Derek’s fur was, just squeezing him dry, or even rubbing, didn’t really work at all, so Stiles squeezed his fur until it was mostly just very damp, then he grabbed the hairdryer and the brush, and Derek groaned as he flopped down on his side on one of the towels on the floor.

Stiles brushed and dried him while he was lying flat on his side, his mouth open and his eyes closed, and Stiles brushed and brushed and brushed. He worked on his back and neck first, where the fur was thickest, and as he slowly made his way to Derek’s chest and stomach, Derek started to just as slowly roll to his back. Stiles took his front paw, gently spread his toes and let the warm air dry them, then brushed what he could of his leg, and when it was dry he went to the next leg.

Derek flopped over to his other side eventually, and Stiles slowly but thoroughly finished drying and brushing him. He pressed a kiss to Derek’s cheek when he was done.

“There, all dry and fluffy,” he said.

Derek lazily opened his mouth in a smile but didn’t move at all, so Stiles put everything away, hung up towels and wiped fur from the tub, until it was just the towel Derek was still lying halfway on left. He pulled on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, then he tugged at the towel, and Derek groaned.

“Yeah, I know, come on, you can lie on the couch while I order pizza for us.” Derek opened his eyes to look at Stiles, judgingly, and Stiles huffed. “Yeah, no, I’m not cooking today. See, my husband was gonna cook today, had this whole thing prepared, but I can’t cook that as well as he can, and I just spent like two hours pampering some big wolf, so I’m gonna order pizza. I can reverse the spell if you want to cook, but if not, then you’re just gonna have to live with it.”

Derek huffed, then he stood up with a groan. He bumped his nose against Stiles’ hand, gave it a little lick, then he slowly padded to the living room to climb up on the couch and lie down with a grunt. Stiles laughed quietly as he followed him, sat down next to him and put his hand in the fur on his neck. He was so soft, having just been washed and brushed, and he hummed when Stiles dug his fingers down and gently scratched him.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Stiles said, and Derek opened his mouth in a smile and closed his eyes.

Stiles leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, and Derek’s mouth opened more, the corners of his lips pulling back in a bigger smile, then he turned his head to lick a broad and wet stripe over Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles laughed.

“Thanks, that was gross,” he said. “I love you too, puppy.”

Derek huffed at the nickname, but he nosed Stiles’ cheek, gave it a little lick, what Stiles took as the equivalent to a peck on the cheek, then he clumsily scooted closer and put his head in Stiles’ lap. Stiles stroked his cheek as he got his phone out to order food, and Derek closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, looking comfortable and relaxed.

Stiles might miss Derek’s voice (and hands and face) when he was in his full shift like that, but it was nice to have him there as a wolf too, and he enjoyed spending the evening cuddling him and petting his soft fur.

#anon #Sterek #Haleinski #eternalsterek #Sterek fic #my fic #Smowkie's fic #ask

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jessipalooza · 5 years

Text

Journey to the Vale

Esme woke before dawn. She had always. It was something that lingered, even when unnecessary. Over a century of the same sleeping patterns is hard to shake, even if she tried to do so. Her eyes opened easily and she took in a deep breath to distinguish it from the rhythmic breathing of the man beside her. He was fast asleep and radiating warmth. He was also snoring every few seconds.

Quiet and as light-footed as ever, she slipped out from under the covers and went about her morning routine. She stretched. She washed her face. She brushed her hair. She pulled on dark brown pants of supple leather and a thin, white cotton blouse. She shrugged herself into a blue silk vest and laced herself into knee-high boots of an even darker leather. She stretched again.

With a glance back to the slumbering felmancer, he was granted a small smile even if he did not know it. Then she left. Down the east wing she walked, casting a small frown towards a few of the cracked windows and crumbled molding. The intricately weaved rugs in sun-bleached blue and muted gold had been washed and brushed, but there were parts that remain singed and damaged. The east wing did not take the brunt of the damage from the Black Bloods, however.

Esme turned to wander down the grand staircase and felt the kiss of the cold wind. No longer was there a large glass wall with double doors to go through and enter the aviary. There was nothing. It was shattered as was the dome of the aviary itself. Some of the foliage inside - large, weeping willows, tall and far-reaching oaks, fluffy bushes, lush grass - had been saved, but much of it had been eaten away as though by acid. Not even branches were left among the black, crisped ground. The pond in the middle had been drained of all its water and the forge in the center that used to be home to the phoenixes, Little Prince and Sprout, was crushed under the large gold statue of what the birds were in life.

Eventually, the aviary would be rebuilt, but the rest of Embertree was more important and needed to come first. It was a decision that Faervell did not disagree with. It was a decision that Captain of the Guard Baclen Highstar would have been proud of.

If he were still alive.

Esme crossed the marbled threshold of the grand entryway, careful of the chips and gouges, and made her way down the west wing to the kitchens knowing full well that Teresa would not be there.

Teresa was still alive, but had been assisting with the towns, ensuring that the few workers they still had were well-fed. In order to do so, she was out of the estate even before Esme woke up. She was best suited to the house and complained about not being in Embertree Court, but Esme never asked her to go to the towns. Teresa did that of her own accord. She complained, but she found it important and Faervell had floated the idea to Esme that Teresa did it as a way to honor Baclen. Faervell whispered that he thought Teresa might have been a little bit in love with the Captain of the Guard.

As suspected, Teresa was not in the kitchens, but there was still a cup of coffee that had been enchanted to remain warm. It was sitting beside a small cup of fruit and a plate with broiled fish with lemon curry butter and a slice of toast meant to soak up the butter. Another place setting sat across the butcher block island, and it was clearly meant for Faervell: biscuits smothered in gravy and chopped up thick slices of bacon, fatty sausages, and two large eggs sprinkled with chives and garlic. Next to the plate were two glasses that held water in one and milk in another.

Esme shook her head, still incapable of understanding how Faervell could eat so much, but she filled herself up on her fish, ate the toast, saved the fruit for last, and drained the cup of coffee. By the time she finished and left, dawn had come and the sky began to tinge a beautiful purple and orange.

Standing outside of Embertree Court, she cast a glance back towards the tower in the distance, the Hunting Lodge. It was normal. The building itself took minimal damage from the Black Bloods, but of course, it was enchanted to be a strong hold. No longer did it serve the purpose of housing hunting parties of drunken men that celebrated their managing to take down not one, not two, but three stags. The building’s purpose was no longer to have animals butchered in its lower levels and hung as decorations in its upper levels. It had a darker purpose.

Esme had gifted it to Faervell as a place to practice his magic. Whether it was practice with fel fire or summoning demons - something she especially hated - it was built to last and contain whatever was within. In doing so, the wards on the building were strong. They had strained against the Black Bloods, but had held all the same. Faervell was always good with curses and wards, and the building standing was a testament to that.

But Esme was not interested in how the building still stood. Her thoughts trailed off to what lie within. On the bottom floor, tucked under what looked like glass, was a drop of sludge. It looked like the remnants of the Black Bloods - black and purple in color with a consistency of congealed blood. But it was not wholly of the Black Bloods. It could not be. The rest of whatever was left from those creatures had gone away. They had all but evaporated when the Sunguard had defeated them. All of the lands that had held any trace of such things were clean. Wounded, injured, yes, but clean.

How had this bit, enough to hold in one’s hand if one were stupid enough, remained? Faervell had claimed he felt something more than just old gods. Shadow and void both, he had said. He knew best, of course. Magic was his field. But Esme could not help but feel as though there was more to it. She could not help but feel that while Faervell was right, neither was he completely right.

With a deep breath, Esme turned away from the Lodge. It was something they were working on together. Something that Faervell would no doubt begin to look into as soon as he woke up. It was not something she needed to think on for now, even if the worry still crept in the back recesses of her mind that whatever the thing was, it was dangerous and oh so very close to the place she now called home.

She shook her head and lifted her fingers to her mouth. A sharp whistle followed, carrying over the meadows and echoing through the expanse of the surrounding field. She only needed to wait for a few moments before she saw something shift in the tall grass. A flash of orange darted between purple and blue flowers. The tall wheat-like grass parted and bounding towards her was Amon, his fur the color of her hair, the color of sunset. His large bushy fox’s tail wagged and he excitedly rounded her a few times before nudging his nose against her hip so that he could slip his head beneath her arm.

He was much larger than any fox. It was no doubt a side effect of the curse that had lay over Embertree before, as were his blue eyes that appeared to hold a glow not unlike her own. But he did not have any of the animosity that the controlled animals had before. He was free, and he had been domesticated before his long stint of being in the wild and being changed by magic. His saddle was still in place, soft and made specifically for him. And as soon as Esme reached for it, he obediently crouched down so that she could slip onto his back with ease.

He enjoyed being ridden, and though Esme would not admit it aloud, she enjoyed riding him. Holding on to the thick fur of Amon’s neck, she said in Thalassian, “Go.”

The two went east. He was as swift and slippery as a fox ought to be, weaving through grass and over hills with ease. He did not have to stick to riding paths like many horse’s favored. It made the journey to the border easy. It made the ride shorter, easier, and quieter. The two went into greater Quel’thalas and kept going into the mountains, slowing only whenever a party of travelers might stop by.

Most of the time, such travelers were not looking for conversation much less trouble. Every so often, one would recognize Esme and call her Fleet Commander or Pathfinder of the Sunguard. Sometimes she corrected them, sometimes that took much effort. She had found a way to tell if they were being polite or if they were scared. If she saw relief in their faces when they referred to her as Spectre or Sunward, she allowed them to do so. She had not the heart to tell them that her oath was gone, that the Sunguard was disbanded. Let them think she is still there as a soldier to protect. They would not be wholly wrong.

“Almost there,” she said to Amon, offering the fox a pat to his neck. He was panting, but happily so. He had been running for hours, which was no doubt a treat after her had been stuck in Embertree for the last few weeks. He sniffed almost everything they passed and seemed so excited by it all that Esme allowed him to wander off course more than once before easing him back.

As they continued to ride, she saw their goal over the rise. What used to be large gates of what might have been gold were crumbled and leaning against the mountains around them, tired and destroyed and burned. Whatever ‘acid’ the Black Bloods had, it had tarnished what used to shine. Miraculously, the doors still stood and they also remained closed. Likewise, guards dutifully flanked either side of the gate with spears in hand, and they immediately turned their eyes onto Esme as she approached.

Esme knew suspicion and could sense it in the air. It was a familiar emotion to her and she did not blame either of the guards for feeling it. She did not look like a normal visitor. She had no party with her, nor did she bear any seal. Had it been a month or so before, it would have been easier. They would have seen the crimson and gold tabard and let her in without a second thought. Of course, they would have been crawling with Black Bloods as well.

She took a breath to shout a greeting, but a whistle rang through the air, getting louder as it got closer. Thankfully, Amon moved of his own accord and jerked to the side - just as an arrow sunk into the soil left behind. Two more whistles and Esme gripped onto the fox, entrusting him to dodge the arrows.

Ah, so that was how it would be. Fantastic. Never were things easy.

“STAY YOUR BOWS!” Esme shouted as Amon whipped to one side and bared his teeth at the guards, even though they had not lifted a single hand between them. Archers must be hidden in the mountains.

“Stay your bows!” she shouted. “I am--”

Another two arrows whistled through the air and landed. One was only a few inches from Amon’s back paw and Esme felt a small spike of anxiety and a flash of anger.

“STAY YOUR BOWS!” she yelled louder. “MY NAME IS KNIGHT-CAPTAIN ESME SUNSHARD OF EMBERTREE! OF SHALLOWBROOK!”

As Amon readied a dart to the other side, the guards conversed and one - a woman with a deep pitch - called out, “Hold!” but too late. Another arrow swept through the sky, arching, and landing in front of Esme and Amon.

The same guard lifted her chin. “Zalin Shadowsunder wrote ahead of your visitation.”

“And you still shot at me?” Esme shouted back, exasperated.

Neither guard looked bothered by the question, nor what spurred it. The other guard, a man, said simply, “We did not know that you were she. Now we know. You are expected. The Lady Voidsunder will see you.”

Esme’s brows twitched. She was annoyed at the reception she had been given, but her curiosity at the title eased it somewhat. She imagined Seileran. She had met the woman a few times while they were in The Sunguard together. She did not recall her using that title, however. Something must have changed in order to have her take on such a moniker.

“Go through the gates and follow the path,” the woman guard said. “Do not stray from the path.”

Esme could not help but huff out a breath. The guard did sound much different from Esme when the Embertree lands were laden with curses and crawling with monsters. She did not argue, though she could tell the woman was bracing herself for such.

“Aye,” Esme answered. “Do not stray from the path. Are you sure the Lady Voidsunder is expecting me? Or should I expect to be shot at even after the gate?”

The guards exchanged glances. Beneath the helmet, the man’s smirk was visible. The doors opened.

At the lack of an answer, Esme huffed again. She glanced down at the arrows that surrounded her and Amon sniffed at one of them before offered the guards his own little huff. She counted eight in all before she patted Amon’s neck. “Come on. Let us go. The Lady Voidsunder is waiting for us and we have work to do.”

Behind her, the doors shut and the sound of the metal lock sliding into place echoed behind her.

---

@pyrar | @stormandozone | @curiouslich for mentions

#my writing #Esme #Embertree #Citizens of Shallowbrook

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