#copper red spotting on her front legs

[rustedhearts]

Severed Lamb Part I: Blessed Be (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: your visit home for the summer comes with a handsome new preacher, who takes a special liking to you.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ the steve collection ♰

♰ part ii: poor thing ♰

warnings: religious imagery/trauma, manipulation, abuse of power, age-gap (reader is 19, steve is 35), allusions to child abuse (you gotta squint, but the mom does some icky shit), mention of death/parent loss.

author's note: some dark stuff happening in this series, y'all, so read the warnings and take them seriously! i’m not responsible for your internet-intake. for the sake of this fic, i’ve given you (the reader) the name delilah (because 'y/n' just looks ugly and ruins my vibe). also delilah is a ballerina.

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia June 1981 ♰

The Georgian heat was insufferable.

A stiff, sticky heat that swells in your hair and bloats your cheeks. It made wading through the overgrown field of your childhood backyard a miserable task. But your mother requested fresh cherries from the tree, and you weren't one to deny your mother of her needs. You carried the old porcelain bowl, hand-painted with delicate lilacs, toward the tree in the distance, smacking off mosquitos and shooing away flies as you went.

When you reached the tree, you set the bowl on the ground and began to climb. The bark of the trunk felt just as it did when you were a child: solid, rough, mossy sandpaper against your palms. You wiped off the bark fragments on your denim shorts and began to pluck. Years of picking cherries gave you a keen eye for the ripest selections: plump, gleaming swells of red. You shoved a few into your cheeks before sliding down to fill the bowl.

The bowl was half-full and your stomach was full of cherry stem knots by the time you headed back toward the house. Birds chirped their evening goodbyes in the trees chasing the horizon line. Cicadas shook their wings and crickets rubbed their legs to make a chittering symphony. Just beyond the looming oak trees, the sun began to fade into a blur of gold and pink. The clouds looked like they were delicately etched by hand.

"Those for anybody?"

You jumped, hands slipping around the porcelain bowl clutched against your stomach at the sound of a deep voice before you. You steadied, tightened your grip, and settled your gaze upon the figure standing in front of you—a man. A handsome man. A crop of fluffy chestnut hair, a set of round copper eyes, a perfectly-sloped, straight nose, and a set of properly pink lips. Around his neck, he wore an intricate silver chain. Within the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you spotted the glint of a small cross.

The man raised his brows, and you licked over your cherry-stained lips.

"N-No, sir, these are...these are for my mother. I got them from our tree, just there," you explained, turning to point toward your tree a few feet back.

The man followed your direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown slacks. Your throat bobbed with a swallow when his eyes roamed back toward you—your cheeks burned at the way they rolled over your skim-clothed body.

You weren't expecting company today, and usually the field behind your house was empty, seeing as it was private property. Nobody ventured into each other's properties...except him. Your denim shorts and thin-strapped camisole gave way to the shapes and curves of your body not suited for a man's eye. But what really caught this man's eye was not the way your breasts spilled from your top, or the way your thighs strained against the denim squeezed around them—but the cross resting below the dip in your collarbone. Gold, elegant, clearly hand-crafted for you.

A child of God. A beautiful lamb.

"Surely you can spare one for a lonesome stranger? I've traveled a long way," he cooed.

His voice was smooth and sweet. He had a way of talking and tipping his head all at once that made you feel like he was telling you a bedtime story. You found your fingers dipping into the bowl and plucking two cherries before your mind could catch up. Your hand brushed his as he collected them in his palm, and you followed his fingers as they approached his mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed around the sweet juices in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth and the inside of his cheek. "Sweet."

But his eyes were on you. They twinkled against the low-setting sun, golden light washing over him. You weren't entirely sure he was real, in that moment.

"I'll see you around." He passed by, curling two fingers gently around your elbow before he walked off toward the property next door.

♰ ♰

But that Sunday, you knew for a fact he was real.

The man from the field, the man that left you two cherries short and the recipient of a scolding from your mother, was standing just below the podium at the old evangelical church on Mulberry. Clasping the hands of bright-eyed women bearing crosses, bending into a gentle, respectful bow. Firmly returning the shake of balding men that were already sweating through their nicest shirts, still greased from a day's work at the auto shop. Crouching to cast a straight-toothed, dazzling smile at children not yet tall enough to reach the pews without climbing.

All the air in your lungs seemed to get caught in your throat as you approached him, arm looped through your mother's. Your Mary Janes clunked against the floor of the aisle, and your eyes sought something, anything, other than his handsome face waiting for you ahead.

"Ah, you must be Loraine."

His voice. It sounded just as it did that day in the field—sweet, smooth, like honey from the comb.

"Well now, how did you know that?" your mother giggled, reaching up to fluff her hair beneath her elaborately atrocious hat.

You curled your fingers into a fist behind your back, blunt nails digging into your palm. Your dress, pale yellow and dappled with embroidered daisies, suddenly felt too tight around your waist. Your mother tied it herself in the mirror this morning, pulling until it cinched so tightly that you could practically see the waistband of your underwear. There, now you look like a young lady.

"I've heard such wonderful things about your fashionable hats." He didn't have an accent. At least, not like the Georgians did.

He sounded more like they did in Pennsylvania, where you went to school. They had a certain way about over-pronouncing their vowels that made it clear they were Yankees—

"And this must be your daughter."

His eyes set upon you, and a full-bodied shiver ran down your spine. Your stomach clenched, and your mother squeezed her arm around yours a little tighter until you turned to meet his eye. She grinned toothily beside you, leaning to press your heads together. Her soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek. You could smell the cigarettes still on her teeth from the car ride over. The man was looking at you with a half-mouthed smile that made you swallow.

He was so handsome. Too handsome for a preacher. Too handsome for Wyndgate.

"This is my baby girl, Delilah. Ain't she pretty?" Your mother reached behind your neck to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her pink nails scraped against the nape of your neck like a chalkboard.

"She's a ballerina, up in Pennsylvania. Came back to visit her Mama for the summer. Ain't that right, Lilah?"

You let your eyes touch the man's chin. The faintest collection of stubble gathered around his jaw. A mocha-colored mole kissed his neck. He watched you intently, hands suddenly returning to his black slacks like they did that day in the field. He donned all black today, and it made his eyes look golden. Under the fluorescents of the church, he glowed like something divine. He looked so young.

"Yes," you whispered.

His hand slipped from his pocket, a gentle whooshing sound. First, he clasped your mother's hand, giving it a delicate bob—and then he reached for yours. You didn't wait for your mother to nudge you, reaching out and slipping your fingers along his palm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles and your spine straightened. A terrible ache gathered between your thighs. You hadn't felt an ache like that since prom night, when Tommy Baker kissed you against his truck in the gymnasium parking lot.

"It's lovely to meet the both of you. Everyone's been so lovely to me, welcoming me into your congregation."

He spread his arms, palms upended, and motioned toward the church. Everyone was getting seated, shuffling about in the rickety old pews, murmuring amongst themselves about the handsome new preacher and his funny voice. In your periphery, you could see the young girls fanning themselves with pamphlets frantically. Mid-morning light blared through the stained glass and cast a violet rainbow over his cheek.

A kiss from God. Wyndgate talked for weeks about how God delivered His handsomest angel to them by hand.

You slipped away from the preacher and wandered toward your designated pew, sliding in beside your mother, tucked against the end. You carefully placed your bible on your knees and adjusted your dress, just as the podium creaked against the man's weight. He spread his arms again, like he was waiting to ascend and welcome in Heaven.

"Welcome, all, I'm Pastor Steve. What a beautiful day to celebrate our Lord, isn't it, church?"

And as the pews murmured their joyous agreement, Pastor Steve's eyes cut over to you. He grinned a half-cocked grin. You didn't know, if standing there behind the podium, was a gift sent from God, or a trick from the devil.

♰ ♰

Before he died, your Daddy converted the old hay barn in the backyard into a dance studio. Floor length mirrors covered nearly every inch of the wooden walls, hand-sawed lengths of log through their middle for balance bars. He hand-crafted all of it for you as a birthday gift just before you went to high school.

When he died, it became your only solace. A place of solitude, of lulling quiet—it was the only place you could think. Twirling on the top of your pointe shoe, watching the room spin and blur while you snatched armfuls of air, fingers delicately tapped together—it was your form of relaxation.

You left the barn door open today, letting the sticky heat billow in. It breezed over your bare arms and legs like a gentle whisper as you rotated and pranced around the room. Your elegant gold cross, a permanent token fixed around your neck, swinging in the air with every turnout.

"You always dance like this?"

A shriek left your mouth like a siren. You shot your foot out to put you at a hard stop, heaving for air and staring Pastor Steve straight in the face. He was leaning on the barn door, arms crossed, the toe of his leather loafer pressed to the shiny wooden floor. His church clothes abandoned, he donned a pair of brown slacks and a blue button down—crisp, pleated, rolled at the elbows. His silver chain glimmered in the soft glow of the evening light behind him.

"You alright?" he asked.

You blinked, hands finding your hips, cheeks burning. You swallowed, bobbing your head. Wisps of hair flounced against your forehead. From across the barn, Steve's eyes licked over your pale pink attire, your sweat-slick limbs, naked and bared for him. He found the cross resting above your breast and tipped his head to admire it.

“Y-yeah, m’ alright. Can I…what are you doin’ here?”

Steve took his lip between his teeth. His chin tipped down, eyes blaring through thick lashes to watch you reach for a water bottle on the floor. Your gold cross caught the sun like a beacon. He couldn’t look away from it. It glowed around your neck. You were divine beauty, a perfect little lamb. He knew it the moment he saw you scaling that cherry tree the other day. He knew it the moment he saw you floating down the church aisle like a bride. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

God sent him to Georgia for you.

“Your mother,” Steve said, straightening up. He’d been staring too long. “I heard she’s the only woman in town that knows how to fix my robe the right way.”

You nodded along in agreement. Your mother was a talented seamstress—she could fix even the worst tear and make it look brand new. But you didn’t see a robe with him, and as your eyes flickered around to find it, Pastor Steve cracked a smile.

“It’s in my car,” he said.

You flashed a small, tight-lipped smile. Your cheeks swelled with more heat. His voice was so smooth and soft. It tickled your ears like a melody.

“Oh,” you murmured meekly.

Silence filled the barn. In the yard, birds twittered, and the chickens in your neighbor’s pen a few yards down clucked nosily. Steve continued to tip his head and inspect you. You swallowed again, bringing your hands to clasp together behind your back, and tapped your ratty pointe shoes together on the floor. Your good shoes were back at school, on rental for the semester. You scrubbed floors and cleaned the mirrors every night after class just to afford to keep them. Without the scholarship you earned, you wouldn’t be able to afford to dance at all.

“Um, I should probably head inside,” you piped up, rising to the tops of your toes only to press back down again.

Steve watched you closely for another moment. Everything about the way you moved made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was thrilling, the way you spun and twirled, the way you walked like you were airless. You were graceful, just like a swan.

You clutched your water to your chest and shuffled toward the corner where your sneakers waited. You opted to hook your fingers in their soles instead of changing—something about the way Pastor Steve followed your every move made you tremble and squirm, and you were desperate to get into the cool confines of your room and avoid his pretty stare.

You lifted your head and cast another small smile that had him clenching.

“Have a nice day, Pastor.”

Oh and your voice. Hushed, delicate, meek. You always sounded like you were delivering a line written by Shakespeare himself. It sent shivers down Steve’s spine, that voice.

You brushed past him in a breeze—a whiff of sweet sweat and rose soap—and Steve broke out of his daydream to catch a glimpse of the nape of your neck. With your hair pulled away from it, your neck looked enticing—a patch of clammy skin, braced with the fragile, glimmering golden rope of your necklace.

“Mhm,” Steve hurriedly hummed, lifting off the door of the barn as you sweepingly turned the corner toward the house. “See you inside.”

And as hard as you tried to avoid it, you did see him inside.

You hurriedly showered and scurried into your room as your mother extended her southern hospitality—soon, the lace dining cloth was covered in glasses of freshly-brewed sweet tea and bowls of cherries.

You sat down at the cushioned stool of your vanity and smoothed cream over your damp face, listening carefully to the murmur of your mother and Pastor Steve’s voices on the other side of the wall. Her laugh was over-joyous and sickeningly sweet, and you heard your name mentioned far too frequently for your liking.

Dressed in a breezy sundress, you settled down on your bed beside the open window, letting in a warm wind that fluttered your drapes, and cracked open an old favorite from your tiny shelf—Anne of Green Gables. You turned to the bookmarked page, letting the breeze from the window and the wind from the ceiling fan cool down your skin, still buzzing with thrumming warmth from your spinning in the barn and Pastor Steve’s heavy gaze.

But every turn of the page came with a glimpse of his eyes in your mind. A hazel color, big and round and penetrative. They followed you like they were pinned to the back of your head. You felt the weight of that gaze all through Sunday’s sermon, and again while you fidgeted in the barn. He was always watching. And something about the way he looked at you made you feel…special. Special in a way you didn’t feel back at school, or anywhere previously in Wyndgate where all the girls who got attention were slender and blonde and giggly.

But to Pastor Steve, you were something worth looking at. And a man of God’s approval, his praise, mattered most of all.

“Lilah! Lilah, come set Pastor Steve a place for dinner!”

Your mother’s voice washed over you like a cold drip, and your book fell from your hands to your floral quilt. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again, cursing under your breath as you shuffled toward the edge of the mattress. Bare legs dangling over, your hand flew to your chest to rub the cross between your knuckles in search of comfort. In the living room, the deep rumble of Pastor Steve’s voice made your stomach squirm.

“Oh, Lord,” you whispered pleadingly, eyes turning toward the portrait of Jesus in a frame above your bed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me.”

Don’t make me go out there. He’s so handsome.

“Lilah Anne! I’m not callin’ you again,” your mother’s voice was just on the other side of the door, and a harsh knock followed after.

The door flew open, and you bounced off the bed. Flustered, you watched your mother sigh and ease the door into a crack behind her. She tiptoed toward you, checking over your appearance as she went.

“Lilah, he’s a very important man. I want you to use our nice plates. The ones with the bluebells, alright?”

You bobbed your head furiously. The back of your dress started to cling to your spine. You reached behind to pluck it away, give your skin some air to breathe, and your mother grabbed your arm. She leaned in close, and you knew by the purse of her lips what was coming next:

“Make yourself real pretty, alright? Pastor Steve is such a nice man,” she gushed.

She pinched your cheek and patted the skin, and your chest tightened as the back of her head disappeared through the door. When it closed, you spun around and walked toward the mirror, standing tall in the corner of your room. There you stood, pulling at your pale blue dress, frowning at your bare arms and legs. But Mama would want them like that, on display for Pastor Steve to see. Just like all those times when her friends came over. She’d bring them home from the bar and introduce you in the living room, and you always sat in a chair in the corner, pretending not to understand what it meant when they kept calling you “a sure thing.”

But Pastor Steve was different. Pastor Steve was a man of God. He’d never stray from God’s guidance.

So, you neatly plaited your hair and swept it over your shoulder. You rubbed strawberry chapstick over your lips and nose, and delicately placed your unfinished book on the nightstand for later. The ceiling fan hummed absently over your empty bed.

You gathered the plates—the gleaming porcelain with the hand-painted bluebells—from the china cabinet, and cleared the clutter from the table to fix it for dinner. All the while, as you bent to place silverware beside each place, you gazed beneath your arm over toward the living room. Pastor Steve stood, arms out, in the center of the wood-paneled room. Your mother knelt before him, working her needle through the hole in his deep, swampy green robe. The crosses embroidered on the fabric were golden and shiny.

His head turned, a strand of hair catching over his eye, and you ducked away toward the fridge. Yanking it open, you relished in the cool air blowing from the vent in the buzzing white light of its confinement.

"...should be all ready to—Lilah Anne, what on earth are you doin' in there?"

You hurriedly slammed the fridge closed, rattling the bread box on top and the glass condiments on the inside shelf—and standing on the other side of the table, was a furrow-browed mother and a perfectly well-stitched Pastor Steve. The latter flashed you a boyish grin, and your cheek burned as you looped your fingers together behind your back.

"I set the table like you said, Mama," you murmured softly, tipping your head toward the wooden table, adorned with its white lace cloth and bluebell plates.

Steve followed your gaze, admiring your organized layout. Your mother merely glanced, otherwise focused on the neatness of your braid. She swept the end of it over your shoulder to drape down your arm as she passed by, heading toward the fridge to grab yesterday’s chicken.

"I was just gonna heat up some of this chicken, is that alright, Pastor?"

You turned to the man anxiously, teeth pulling at the loose skin of your bottom lip. His loafers clunked against the tiled floor sharply, and you followed them all the way to the chair at the head of the table, a place set just for him. He placed his hand on the back of the chair—your Daddy's old chair—and set his eyes on you: neck bent, arms tucked behind your back, a picture of obedience and grace.

"That sounds wonderful, Loraine."

The chicken plate clattered on the counter. The tinfoil rustled and crinkled. The stovetop clicked, the pan sizzled. The kitchen became stiff with hot air, and the window squealed when your mother pushed it open. Outside, the cicadas were still chittering furiously. And you stood, exactly where you were, staring at the tops of your bare toes against the linoleum tile.

"Delilah, come sit with me."

Your head snapped up. Pastor Steve stood from the table and stepped to the left, pulling the chair from the table. He motioned toward it with a sweeping hand, and with a glance over your shoulder toward your nodding mother, you took small, timid steps over. You sank down, breath hitching when Pastor Steve came behind you to push the chair back in. His stomach firm against the back of your head, his hands big and warm on either side of your shoulders. They grazed your shoulder blades before he sat back down, and your body tingled with shivers.

A mere foot away from you, Pastor Steve was the closest he'd ever been. He placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. The round face of his watch glinted in the low-setting sun, a warm yellow light. The band of it was brown leather, like his shoes, and fit him well. His robe was gone now, folded neatly and placed on the stool beside the door where you sat to take your shoes off. But he didn't seem concerned about it—his eyes were set on you.

"Your mother tells me your father passed a few years ago."

Your heart squeezed. You paused, eyes turning toward your mother's figure at the stove. She didn't like to talk about your Daddy very much. When she did, her words were usually biting and cruel. To her, he was a "lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch." But to you, your Daddy was the sun and moon.

You nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. When I was fifteen."

Pastor Steve hummed.

"That musta been hard, especially at that age. I lost my father, too."

Your head tipped up. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of your eyes, peeking through your lashes, blinking up at him. Your cheeks were the loveliest shade of pink.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Mhm. I was twelve."

Your lips instinctually pulled into a frown. Before you could reply, your mother squawked from the stove:

"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry for your loss," she drawled.

But Pastor Steve's eyes never left yours. In fact, they were glued to you. And his hand, cupped around his jaw, fell to the table with a quiet thump. Your eyes flittered toward it, watching it slither across white lace. It came to a stop beside your plate, flipping to place his knuckles against the table, palm upended.

"I understand your pain, Delilah," he murmured.

Taking a deep breath in, you slipped your fingers into his waiting hand. It closed around your knuckles, holding your fingers to his palm in a soothing embrace. You met his gaze cautiously, heart thumping in your throat. Pastor Steve's eyes were soft and round like a puppy-dog's, brows furrowed in shared sympathy.

"God understands your pain. And though loss may lead us astray, we must stay strong, and put our trust in the Lord," he preached, voice smooth like whiskey. When a small smile touched your face, Pastor Steve mirrored it. "He'll take us exactly where we need to be."

The last sentiment was whispered, a shared secret between the two of you. His smile slipped sideways, another boyish image of the man before you, and a burst of endearment flooded your chest at the sight of him in your father's chair. You found yourself clinging to his words, replaying them in your head, etching them into your memory to grasp onto forever. And while you pondered, wading in the charming ease of his demeanor, Steve brought his hand under the table, and ran the length of his knuckles across your knee.

During dinner, he conversed with your mother about the historical society, the women's church group, the annual fundraiser at the end of the summer. Every few moments, his hand would brush your knee beneath the table. Each time your head turned to question it, he passed you a lopsided smile. It was comforting, that handsome smile. God will take you exactly where you need to be, Delilah.

Your mother packed him a Tupperware container of cherry pie to take home, and he gathered it atop his sewn robe as he headed toward the door.

"Thank you again," he cooed to your mother, whose smile was blinding.

"Oh, don't mention it, Pastor, we're lucky to have you. Lilah, why don't you walk Pastor Steve out, it gets real dark out back this time a' night."

Your mother pinched the back of your arm when you turned to protest, and you hurriedly stepped toward the door to obey. Pastor Steve flashed a tight-lipped smile at your mother, and swung the door open. The screen door groaned on its rusty hinges when he pushed it, and the sticky heat instantly sought home in the kitchen. You floated through the open doorway past his waiting figure, hands clasped behind your back once more, bare feet scuffing over the chipped paint of the porch.

You walked languidly, but with a refinement to your posture and an upturn of your nose that Steve adored. He watched you as you trailed along beside him, rustling through the grass like rabbit, quiet and small. His car was waiting in the drive around the barn. The license plate was from Indiana.

"Why'd you move away from Indiana?"

You don't know why you asked. The words came tumbling from your mouth like they were exorcised, wretched from somewhere deep inside. It must’ve been the Southern meddler swarming inside you. But Pastor Steve just smiled that boyish, sideways smile, and shrugged.

"I wanted a change of scenery."

You nodded approvingly, coming to a stop at the hood of the car. Pastor Steve scuffled to a halt right after, turning to gaze down at you, still clasping his chicken and green robe. You swallowed, and he watched your face twist with worry. He frowned, brows furrowing.

"What's wrong, Delilah?"

You chewed on the inside of your lip, gazing down at the tops of his shoes.

"Mama...did she say anything cruel about my daddy? They...didn't always get along."

Steve inhaled deeply. Your father. That was your soft spot. Like every fruit, you had a bruise—a soft spot, where he knew, if he pushed with just the right amount of pressure, you would burst.

Pastor Steve took a step closer.

"Don't worry, Delilah, I don't believe a word. I can see how much you loved him."

You nodded, tipping your head back to find his gaze again. His lips were plump and red from the pie.

"You know," he said, cocking his head again. "If you ever need to talk or just get out of the house, you can always come visit me at the church. I'm a great listener."

You grinned shyly. "Thank you, Pastor. I...haven't been to confession in...too long," you admitted lightly.

Steve shrugged airily.

"Oh, that's alright. God leads us exactly where we need to be, remember?"

You nodded quickly. "Right."

The sky had darkened to an inky indigo. In this great big clearing, flanked with bushels of dense oak trees, the stars were on full display. Steve could take count of every single one if he wanted to. But all he could do, in this great Southern expanse, was look at you.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed.

"You're a beautiful dancer," he mused.

You flushed, ducking bashfully. In the back of your head, your mother's voice rang: men like weak and fragile. Men like women that bend to their will. Maybe if you bent, if you weakened, Pastor Steve would see how good you are, and in the eyes of the Lord, that was all that mattered.

All that mattered was that you were good, and kind, and lovable. That's all you wanted.

"Thank you, Pastor."

Pastor Steve's watch caught the moonlight as he brought his hand to your forehead. There, he swiped a stray wisp of hair from your lashes, shaken loose from your braid. He guided it behind your ear, where his hand slipped to fondle your delicate braid. The length of it glided through his palm like a snake. He watched it fall through his grasp while your breath became shallow.

"God's finest work."

Your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You beamed at the praise, glowing beneath his approving gaze. Steve, noticing the way you perked at his gentle, murmured tone, how you leaned into his coaxing validations, gave it a little push. His hand came to your chin, which he cupped in a gentle hold to pull you up. You allowed him to guide you, bringing your forehead to his mouth. There, he placed a gentle kiss.

When you settled back down on your heels, you gazed up at him dazedly.

"You are blessed, Delilah. God has a very special place for you in his heart."

Your throat bobbed with another swallow. His thumb pressed into your chin. His eyes roamed your parted lips.

"And I think," Steve whispered, chest heaving, "he sent me here to make sure of it."

♰ ♰

#rolly! #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x female reader smut #steve stranger things #steve the hair harrington #priest!steve harrington #pastor!steve harrington #joe keery #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #dark steve harrington #dark!steve x you #dark!steve harrington

[mintmatcha]

no quirks tomura au

"Ugh."

You jam your phone in-between Tomura and his television and he has to duck not to see the half naked man that's pulled up on your screen. Somehow, you've both ended on the floor, your legs looped under his and your foot nudging up his ankle.

"Do you think he's cute?" When your friend doesn't answer, you shove your phone in front of him again. This time, some fish-holding douchebag graces the screen and Tomura can't help but scoff.

"What about this guy?"

The League match ends with a bright red screen and Tomura lets out the puff of air caught in his lungs. A heat has started to itch inside his chest as your annoyance grows.

"Why are you showing me your tinder?" he snaps. He really wants to know why you're looped up around him, hand so close to his thigh, when you're looking for someone else to spend the night with. The white tee you're wearing is --was-- his. If he looks, he can make out the dark rim of your nipples with through the white cotton.

He doesn't dare to look.

"I'm bored and my mouth is lonely," you shrug. "Just need someone to make out with tonight."

I'm here, he thinks. You can use me.

"Whore," he says instead.

"Please." You stretch both of your legs until the muscles twitch and kick, lacing yourself even deeper, so close that your thigh is wedged between his. The tickle of your breath creeps up his neck as you taunt him. "I bet you haven't even kissed a girl."

A flicker of your eyes to his lips feels like a taunt. He sucks him in between his teeth and grimaces at how chapped they are, how the taste of copper clings to the split. Th

"I'm not twelve." Tomura keeps himself as deadpan as possible, but he can see the glint in your eye, the knowledge that he's full of shit. "I've done a lot of shit with a lot of girls."

You laugh and it makes his stomach tight.

"Then prove it." He can taste your perfume, long faded into something barely sweet and musky. You must apply it to the soft spot right under your ear- the place you ask those tinder assholes to kiss the most, you claim. It strikes him as surprisingly erotic, such a soft, curved, exposed spot, your dangling earring dropping against to as you tilt your head.

"You just want to practice for your tinder cucks."

Somehow, he's moved closer, propped back onto to his palm to meet your eye. Something in his room is pinging - Discord friends who are wondering where the fuck he disappeared to. He can't seem to care about video games right now, not when your hands are grabbing his thigh, pulling yourself closer-

"Dude, shut up and suck on my tongue already."

Your lips meet his before he can respond. The jolt of your tongue, candy sweet, surprises him. Out of all the times he imagined your skin against his, her never imagined it to be so sloppy. Gentle, needy, soft, but never spitty and messy.

And yet your tongue is on his and your lips are sealed against his, hot breath trapped between. Tomura isn't sure if you're good at this or if he's pathetic, but when the moment passes and you pull away, his body is rigid with the want and need for more.

"Holy shit." Your eyes pop open wide. "That totally was your first kiss-- I fucking knew it."

[kylobith]

Little Town Tails

Chapter 2: Bear Trap

Summary: A first patient comes to Halsin's veterinary practice. And not the usual kind.

Ship/Pairing: Halsin x Fem!Tav

Trope: Modern AU, Meet-cute, Little countryside town, Cosy

Word count: 3,693

Read it on Ao3 here

Listen to the dedicated playlist on Spotify here

There she stands, in the middle of the street, with messy copper-red hair blown around her pointy ears and into her eyes by the mischievous breeze. Sweat beads upon her pale brow, trickling down her temples and threatening to dampen the bumpy bridge of her freckled nose. Although clouded by nearly palpable concern, her turquoise eyes capture his gaze within a heartbeat, stealing the breath from his lungs.

While her expression displays panicked urgency, the faint lines coursing from the curves of her nostrils down to frame her rosy lips, coated with strong cherry-scented chapstick, bear witness to the numerous times she must have laughed and smiled. Such expressions must have been genuine, he thinks, since they have reached and creased the corners of her almond eyes.

Before his stare lingers upon her, he lowers it to the heavy weight occupying her arms and he nearly steps back in surprise.

An owlbear cub. An actual owlbear cub!

Out of breath and attempting to wipe the sweat stinging her eyes with her shoulder, she approaches him and calls out to him.

‘Good morning,’ she huffs, ‘are you…’

She tilts her head down to read a creased business card she previously tucked below her armpit.

‘...Doctor Silverbough?’

‘I am he, indeed,’ Halsin nods and opens the door wide again. ‘Is something wrong with the cub?’

The lady acquiesces and lets out a whimper as the whining cub’s weight weakens her grip and she tries to adjust it. Without thinking, he shoves the pastry box in his pocket and steps forward to delicately take the ailing animal from her. He invites her inside as he carries the cub to the examination table in his clinical room. Upon seeing the owlbear’s stature, he mentally pats himself on the back for having invested in a larger examination table despite his former mentor’s advice to stick to standard dimensions.

The woman, having followed him and closed the door behind them, comes to stand by her furry and feathery companion to scratch him behind the ears in reassurance.

‘There is something wrong with his front paw,’ she says, showing him which one she means. ‘When I called him for breakfast this morning, he didn’t come up to me. He stayed at the back of our field and he wouldn’t move. So, I went to check up on him, and I saw that he couldn’t stand up and that he couldn’t walk at all.’

Halsin lets the cub smell his hand before petting him on the head and the side of its face, letting it know that his intentions are nothing but friendly. After a moment of hesitation, the owlbear squeaks and sits back on its hind legs, almost in reverence. The veterinarian thanks it with a brief scratch under its beak and proceeds to a preliminary examination.

As he carefully feels around for any spot that might be especially sensitive, Halsin senses warm dents into the flesh of the paw, about three inches above the long and sharp claws. While the owner watches him with fear ablaze in her eyes, he brushes back the feathers and tries to find the holes he felt just a moment ago.

It does not take long before he does. Fresh blood guides him to the puncture wounds, witnesses of the tearing of the cub’s leathery skin. It is a botched work. Either the animal has struggled and caused more damage than necessary, or something — or someone — has pulled at whatever the source of such injuries was. And it must have been something quite solid, if not the teeth of a strong-jawed animal.

‘I feel deep punctures in a curved line,’ he mutters pensively to the owner. ‘Can you think of anything which could have bitten your cub? Or any object that could have torn the skin?’

The woman ponders for a moment, folding her arms as she does, but responds with a shake of her head.

‘I cannot think of anything. The field I let him live in is not one where I cultivate the land, so there is no farming equipment on the spot, not even a pitchfork.’

‘Does it ever leave the field?’

‘I do take it on the occasional forest walk, but I am extremely careful when it happens. Because of his wild animal status, I can’t take him just anywhere, you see.’

‘Of course.’

From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of her holding her head. When her whole body sways, he reaches out to catch her by the arm, preventing her from hurting herself in an unfortunate fall. He sits her down on a chair against the wall and crouches before her. Funny enough, his large frame is such that even in such a position, he remains taller than her.

‘Are you alright, madam?’ he asks loudly, in case she might need to snap back into consciousness. But she is awake, much to his relief.

‘I am, sorry about that. I am just worried about my cub.’

Judging from her pallor, he can tell that her issues are rooted in something else.

‘Have you eaten today?’

‘No. I usually give him breakfast before I have mine, and it took me so long to carry him across the field, then into the car, then drive here, then…’

She sighs and leans her head back against the wall. Poor thing, Halsin tells himself. In his two decades of experience in this field, fainting owners have been commonplace. After all, animals and pets are companions, family members, even. They are a lonely grandfather’s friend, the confidante of an ill-at-ease child, the partner in crime of an adventurous young woman. They take on many roles and never fail to bring comfort to their owners, although the occasional call to animal protection services has occurred throughout his career, as much for the animal’s wellbeing than for the apathetic owner’s sake. And, to be frank, his own peace of mind, but this is never a useful criterion when dealing with such circumstances.

Halsin gently takes the woman’s wrist to measure her pulse.

‘Would you like me to make you some tea?’ he offers with a warm smile. ‘I have some snacks you can eat. It is not good for you to remain in this state.’

She stares into his eyes, a blush dusting her cheeks and nearly rendering her freckles invisible to the eye.

‘Perhaps it’ll help,’ she answers weakly. ‘Thank you.’

He pats her arm and rushes to the staff room to fill the electric kettle with water before turning it on. As the device starts and a loud hum fills the cramped space, Halsin leans back against the cabinets and conceals a giddy grin behind his hand.

His heart is racing. He cannot explain it, but it is. He nearly grows dizzy from it, in the same manner that she swayed earlier. In twenty-two years of work, this has never happened. If anything, he was known to be the most professional veterinarian in the previous practice for which he worked. From his first day to the last, Halsin impressed his boss on multiple occasions, demonstrating unmatched level-headedness when dealing with heart-wrenching situations.

One day, a young man rushed inside the office, cradling his unresponsive cat whose abdomen was torn open by sharpened iron spikes. The owner was howling in despair, struggling to believe that anybody would do this to his innocent furry companion. While Halsin was busy keeping the animal alive, treating the gash and sewing it up, he could hear the man begging his colleague to save the cat, his only friend left in the world. Uncannily adroit with a needle, he managed to save the feline’s life and he became its regular vet throughout the years. Once the owner had left, his manager had praised Halsin for his unshakeable calm demeanour, but little did he know that he struggled to sleep for a few nights, wondering whether there could have been anything that he could have done better for this poor little creature.

But having his heart racing for a pet’s owner? Never. Unheard of. Inconceivable!

Before he knows it, steam swirls out of the kettle’s beak and a sudden click resounds from the countertop, a brief interruption amid the bubbling noise of the water. Halsin shakes his head, trying to keep his head clear, and retrieves his teabox from one of the overhead cabinets. He prepares the tea service on a tray, complementing it with a jar of honey and a small, flowery sugar box he inherited from a relative. On a saucer, he sets down three of the miniature pastries that Melly brought him earlier, hoping that they would be enough to keep the lady’s blood sugar up. 

Tucking the teabox under his arm, he carries the tray to the examination room and sets it down on the chair beside her, pleased to see that the woman is regaining colours.

‘Here, pick a flavour,’ he says, balancing the teabox on his palm and opening it for her.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbles in embarrassment, picking a red berry infusion. As she notices the honey on the tray, she eyes him curiously. ‘Honey? Isn’t that for sore throats?’

Halsin laughs and washes his hands in the small sink in the corner of the room, drying them thoroughly.

‘It is, but I find honey to be most soothing when I am worried. You are free to try it.’

The woman smiles at last and takes him up on the offer. As Halsin brings his focus back to the injured cub, he hears the clinking of the spoon inside the cup as she twirls the mixture in the same way a witch would stir a potion.

Setting the paw on a sterile cloth, he washes the blood away with saline water, clearing the view so he can identify the problem.

‘I cannot believe this,’ he grumbles through gritted teeth as he recognises the marks.

‘What is it, doctor?’ the woman gasps, her head shooting up as soon as his voice reaches her.

‘Bear trap. Your cub had his paw stuck in one. Are you sure that you have not seen anything suspicious in your field or the forest? Truly nothing at all?’

She hastily drinks a sip and sets the cup aside, jumping onto her feet to see the injuries with her own eyes.

‘A bear trap, you say? I don’t…’

‘Does he ever leave your field? Are there any other places that he might go?’

‘No, only the field and the forest. My permit only allows me to take him there,’ she answers, before furrowing her brow. ‘Although, when I found him this morning, the fence had been broken in from outside. I doubt that he escaped. He has never tried it.’

Her gaze darkens as she ponders about the fence again. It seems that she might have found an explanation for the broken face, and, Halsin hopes, for the trap.

‘This little fucker!’ she hisses.

As she sees his raised eyebrow, she waves a hand before her.

‘Sorry, doctor. I believe I know who might have done it.’

She grabs her cup of tea to sip it, letting it calm her nerves, even just for an instant.

‘My neighbour, Mr Bongle. A bitter man, this one. Always angry about something. He was so adamant about having the cub taken away by the local authorities and euthanised. He tried to oppose my acquisition of a piece of the field behind my house for the owlbear’s development, and it went so far that the dispute needed mediation from the town hall.’

‘I see. How did it end up?’

‘I won the dispute. I proved that I had the right paperwork done and that I had all the permits to keep the owlbear in my care. My family owns a rescue centre in the north. They cure wounded wild animals and release them. I used to work with them when I was a student, so I’m experienced when it comes to that sort of animal.’

‘Do you believe that your neighbour might have disagreed with the verdict?’

‘Oh, very much so. He has threatened to hurt the cub more than once,’ she scoffs, finishing the tea in one last gulp, before petting the owlbear’s head and peppering its feathers with kisses. Even from where he stands, Halsin notices the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I just never thought he would actually do it.’

While she cuddles her owlbear — the animal being visibly comfortable around her — Halsin begins to clean each wound individually.

‘Have you seen any trap on your land?’ he inquires while hunched over the animal’s claws.

‘None.’

That does not help things at all. After all, the woman mentioned owning a field, it is possible that the spot where she found the cub is different from the whereabouts of the trap. What if the creature crawled away after being caught and simply could not go any further?

‘It is not the first time that I see such an attack happening,’ Halsin confesses to the woman. ‘Back in the village where I used to work, neighbours’ quarrels were sometimes aggravated by attacks on the other party’s private property, and pets or farm animals were often the first to suffer from such pettiness.’

‘Any pattern you recognise?’

Halsin offers a simple shrug.

‘It could be anything. If Mr Bongle is indeed behind your cub’s injuries, it is possible that he planted the trap on the edge of your field, but once he saw it caught, he could have panicked and broken into your property to remove the trap. That could explain the broken fence and the tears in the skin. But these are mere suppositions.’

‘I see.’

Once all the wounds are disinfected, Halsin conducts a test to assess the extent of nerve and tissue damage caused by the jaw of the bear trap. Unfortunately, the cub does not respond to stimulation as well as he hoped it would. When he gently pokes the area with a dull needle, the creature merely tilts its head, wondering what he is up to. But there is no response in the limb. No twitch of the claw. Further up the leg, however, everything seems to work as normal.

‘Mh,’ Halsin sighs, ‘I am afraid that there has been some nerve damage, either caused by the trap or the attempts to remove it. That is why he could not stand or walk. He does not seem to feel anything in the paw. Slight tingles at most.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘I can operate this afternoon. All the materials and equipment are here. Since the rest of the leg responds normally, I believe that the damage to the paw is not irreversible. That was simply bad luck.’

‘Will he struggle to walk later on?’

‘That is a risk, indeed, but if he limps for the rest of his life, it should be a painless hindrance. I have seen animals with worse injuries that could still run around until late in life. Sure, their gait appeared a bit silly at times, but they did not experience any discomfort or pain.’

The woman nibbles on her lower lip and nods slowly.

‘Fine. Let’s operate.’

Halsin lets her reassure the trembling owlbear and walks over to the computer on the opposite side of the examination table. He opens his software and types the details of the situation into a new file.

‘I can keep him here already until the surgery. Just in case, I would like to keep him overnight for observation. This will not be at your charge.’

‘Oh, thank you. May I ask how you are going to look after him?’

‘I live right above the practice,’ he responds warmly, pointing at the ceiling. ‘I can check up on him every three hours and make sure that he drinks and eats enough. You should be able to bring him home tomorrow. Would that be suitable for you?’

‘Yes.’

He continues to fill in the form on the software, the clickety-clacks of his old keyboard filling the room.

‘Besides,’ he adds, ‘I have a loyal companion who would be delighted to keep watch over your cub.’

Behind the reception, outside the room, they hear Scratch stretching his paws. His claws clink against the linoleum floor, and his whimpery yawn causes both the veterinarian and the anxious owlbear owner to smile.

‘Sounds like a good boy, alright,’ the woman acquiesces with a chuckle. ‘Well, I suppose that Beaky’s in good hands.’

‘Beaky?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s his name. Beaky. Sorry, I’m not creative when it comes to names.’

‘That is quite alright,’ Halsin laughs, ‘I have heard much worse.’

Once every field has been filled in, he turns around to face the woman.

‘May I ask for your name and address, so I can fill in Beaky’s file?’

‘Of course. My name is Tav Ashguard and my address is 8 Barn Way in Combury.’

‘Thank you.’

Tav. What a peculiar name, but one he likes nonetheless. As soon as compliments fill his head, he ushers them away as if he fears that she can read his mind.

‘There. Everything is ready,’ he speaks over the deafening whirlwind of thoughts inside his brain. ‘If you wish, I can take your phone number and keep you updated if anything happens. This can be done by text or on the phone, whatever suits your preferences.’

‘Texts would be perfect. Call only if it is dire.’

‘Very well.’

Tav recites her phone number and he enters it in his file and into his work phone. Halsin then gives Beaky some mild painkillers just to be sure, before escorting its owner back to the reception. Once they stand at the door, he points towards a nearby street.

‘If you suspect Mr Bongle, I would advise you to seek the local forest ranger, Minsc. His office is up that street, to the right. He is in charge of the woods between Heawick and Combury, so perhaps he can help you find the bear trap. If not, he can refer you to a lawyer from the animal protection services, he often works with them when he finds injured and orphaned animals.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely of you. Thank you.’

She shakes his hand firmly.

‘Thank you for the tea and for taking care of Beaky. I was not sure whether you would take him in, but I’m glad you did.’

‘Of course. All animals deserve to be saved.’

‘I like hearing that.’

If Halsin did not know better, he could swear that he saw her blush just now.

‘Please, keep me updated on Beaky’s state?’

‘I promise you that I will keep a close eye on him.’

‘Perfect. Thanks. Goodbye, Dr Silverbough!’

‘Goodbye, Miss Ashguard.’

He sees her walk back to her car, right when a roaring engine echoes through the street. Karlach appears, perched atop a vintage motorcycle, and parks the vehicle in front of the practice. The tiefling hops off, clad in a short leather jacket adorned with silver buckles and dull spikes. She runs a hand through her dark hair ornamented with red streaks, hoping that it was not flattened too much because of her helmet.

When she notices Halsin at the door, she waves excitedly, her whole face illuminating.

‘Morning, Doc!’ she chimes, watching Tav’s car driving away. ‘Was that our first patient?’

Halsin grins. He has not known the young woman long, but one thing is for certain. Her enthusiasm, even for the littlest things, is unparalleled.

‘Indeed.’

‘What was it? A dog? A cat? A bird?’

‘An owlbear.’

Karlach gasps, her eyes as round as marbles and her jaw dropping at once.

‘No fucking way!’

‘Language,’ Halsin scolds playfully, although he certainly wishes that she could swear less loudly.

‘Sorry. No way!’

Without needing any form of invitation, she rushes inside, slamming her helmet on her chair behind the reception. She bursts into the examination room and finds the docile cub on the table. While Halsin closes the door and quietly makes his way to the two of them, he hears Karlach’s squeals and her cooed words as she pets the creature.

‘I will operate on him this afternoon, so I will need to close the practice earlier. Until we find another vet willing to work here, we do not have much choice.’

‘Understood, Doc.’

‘I will keep him overnight for observation. You can simply go home once I am done with the surgery. Does that sound alright to you?’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay longer?’

‘It should be fine.’

The tiefling continues to pet the cub in the same way she does Scratch, not caring that it is supposed to be a wild animal.

‘Where will the cub sleep, though?’ she asks. ‘Aren’t our cages too cramped for a pet this size?’

‘I will bring down the mattress from my guest room,’ Halsin sighs. ‘I might sleep near him while he recovers.’

‘You know what you should invest in, Doc? A babyphone. Or one of those baby cameras, you know?’

‘Hah. Perhaps I should.’

He watches her as she showers Beaky with love. Despite her inexperience, he has no regrets about employing Karlach. She is most efficient, involved, caring, and willing to learn any new task. These are qualities that he immediately sensed in her when she showed up to the practice one day after reading online that it would soon open. Out of nowhere, while varnishing wooden poles, Halsin found the tiefling scratching at his door, begging him to give her a job. Anything.

At the time, she and her partner Dammon were struggling to pay rent, but with early salary payment, once he allowed her to help with the renovations in the office space and the running of errands before she took on her official role, the issue was solved altogether.

Karlach presses a kiss into Beaky’s feathers and turns to Halsin with a smirk.

‘His owner was cute. Didn’t you think so, Doc?’

Halsin laughs and leans against the doorpost, trying to appear as nonchalant as he can.

‘I suppose.’

Taglist: @emmanuellececchi

#Halsin #Halsin Silverbough #Halsin x Tav #Tav #Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 #Baldur's Gate #Halsin x OC #Halsin x Fem!Tav #Modern AU #BG3 modern au #BG3 romance #BG3 fanfiction #BG3 fanfic #BG3 fic #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #Baldur's Gate 3 fanfiction #Little Town Tails

[malarkgirlypop]

MEDIC Part 16 (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC)

Hey guys, listen it's gonna get happy soon, hehe, maybe. Oh god I just keep writing sad stuff. I swear I am so happy and funny in real life! I just like to dump all of my feelings and sadness onto Emily, cause then it isn't my problem but hers and she's not real so... my problems aren't real. OK! ahahah. Also I am so so so so sorry for this is the slowest slow burn of all time, if you are here for romance I am totally sorry. I just want them to kiss, but then it isn't the right time, like idk if I make them get together while she is just going through it. Plus I feel so mean for Don he always helps her and he's just fine. IDK ahhh a lot going on up in my brain. Based on the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, no hate to anyone involved.

Tag list: @next-autopsy, @xxluckystrike (let me know if anyone else wants to be on the tag list 🥰, totally understand if you don't, this is the most depressing story and if you're having a good day I'm sure it will ruin it.)

Emily stands from her crouched position, striding over to the Nazi soldier. She stands over his body, tilting her head to analyse the dead man. But she doesn’t see a man nor a human. She sees filth. Pig scum who was a waste of space and air. She kicks his leg hard, but he stares up at the sky. Emily bends down picking up the gun slung across his body, she yanks it free. She checks the ammo, seeing the gun is still full, she scavenges over the body taking his magazine. She stands tall walking to where the assault happens, she strolls past her own men who yell at her to take cover. They look at each other confused, wondering why the medic is holding a German gun and walking straight into fire. She spots a group of German soldiers who take cover behind a hay bale. Her finger squeezes the trigger spraying the men in fire. She watches as they fall like dominos. She moves to where they were, firing more shots into the bodies to ensure they are dead. A round fires near her all missing, she scoffs, turning her attention to where the shots came from. Emily picks up her gun, shooting the men down one by one. She marches over to where they were stationed. One man that she had missed scrambles back from her, she notes he looks young, like the boy who’s blood covered her face and chest. She pins the boy to the floor, getting in his face.

“This is for them!” She snarls as she pulls the pistol from her pocket. 

She gets up from the now lifeless body picking up her discarded semi-automatic weapon, continuing on her warpath. She walks back out into the opening as if taunting the men to shoot. She stands with dead eyes, her hair loose from the vigorous movement, blowing across her face. Her men stampede either side of her, taking the advantage she just created for them. She tosses her now empty gun to the side but still grips her pistol tightly. A firm grip lands on her shoulder. She doesn’t hesitate, whipping around, she aims the gun right at the man's head. Familiar eyes locking onto hers.

I hold the pistol right between Malarkey’s eyes, the tang of blood on my tongue and the stench of copper on my clothes. I exhale shakily, eyes frantically darting around. 

“Em, you’re ok!” Malarkey grips the barrel moving it down from his face. 

I step back, dropping the gun to the ground. I take in my hands tacky with blood, I go to wipe them on my front but the green uniform is stained red. Tears spring to my eyes, my heart pounds in my ears. What happened? I look again at my hands, they shake as I recollect the scene that just unfolded. I killed those men. I killed a young boy. I caused the life to leave from his eyes. I shake my head, frantically trying to wipe the blood from my hands, it won’t leave my skin. I drop to my knees tearing at my clothes trying to find my canteen. I pull it from my belt pouring the water over my hands, I desperately rub them together to wash away the stains. I grab at my button’s needing to get the smell that permeates in my nose off my body. I shake violently, unable to unfasten the buttons. “Help me!” I beg Malarkey who watches me with a sympathetic look on his face. He kneels in front of me, undoing my shirt, he helps me to pull it off. I touch my fingers to my face, finding more blood. I pour water from my canteen onto my hand rubbing the liquid into my face. I sob as I wash. Snot mixing in with the blood and tears. I tear at my skin not feeling clean enough. My wrists are grasped. 

“Em, please stop, you’re hurting yourself!” Malakey begs me. I gasp for air in between sobs. 

“What did I do?” I choke out. Malarkey and I kneel in the open field as he holds my wrists. The sound of gunshots slowly dissipating. He shakes his head, unable to find the words to tell me, not knowing how to put what he saw. 

“I killed those men?” I ask, not believing my blurry memories. 

“Em you weren’t yourself.” Malarkey tries to explain. I wasn’t there, felt like I was pushed back into my mind and I lost all control. Like falling asleep. 

“I murdered those people, Don. This is their blood. I… killed them.” I hyperventilate, shaking my head. Trying to rid my mind of the images that flash behind my eyelids. I gag, retching the contents of my stomach onto the ground. Don watches, sitting helplessly in front of me. “I can’t, I can’t.” I muffle my screams behind my hand. I curl over myself. Pressing my head to the ground. I grip at the grass underneath, hoping that something will help my world stop spinning. I dig my nails into the ground tearing at the earth. I sob uncontrollably, choking on my own breaths. I have never felt this pain in my life. Like my soul is being torn from me. Like everything is being ripped from my body. Unbearable. I wail. Unconsolable.

“EM!” Don pleads with me. He moves to my side, raising me from my hunched position on the ground. He presses me into him, my chest against his. His hands in my hair, pressing my face into his neck. I sob still. His hands rub circles on my back, soothing my hair down. Don rocks us. 

“Em this is not your fault. Shhh you’re alright.” He coos in my ear. I hiccup, the cries easing from my throat. I feel the tears still sliding down my face, pooling on his shirt. I grip at him, Don stops my world spinning. I hold on for dear life, worried he could slip away if I loosen my grip. 

“I’m so sorry.” I whisper, into the air. I send it out into the universe.

“I’m so sorry.” I see the men's faces, cold and still. Young men, lives ahead of them, I took it. Their chance to live. I took their opportunities. I took a mother’s son, a sibling, a friend. I can’t justify my actions, there was no rationale, no means. I took advantage of the hatred I held and turned it against them. They were following orders, just like our men, just like me. I was the one out of line, I did not follow my orders. I look up at Don, his eyes meet mine. No disappointment in his face, just sorrow. The other men come back, the assault is over. We need to keep moving to Noville. If we sit out in the open we make ourselves more vulnerable. I hear crunching footsteps approach us. 

“Let’s get moving.” Lip says to Don. I move to get up but Don holds me close. I look up at him, I nod my head, showing him I’m fine. He lets me go, I move to stand. I shudder looking at my clothes. I lift my head trying to distract myself. I still feel the blood coating my skin. I just want to get somewhere I can change. We walk in silence, Don close to my side. We hang back from the rest of the men. I’m ashamed, I don’t want them to see me like this, covered in blood. That is a normal state for me but this feels different, this blood was not shed from a wound I was trying to fix. It was shed from maleficence, my malice, my hatred. Lip walks in front of us, casting his glance back every so often to make sure I’m still there. I can’t read his expression, but I know he is disappointed, all of the men will be. 

We set up camp in one of the houses on the outskirts of town. By the time we reach it night has fallen. I wait outside by myself asking Don to go and get me a new uniform, I don’t want to be paraded through the house in my blood soaked clothes and skin. 

He re-emerges out of the house holding clean clothes for me.

“There is a stream not too far away, would you want to go wash there?” Don asks, I nod. There were no showers or places for me to wash here. I would take a cold stream over anything else. I followed behind him, he still held my clothes for me. We used a small torch to light our way. We didn’t talk on our journey, but it was short, we arrived at the stream soon enough. Snow covered the ground but thankfully the stream hadn’t frozen over due to the running water through it. He placed my clothes on a rock.

“I will wait for you up on the bank.” He said and left. I stripped down to my underwear, untying my hair from its bun. I took off my shoes and socks last. My feet burning from the cold underneath my soles. I stepped tentatively into the stream, gasping at the coldness. I walked further in the water coming to my waist. It was freezing, my breathing quickened due to how cold it was. I took a deep breath and sank beneath the water. I didn’t stay under long, my urge to gasp from the cold forcing me to resurface again. My teeth chattered but I persisted. I scrubbed my skin from the dried blood. I washed my face, my hair, and my hands. Washing away all of the bloodshed I'd caused. I didn’t realise it but I was sobbing as I washed. I slipped under the water again, my body now more used to the cold. It was quiet under the surface, muffled and muted from the outside world. My heavy bones felt light floating in the water. But I couldn’t hold my breath forever, I needed to surface at some point and face the world again. That felt all too real. I broke the surface, gulping in air. My body was numb by this point from the cold. I needed to get changed before I got too cold. I stood moving back to the edge, walking out, I dried myself with the towel that Don had brought for me. He was always so thoughtful, and I had pushed him away. Guess I didn’t learn my lesson last time. Luckily I couldn’t push him away so easily, we were in the same company, I had to see him everyday. I got dressed quickly, making my way back up to where Don waited for me. A soft smile formed on his lips seeing me clean again. He opened his mouth to say something but I walked into his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him into me. He stayed quiet but wrapped his arms around my back squeezing me. 

“I’m so sorry, Don.” I whispered into his neck, “I was being selfish. I pushed you away. But I don’t want to be apart from you.” Tears ran down my cheeks as we held each other still. “I want to remember them with you. I don’t want to forget them.” His hand rubbed up and down my back. 

“We will remember them, Em. Those guys will be with us forever.” He said softly into my hair. He knew exactly how to comfort me. I pulled back to smile at him, his thumb brushing away the tears on my cheeks. 

“As long as you have me, we won’t forget. And you can’t get rid of me that easily.” He grinned at me, making me laugh tearily. 

“I don’t want to get rid of you.” I shook my head. “I’ve decided to keep you, for as long as I can.” He grinned at me nodding his head. 

We made our way back to the house. The building was warm due to all the bodies packed into it. I was ready to crash, I had been running on fumes for days. The quiet chatter died when we walked back into the house, I was very aware of all of the eyes watching me. I walked closer to Don trying to hide behind him, but it was no use. I looked down at my feet as we walked, finally making it to where Don had saved a spot for us on the floor. What were they thinking? They had all seen it happen, so surely they all knew about it. Did they hate me now? See me as a monster? I bit my lip nervously, thoughts swirling in my head. Don’s warm hand landed on top of mine, he gave me a reassuring smile. I nodded not needing to speak, we both knew what we were saying without words. 

“Do you mind?” Malarkey said loudly turning to the group of men, they all looked away from us, their chatter resuming. I laid down, resting my head on my bag, he pulled the blanket over the both of us, resting beside me.        

“Tomorrow will be easier.” He squeezed my hand before rolling over away from me. I fell asleep not long after. Tomorrow will be easier.  

#yikes what a chapter #she maybe commit some wr crimes but we will let it slide #maybe she will be the new Speirs of Easy Company #What do we think everyone else is thinking #are they mad at her? #proud? #scared? #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #donald malarkey #hbo war #Emarkey #their ship name #thanks to Bucky ❤️

[tiniedemon]

— ♡

superposition

part three

— ♡

the sun was just creeping over the horizon, casting a soft orange glow over south park. snow glistened on the ground and birds chirped quietly from trees. early morning light filtered in through the curtains of your bedroom, stretching over three sleeping bodies cramped into one bed.

you were the first to stir awake, stretching your arms far over your head. your eyelids slowly fluttered open, squinting against blinding rays. your eyes surveyed the room, bleary from sleep, spotting two heads of messy red curls arranged awkwardly atop the sheets. your duvet was nowhere to be found, likely somewhere on the floor due to your husband and child’s haphazard sleeping habits. your lips curled into a soft smile as you lovingly gazed at your boys, your heart swelling in your chest. every morning you woke up to the two of them was listed in your books as the best morning.

your hand buried itself in your husband’s hair, his arm twitching beneath your head as he sighed. kyle was so beautiful, his copper eyelashes curling softly above sharp cheekbones and his lips parted over straight teeth. freckles dusted over his fair skin, spotting the apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his hooked nose. he wasn’t a very large man, sporting more of a slender build, but the hidden muscles stretched just beneath the skin.

“kyle,” you whispered into the quiet morning atmosphere, your thumb gliding over the faint acne scars on his cheeks. he hummed in response, eyes still closed and drool glistening in the corner of his mouth. his head moved to you chuckled and leaned over the toddler nestled against your leg, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“my love, it’s time to wake up,” you whispered again, kyle huffing before squinting his eyes open to look at you. the green of his irises glimmered in the faint light, his nose scrunched and a yawn falling through his lips.

“morning,” he grunted, placing a soft kiss to your lips. you hummed against his lips, thumb stroking over the back of his neck, eyes fluttering shut for a short moment.

the sweet second of peace between you and your husband was rudely interrupted by your four year old gagging over-dramatically from his spot between the two of you. you pried yourself quickly away from kyle, shooting daggers at your son.

“ew daddy! mommy’s gonna give you cooties!” he shrieked, finger on his outstretched tongue to convey his disgust. you huffed and massaged your temples, kyle’s hand rubbing your bicep reassuringly. your son, kian, had always been a daddy’s boy, and thus had always been a lot harder on you than kyle.

“ki, c’mon. mommy doesn’t have cooties,” kyle grumbled. kian stilled for a second, looking between his mother and father, before dashing off down the hallway.

“cooties!” he chanted, voice growing distant as he presumably went to station himself in front of the tv for saturday morning cartoons. you glanced at kyle through your eyelashes and heaved a sigh, letting your head fall back. he pressed a soft kiss to your temple, rocking your bodies side to side.

“he’ll grow out of the ‘i hate mom’ phase. we just have to be patient and correct him when he gives you trouble,” kyle hummed. you huffed and pulled yourself out of bed, trudging down the hallway towards the kitchen. you needed coffee desperately.

—

it was kyle’s idea to take the little shit to the park. the two of them were sporting matching coats and sneakers, leaving you to be the odd one out, as usual. kian was wrapped up in kyle’s arms, babbling on about his superhero shows, and you were left to push your hands into your pockets.

if you were being completely honest, you didn’t particularly like your son. sheila had said on multiple occasions that kian reminded her a lot of kyle when he was around the same age, and she’d said it with such a disdained grimace that it brought in to question what your husband was like as a child. you didn’t remember a lot from your younger childhood years, and certainly didn’t remember enough to know what kyle was like, though you did remember a kindergarten incident involving a fire.

you seated yourself on a bench while kyle took your son to the playground. from far away, you could see kyle kneeling before your son, speaking quietly with their faces together. kyle caught your eye, smiling brightly with his hand lifted in a wave. you smiled weakly back to him, wiggling your fingers. kian looked over his shoulder, tears in his eyes, and waved at you as well. your eyebrows were furrowed as you returned the gesture.

then your toddler was running up to you, his orange curls bouncing with every step he took. his chubby cheeks were reddened with tears and his lips were pouted as he clambered onto the bench with you. you were a bit confused. especially as kian wrapped his stubby arms around your midsection.

“hey, ki,” you hummed, one hand on his back and the other smoothing down his wild, wind-whipped curls. he was sobbing pitifully, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and your heart hurt. even if he was a little asshole, he was still your son, and his hurt pained you.

“daddy says you think i hate you,” he stuttered through gasping sobs. “i don’t hate you mommy. i love you! you’re my only mommy and i love you!” your heart swelled in your chest as you pulled the boy into your lap, smiling at kyle across the park. he was stood with his hands in his pockets, a proud smile showing through the orange stubble on his chin.

“i love you too, ki,” you sighed, patting his back. “i don’t think you hate me, but you are mean to mommy sometimes. how do you think we can fix that?” kian had a thoughtful look on his face, eerily similar to his father, even going as far as to hold his chin.

“i could start waking mommy up and telling her how pretty she is all the time?” he asked. you chuckled and pulled him into a bear hug, your heart swelling more. kian really was a sweetheart, he just had a bit of trouble understanding that words can hurt someone.

“i mean, yeah, that would be nice. but i more meant that we can watch how we use our words and be nicer to the people we love. sometimes other people forget you love them if you’re mean to them. do you think you could do that?”

kian was eager with his nod, pressing a very loud and very wet kiss to your cheek. you shooed him away to play with kyle, his shrieking laughter sounding his entire way there. kyle hoisted him in the air and spun him around, then settled him on his hip and spoke quietly to him again. you watched your son’s hair bounce as he nodded vigorously and talked enthusiastically with your husband, a broad smile on your face and a warmth spreading through your body.

at the end of the day, no matter how much of an asshole your son could be towards you, you loved him infinitely. he was your baby after all, the best parts of you and the man you loved. getting to spend the rest of your life with the two of them hanging around was the icing on the cake.

masterlist

#south park x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #superposition series

[moral-terpitude]

His Favorite - Tommy Shelby x OC Smut - Part 1

She wasn’t surprised by the times she rode him with her tit in his mouth, and some accidental words would slip out before he finished that sounded like love and she was paid to ignore.

She wasn’t surprised by the times he had came to see her, with no warning, and she knew everything that he loved to have done to him, so she did them anyway without him asking or direction.

What surprised her was when she ran into him at the market, and he walked bestrode her, the whore that she was, as if she was a queen, with a bottle of French wine in his hand that he had retrieved from God knows where, and asked her what her plans were that evening.

“Well, it’s my birthday, so I’ll presumably be spending it it alone with a book, unless you have a better suggestion.”

“No plans?” He conceded as she stopped in the midst of the walking path with a blush as he pressured her about her plans as if she actually wrote them in a diary the way a business man as himself did.

She shook her head, the long coils of copper bouncing around her face as she did so.

“Can I come see you?” He asked, people stepped to the side and walked around them as they held up the flow of the walkway.

“As if I’m working or as a friend?”

“Well, I don’t want you to work on your birthday but I suppose it would depend on how the evening ensues, eh?”

She quirked a well drawn eyebrow at him, a flush spreading through her pink-pale skin, “If you want to, come 'round about 7.”

They departed with a nod, as she finished her purchases and returned home.

She let her mind wander the whole time, where he was headed at 10 in the morning with a bottle of wine.

She did indeed spend her day with a book, Jane Eyre, and a kettle of tea on intermittently throughout.

She returned the book to its home on the packed one of four bookshelves as she decided, around 5, to draw a bath.

She reveled in the heat of the scalding water, turning herself a bright pink before exiting to ready herself in front of the fire.

She tried to remember as she did her makeup and restrained her hair if there had been a time where they had been in each others presence that she wasn’t working. Maybe the times they chatted at the Garrison. Some times they were long chats, that ended long nights, sometimes continuing into the next morning with the door locked and Arthur leaving them to clean up.

He had also dropped to her a book he had bought her in London that he thought she might enjoy. Sometimes he would ask her to tell him the story of her favorite book in the least amount of words she could manage while they redressed.

Last Christmas, Polly had felt pity that she’d be alone at the holiday and made Tommy bring her along. There had been a gift then, too. She assumed everyone got a firm talking to before they had arrived as there had been no jokes, or hoots and hollers when she got there.

She decided he made her feel normal. As normal as she could be for someone who was a whore. As normal as she could be for someone that actually enjoyed being a whore.

At 7 there was a firm knock at the door.

Her brow furrowed as she spied an oddly tall leather case in one hand with its black strap, and book of records, along with a metal tin, tucked under Tommy’s arm when she answered the door.

“Let me in, eh? It’s not light.”

She nodded and allowed him to pass her as the red fabric blew against her legs from the wind outside.

He left the items in a neat pile and procured the same bottle of wine from a spot tucked inside his coat as she stood at the door watching him.

“You still have the gramaphone?” He looked rather pleased with himself as he shed his exterior layers and hung them on the coat rack by the door.

She nodded as she watched him. She forgot that there maybe had been a few nights he spent here before, with a storm outside brewing such as this one did, and there had been music and laughing and one too many drinks. They hadn’t finished the bottle, of course, but he had left them for her to keep.

Usually he brought her a nice one. Gin. Whiskey. Once Vodka.

“Do you have a sheet?”

“Yes, a few.”

“A white one?”

She shook her head, “Closest I’ve got is cream with some flowers. Tommy, what’s all this?”

“Go get the sheet.”

She rolled her eyes and retreated up the stairs, searching through the linen closet for the sheet as she heard cupboard doors open and close.

When she returned she was surprised that he had managed to find the only two wine glasses she owned, for occasions such as these, and had commandeered the coffee table with the contraption in the box pointed at her bookshelves.

"Trade," he offered the metal tin to her as he waited for her to hand him the cream sheet, speckled with small flowers.

She obliged his request. He used a few of the books as weights to make a screen of the sheet as she turned the tin to look for an answer.

"Les Miserables?" She asked, brow furrowed, as he took the tin from between her soft fingers and opened the leather box.

"I had to order it, I hoped it would make it here in time."

"For what?"

"For your birthday. I had to order the reel from America. I know it's one of your favorite books, but I haven't the patience to read two-thousand pages to understand it all."

Her heart sank, in a weird way. He had went to all the effort of tracking this down just for her? For what?

"It's only a thousand, four hundred, sixty two pages."

"You would remember that off the top."

She smiled, he meant it as a way to poke fun but she did take it as a compliment, whether he meant it to be or not.

"Tom, it's a moving picture? That's how it works?" She gestured to the contraption on the table.

He nodded, "The sound is on the records, so you have to start them just right for it to match up."

They made it through three changes of records before the bottle of wine was half empty and she had climbed into his lap with her lips on his. The reel continued silently as the gramophone clicked off.

#tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky fookin blinders #peaky fucking blinders #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby #smut #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders smut

[blazingmicah-wc]

for the we both reached for the gun warriors au i mentioned :)

just a scene i thought of

i havent written in like years so its bad lol

crimson cascading onto the rocks, sun filtering through red waves and the cooling flank of a brown mackerel tabby which had been still for some time. leafpool shakes her head. her teary eyes attempt to focus on the forest path in front of her. she had naively hoped that after cinderpelt's death, starclan would give the brown she-cat a break, or at the very least, would spare her the sight of a cruelly taken life for quite some time. 

instead, upon her decision to return from her short-lived expedition with crowfeather she had suddenly collapsed, groaning in pain. the black tom had frightenedly peered over his yowling mate. it was only then that leafpool realised she was pregnant. the pains in her stomach grew more painful and she could distantly hear crowfeather`s begging for some type of instruction. gritting her teeth, leafpool regained her footing and attempted to reassure the tom, but his ocean blue eyes were solely focused on her belly, eyes widening in realisation. leafpool had run up to her mate as his eyes carefully met hers.

it was then that she finally put a name to spottedleaf`s expression back in their den; scorn. the spotted she-cat was undoubtedly ashamed of all the trust she had put into leafpool, of killing off her mentor in hopes that she would rise to the occasion. of making the code-breaking tabby starclan`s chosen one. thinking back, she swears she can see the snarl tugging at the spirit`s lips.

her worst fears are affirmed when she careens into the nursery, only to be hit with the stench of milk and copper that streaks across her face. a flash of horrified, pale blue eyes as her mentor`s corpse crashes into the molly, her life-force having been torn out by a badger. leafpool can still remember it`s beady black gaze as it almost seemed to hone in on her. how she had scrambled to get away but cinderpelt`s weight and overwhelming fear had pinned her down. it was at that moment that crowfeather tore into the den, claws slashing at the beast. leafpool remembers, in that moment, how powerless and alone she had truly felt.

she couldn't remember what she had been doing when ashfur had come running into camp, the grey ticked tom yelling about brambleclaw, hawkfrost and firestar. her sister had raced into the forest without a moment's notice and the brown molly felt as if she had no choice but to follow. for a moment, as leafpool passed the tom, she thought she had caught a glimpse of ashfur`s ice-blue eyes staring hauntedly straight back at her.

everything else had been a blur, her father's throat gushing blood, her brother-in-law`s wide, frightful eyes, and... the riverclan tom. her and hawkfrost had never spoken, but she felt as though she knew him so vividly through mothwing`s description. she had never liked him, seeing the tom training with his brother and father, but she at least hoped that the young tom would have a chance to change, to not follow in his father's pawsteps. but it appears that hawkfrost was already doomed from the start. just as how she and her sister heard tail from her cousin, cloudtail, about the legend about tigerstar's death; ripped open from throat to tail. now she looked at the sleek brown tom, with a metal rod stabbed through his head. brambleclaw`s muzzle was covered in blood and the tom stank of fear. despite her father`s weak insistment that he had saved his life, leafpool was unsure as ever of the tom`s intentions. he was a murderer, and on some level reminded the young brown tabby of scourge what with their shared brutality when it came to execution. it was then that leafpool saw a glimpse of pale, grey fur tucked beneath the large tabby`s paws. she remembers staggering back, doing everything she could to keep her legs from buckling as if she's been hit by a monster. she couldn`t remember if ashfur had been wounded, the blood in her ears had been deafening, blocking out nearly all other senses. nobody saw her hasty exit as she bounded back into the forest, a cry making its way from her lips. everything was wrong. nothing was the same; cinderpelt was gone, her sister was dating and her father was much removed from the cat he had once admired. leapool missed her old territory. the perfect amount of sun that set her soul ablaze. not this forest. she didn`t want to raise her kits here, not knowing just how immense her home had been. the trees by the hollow were awful. they were all made of pine and the sun beamed down on the molly at all times. they were too close together and the branches were far too low, nicking her whenever she walked past them. their new territory was now already marked with enemy blood and betrayal, a stain she assumed that the clan would never be rid of.

and now there the she-cat wavers, on a memory path back to camp, when every muscle in her legs begged her to run away, to go back to windclan and whisk crowfeather from his paws. so they could live their lives out of the reach of the cruel and unwavering starclan. to perhaps reach her last chance at happiness. her paws feel impossibly heavy and exhaustion weighs heavy on the she-cat`s mind. it is then that a figure emerges from the bracken, startling the medicine cat. ashfur. the short tom shrugs off the leaves sticking to his usual matted pelt, but leafpool`s gaze is immediately drawn to the deep scratches on the tom`s right shoulder that still seem to be gushing blood. leafpool sheaths her claws and begs for her fur to flatten. the two stare at each other for a moment. ashfur sniffs at their surroundings nonchalantly. he speaks first.

"leafpool. brambleclaw sent me out to find you. i told him that he should mind his own damn business because i didn't want to put any more pressure on you since... you know..."

ashfur`s electric blue eyes stare straight into her soul, his words spilling easily from his lips as if he didn't have a major and delicate wound. the tom`s gaze falters as he notices her expression. leafpool finds her voice quickly.

"are you alright?"

the grey tom blinks in surprise. his uncaring demeanour cracks for a moment.

"what in starclan are you talking abo- you know what? im sorry. its been a tough day for all of us..." ashfur mumbles.

leafpool stares at him incredulously.

"that. those scratches on your shoulder."

ashfur straightens up at that, before turning to check his arm.

"oh. would you look at that. it seems i got snagged by a few thorns on my way to camp. since, you know, firestar was dying and all and i was in a really big rush-"

leafpool cuts the tom off, crossing their distance in a few calculated steps and immediately nosing at his wound. the grey tom recoils and looks down at her in some sort of disgust.

"what the fuck are you doing?" ashfur hisses, hair standing on end. his glare sharpens. the medicine cat opens her mouth to speak, but ashfur doesn't give her space.

"you know, todays been a really shit day. first i have to listen to that asshole 24/7, and now you`re, like, interrogating me? what the hell, leafpool? i get a few cats just died and i`m glad that firestar is safe too, but it doesn't mean you get to be all weird like that. hurry up and quit your sulking, we need to get back to camp, alright?"

the tom does not meet her eyes.

"besides, the forest is off limits. brambleshit-face has sent brightheart and brackenfur off to riverclan to report the whole thing. if that... mouse-brained riverclan warrior... hadn`t... been stupid enough to be killed on our territory, then this whole thing would have been a lot cleaner. you know i overheard him and bramble talking together at a gathering? something about their father. thank god at least one of those traitors are dead. you know, if i was deputy, i would-"

"did brambleclaw attack you?"

ashfur stills at once. he stops breathing and seems to way his choices.

"you don't have to lie, ashfur." the tom opens his mouth. "i've seen you and hawkfrost together at gatherings, relaxing side by side. ive heard you sneak out of camp and i`ve seen you wash riverclan scent off your fur by rolling in the river. did brambleclaw find out? is that why he hurt you?"

the tom stares back at her, finally meeting leafpool`s gaze. his eyes glitter with intensity. his tongue loosened.

"ive got nothing to hide, leafpool. im not proud of my relationship with hawkfrost. but i doubt that you are, either."

"what-"

"i've seen it; you and crowfeather." ashfur snarled.

the molly`s brain grinded to a halt and her heart began to flutter. ashfur was staring at her with such ferocity that it was difficult to retain his glare. still, she stood her ground.

ashfur stepped closer. 

"apparently you told hawk's sister that you're pregnant."

"she told him?" leafpool whimpered, eyes widening.

the tom scoffed.

"well, duh. i`m surprised that nocat knows. you`re practically bloated." he scowled.

"that doesn't mean anything. i can still serve my clan; i will serve my clan, and right now that means taking care of that wound. i need to know what happened." ashfur appeared taken aback, lost in thought.

"i-we..."

leafpool looked at ashfur expectantly.

"hawkfrost had asked me to meet up with him by the lake. of course, i didn't know anything about what he was doing there. once i saw firestar, injured and bleeding out, i called things off with him." he sighed, shifting his weight from paw to paw. "he was angry, of course, but let me go. i didn't know brambleclaw was there. i left to go back to camp, wondering about what i should do. either report the situation and out myself as a code-breaker or... leave my leader for dead. it was then that brambleclaw leapt from the bushes, pinning me to the ground. his claws were unsheathed and i panicked. we both landed a couple of blows before i managed to escape. i raced back to camp and got you and squirrelflight." the tom seems to grimace at the mention of her sister. "that must have been when he murdered hawkfrost."

she looked up at the grey ticked cat. she had known of their relationship, of hawkfrost`s evil intentions, but she was surprised at ashfur`s refusal to become involved in the plot. he had struck her as a cunning and ambitious cat. she would have thought that she would have taken the opportunity to maybe dethrone both her father and brother-in-law eagerly. but now, gazing into his ice-blue eyes, she felt only pity for the tom. perhaps she had been wrong about him. maybe he wan`t manipulative and evil, but instead a foolish, foolish cat.

"and he only managed to get your shoulder? do you have any other wo-"

"no. i was very lucky."

leafpool stepped closer and this time the tom let her.

"we've got to tell my dad. he won`t stand for having a traitor as deputy," she urged. "he's already forgiven me, he`ll have to forgive you too. especially after you went back and got help for him." she thought that the saw the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. "i-it`s not your fault for wanting to believe in hawkfrost. things have been hard of tigerstar`s kin and it's only right to think the best of them. brambleclaw seemed like a good cat, but..."

"i don`t need your help. i`ll tell the clan myself." ashfur grumbled.

leafpool seemed disheartened.

"but- alright... but please... don`t tell anyone about me. please." the medicine cat pleaded, looking up at ashfur.

the tom purred.

"don`t worry. my quarrel isn`t with you, leafpool."

#warrior cats #writing #warriors au #ashfur #leafpool #hawkash #leafcrow

[kiasnocturnality]

OH and I NEED something where Desdemona saves Reader from downing. You're absolutely amazing at writing hurt/comfort and I'm here for it

characters: Desdemona Nausikáa

notes: it made me so happy to read that you think I'm good at writing hurt/comfort!

. * ⋆ . · 　. DESDEMONA NAUSIKÁA

You were prepared to commit murder if you ever got out of this sea alive.

Some friends of a friend had been boasting about getting a boat and so a lot of you had gone out on it together and you had been having a good time, people opened a few drinks, but the owners of the boat, fuelled by the thrill of pride, had had a bit too much to drink.

You had been picked up and thrown overboard by the drunk men in what had seemed to be a harmless prank until it became apparent how much of a terrible swimmer you were and luck just seemed to twirl its way out of your life when the current then pulled you under and away from the boat. You could barely keep your head up long enough to tell how far you were, whether or not you were being pulled out to sea or towards the cliffs in the distance.

You were suddenly dragged down into the water and the air left your lungs in a startled cry as you opened your eyes, desperate to see whatever had pulled you down despite the burn of the salt water. You were met with the face of a woman, her coppery hair floating about her and her eyes seemed blind. Despite your blurry vision, you could make out the shape of a brown tail where her legs should be and how her arms seemed like copper-coloured wings. Claws were gripping into your calf and spilling your blood in the salt water. You could just about make out her maw of sharp teeth when she opened her mouth and as she lunged towards you, you were yanked backwards.

You let out yet another cry when the movement caused her claws to tear through your flesh. You were out of oxygen entirely and were now choking on water as a pair of arms wrapped firmly around your torso. This woman, this creature, before you had no arms and so you were filled with hope at the thought that the boat had come back to rescue you. But the mermaid, siren, harpy, whatever she was in front of you seemed to be snarling at your saviour and communicating in shrieks and clicks.

Your vision became filled with black spots and then began to fade in and out entirely and the next thing you knew, it was much darker and you were choking up water.

"Easy, pretty thing, there you go." An unfamiliar voice soothed you and you were surprised that you weren't alarmed to be in a stranger's care. Her voice trickled through your body like a spiced wine and warmed you, numbed you a little, made you feel at ease. A bucket was pushed in front of you and you were very grateful because you soon vomited up all of the salt water that you had swallowed. Hands came up to pull your hair away from your face and you realised that you were trembling as you finished heaving up your guts. "Oh, you poor thing." You turned your head as a cloth came up to wipe around your mouth and your face dropped at the sight of the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

She surpassed any runway model or old Hollywood star, any painting or sculpture. Her hair was an inky black and she had blue-green eyes that were framed by dark and sultry lashes. Her lips were painted such a dark red that they were slightly purple. Her skin was pale, almost as pale as the pearls at her ears and neck.

"I had to pull you out of the water, how are you feeling, darling?" She frowned slightly at how much you were trembling as the back of her hand caressed your face.

"W-where am I?" You asked, looking around to see that you were in a room with a stone floor, bottle brick window and tiled walls that reached the middle of the wall in a brilliant blue-green-white pattern.

"I brought you into my home, I hope that's ok." You could only nod your head as you tried to get a grasp on your surroundings. Her home seemed so unlike any you had been before or maybe it was just one of those crazy bathroom designs? She got up to pour you a cup of water from the sink and you gratefully took a big mouthful and spat it back out into the bucket to try and rinse out the awful flavour.

"There... there was something out there." You began, voice shaky as you remained on the floor and then you gasped, "My friends! Are they still on the boat?" The woman seemed to freeze up for a moment before she was helping you up to your feet.

"I saw the boat but I don't know what became of it." She spoke as she began leading you through tunnel-like corridors until you were in a grandly decorated bedroom with a four-poster bed in the corner that was covered in drapings and fluffy white pillows and blankets. She eased you to sit on a nearby chair as she opened a wardrobe and took out a robe. "Here, you'll catch a cold in those wet clothes."

As you looked at her, you noticed how her hair was wet too, clinging to her skin in places and dripping on the floor every now and then. How far out had she pulled you in from for her hair to be utterly soaked as it was? She stood there for a moment, waiting, as you looked up at her, holding the robe in your hands.

"Well? It's not a problem at all, is it? We're both ladies." You nodded your head as you bit the inside of your cheek, pulling your shirt over your head and cringing at the sensation of it stubbornly sticking to your skin as you did so.

"What's your name?" You asked as you handed her your wet clothes and tied the belt around your waist.

"Desdemona Nausikáa." She replied with a close-lipped smile and you found your eyes drawn to her dark lips once more.

"I'm Y/n." You replied.

"Oh, such a pretty name for a such a pretty girl." She replied and you felt your heart flutter for a moment, "Would you like something? I don't have any food, I've... been meaning to get some soon but I have some tea stashed away somewhere."

"I would love some, thank you." You replied, thinking that it would do you well to warm up some. You were still a little on edge about being in a stranger's house. "Can I use your phone?" You asked.

"There's a phone box on the edge of the village nearby. I'll take you once your clothes have dried and you've had some tea." That was odd. She was a woman living all alone and she didn't own a phone?

"Don't you have a phone?" Her brows furrowed for a moment and you began to feel suspicion creeping up on you.

"No, but you're perfectly safe here with me, treasure." And just like that, her voice returned to being that sweet and spiced wine, the tune of her tongue trickling down your throat warmly, settling all throughout your body. "Why would I save you just to hurt you?" She closed the space between you and truly towered over you as you remained in the seat she had directed you to earlier. Her hands came up to caress your face, long black nails - which you assumed to be acrylic - brushing gently against your cheek. "You're far too pretty to go to waste..."

𓋼𓍊⋆ﾟ Buy me a coffee? ｡˚:✧｡Want to be tagged?

@edensrose @writing-noah @itseivwhore

#✧･ﾟINTO THE FOREST #✩⋆ﾟDESDEMONA NAUSIKÁA #siren oc #siren oc x reader #siren x reader #terato #terato x reader #monster oc #monster girlfriend #monster girlfriend x reader #Desdemona doesn't let other sirens eat the prettiest women #remember when I said she's like a magpie for shiny things? #yeah extend it to pretty things #she WILL snatch a pretty woman from one of her kin #bc she thinks it's a waste otherwise lmao

[inmephistophelesvents]

An Artist’s eye-Ryoshu/Hong Lu(Horror)

Summary: Ryoshu had always had an eye for things she found beautiful, so it was no surprise she took an interest in the blue eye that was nestled in Hong Lu's left eye socket.

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The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, so thick and heavy Hong Lu could practically taste it on his tongue. No matter how much Hong Lu had visited this room nor how much he smelt it the scent always seemed far too harsh for his nose.

He squeezes his eyes shut as a hand firmly grips his chin and a glass cup is brought to his lips, a bitter poisonous taste not so dissimilar to floor cleaner coats his mouth. The first swallow leaves a harsh stinging burn dancing along his mouth and throat like pure fire.

So it’s no surprise when he begins coughing harshly, a sharp sting burning his airways as tears spring into his eyes. The cup disappears from his mouth as he continues coughing, a noise of irritation comes from the person who’d been holding the cup to his lips, a soft tch noise.

That hand that’d been gripping his chin firmly turns rough, painful. Slender, calloused fingers practically digging into his jaw as his face is wretched up, meeting sharp red eyes set in a glare.

Ryoshu scowled in distaste and annoyance, her lips twisted around the cigarette in her mouth. She takes a long drag and Hong Lu’s eyes slowly trace along it watching through slightly blurry vision as the paper turns to ash burning up to nothing. She lowers the cigarette from her lips and exhales softly, the thick smoke blown into Hong Lu’s face.

The effect is immediate with Hong Lu coughing once more as that heavy rich scent dances along his airways. Stealing the air from his lungs.

And yet the grip on his face doesn’t loosen even slightly. “Waste another drop and it’ll be your blood spilled on the floor.”

When Hong Lu doesn’t answer right away the grip on his face tightens painfully, and he can’t help but think he hears his jaw creak ever so slightly.

“D. Y. U.”

Hong Lu manages a small nod as he does his best to blink away the tears in his eyes, his slightly muddled mind managing to work out the woman’s acronym.

He wants to point out that she has already spilled his blood more than once, and that she’ll spill his blood once more soon but he doesn’t instead he looks up at Ryoshu from his spot on the wooden chair.

At the moment they were in her room aboard Mephistopheles, following their usual ritual each week. Hong Lu sat on a wooden chair, wrists bound tightly behind his back with a vibrant red rope twisted and tied in oddly beautiful knots.

The soft white glow of the moonlight illuminated the room, something that was odd to Hong Lu even in his own room considering they were aboard a bus. Although considering things he had a feeling that answer would forever allude him.

Ryoshu was in front of him, half standing and half kneeling one of her legs drawn up and resting between Hong Lu’s legs on the wooden chair as she leaned over him. Even though the two of them were the same height it almost felt as if she were towering over him.

“You people drink this,” Hong Lu exclaimed in alarm as well as confusion. It was the first time the woman had given him anything before starting her usual work, so Hong Lu had been rather surprised and curious when the woman had held a glass of copper-colored liquor that smelt strongly of medical rubbing alcohol to his lips.

When he’d asked what it was and she simply said liquor. Hong Lu however had never had any alcohol that tasted or even smelled like this. He’d had the world's finest wines created only once every hundred years and given a boost with K Corps medical technology to ensure longevity even when opened.

And yet despite that never once had he tasted liquor that was made from what seemed to be a mix of kerosene, rubbing alcohol, and brown food coloring at least from what Hong Lu could guess.

A soft snort of amusement leaves Ryoshu’s mouth, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “A delicate tongue may as well be left to rot,” she told him as her grip on his face loosened for a moment.

She cups his cheek for a moment, her thumb oddly gentle as she brushes it beneath his blue eye brushing away some of the tears there. If it had been another sinner, maybe Rodion or Gregor, maybe the actions would seem warm, comforting, and sweet; however having been through this a few times now, Hong Lu knows what she’s truly doing.

Appraising him.

“Up,” she orders and Hong Lu follows them silently, his eyes looking upward into her own. Her gaze is incredibly critical, and harsh as they search for any imperfections.

Her expression is rather neutral despite that, the cigarette dangling from her lips filling the air between them with the scent of rich heady smoke. The room is quiet save for their soft breathing, Ryoshu’s is calm and faint while Hong Lu’s carries a slight rasp to it from his coughing fit.

Hong Lu can’t help but stare into those red eyes looking at him so critically, so seriously as if he were a piece of artwork to be appraised or destroyed at the artist’s discretion, and truthfully to Ryoshu he was.

Her calloused thumb traces carefully along the area just beneath Hong Lu’s eye with a foreign gentleness that she usually didn’t carry, a harsh world produced even harsher people after all.

Hong Lu finds himself glancing away more out of reflex and habit than anything when she uses her thumb to pull down his lower eyelid but her words have his gaze snapping back to her as if locking on to her.

“L.A.M.”

Another acronym, this one easier to figure out than the last, ‘Look at me’, and just like the last one of ‘Do you understand’ Hong Lu complies with the order.

Ryoshu murmurs something he can’t hear despite their proximity before she pinches Hong Lu’s top eyelid between her fingers, it is at this moment that Hong Lu can feel it, the warm almost buzzing sensation of the alcohol in his veins springing to life.

It's strangely warm, comforting in a weird way despite the fact that it sets his veins alight like a fire to dry brush. When he grimaces he hears another soft snort leave Ryoshu’s mouth, and as his eyes look up at the woman once more he isn’t surprised at the look he sees in her gaze.

And Hong Lu recalls seeing the look once or twice on his brother’s face, right before he ripped the wings off of a few moths he’d captured because he could.

It was a gaze that never failed to send a strange sensation of fear dancing along his skin like needles of ice. His heart feeling as if it were suddenly in his throat, clogging it and causing it to ache. Truthfully it reminded Hong Lu faintly of the few times he’d been poisoned in the past both before he joined the Limbus Company as well as after when dealing with and suppressing abnormalities.

Each breath he takes seems to send fire dancing along his throat and swirling in his lungs, Hong Lu grits his teeth as Ryoshu releases his top eyelid, her hand returning to his chin, her expression neutral despite the pain clearly twisting at his features.

Her gaze carried that same morbid amusement and glee that had cold fear chasing the burning sting in his veins, but also something else as well.

Hong Lu swallows and thinks he can taste iron faintly in the back of his throat, the scent of it filling his nose alongside the sharp near scent of cigarette smoke and ash. Something warm trickles from his mouth and Hong Lu nearly jumps when Ryoshu’s thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth.

He can’t help but watch slightly mesmerized when she pulls her thumb back revealing a slight smear of red sitting on it which she brings to her mouth. The red smear disappears with a quick lick of her tongue, and Ryoshu gives a soft hum closing her eyes as if appraising his blood as well.

A soft chuckle leaves her mouth after a moment or so before she turns to look at him once more. “Burns right,” she asked despite knowing the obvious, clearly wanting to hear the answer from his own lips.

Hong Lu opened his mouth but closed it when more blood seemed to fill his throat, instead settling for a quick nod.

Which has a rather loud yet clearly amused chuckle leaving Ryoshu’s mouth, almost bordering on a low laugh before she turns grabbing the nearly finished glass of liquor, bringing it to Hong Lu’s lips once more.

“Drink then.”

It’s painful truthfully the alcohol stinging and burning his throat as if it were tearing it open, tears gathering in Hong Lu’s eyes as he sips at the liquid.

Bitter poison mixed with the heavy taste of iron coating his mouth and throat, this time he has the faint thought that it tastes slightly sweet in its own way.

There are no threats this time when more of the liquor spills from the corners of Hong Lu’s lips mixing with the blood as it trickles from his lips.

The mess of red and copper moves slowly and Ryoshu watches it glimmer like jewels beneath the moonlight before it drips onto the floor.

As Hong Lu drains the glass with one final sip he can’t help but notice a strange numbness spreading throughout his body, and yet despite that the burn remains intact in his lungs.

He slumps forward, blood and liquor dripping from his mouth onto his lap as Ryoshu draws back for a moment.

Each breath Hong Lu takes has him feeling as if the smell of cigarette smoke were tearing into his lungs allowing the heavy iron scent of his own blood to fill the air.

The rest of his body is numb though, the pins and needles dancing along every inch of his skin before slowly fading away leaving cold stillness in their wake.

If Hong Lu could have truthfully he would’ve been shivering, curling in on himself as a chill seemed to worm its way through his veins deep into his bones, and yet the heat in his lungs remains although it does little to keep him warm.

All he can do is sit there, paralyzed watching his blood drip lazily onto his lap and carpet, his vision blurry focusing and defocusing much like a camera.

It isn’t long before Ryoshu returns, this time though she cups his cheeks tilting his face up and Hong Lu’s body follows limp and listless. His harsh labored breathing filling the air between them.

At first, he thinks Ryoshu is about to start her usual work, expecting the sight of a knife or scalpel at his blue eye, but instead, the woman leans forward a bit, her tongue darting out to lick the blood and alcohol at the corner of his mouth. A satisfied hum leaving her mouth as she savored the taste for a moment.

However, unlike Hong Lu, she remained unaffected by the seemingly tainted alcohol. Maybe she truly was a monster.

A smirk twists at her lips, glee dancing in her eyes as she gazes down at him.  

Hong Lu doesn’t remember closing his eyes for a moment, his consciousness attempting to drift away but he opens his eyes when the room seems to sway and it takes him a second to realize Ryoshu is carrying him or rather dragging him to the bed.

“H-hurts…” he manages to croak out his voice lower than a whisper, the words garbled due to the blood choking his throat and the numbness paralyzing his muscles.

This is the first time Hong Lu has complained about the pain, or rather the first time he truly felt the need to. Pain often didn’t matter much when you could be revived as the sinners could be, and to Hong Lu, it was something that mattered even less.

It wasn’t anything to complain about when you couldn’t change it, that was something Hong Lu had learned very early in life.

Pain for him was a familiarity and a sort of twisted comfort in his own right. Perhaps that’s why he had sought out Ryoshu weeks ago.

He could’ve chosen someone with a more medical-esque background for this Yi Sang or Faust perhaps although he had a feeling both would deny him his request. For a steady hand, he could’ve gone to Mersault or Outis although those two wouldn’t give him the chance to voice his request more than likely.

If he had gone to Heathcliff he would’ve gotten the brutality he sought so why did he go to Ryoshu? Then again Hong Lu knew exactly why.

The cruelty that danced in the woman’s eyes that often followed the precise slices of her weapon much like a brush to a canvas or a painter’s knife destroying a creation deemed unfit under criticism.

It was a warm cruelty that burned with a strange passion much like the flame that lit the woman’s cigarettes.

Hong Lu would be lying if he didn’t admit that that cruelty had brought with it a comforting sense of familiarity.

And yet some small part of him that he hadn’t burned away in that cruel flame as a child still remained.

That fear…

He looks up at Ryoshu when she returns to his side for a moment, carrying a medium-sized leather pouch, something that was spotless and in immaculate condition despite the rest of the room.

Much like her katana, Ryoshu seemed to take incredible care to keep that pouch in decent condition.

“Means it’s doing its job,” she snorted, rolling her eyes slightly as she removed her cigarette from her mouth.

She turned a bit, grinding the cigarette into Hong Lu’s clothed thigh to put it out. “Feel that?”

Surprisingly Hong Lu hadn’t, he couldn’t even feel himself breathing despite that searing burn in his lungs. If he could have he would’ve shook his head, instead he can only lay there like a doll, the rope still binding his wrists as he lay on his back.

The world around him has faded into a blurring smear of colors, but one singular thing stands out with startling clarity.

Ryoshu.

He can see her perfectly or rather nearly perfectly, her form is blurry around the edges as if she’s stepped out of an oil color painting.

He watches her as she readies her tools with a practiced hand, before eventually turning back to Hong Lu and reaching out. As usual, she removes his hair from its ponytail allowing the long black strands to fan out beneath him and spill over his shoulders.

For a moment he and Ryoshu merely stare at each other, and Hong Lu takes note of the look in her gaze like a painter staring at a blank canvas trying to decide where the first brushstrokes should go.

It isn’t long before Ryoshu seemingly makes a decision and Hong Lu’s gaze seem to snap into focus for a brief moment, eyes going to the scalpel being held up to his eye.

The shiny gray metal of the slim blade glints in the moonlight, hanging over his eye like a guillotine. If Hong Lu could have, he would’ve held his breath knowing the pain that was about to occur from the previous times Ryoshu had done this.

And yet strangely enough somewhere inside of him, the thought of that horrible unpleasurable pain excites him.

Comforting and familiar in its own right.

The urge to look away, to close his eyes on reflex practically thrashes in the back of his mind and yet he’s unable to, forced to stare down his fate without hesitation.

The first slice brings a strange incredibly faint pressure, but no pain and barely any sensation creating a strange sense of fear and disconnect in its own right.

He can see the blood coating the scalpel, the soft clumps of flesh clinging to the edge of the blade as Ryoshu worked, blood lightly splattering across Ryoshu’s face.

Her gaze is critical yet fierce, her expression serious and her lips missing their usual cigarette currently twisted into a scowl as she worked.

The heat in Hong Lu’s lungs feels as if it’s searing them into nothing, only pure ash remaining behind and a weak gurgling broken whine drifts from his bloodied lips.

The world feels like a blur around him, pale moonlight mixing and distorting everything it seemed to illuminate. He couldn’t tell if the scent of iron filling his nose was the blood running from it or his eye.

That blue eye that always sparkled like a jewel it was no wonder Ryoshu took an interest in it, to Hong Lu it was perhaps the most disgusting part of himself however. A deep-seated fear awakening whenever his eye seemed as if it would begin glowing.

Another reason he sought Ryoshu out, why each week or so when that eye seemed as if it was regrowing and reforming for some strange reason he would return here.

Ryoshu was an artist who valued beauty in the form of cruelty, it was an easy choice for Hong Lu. If she wished to have that horrible eye for whatever artwork she may create then he didn’t mind, and in exchange, he got to experience that familiar cruelty and pain that eluded him.

But most of all he got to feel that comforting yet horrible fear that was a rarity for him nowadays. He didn’t care what Ryoshu did with the eye once it was removed, as long as it was gone, if only for a little while.

As long as he was free.

Hong Lu feels as if he drifts slightly into unconsciousness for a moment, his thoughts scattering to the wind and as he looks up at Ryoshu he notices that the left side of his vision is black, merely a void.

A sign that the eye had been removed, he tries to smile when he sees Ryoshu holding the eyeball that she tore and carved from his skull up to the moonlight, a wide almost manic grin that was rarely if ever seen on her face.

For a moment she turns it this way and that, her movements extremely careful and hesitant, the cord of severed nerves attached to the back of the eyeball practically wrapping and dancing along her fingers as she moved.

Despite seeing the sight a few times at this moment, Ryoshu had a look of slight awe on her face and Hong Lu wished he could see what she saw, instead of the hatred and disgust that sat within in his heart at the moment.

Hong Lu slips into unconsciousness once more before he even realizes it, this time when he opens his eyes he can see Ryoshu carefully cutting into the eye she removed from him.

The organ has been cleaned apparently and now sits shimmering faintly with its signature blue glow as Ryoshu works at the nearby table.

Hong Lu reaches up with a shaky hand, pins and needles dancing along his skin as his fingers brush lightly across the bandages covering his eye. And he grits his teeth when pain shoots through his skull in the form of a violent throb as if a spike were being driven through his skull the empty socket throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

A soft broken hoarse giggle drifts from between his lips, a sharp stabbing sensation dancing along his abused throat as he forces it to work. Noting that his hands had been untied.

Ryoshu doesn’t look up at him as she carefully sticks the long pins into the spreading board, something even Hong Lu has seen before.

A display case that collectors often used to hold insects. Each time she removed his eye he would awaken hours or minutes later after passing out from the pain to her carefully carving and flaying it, as if she were a chef handling the world's finest one-of-a-kind meat.

She was always careful to make sure that the eye was persevered but mainly the iris, where that beautiful alluring blue glow was located.

Hong Lu attempts to move, to rise from the bed, or even sit up, and truthfully considering how many times he’s done this routine he should know better then again some things escaped even him.

Instead of sitting up like he intended to, he finds himself falling from the bed with a broken whimper raspy, landing in a heap on the floor on his side. His world spins and he sees stars burst before his eyes, his head throbbing as if Heathcliff had taken his signature bat to his skull.

Alongside the dizziness comes swirling nausea, and Hong Lu’s body shudders with a harsh retch, the man frantically doing his best to at least make sure none of his own stomach contents got in his hair.

The liquor he’d drank burning fiercely on the way back up as the vile liquid having lost its copper coloring now tainted with bile and the blood he’d swallowed as it splattered and splashed across the floor, nearly the color of coffee grounds. Red blotches of blood standing out rather colorfully in the mess.

He can feel Ryoshu’s eyes practically boring into him at the moment, witness to his humiliating disgusting display and Hong Lu can’t help but feel his face burn ever so slightly.

His humiliation only furthered when spares a shaky glance at the woman through his curtain of hair, noticing her mocking and amused sneer as she watched him from her chair, having momentarily paused her work to take a drag off of her cigarette that rested rather precariously on the pile of cigarette butts already in the ashtray.

“Weakling,” she snorted, and Hong Lu glances away when her words seem to sting unusually so, the words reminding him far too much of his brother’s.

Taking a deep breath simply trying to breathe through the nausea and pain swirling through his entire body as he manages to climb to his hands and knees. His limbs tremble beneath him, as if threatening to give out at a moments notice. And Hong Lu finds himself being faintly reminded of when he saw a small newborn deer one snowy morning at his family’s estate.

He’s sure he must look quite the mess at the moment, his clothing splatter with blood, the gauze and bandages taped over his missing eye, blood, and bile coating his lips, not to mention the dried blood on his face. His hair free from its usual careful ponytail and surrounding him like a long curtain.

He was sure if someone saw him at this moment they’d mistake him for some abnormality or common mongrel on the backstreets, a thought that left a bitter taste not unlike the poison he’d ingested dancing on his tongue.

Ryoshu didn’t seem angry at the fact that he’d vomited on her floor, then again Ryoshu seemed to decide what angered her based on the roll of a roulette. Many people would have an easier time predicting where an ant would place a single grain of sand.

Hong Lu’s eye widened when the woman raised two fingers and curled them, beckoning him over. “Come mutt,” she said as she tapped her thigh as if beckoning a dog to come rest its head on her lap.

Hong Lu frowned for a moment, while the thought of being referred to as an animal left a bad taste in his mouth he truly couldn’t protest when he was in such a humiliating and pitiful state.

And he could see the cruel glee flare to life in Ryoshu’s eyes as he slowly began making his way to her, crawling across the floor as he fought against the pain wracking his body.

Ryoshu crossed her legs, her work forgotten for a moment as she rested her chin on her hand watching Hong Lu with interest as he slowly crawled toward her.

Beauty found in cruelty could be a marvelous thing when done with clear thought and care, it was both a display of human self-indulgence and the rampant wish to create but also the malicious human wish for control and power.

Passion could be found behind cruelty when done from the flames in a person’s heart, their drive. It could be warm and searing hot like the flames of a candle or branding iron pressed to the flesh, or colder than ice callous and controlled.

Ryoshu was an artist who reveled in this crafted, mastering it the best she could, she didn’t do it carelessly as some thought she did.

No, she did it with purpose and care, but also passion.

A twisted passion but passion nonetheless.

Cruelty always had a reason after all, no matter how small and to her that made it beautiful.

She could feel a slight smile tugging at her lips as she watched Hong Lu crawl towards her on his hands and knees, his once graceful moments now clumsy and barely coordinated as he simply did his best to drag himself forward.

The blood dried on his pale face, the slight glaze to his eyes as he did his best to overcome the pain and weakness in his body. The gauze layered over his wound, and the bile and blood coating his lips.

His hair practically draped over his body like a blanket and finally, the shame and humiliation that burned in his grey eye.

A once perfect portrait with not a single blemish perfect to all who observed it, now beat and broken laying before the artist that had so critically judged it and destroyed it.

It was adorable in a strange way if Ryoshu had to admit it for some reason, although odd.

Hong Lu makes it to Ryoshu’s side, his entire body trembling as he practically slumped in front of her, resting his forehead on the leg she’d tapped when she’d beckoned him over.

A soft raspy chuckle came from the woman above him as she smirked down at him, causing Hong Lu to shakily raise his head slightly exhaustion wearing his body down like lead.

“Good mutt,” she simply told him her attention returning to the project she’d been working on on the table.

A hoarse raspy thready laugh, barely above a whisper escaped Hong Lu’s mouth a look of curiosity on his pale face. “How many…is that now?”

Forcing out each word seemed to squeeze the air from his lungs, making his head spin. And he can’t help but slump forward slightly when his strength seems to drain away bit by bit.

Ryoshu gives a soft hum as she continues working, not answering Hong Lu’s question as she works. That was normal the woman often being so engrossed in her creation that nothing else seemed to exist for her.

Hong Lu is only aware of the pain and dizziness, both working to disorient him, so it's no surprise when he finds himself drifting into unconsciousness the pungent scent of cigarette smoke drifting down into his nose.

A sharp thump against his bandaged wound has him jolting awake with a gasp, the pain caused by Ryoshu flicking the area with her fingers causing a jolt to his system like a live wire.

Ryoshu is silent as she carefully holds up the display case for him to see as she usually did. And there inside the display case, pinned down in the insect spreader is his eye.

The once spherical organ now flayed down paper thin under a careful hand, pieces removed with the precision of a surgeon all to create the paper-thin blue and white butterfly that now sat pinned in the case. It truly was a work of art, the pupil being used to create the insect’s head, while the irises had been carefully trimmed so that the blue would trace along the top of the wings, the white body.

“Five,” is all Ryoshu murmured not waiting for Hong Lu’s input as she began to examine her own craftsmanship.

Hong Lu gives a soft raspy strained giggle doing his best to fight off the drowsiness trying to take him. “Ahhh…so many~ After seven…more times they’ll be…one for each sinner,” he said his words slurring as he swayed slightly.

Ryoshu merely gives a soft hum her eyes still on the display case, although she does look at Hong Lu when he falls to the floor unconscious. A snort leaves her mouth as she places her cigarette off to the side as well as the display case, both treated with incredible care and gentleness.

“Weak brat,” she huffed as she rolled her eyes.

#my writing #horror fic #limbus company #ryoshu limbus company #hong lu limbus company #LCB46 #anime whump #male whump #tw eye trauma #tw eye gore #tw extremely dubious consent #tw blood and gore #tw implied past child abuse #Hong Lu is not okay #canon typical violence #tw poison #tw vomit

[docalu]

Monsters

Prompt: Supernatural

Ship: Nagano Trio

The room he was led into was tidy and bright. Lanterns lit the walls made of silk paper and the cushion of red brocade. Everything looked wealthy and expensive. Even the bamboo mats on the ground felt soft to walk on.

Kneeling down he sat on the ground, putting the sword from his side in front of his knees. Then he waited. Hands resting on his upper legs, he held his head low, as was expected. That was until it started to hurt. He didn't move. He stayed as he was but the wait got longer and finally, he slipped to the side, releasing his bad leg of the pressure.

A quiet rustling made him look up and the boy peeking into the room from behind one of the sliding doors flinched. He couldn't be older than maybe five or six. His hair was short and his eyes big, filled to the brim with fear but also fascination. Scared he vanished behind the door, just to peak in once more at the waiting man.

"What's your name, boy?" The stranger's voice was rough but not unfriendly. It made the child flinch once more and bite his lip.

"... Ryu", he mumbled, after hesitating.

"Ryu-kun, eh? Good name. Means dragon. Right?"

The boy smiled shyly just before he nodded.

"Nice to meet you, Ryu-kun. My name's Kansuke."

"Kansuke-dono."

At the bow from the boy Kansuke laughed quietly.

"No need for that. Come over here, would you?"

Glancing around, the boy hesitated, before he shoved himself into the room. He came closer with a limp, sitting down next to the swordsman with a bit of difficulty. When he was done he shyly smiled up at the stranger and the stranger smiled back.

"Ryu-kun, can I ask you something?"

Curiously the boy tilted his head.

"The village outside. How long does it look this... ragged already?"

"Ragged...?"

"I've seen many houses with broken roofs and missing doors. Everything looks like it's not cared for, but there are people around."

Hungry-looking people in badly repaired clothes. Poor people.

The boy glanced down at the Kansuke's outstretched leg, thinking. Scars were peeking out from under his wide trousers. Pale scars on dark skin.

"I don't know. It always looks like this."

"Hm... so it's been a while."

"How did you get the scars?"

Blinking Kansuke looked down at the boy who pointed at his face with big, curious eyes. The man reached up and touched the cross across his missing eye.

"You see, I once fought with a Tengu and almost lost."

If it was possible the boy's eyes grew even wider.

"RYU!"

The sharp voice made the boy flinch. Hastily he got up and limped away, as fast as he could, vanishing behind the paper walls.

"Useless brat..."

Grumbling under his breath a fat man entered the room. He pulled the silken hems of expensive robes behind himself as he walked up to the cushion and sat down. The woman following him, immediately put a small tray with tea down next to him. She didn't look up, nor did she show any sign that she had noticed the stranger. She just stood there, head lowered and hands crossed in front of her, hiding bandaged fingers in the folds of her yukata.

"So you're the sword to hire?", the lord of the house snared.

"That I am." Shifting a bit Kansuke got back on his knees. "I heard you need help."

"Indeed. A dreaded monster settled in my forest. It eats my peasants and makes working impossible. For months we can't get wood out and losing on our income."

"I see. So you want me to chase that monster away?"

"No. Kill it! Kill it and bring me its pelt! It's living on my property, so it's mine."

Kansuke nodded slowly.

"If you say so. What's my payment?"

"Ten copper."

A think dark eyebrow wandered up.

"I get that much for a half day of weeding someone's garden."

The fat man grumbled. "Didn't you listen? We've no income for months now! We're practically starving!"

Sighing Kansuke got up, leaned on the sheet of his sword. While he did, his glance found the small boy again behind the doorframe and the spotted cat rubbing against his legs. For a moment he thought there were two tails wrapping around the boy's ankle, but maybe it was just a reflection in the lantern light.

"Fine then. If you're starving..."

"Good." A grin spread on the fat man's face and he reached for the steaming teacup in the tray. However, when he took a sip he made a face, throwing the cup in the direction of the woman next to him.

"What's that?! Can't you even cook proper tea, you useless wench?!" The tray followed the teacup, hitting the woman against the shoulder, but she didn't even flinch. Instead, she endured the curses and insults, kneeling down, in the end, in the end to pick up the broken porcelain.

Kansuke watched everything with lips pressed to a thin line but didn't say anything.

"I need someone to show me the way", he said when the lord of the house had calmed down enough.

"Huh? Oh, yes. My wife will lead you there." A grin spread on his face as the woman looked up, fear clear in her eyes. It looked like she wanted to protest, but in the end, she just lowered her gaze again, nodding.

It was half an hour later when the swordsman followed the light from the lantern in the woman's hand. She led him through the dark village and out of it, towards a forest behind a field of softly swaying rice plants.

Chopped trees had been left behind at the edge of that forest, seemingly forgotten in a hurried escape. The woman walked past them and into the darkness underneath the trees.

"Is he following us?" The quiet voice coming from her lips was deep and silky.

"Yeah, he does. Probably making sure I'm not running off with his wife."

"Or", the woman said without looking back at Kansuke. "he wants to blame you for her death. He's plotting an accident for a while now to get his hands on her heritage."

"For a while?" Catching up to her Kansuke glanced at the pale face, cast in shadows and light from the lantern. There was the hint of a mustache on her upperlip just to be gone the next moment. "Say... how long have you played this role now?"

A thin eyebrow wandered upwards, while dark blue eyes found the swordsman.

"I took her form yesterday. What do you want to imply, Kansuke-kun?"

"Oh, nothing. Just making sure that idiot didn't get his hands on my property."

The hand suddenly squeezing the woman's bum made her almost jump.

"Kansuke-kun."

"What?"

"Hands off."

But the other just laughed, pulling her closer to his side.

"Nah. It's rare I get to see you like this. Gotta take the chance while it lasts."

"Kansuke-kun..." The low growl was a warning he ignored with a smile and a kiss on a pale cheek.

"You're pretty when you're angry."

Pushing him away the woman put the lantern down, before she faced him. Eyebrows knitted she glared and a gust of wind made her yukata and hair fly. Dry leaves danced around her form that grew in size within a blink. Hands and feet turned to claws, white fur grew everywhere and the once small mouth turned into the snout of a giant fox.

Kansuke didn't have time to react before the white beast ripped him to the ground, five bushy tails whiping the air, while sharp teeth hovered dangerously above his face.

"A-A monster!" The scream was high-pitched and panicked. Stumbling over undergrowth and dead branches the fat man, who had followed them in a distance, fleed the forest.

"Koumei..." Kansuke huffed annoyed. "Now you scared him away."

"That wasn't my intention, however I'm not tolerating you groping me, Kansuke", the fox gave back. "What has gotten into you, I wonder."

Lying on his back with the fox having him pinned to the ground the swordsman sighed softly. The teasing grin had long vanished and turned into the hint of a smile as he reached up to run his fingers tenderly along the silky snout.

"I just missed you. It's been... what now? Three weeks? Three weeks since I saw you two."

Dark blue eyes above him narrowed before the fox got off him and sat neatly on its hind legs. "That was still uncalled for."

"Heh, sorry." Sitting up Kansuke rubbed his leg, grabbing the slender hand that reached out for him. With the help he got back up on his feet, smiling at who stood before him now. It wasn't the woman anymore and the fox was gone as well. Just the tails, dissolving into thin air the next moment, indicated that this man with the pointy mustache and the neatly combed hair had been anything else than what he was now. And what he was now, was the exact opposite to the rough looking and unshaved swordsman.

"You're forgiven, but I advise you not to greet Yui-kun that way."

"Oh, I'd never", Kansuke laughed. "I know she'd bite my head off, if I called her my property. That's pretty rude after all."

"Excuse me?" The mouth under the other man's mustache twitched dangerously.

"If you're aware of how rude you've been, then why did you say it to me in the first place?"

There was the grin on the swordman's face again and an arm around the other man's waist, pulling him close.

"Because you're pretty when you're angry. I like that~"

Any protest was cut short with a passionate kiss and for a moment the man called Koumei seemed to melt into it, before he put his hand into Kansuke's face and pushed him away at arm's length. Straightening his ruffled mustache with his fingertips he cleared his throat and turned to walk away.

"Hurry, Kansuke-kun. We have things to finish."

"True that."

Side by side they walked out of the forest and over the rice field, along the path through the village, back to the mansion. It was quiet, not just in the village but in the mansion as well.

The guards, which had eyed Kansuke just a while ago as he had entered the house, were sleeping now, leaned against the walls. Both men passed them and a few sleeping servants, making their way back to the lantern lit room with the glamorous walls and the brocade cushion.

As they entered the woman sitting on that very cushion looked up with a smile. On her lap rested the boy named Ryu, sleeping peacefully and with a small smile on his lips. Behind them a sleeping woman had curled up on a blanket.

"There you are. I was a little worried already."

Letting the child very carefully slip from her lap she got up and stretched, two white cat tails with black and red spots curling lazily behind her.

"Kansuke-kun decided to fool around", Koumei explained coolly and walked up to the woman to give her a kiss on the cheek. It made her chuckle. "I should have known."

Tilting her head she waited for Kansuke to come closer just to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him tenderly.

"I told you not to tease Taka'aki-kun too much. One day he'll bite your head off for sure~"

"He almost did", Kansuke laughed. "You should have seen how he lost his composure, Yui. He must have really missed me."

"We both did", Yui added and caressed his cheek with a smile. "Hm... gone for a few days and you're even more prickly than usual. You need a shave, Kan-chan."

"Could we care about Kansuke-kun's lack of personal hygiene, once we're done here?", Koumei asked.

"Oi!", Kansuke growled but Koumei just looked at him with a straight face, his five tails wiping slowly over the bamboo mats.

"What is it, Kansuke-kun? You're the one who wanted to teach this greedy human a lesson."

"Yes. Let's do this." Putting her hand on Kansuke's arm, Yui nodded. "He's hiding in the shed in the garden. The rest of the village is asleep. I made sure everyone will have nice dreams."

"Except for the landlord." Pulling his sword from its sheet Kansuke smiled grim. "Will his wife manage?"

"She will. Yuriko-dono is a very intelligent and empathic woman", Koumei said, stepping next to him.

"And Ryu-kun is a kind-hearted boy. He will be a good successor to this vile man once he gets older", Yui added, taking the place on Kansuke's other side.

"Good."

Large black wings spread behind him, hovering protective over the five-tailed fox and the two-tailed cat at his sides.

"Then let's free this place of its monster."

=======

Type of Yokai

Tengu - "heavenly dog" / raven

Nekotama - two tailed cat

Kitsune - many tailed fox

#multiamorymarch2023 #dcmk #yamato kansuke #uehara yui #morofushi taka'aki #nagano trio #Alu writes

[fleetwoodmoth]

Late Night Call

Some SIya and Sevika 

Siya bounced lightly on the balls of their feet, eyes flicking from the peephole to the gap between the floor and the door to the handle and back again. They knew it was late, they knew she'd be pissed, they knew they had no other choice. Finally the sound of a lock clicking drew their gaze to the dented copper handle which jiggled before turning, the faded dark green door squeaking on its hinges as it swung inwards. 

"Ah thank the gods you're awake!" They hated how they sounded, they pushed the sentence out in a single exhale trying to sound casual only to sound rushed instead. 

"What the--Shit, Siya," her voice was rough with sleep. 

Sevika stumbled back as they pushed past, following them before doubling back to lock and secure the door behind them. 

"I was sure you'd be dead asleep by now but then I remembered it's Friday and you always play cards late on Fridays, you win?" They rambled as they crawled onto the faded ruby red couch in Sevika's living room.

"I– yes– Siya what the fuck is going on?" She hissed as she switched on a lamp at the end of the sofa. 

Siya didn't answer, instead they grabbed the matchbox off the coffee table, turning away from the lamplight as they struck a match with shaking fingers, trying to light the joint between their lips. 

"Siya," she said firmly, a hand grasping their wrist and making them freeze. 

They swallowed hard, lowering the match and letting it smolder between their fingertips, not meeting Sevika's eyes. 

"You're gonna be pissed," they said in a sing-song voice, barely above a whisper. 

"I'm already pissed Siya, but that's cause I was just laying down," she deadpanned. 

They turned to face her, curling their legs up onto the cushions beside them. She was wearing boxer briefs and a sports bra, her hair was down and brushing softly against her sharp cheekbones as she fixed them with grey eyes. Despite the scowl she wore her eyes were not cold, instead they searched Siya for an explanation to their late night visit. They could tell when she noticed the bruises on their throat, and the blood still under their nails, and the running make up that stained their cheeks. 

"What happened?" She asked, clear confusion mixed with concern twisting her expression from angry to worried. 

"Went swimming," they whispered with a half hearted smile, eyes darting to a spot on the floor. 

"Siya," Sevika snapped, taking their chin in her hand and forcing them to look at her. 

Siya winced "I'm sorry."

Sevika's brows drew together as she tried to decipher them, it sometimes took a minute to piece together what it was Siya meant, they didn't always know how to put their words together correctly to express their feelings. 

"I need you to tell me what happened." She spoke clear and steady, it was what they needed. 

"I was escorting a delivery for one of the barrons, we were ambushed, I was forced underwater but I got 'im in the gut," they said flatly, voice quiet "he got me too."

Sevika jumped slightly at their words, pulling back her hand to grab at the leather jacket they wore, pulling back the lapel to look them up and down. Their white tank top clung to their shivering frame, wet with water and blood. It was a cut across their abdomen, not deep enough to reach the organs but still had bled down their right side, nearly coating their right leg. She paled, pushing herself up off the couch, Siya slumping against the backrest, eyelids heavy now that the adrenaline was starting to wane and the pain was starting to seep in through the cracks. 

"Why didn't anyone have your back?" Sevika asked, voice coming from somewhere further in the apartment. 

"It was just me and the client."

"You could have asked me," she sounded pissed again. 

"I am now," they mumbled, silence following as she sat back down in front of them. 

"You're lucky I answered the door," she bit, pushing them back onto the couch, her touch gentle despite the anger in her voice. She pulled off their jacket and peeled their shirt away from their skin. Blood still oozed down their side as they breathed, a pained shallow movement that was starting to make them wince. Sevika pushed a hand down on their hip firmly before pouring peroxide over the split flesh. They flinched heavily, snapping their jaw shut, letting out a high pained sound as they writhed, their vision going white as they tried to grapple with the pain. 

"I've got you," Sevika said, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. 

Siya continued to squirm as the pain started to subside, warm fingered rubbed over feverish skin at the wound's edge and slowly the stabbing turned more into a subdued tingling, like a limb that had fallen asleep.

"Hey, breathe, don't pass out on me," Sevika said, and Siya realized their head had fallen back, eyes rolling slightly before they snapped back to reality. 

"You're not mad?" They slurred, lips tingling. 

"Siy, why the fuck would I be mad at you for this?" Her voice was weary. 

Siya let the spinning in their head slow for a minute before responding "I fucked up."

"You slipped up, there's a difference. And yeah I'm pissed that you woke me up but I'd be more pissed if you died in an alley because you didn't want to disturb me," the last part came out rushed at the end of a breath, a lilt to her voice that Siya knew meant she was upset, but not in the way they had expected. They dared a peak down at Sevika who sat between their legs, hunched over them as she focused on sewing close the wound, eyebrows pinched together and lips pulled downwards. 

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that," she snapped, meeting their eyes and they realized that there were tears there. 

They stared at each other for a moment before Sevika reached out and pressed a palm to their cheek.

"You are very important to me," she said sternly "and I would only be seriously mad if you kept something like this from me."

Siya nodded.

"You eaten tonight?" Sevika asked after making sure her words had sunk in, returning to stitching the sliced skin closed. 

"No," Siya croaked. 

"I'll make you something." It wasn't a question. 

#Sevika #Arcane #oc: Siya #my writing

[strelles-universe]

Pre-Story Allegiances - RiverClan

Leader: Stormstar [Former Guard]: A massive light brown tabby tom with a twisted jaw and sharp yellow eyes.

Deputy: Leopardshine (Former Hunter): A sleek golden furred molly blessed with LeopardClan’s rosetted coat with amber eyes. Leopardshine has as powerful build- her pads and nose are brick red. 

Diplomat: Reedtail [Former Hunter]: A russet and white speckled molly with a long bushy tail.

Medic: Brambleberry [Healer]: A small and lithe black spotted molly with a pink nose.

Mudsky (Combat Healer): A lithe and long furred pale brown tom with yellow eyes. His belly is a lighter brown than the rest of him. Mudsky was once a warrior.

---

Warriors

---

Tidestorm (Ice Stomper/Guard): A well muscled, blue furred tom covered in spots. His muzzle and underbelly are pale gray and his eyes light blue. Tidestorm has pink ears and paw pads with long feathered whiskers.

Carpfin (Guard): A massive tannish/brown ticked tabby tom with copper eyes. Carpfin has a boxy shaped muzzle and short-whiskers- he’s often asked to help out the Ice Stompers when the river begins to freeze over.

Loudbelly (Ice Stomper/Hunter): A large muscular dark brown tom with pale yellow eyes and large paws. Loudbelly’s ears are shorter than usual and he’s been proven to be capable of closing them underwater. Loudbelly’s sealable ears are thought to be a gift from Riversoul.

Ottersplash (Hunter): An mostly orange molly with various patches of white all over her fur. Ottersplash has a short muzzle and amber eyes. Her paws are larger than usual and her right ear was shredded in a previous battle.

Ripplepelt (Diver): A silvery blue furred molly with short ears, and small paws. Ripplepelt is sleek and skilled with a talent for twisting herself in various shapes and direction when swimming. Her muzzle is short and whiskers are long.

Troutleap (Guard): A large, muscular red furred ticked tabby tom with large, heavy paws and yellow eyes. His ears are short and rounded with long, feathery whiskers and thick stiff tail. 

Puddleeye (Diver): A short furred solid brown tabby tom with amber eyes and long legs with wide paws. Puddleeye has unusually long straight whiskers and fluffy ears and a sloped muzzle. Puddlefur has a very rare trait: a second clear eyelid said to be a gift from Riversoul himself as a method of assistance for swimming in murky water. 

Goldenfin (Craftcat): A long furred shimmery, golden classic tabby molly with a pink nose, pink pads and a pink inner ears. Goldenfin has four white boots on her paws and her whiskers are long. On her front paws, Goldenfin has an extra toe that she uses for tasks that are harder to do with lesser toes.

Blackear (Hunter): A short furred, long-legged black tom with a cap and saddle pattern on his fur. Blackear has amber eyes and a boxy muzzle. Blackear is lankier than the average RiverClan cat

Blackclaw (Guard): A sleek, short furred powerful smoky black tom with sharp orange eyes. Blackclaw has a torn right ear and a long tail.

Brushwhisker (Ice Stomper): A short furred brown tabby tom with orange eyes and a tan underbelly. Brushwhisker’s whiskers are much longer than the average cat and his paws are small and rounded.

Mistyfoot (Hunter): A large and powerful looking molly with thick muscles and a thick jaw. Mistyfoot has a lilac tortie lush, thick coat and is more heavyset than the average hunter. Her pelt is more pale lilac than the other colors only a splotch of pale orange on her back.

Stoneswipe (Ice Stomper/Guard): A pale, silvery blue tom with yellow eyes and a like his sister, a rather heavyset build. Stoneswipe is short-furred with wide, heavy paws and one split ear. His whiskers are short and he has a pink nose and pink ears.

Silverstream (Diver): A long furred, silvery classic molly with pale green eyes and one white paw. Silverstream has a pink nose and pink paw pads with rounded paws. Silverstream’s pelt is sleek and very soft with a white underbelly.

Rushthroat (Craftcat): A small but powerful short furred torbie molly with long legs and a bouncy personality. Rushthroat has brick-red paw pads and nose and her claws always seem to poke out from her paw.

Skyheart (Diver): A pale brown tabby molly with completely torn ears and green eyes. Her stripes are only apparent on her legs and tail. 

Sedgecreek (Diver): A long furred brown tabby molly with light green eyes, two white paws and a very thick coat. Like her brother, she inherited small ears albeit she can’t seal them - something she good naturedly says is unfair given their roles in the clan.

---

Apprentices

---

Heavypaw: A short, thick furred tom with yellow eyes and pale pink ears, His belly and mouth are a paler brown than the rest of him with a broken black mackerel pattern. Apprentice to Blackear.

Shadepaw: A very dark gray furred molly who appears black coated at first glance. Her eyes are yellow and she has very faint broken mackerel stripes. Her stomach was rusted by the sun and appears bronze or copper. Apprentice to Stoneswipe.

Amberpaw: A short furred, dilute torbie molly with sharp blue eyes and two white front paws with long whiskers. Apprentice to Lilystem.

Shinepaw: A long furred, sleek coated brown classic tabby tom with sharp blue eyes and a glossy coat. Apprentice to Brushwhisker.

Goldpaw: A short and sleek furred torbie molly who is predominantly golden ginger with two white front paws. Sometimes cats don’t even notice that she’s a tortie because the other colors on her pelt are so subtle. Apprentice to Blackear.

Fogpaw: A pale furred gray, mackerel tabby tom with a thick sleek coat that runs easily off of his back. His whiskers are long and feathery with a rougher edged underside with intense bright blue. Both of his front paws and his mouth is white. Apprentice to Puddleeye.

---

Monarchs

---

Lilystem (Sitter): A gray mackerel tabby molly with a thick, long coat, round cone ears and feathery whiskers. 

Ospreyfreckle (Sitter): A pretty brown and white tom with white paws and a big fluffy tail. He has streaks of darker brown scattered throughout his fur.

Mistyfoot (Former Hunter): A large and powerful looking molly with thick muscles and a thick jaw. Mistyfoot has a lilac tortie lush, thick coat and is more heavyset than the average hunter. Her pelt is more pale lilac than the other colors only a splotch of pale orange on her back. Nursing Perchkit, Reedkit, Nitkikit and Pikekit- Blackear sired her litter but will not be their father

Swantooth (Former Craftscat): A lithe and long furred mostly white calico molly with pale blue eyes and black paw pads. Nursing Echokit and Frondkit. Swantooth has chosen not to name her mate.

---

Elders

---

Softwing (Retiree): A lithe but powerful mostly white molly with patches of golden striped furred scattered at random across her body.

Graypool (Lecturer): A short furred predominantly dark gray molly with a thick sleek coat and a few bald patches on her rump. Graypool has sharp yellow eyes and has been remarked to look flecked in direct sunlight.

Pheasanttail (Retiree): A sleek furred handsome tom with a long, red coat. His tail seems to be a brighter red than the rest of him much to everyone’s confusion. Pheasanttail has a black nose paired with black paw pads and thick ear furnishings. His eyes are a pretty blue.

#riverclan allegiances #ignite the pyre allegiances #warrior cats #erin hunter #fanfiction #fanfic #erin hunter warriors #warrior cats fanfic #the cats of strelles #strelles shorerisen #strelles the greenwood empire

[cursestothemoon]

I’m so excited your requests are open!!! Can I request a blurb of rough sex with Charlie where he throws around and manhandles his girlfriend (it’s all safe and consensual). I just know he’s a bit burly dude who would have no problem picking up his girlfriend with one arm

Watch Your Mouth

C.W. x FEM!READER

17+ IF YOU ARE TAGGED AND DON’T WANT TO BE TAGGED IN SMUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW

warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), vaginal penetration, manhandling, size kink, tummy bulge, praise kink, sub!reader/dom!Charlie, mentions of edging, spanking, overstimulation, UNPROTECTED SEX (wrap it before you tap it), kind of subspace (nothing too intense), also unedited because i am lazy ✋🏻😔

“But it hurts.” You whined into your boyfriend's ear.

Subtlety was fading fast in your act, after Charlie spent all night last night teasing you with the idea of an orgasm but never actually letting you get there you were far past the point of just horny.

Charlie placed a warning hand on your thigh, fingers gripping the flesh tight enough to have you squirming, “Eat your food and behave.”

His tone was husky, whispers harsh as he tried to keep you at bay in front of his family. Perhaps dinner at the Weasley’s- a usual Friday event- wasn’t the best place to start acting up but really it was Charlie’s fault. He had to have known his teasing would result in something of this sort.

You also knew his hand could be heavy when he wanted it to be, spanks from Charlie always left a mark that could be felt for days following. So you listened to him, quietly picking at your roast as your mind wandered to what might be in store for you once you two got home.

“Yeah, better get going, it’s getting rather late.” Charlie announced as he stood up from the couch, your hand in his.

You had to restrain from vibrating with excitement as you stood up next to Charlie, your head barely reaching his broad shoulders.

Everyone bid farewell to you two, a longer exchange than you would’ve liked but you managed. Finally Charlie pulled you into his side, tucking you under his arm as he appareled you two to your flat- after the war he wanted to move closer to his family and you had no complaints.

Leaning on the hardwood floor of your living room, you stumbled a bit only to be grabbed by Charlie. His arm wrapping around your waist to lift you up and off your feet, carrying you to the bedroom. He grunted through the doorframe, making sure he wasn’t going to hit your head on the wall as he passed through before tossing you onto the bed. Upon hitting the mattress your body bounced roughly, only adding fuel to the fire of your excitement.

Charlie pulled his boots off hastily, hands moving to unbutton his shirt and fling it somewhere in the room to be retrieved later for you to wear. In just a pair of tight black boxer briefs and a single silver chain dangling between his pecs, a dragon tooth at the end.

You watched him with wide eyes, breath hitching as he grabbed your hips and flipped you over with ease. His palm, open and heavy, rested on your plump backside. You panicked, trying to turn around to face him, because you knew what that meant but you thought you had been a good girl.

“But I was good.” You whined trying to move your butt away from him.

He tutted, pulling your hips back to where they were, “You were good...after I had to tell you to behave, and now you’re questioning me.”

“Because I was good. If you hadn’t been mean, not letting me cum, then I wouldn’t have been so needy. S’your fault.”

The silence was deafening and you realized you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“My fault?” Charlie questioned, his voice unnervingly calm.

You shook your head quickly, trying to back track as best you could, “No, no no, I didn’t- I’m sorry, I’m your good girl, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, “My good girl wouldn’t blame me for her being a horny slag. My good girl wouldn’t question my authority. My good girl would take her punishment, but no. You just had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

Charlie didn’t give you a chance to respond, instead grabbing the material of your tights and quite literally tearing them apart, exposing your g-string and soaking cunt. He continued to rip and tear your tights until whatever was left didn’t have enough structure to stay on, he picked up the pieces and tossed them to the floor before roughly tugging your shirt and bra off. 

There was a moment of silence again, as Charlie adjusted the rings on his fingers. You barely allowed yourself to calm down before he was sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbing you by the waist to roughly pull you across his lap. The action made you squeal, your legs kicking up in an attempt to stall the punishment that was coming. He wasn’t having it, forcing your legs under his thick thigh to keep them out of the way before playing with the thin string that made up the back of your thong. You let out a muffled whine as he pulled on it, lifting it up and making the front of your panties rub against your throbbing clit then letting it go, snapping it against your skin.

“Only thing I wanna hear out of your mouth are apologies after every swat. Understood?” He asked, hand running across the globes of your ass.

You nodded, not wanting to anger him further.

“So you do know how to watch your fucking mouth, good.”

You had little time to prepare before his hand came down onto your backside with a painful sting sending pools of arousal straight to your core.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.”

Another swat hit your warm flesh, then another, and another. With each slap apologies fell passed your lips along with muffled cries, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

Forty spanks later your butt was beet red and practically numb, his ring clad hand massaging the raw skin making you whimper. He dipped his hand down to your core, running two fingers up your slit collecting your juices before teasing your entrance making you jolt. His other arm came down to keep you still as his fingers entered you, making your walls clench. You bit your lip, trying to suppress the moans as he started to thrust his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, alternating between fast thrusts and massaging the spongey spot that made your vision go fuzzy.

You gripped his calf tightly as your orgasm neared, your legs started shaking and you could only hope he’d let you finally get off. Only you weren’t so lucky, Charlie pulled his hand away quickly watching as you writhed around in his lap.

“You wanna cum? I’ll make you cum until you’re begging me to stop.”

His hand dove back in between your legs, this time with an unbelievably fast pace making you let out loud, wanton cries. Charlie’s arm pressed down on your hips firmly, giving you no wiggle room as your toes curled and eyes screwed shut, orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You were shoved onto the bed as you heaved, Charlie having no trouble moving your from place to place without your cooperation. He got down on his knees, eye level with your pussy clenching pathetically around nothing.

Making sure you were still sensitive from your first climax, he was quick to dive into your weeping cunt. Tongue lapping at your glistening folds and nose nudging your clit, your twitching was uncontrollable as he was relentless with his mouth. Your hands tangled themselves in his deliciously wavy red mane as his copper beard rubbed the insides of your thighs raw.

You were unable to form coherent sentences, choked cries, waterlogged moans, and desperate pleas were the only things leaving your lips. Charlie gripped your thighs tightly, keeping them open after they had started to close around his head. You came again, loud sobs sounding through the room as he continued his torturous lapping at your cunt only to pull away seconds after your second orgasm hit you to aggressively rub at your clit.

“Go on, cum, you were begging for this.”

The back and forth motion only got faster as you tried to close your thighs and push his hand away, a third orgasm washing over you before you could even realize. Charlie pulled his hand away after giving your clit a harsh slap making you cry out again. 

Charlie took his time peeling off his briefs, his prick taut against his abdomen with precum leaking from the mouth watering tip. He had always had a rather gorgeous cock, the lively red of the spongey head contrasting the creamy beige of the shaft had you clenching your legs in need. You’d never say no to that no matter how worn out or sensitive you were, he was just far too beautiful. But the sheer size alone had excited nerves mixing in your belly, regardless of how often you’ve seen him nude. His tip was dangerously close to his navel, and not only was he gifted with length but his veiny cock was girthy- never failing to stretch your aching pussy out just how you liked it. 

You watched as his hand gave a few languid strokes to himself before your eyes traveled over the expanse of his torso. His skin was dappled with countless freckles and a few scars scattered here and there from misbehaving dragons or rowdy brothers, most of the time his sheer size as a human had your walls convulsing. Charlie was big, he was tall but by no means lanky, his thighs were deliciously thick along with his biceps, his entire being painted in the likeness of Norse mythology’s Thor. 

“How cute, my little girl is staring.” Charlie teased, hand abandoning his cock and coming closer to you on the bed again. 

He gripped your hips with his large hands, pulling you up onto your knees with your ass in the air. You were too tired to hold your head up, opting to rest it on the mattress instead as you watched Charlie - as best you could from this position- as he paced a hand on the still raw skin of your backside. You didn’t need a mirror to know that a few visible handprints would be left on the skin for a while. The cool feeling of his hand on the skin made you jolt forward, but Charlie hunched over carefully and placed a handful of feathery kisses on the tender skin- you could’ve sworn the pain started to subside immediately at the contact. 

You whimpered as you felt him start to prod at your entrance, he chuckled at the way you wiggled your butt back into him hoping for more. Giving you what you wanted, he pushed in all the way, careful to go slow keeping in mind that he was rather large. 

“Look at you, taking m’cock so well.” He grunted, bottoming out. 

Cries emitted from your parted lips as you nodded into the sheets, words and sentences long gone as he started to thrust. You knew what was in store, and it only made your moans and chants of Charlie that much louder. It was no secret he had stamina, a product of his insatiable libido was usually you getting to cum twice before Charlie even thought of filling you up himself. Seeing as tonight you had already trembled through two, four and five seemed a bit daunting- but you need it. 

He quickened his pace, eagerly thrusting into your tight cunt as his voice started to crack with each grunt and groan before looping an arm around your midsection and pulling your back flush against his chest. The new position had your head lulling back, pornographic moans crooning from your mouth and into his neck. Your hand came up to make its way the back of Charlie’s head, fingers carding through the copper curls at the nape of his neck as his hips snapped up into you at a hellish pace. His hand, the one not occupied with holding you up, moved to rest on your lower belly wanting to feel the way your tummy bulged with each of his thrusts. You were so tiny compared to him, so dainty, and it made his thrusts get that much harder.

His breath fanned over your ear and neck as he spoke huskily, “Such a tight little cunt f’me, can feel my cock in your belly.”

You hummed in response, his hand pulling yours down to rest where his was just moments before. The outline of his dick, each time he thrusted, running up the inside of your palm making you clench around him. 

“S’like I’m gonna slit you in two, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

With pathetic cries and nods you answered, “Yes, want you t’split me in two, need it.”

Orgasm number four hit you before you could even register what was happening but Charlie didn’t slow his thrusts, instead dropping a hand to your pulsing clit to rub rough circles and the engorged nub. His other hand, still holding you up, shifted so he could grab a handful of your breast, pinching and pulling at your erect nipples as best he could while he kept you upright. The overstimulation had you seeing stars, orgasm number five was already knocking on your door ready to come barreling in. At some point, your not sure when seeing as your mind was foggy from your fast approaching orgasm, Charlie had doubled over with your body firmly held in his arms as his hips continued to thrust into your weeping pussy at lightning speed, your back still held tightly against his chest only now your chin was hitting the mattress with each rough thrust. 

You could register the stuttering of his thrusts meaning he was nearing his own release and you could finally let go for a fifth time. The weight of his body on top of yours mixed in with his forearm pressing into your abdomen and fingers massaging your clit while his balls were slapping against your glistening and used pussy had your body trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. Charlie gave a choked moan of your name as he finished deep inside you, your body spasming along with the walls of your cunt as you came with him. 

Charlie held you to his chest still, but shifted so he was now on his side and you were no longer taking any of his weight. Slowly he went to pull out of you, making you whimper at the feeling, your over used cunt far too sensitive for the movement.

“Shh, you’re ok,” He cooed, gentling running a palm down the side of your face and through your hair. “Gotta get you cleaned up, yeah? Then I want my best girl’s cuddles, ok?”

His voice was gently, coaxing you to open your eyes and look at him as you answered with a feeble nod, “Ok, then cuddles...” you murmured.

tags:

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989​

@lifeofkaze

@siriusement

@erinblack003

@maybesandohnos

#charlie weasley #charlie weasley imagine #charlie weasley smut #charlie weasley blurb #charlie weasley x reader

[raindownforme]

Salt Water

Charlie Slimecicle x reader [she/her used]

CW: negative body image, self doubt, negative self image

(Yes this is self-indulgent comfort)

“This is easy.” y/n spoke out loud to no one but herself. She stared in the mirror, turning side to side. Today was the start of summer, and her and her friends had decided to go to the beach. She’d bought the perfect bathing suit for it, too. It was a pretty blue with a dinosaur pattern. It was also a bikini.

She felt comfortable in it. She wouldn’t have bought it otherwise. She felt comfortable when she bought. She felt comfortable when she planned the whole outfit. She felt comfortable when she made the plans. She didn’t feel comfortable now.

She thought she’d grown put of this. She was an adult goddamnit. y/n wasn’t the middle-schooler who got made fun of by her trash friends, or the high schooler who thought so negatively al the time. She was an adult who bought herself the cute dinosaur bathing suit. And by god she was going to wear it.

y/n sighed, stepping back from her mirror to sit on the edge of her bed. She could do this. She knew she could. It would just be so much easier if she could stop thinking for five seconds. It was the same incomprehensible thought over and over, an onslaught of negative thoughts towards herself and her figure. Reminders of every YouTube comment on her videos, in her friends’ twitch chats, in public posts.

Maybe she shouldn’t go?

“Hey, you ready?” Someone knocked on y/n’s door and startled her. She jumped up from the bed, throwing on a pair of shorts and a large plain shirt. She shouldered her tote of necessities, slipped on her flip-flops, and opened the door. Cooper stood slouched waiting for her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” y/n walked in front of him to the car waiting. Ted sat in the drivers seat, shuffling through his playlist. Jawsh sat in the passenger seat next to him, not at all paying attention. y/n watched cooper climb into the furthest row of the car, leaving her, Charlie, and Traves to fit into the middle row. y/n held her breath as she climbed in, being forced to squeeze into the middle seat. She rested all her belongings in her lap, staring forwards through the windshield.

“Everyone packed in?” They all gave a chorus of ‘yes’ as Ted pulled out of his parking spot and to the open road. It was only 20 minutes from the beach, shorter if traffic got lucky.

The music bumped throughout the car and everyone split into different conversations. Jawsh and Ted talked about something or other, Traves and Cooper shared content on their phones, and Charlie turned to look at y/n. “I brought the boogie boards! Do you want to— what’s wrong?”

She turned to look at him, slightly surprised. “Yeah. No I’d love to boogie board.”

“Are you okay?” Charlie dropped how loud his voice was compared to everyone else. “Something seems off.”

“I’m good.” She lazily smiled at him then turned back to stare out the windshield. She liked watching the cars and buildings pass by in a blur. Charlie looked away from her and followed her line of vision. He didn’t quite understand, but he was determined to.

The group soon arrived at the beach. They quickly unpacked their full trunk and set up their seating on the beach. Ted made sure the umbrella stood upright, Traves and Cooper carried the coolers, Jawsh and y/n set out chairs and blankets, and Charlie carried the toys.

“Everyone sun screened?” Ted gestured as he tried to pass around a bottle. “y/n? I don’t want you to get cancer.”

“I’m good!” She’d already applied skin protectant before leaving the house. y/n set down her stuff and sat in the low lawn chair. She took in the sight of Cooper, Traves and Jawsh racing towards the shore, stumbling over each other in the sand. Charlie sat a few feet away from the laid out area, taking a child’s plastic shovel and beginning to dig a hole.

Ted snapped a lid to a cooler shut and cracked open his soda. He set it in the cup holder of a chair and set his glasses down on the same seat. “I’m headed to the water.”

y/n waved him off as he left. She closed her eyes, feeling herself sink into the chair. She still had on her large shirt and shorts, but they were starting to grow warm. It was hot outside, and she knew she’d be so much more comfortable in just the bathing suit she had under neath.

A shadow appeared over y/n and she opened her eyes again. Charlie stood smiling, a hand extended towards her pick her up. “Come on! Get in the water.”

“No you go ahead.” She sat up slightly, looking between her friends in the water and the boy in front of her. Charlie stayed, persistent.

“y/n get in the water. It’ll be fun!”

“Charlie you go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

He frowned, dropping his hand. “But you were so excited. You told me you bought that dinosaur suit and everything.”

y/n blushed. She didn’t remember telling him, but he was right. She likes the dinosaurs. She had wanted to go in the water this whole time. She took a breath, and stood from her seat. She slowly took off the shorts and t-shirt, placing them back in her seat. She turned to Charlie with a small smile. “Teach me to boogie board.”

“R-Right.” Charlie turned away from her a red tinge to his face. She felt discouraged almost, that Charlie of all people couldn’t look at her in a fucking bathing suit. The negative thoughts started coming back, the reminders, but she tried to kick them away. She wanted to enjoy the beach.

She followed Charlie to the shore line. He dragged behind himself two three-foot-tall boards made of foam and plastic with a tether made of coiled cord and a Velcro band. He slid the two boards into the water. The salt and sand kicked at the foam as he tied one tether around y/n’s wrist. “What are-?”

“You won’t loose it.” Charlie smiled as he talked. He glanced back up to her eyes with a smile, but quickly looked back to make sure the tether was secured to her wrist. Charlie took y/n’s hand in his, pulling her out deeper in the water until the water was just above her middle.

“Aren’t we in the breakers?”

“Yeah! This is exactly where we need to be. Okay you’re gonna hold it like this-“ Charlie got on his board, gripping the top with his hands and resting his chest towards the bottom of his board. y/n copied him, pulling the board closer than he had his. “Okay. So when the right wave comes, jump and let it take you. If it’s the right one it’ll carry you back to shore.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Try again.” y/n felt the water be sucked from beside her as the tide rolled over. She glanced to see Charlie lean further onto his board, and she did the same. “This is a good one. Ready?”

“I guess.”

y/n and Charlie jumped at the same time. She laughed as the wave swept her past her friends towards the Sandy shore. She almost made it, but at the last moment she flipped and tumbled in the water.

“Fuck!” Charlie ran over to y/n’s side. She laid on the sand, coughing lightly as she sat up. There was a track of sand down her side, and the boogie board kept bumping into her rudely. “Are you Alright? I’m really sorry.”

“How do I take this thing off?” y/n sat up, pulling at the velcro around her arm. Charlie removed it for her, tossing the board aside. He extended his hand, helping pull her up from the ground. y/n dusted the sand from her legs, and looked up watch Charlie whip his head away with a furious blush covering his cheeks.

“I— Just unwrap the- the thing. The- that.” y/n did as instructed, and handed the boogie board over to Charlie. She watched him take the two boards back over to their beach setup. She followed him, going to sit in her beach chair and wrap a towel around herself. Charlie took a glance at her, the same red returning to his face, then walked very quickly to where some of the other boys were still in the water.

“You two good?” Cooper took a slow sip from a canned soda, glancing between Charlie and y/n.

“Yep.” She felt herself sink lower into the seat. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well- I just-“ she closed her eyes and took a breath. “I bought this stupid bathing suit cause I wanted to feel good about it and about myself and he can’t even look at me in it. I just feel stupid and ugly.”

“Woah woah. y/n there’s no way you’re ugly, period. And there’s no way Charlie thinks you’re ugly.”

“You’re just saying that cause I’m here.”

“I’m saying cause I’m your friend and Charlie thinks you’re fuckin smokin.”

y/n sat up and looked at copper again. “What?”

“Sorry. Let me re-phrase. Charlie thinks-“ Cooper paused, holding his soda in one hand. “I-uh. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t say anything!”

“Yes you did!” y/n stared at Cooper in confusion. He tried to get up and run, but stumbled in the sand and slammed into one of the coolers. He rolled over in the sand, groaning. y/n got out of her chair And knelt down next to him. “Tell me know?”

“He- ugh. He think you’re hot idiot.” Cooper rolled over, flopping his arms outwards and closing his eyes. “That fuckin hurt.”

y/n opened the cooler Cooper had fallen on. She took a handful of ice out and laid it on the spot on Cooper’s abdomen that had hit the cooler. She pressed it closer with the towel she’d been wearing moments before. “Tell me more!”

“No! I’m not doing this for the two of you.”

“The two of us?” y/n withdrew her hand slightly, feeling her face grow warm. “You’re not-“

“Shut up. You’re both so into each tower it’s gross.” Cooper looked back towards the shore line and gave an evil grin. “Speak of the devil.”

y/n paused. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see someone walking up the the chairs and towels that she had no doubt was Charlie. Cooper started standing, leaving her sitting in the sand.

“Hey you good? We saw you fall?”

“Yeah.” Cooper patted Charlie on the shoulder. “By the way, you tow should talk.”

y/n whipped her head away from Charlie, anger and embarrassment bubbling from within her. Charlie was none the wiser. “Uh, about what Cooper?”

Cooper pushed off of Charlie, walking back towards the water. “Tell her what you think man. I’m tired.”

Charlie watched Cooper walk into the water, then turned back to y/n with a furious blush. “I- uh. I like the suit. The dinosaurs. You look great- the dinosaurs. You look great in the suit with the dinosaurs. I mean you look great anyways I just- dinosaurs!”

“Thanks.” y/n sat up a bit straighter.

“So,” Charlie sat cross-legged on a blanket in the sand. “What were you two talking about?”

“I told Cooper I felt ugly and then he said that you said I was smokin.”

“You’re not-! I didn’t say that.”

“Come on Charlie, am I ugly or smokin?”

Charlie paused, frowning. “Joking doesn’t make it go away.”

“I know. It’s just easier. It’s okay it’s just weird to talk about.” She laid back onto the blanket, letting her arms rest above her head. “I like the bathing suit I just don’t like me in it.”

“I understand.” Charlie built small piles of sand at his feet. “I know I can’t change much but for what it’s worth I think you’re pretty.”

She turned her head, looking at him confusedly. “You do?”

“Well- I-“ He pursed his lips, thinking. “I would use the word gorgeous instead.”

“Oh.” y/n looked away from Charlie, trying to hide their flustered expression.

“Oh wait did I say the wrong thing?” Charlie started fiddling with his hands, not sure what to do. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable it’s just- fuck you’re so pretty and I really like you and god you look fucking great but you’re also really funny and smart and sweet and I like you so much but I’m really sorry-“

“Charlie.” y/n placed a hand on his arm, now sitting in the sand next to him. “You never made me uncomfortable.”

“Oh thank god. I never wanted to-“

“I like you to.”

Charlie froze, taking in what y/n said as a blush crept up his neck to his cheeks. He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “No way! Wait no way. Really?” y/n nodded and he laughed again, leaning over to place his hands on the side of her face and rest his forehead against hers. “Holy shit! Like actually holy shit!”

y/n laughed, quickly kissing Charlie’s nose. “Come on nerd let’s get back in the water.”

“Yeah! Yes.” Charlie scrambled upright, pulling a giggling y/n up with him. “Here watch this.” Charlie, in one fluid motion, swept y/n off her feet and began carrying her bridal style. He walked with her in his arms all the way to the water, where he fell into the water with her. They both came up for air, y/n laughing the whole time. “Better?”

“Much better.” y/n kissed him again, putting her arms over his shoulders to hold him close.

“Hey! You two.” Cooper splashed water at y/n and Charlie. “You done?”

The two paused, looking back to each other, then swam towards their group of friends, starting a splash free-for-all.

#dsmp #dsmp fanfic #dsmp x reader #charlie slimecicle my beloved #charlie slimecicle #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle #slimecicle x reader #lunch club #lunch club x reader

[playcaroplay]

ACOSF Fanfic

A Knot in Time 

Part One: Elain grows a personality

Spoiler - Takes place after ACOSF. This is a long one. Sorry not Sorry. 

Rated - PG...For Now

Summary - Elain’s powers are starting to run her life and she recognizes that the only way to get control is by breaking out of her shell and stepping into something a little sassier. 

~*~

I’ll never forget something my dad said to me on my nineteenth birthday. In a startling moment of self awareness, he’d looked over his bowl of stew at me and said “You, Elain, have a rich inner life. I know that keeping up appearances was trained into you by your mother, but I know…. I know there’s a universe inside you.” 

I remember feeling a scalding cascade of emotions wash down my chest. I remember not understanding what it was about his comment that made me blush so deeply. He had looked me right in the eye, right into my soul and told me that he saw me. 

Nesta had scoffed, and that short sound held such derision that my blush quickly shifted from flattery to shame. I couldn’t look my dad in the eye the rest of the night. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, as a matter of fact. 

To have a universe inside yourself suggests that there could be more to you than good manners, pleasantries or appropriate hobbies. To have a universe inside you suggests an endless, sprawling unknown. I’ve always liked that.

The fact that I have been completely and totally spoiled isn’t lost on me. The riverfront home that Feyre and Rhys built is a case study in sprawling but cozy architecture. I can see Feyre’s personality in every choice made in the construction and design of the home. 

High ceilings and wide generous windows. All couches, settees, chairs and pillows are double stuffed with down. The living spaces are designed with warm rich tones - deep emerald green curtains, walnut wood, cream throw blankets and black marble accents. I’m reminded of the woods near our old shack in the summer. Austere but approachable. But then, the master bedroom is lavished in the softest dove grey and oak wood furnishings that give you the distinct impression of a frosty snow peaked getaway. 

I can tell that a sense of openness and freedom are important to Feyre and Rhys. As if all the heaviness they endured in life could be warded off with a defiantly calm space. 

Even the kitchen and the gardens are a subtle testament to their love for me. I know it. I can tell by the types of flower beds they installed that are best suited to the flowers I like to grow. The kitchen is built like a heart: red tile backsplash, terracotta tiled floors, copper pots and deep blue cloth. The main working space in the kitchen is a wide pine counter in the centre of the room, paired with five stools. I can prepare dinner and still chat with whoever ventures in for a bite. I can be alone, while still in good company. This whole house is intended to tell the ones they love there is space here for you to just be. 

I know that they both suffer from nightmares, it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I’ve never had the courage to ask what they see, but after hearing about what Feyre has been through, I can easily guess. My nightmares have taken an odd turn lately. Usually my dreams are nonsensical layers of time and I stumble around in various stages of rage or confusion trying to make sense of it. 

Tonight my dreams have all clicked into focus. I hear a low persistent buzzing noise, and see a wall of silver ironwood trees. Standing in front of me is a figure, almost indistinguishable from the bark behind them. They seem to grow out of the soil, their legs merely a cluster of thick grass, and their torso and face crinkled with bark. But their eyes are a violent shade of orange with no pupils. 

My heart is hammering as I sleep, and its beats echo loudly in my dream. I want to scream, or run, or try to close my eyes, but the figure has pinned me to my spot. Their gaze is neither cruel nor kind. 

Daughter, you will find me. 

In the distance I hear faint musical notes, and when I wake up the simple tune sticks with me. I smell brine. I sit up in my bed and try to breathe deeply, but can’t find my lungs when I see the orange eyes staring at me at the foot of my bed. They start to get fuzzy and I blink hard to refocus my eyes.  

“Is your bed comfortable enough?” 

To my right, Feyre is perched on a kitchen stool balancing Nyx on her knee. 

“My bed?” I ask her. I turn back to the eyes and watch as they fade into empty space. 

“Elain?” 

I turn back to Feyre and find that I’m no longer in bed, but standing at the kitchen counter with a paring knife in my hand. 

“My bed?” I ask again. I look around the kitchen and see a pot boiling with water, and minced lamb meat sizzling in a pan next to it. It must be close to dinner. But when? 

I look back at Feyre and squint to see if any other versions of her peel off to other threads of time. But she’s solid. I’m present, then. But which day?

“You just look a bit tired and I was wondering if the new mattress is making you uncomfortable.” 

“I’m fine.” I say distractedly as I stare out the window. The weather looks to be the same as yesterday, so perhaps no time has passed. 

“Apple pwease.” Nyx’s greedy little fingers reach over the counter and beckon for the apple in my hand. I think I was peeling it for him. I finish cutting the skin off and cut it into small chunks for him to eat. The weight of the blue marble handle is a grounding comfort. I slide the plate over to him and he fists a few apple slices in both hands and begins to gnaw with his two teeth. Feyre helps herself to one of the slices and tries to send a secret look to Nuala who’s been prepping the sauce for the meat. Was she always here? She must have been if Feyre is sending out the Concerned But Not Prying look. 

“I’m fine. Truly. How are things going in the city?” I ask. 

Feyre winces and sends me an apologetic look. “They’re going well, but I thought I should warn you that Lucien is going to be visiting in a few days.” 

A bucket of ice drops into my stomach. Great. Him. All threads lead to the foxhole. 

“Is anyone else joining?” 

Feyre’s shoulders relax a bit, recognizing familiar territory. “Cas, Nesta, Amren, Mor and-” A sly look my way “Az.” 

An avalanche of icy dread dumps in my stomach. Suddenly I’m homesick for the nightmare instead of this moment. I haven’t seen Azriel since his steely rejection. I’m not sure what I hate more; the fact that I’ve not recovered from his blow off, or the fact that I still feel his fingers on my skin. 

I take a steadying breath. “Are you.. Holding the meeting here? Or at the House of Wind?” 

“Here.” 

I nod and pull a large bowl of proofing sourdough towards me. I lift off the cheese cloth protecting it and give the dough a swift punch. It deflates to the bottom and I begin to fold the sides in. With my left hand I take a handful of flour from a bag and sweep it across the surface in front of me. I splat the dough down and begin working it with my hands. Fold, smoosh, rotate. Kneading it feels therapeutic. 

The benefit of the house is that it’s large enough that I can easily avoid everyone if I’d like to. For the most part I’ve been allowed to exist in my cocoon of daily habits. I like them most because keeping a regular rhythm prevents all the endless threads of time from shredding in front of me. There’s only so many ways a rose bush can deviate in time, or food for that matter. Nuala and Cerridwen are so devoted to my little life line that as long as I keep myself tightly knotted to it, time doesn’t spill out.

It’s usually when I see everyone else that my world begins to get foggy. As Feyre sits across from me, trying to casually eat the apple while battling her temptation to ask me about Lucien or Azriel, I see other versions of her ripping away from the moment. They look like half made versions of her, like when you cross your eyes. They exist as ‘possible outcomes’ and so are not fully solid. 

I realize now that it’s been too long since I spoke, and Feyre was hoping for some sort of response. I don’t know what to say. All the things I feel are too big to put into words and I know that if I say anything she’ll meddle in a well meaning way. Still. I owe her something. 

“I can make a roast if you like.” Feyre deflates ever so slightly. I can tell that I’ve disappointed her. I wish she could see what it would mean for me to cook for them. To pour myself into making a meal that will satisfy everyone’s tastes, and then sit at the table and pretend for a few hours. Pretend that I don’t want to crawl out of my skin as I feel the continuous tug of the mating bond on my heart. 

I rotate the dough one last time and fold the sides in to create an oblong shape. I drop it into a bread pan and pull out a razor blade from a drawer. Gently, I sketch a single rose into the top of the dough, the tip of the razor cutting the surface just enough to create the image. When the dough cooks, the flower will be a delicious light tan colour while the rest of the loaf will be a deep golden brown. Feyre looks at me vacantly and I can tell she’s communicating with Rhys. I wonder if I have the same expression when I get lost in time. I hope not. 

“What’s it feel like to you? The bond between you and Rhys.” I ask. Feyre smiles inward and unconsciously places a hand on her chest, as if to pet the bond within. 

“I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s like an added instinct for your senses. An open channel to him. I can feel it within me, I can tug on it, or reach down to feel him. It’s like if you’re in the dark, and you reach for someone’s hand. No matter where you are, you know their hand will always be there.” 

Sounds nice. Sounds safe. Feyre glances at me shyly. “It’s like there’s a part of him that’s alive within me, that I can feel and nurture.” 

I take the loaf over to the oven and place it in. I’m excited to cut the steaming slices and arrange them in a basket with fresh butter. Cas always takes three or more slices, and I enjoy the satisfaction of a loaf well baked. 

“And you?”

I search within and try to sense what it feels like. A rope tied tightly around my ribcage, chafing and pulling me in an imperceptible direction. That aching need to move that doesn’t let up unless he’s here. And the relief from his presence makes me so nauseated I can barely focus. 

“Drowning. It feels like drowning.” 

I look back at Feyre and she nods sympathetically. I suppose she has an idea of what it’s like to be tied to someone like that. I feel a trickle of shame down my back. If the bond feels so good and safe to her, what’s wrong with mine that its existence chafes my soul? Aside from the person the other side of the bond is tied to, of course. 

Feyre opens her mouth to say more, but Rhys enters the kitchen and she snaps her mouth shut. Nyx spins around and raises his arms, his chubby sticky fingers grasping for Rhys who strides forward and picks him up. He extends his small wings to cover Rhys’ eyes. 

“Where dada?” Coos Nyx and swipes his wings away. Rhy’s face is contorted in a silly face that makes Nyx squeal in delight. 

Rhys looks over to me and smiles in greeting. I get an image in my mind’s eye of the stairwell leading to the bedrooms. The landing is bathed in moonlight and he’s standing there with his arms crossed. I blink again and Rhys has turned his attention to Feyre. 

They begin to talk about the upcoming meeting, but I’m distracted by Nyx. He’s staring up at me with larger than life eyes. They’re a violent shade of orange with no pupils. He raises his hand in a solemn salute. I grab the paring knife beside me and raise it off the table. 

Find me

“Who are you?” I ask. 

“Elain?” Rhys is by my side now, gently prying the knife out of my hand. “Gods, was this always ironwood?”

I look down and see that the marble handle of the paring knife is indeed ironwood now. Nyx is back to his usual self with another apple slice getting mushed into his mouth. Both Rhys and Feyre are alarmed and staring at the knife. 

“I didn’t do that.” I stammer. 

Rhys picks up the knife and examines it. 

“Elain are you alright? Who were you speaking to just now?” Asks Feyre. 

I lift my hand to point at Nyx, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “I was... “

“Oooh is that roast I smell?” Cassian booms as he enters the kitchen. Cerridwen emerges from my right and places a large roast on the counter, fresh from the oven. 

All around me I see half formed figures rushing about. My stomach jumps and I stagger. I can’t see any solid shapes in the room anymore and I search trying to find someone who’s actually present. I see Cerridwen and Nuala blurring around the kitchen preparing meals and cleaning up after them. They move in double time and no matter how hard I squint I can’t make them focus. 

Stop. Please stop. An intense pressure builds behind my eyes and forehead. My insides are a constant churn of power and my body can barely contain it. I slam my eyes shut and press the heel of my palms to my eyes. I’m moments away from exploding into fragments in time. Someone grips my upper arms and gives me a shake. 

“Elain. Focus.” 

I open my eyes and see Nesta’s icy gaze boring into me. Around her, everything has settled. The kitchen is mostly empty except for Nuala and Cerridwen, who are hovering close by with identical looks of concern. 

“What did you see?” 

Never one to be delicate, Nesta’s nails are dug deep in my skin. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d think she’s angry. What emanates from her is focused panic. 

“Nothing, I couldn’t see anything.” 

“Okay, what did you feel?” She presses. 

“I don’t know, I felt horrible. I felt pain, like I was being pulled apart.” 

“I felt something too.” She murmurs. I take a deep breath and step back from her. The roast is back on the counter top. Cerridwen is wearing a dark blue dress with a beaded flower pattern on the bodice. The beads are an array of turquoise and teal - it’s Wednesday then. Turquoise on Wednesdays. 

Which must mean that tonight’s roast is for the meeting. I’ve lost two days. 

“I’ve never lost so much time before.” I murmur. 

Nesta’s cold hand is on my cheek and she pushes my face to meet her eyes. “We need to get a handle on this, don’t we?” 

I nod weakly. The power within me feels like a gigantic wave, and I don’t really see how I can get a handle on it. It would be like trying to stop it with a plug. Ineffectual and useless. I note that I’m wearing a simple blue evening dress with my turquoise bracelet and I wonder what my body was doing while I was away. My hair is pulled back in a thick six strand braid. Must have been Nuala’s doing. 

“The others might want to talk about this. They’ve noticed you’ve been off, and with everything that’s happening with Koschei, it might all be tied together.” 

“There’s nothing useful about what’s within me.” I say. 

“But maybe it can be curbed.” Nesta grabs my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen and towards the dining room.

Everyone is standing around the table talking in small groups. Nesta enters the room first and sits down. Cassian follows quickly after, and like dominos everyone finds their seats. I realize that I have two options, and I have to decide quickly before I’m forced. I could either sit between Azriel and Mor, or Nesta and Lucien. I can barely look at either of them. Seeing Azriel in the room seems to suck all the air from my lungs. And Lucien sparks a deep repulsion in my belly. 

Today, I choose repulsion. At least I know how to handle that feeling. A small petty part of me wonders if Azriel would be jealous to see me sit next to my mate. I wonder if he feels ashamed  that I’d rather be near someone I can’t stand than him. 

I take a seat and try to ignore the look of surprise on Lucien’s face. I turn my shoulders towards Nesta only to find her mirroring his expression. “Now that was unexpected.” She whispers. 

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. The tension in my chest melts away and the blasted bond within me hums happily. Isn’t this nice? It trills at me. From the corner of my eye, I see Lucien take a deep swig of his drink. Nesta is already filling my glass with a generous helping of wine. 

Rhys plunks down in his seat and right on cue Nuala and Cerridwen bring the food out. Everyone begins to help themselves. I like this part the most - for whatever reason, no one ever interrupts my dinners with new threads of time. I’d like to think they all like my cooking enough that even in dire circumstances they’d do me the courtesy of finishing their meal before they go off to save the world. Cassian pulls the bread basket towards him and helps himself to two slices. Azriel stabs a few slices of roast and slides them onto his plate. I pretend for a moment that he’s gripping his knife especially hard because he doesn’t like to see me seated next to Lucien. But even if that were the case, he gave up any right to feeling jealous months ago. 

“Have you decided how you’re going to conduct the search?” Mor asks Rhys. 

“Feyre, Lucien and I go east. Cas and Nesta go south.” He responds. His eyes flick towards me and instinctively I know they’re talking about the fourth item in the Dread Trove. 

“You could come with us.” Murmurs Nesta. She keeps her face neutral and doesn’t look at me. No one seems to have heard her offer. She sneaks a glance at me and already knows I will decline. I don’t know how to fight, I don’t know how to negotiate diplomacy. I don’t know how to seduce or manipulate. 

I think back to the night in the tents when I was taken. I had no defenses, my own power was completely useless in the face of that brutality. 

“I doubt I would be much help.” I reply. I poke the food around my plate. My appetite has disappeared. 

“I know what you mean.” She says. Surprised, I look over to her, and her gaze is soft. “The helplessness is overwhelming isn’t it.” 

I don’t want to cry at the table, so I just nod and stir the gravy around my plate. When I look back up I see Feyre looking on with a slight wrinkle between her brow. I hope she doesn’t say anything right now. Lucien hasn’t touched his food yet and I know that he’s heard. 

I shuffle around in my chair and wonder if I can excuse myself to go help organize dessert. I’m overwhelmed by exhaustion. My brain hurts from all these threads of time winding themselves around me and then spinning me out like a top. I rub my temples and blink hard a few times. I wonder if a bottle of wine would help settle all these threads for a night. I can hear a low hum undercutting the conversation. The same sound I heard in my nightmare. I think it’s going to start again. 

I feel a soft hand on my shoulder and I look up to see Nuala. “Can you help me with the ganache?” 

I heave a sigh of relief and stand up. For a moment my eyes catch with Azriel and he blinks at me. The same purposeful blink he’s given me before in acknowledgement. I see you. I guess he’s to thank for Nuala coming to my rescue. 

Lucien scoffs and it silences the table. No one moves. Azriel looks at Lucien evenly. 

“You think I don’t see what’s going on?” Asks Lucien. 

“And what’s going on?” Azriel fires back. 

“Az.” Rhys shoots a warning look his way. 

The humming gets louder and Azriel, Lucien and Rhysand begin to vibrate with different possibilities. Some after images jump up from the table and throw themselves at each other in a flurry of blood, knives and snarls. Others end in icy tension, and a violent promise for a later date. In one moment in time, Rhys mists Lucien in a desperate attempt to protect Feyre who gets caught in the fray. They all lead to the same outcome, either Lucien dies and Azriel is outcast from his family and war begins. Or Azriel dies and war begins. My heart is hammering and the buzzing is too loud to focus. 

“I see the looks you throw her way. I can sense how you feel about her.” 

Azriels chest rises and falls slowly and there’s a tautness in his mouth. Cassian and Nesta are sat up on the edge of their chairs, both prepping to throw themselves into the middle of the fight. Nesta’s threads always aim to protect me and push me back to the wall. Cassian varies between trying to hold Azriel back, and throwing himself at Lucien. Amren is always happily seated with her glass of blood. Feyre oscillates between focusing on Lucien and calming Rhys down, same with Mor. There’s no walking away from this room without blood being spilled, unless...

There could be a third choice. 

“Do you remember the first thing you said to me the night you took me?” I ask Lucien. For the first time since I came out of the cauldron I face him and look him dead in the eye. I can see the anger gutter away from him and be replaced with a bit of fear. 

“I…. I said that you should come with me.” “And when I hesitated, what did you say next?” My hands are shaking and there are waves of heat rolling through my body. Lucien looks down at his hands and grits his teeth. 

“I...I asked you..” “You asked me ‘do you feel that?’ and you were pointing to your heart. And I did. I did feel that. It was like someone had lit a fire within me. It was like my heart was gilded in gold. What did you say next?” 

The shame is unmistakable on his face. “I told you to trust that feeling. I told you to trust me.” 

“And I did.” 

The room is silent, but all eyes are resting on Lucien. Each glare is filled with varying shades of murder. But no one will move as long as I stay strong. Lucien is looking at me, his mouth slightly agape. He seems lost for words. The threads of time are starting to pull back in. I’m settling time back on one path. The one I’ve chosen. 

“You think you have a right to this bond?” 

He knows better than to argue. The room deflates and now everyone is looking at me. I can’t handle their sorrow. Their sympathy. Sweet Broken Elain. 

I pat my skirt down and take a deep breath. “I’m going to fetch dessert. The rest of you will get your heads out of your asses and focus on the real problem.” 

Nuala and I walk down the hallway to the kitchen. She loops her hand through my arm and gives me a squeeze. 

“Are you alright?” She asks. 

I sigh. “I think I’ve outgrown this.”

She smiles and says “Growth can be a good thing.” 

#acotar #acowar #acosf #acofs #acomar #elain x lucien #elain x azriel #elriel #elucien #feyre #rhysand #nesta #cassian #nessian #amren #archeron #Feysand #nyx #fanfic

[serzhantkris]

Hands All Over- XII

Summary: Zhi Zi Zhi Shou, Yu Zi Xie Lao: To hold hands and grow old together.Thirteen times Matt Murdock touched your hand- and the one time he didn’t couldn’t. A drabble series.

Matt Murdock x Reader

For @howlingbarnes birthday challenge “Languages of Love”

AN: holy shit, I started this sooo long ago and just... Have not gotten around to it, I guess? Anyway I'm pretty sure this is the cutest shit I have ever written, so have this.

Masterlist

It’s late. Later than he usually goes out, but still early enough. The moon is still a wide, silver spectre in the sky, looming over Hell’s Kitchen like a watchful eye. He can’t see it, of course, but the moonlight isn’t all that different from the sun- it was softer, sure, but he could still feel warmth when he was standing high on the rooftops under its glow.

From here, at the kitchen island where he stood with one hand wrapped around a sweating glass- it was hot, so hot tonight, the black fabric was already clinging to his skin with a fine layer of sweat and he hadn’t even opened the window yet- he could hear the muffled sounds of New York, waiting for him to open his senses. Waiting for the Devil to perch himself up high, where he could feel the moonlight and the hot summer breeze.

The floorboards creaked like violin strings as he moved to the sink, turning the water on low to rinse out his glass. He left it there, shutting off the faucet and moving toward the steps, drying his hands on his pants as he stalked toward it. The stairs gave under his weight, each letting out a sleepy groan as he moved toward the roof access, and the door opened with light protest. Funny, how things like that were always louder when you were trying to be quiet.

Matt paused to listen as the sounds of the city met his ears more directly, not entirely sure why he’d stopped moving. Cars, their exhausts spurting, tires screeching, horns blaring, stereos thumping; voices shouting, some slurred, some filled with boisterous laughter, and some- some laced with malicious intent. Screams echoed from far away, and somewhere, a gun fired.

“Daddy?”

His whole body froze, the muscles in his arms clenching, knuckles turning white. He didn’t move, even the air in his lungs became stagnant. He’d been so focused, so fixated on where he needed to go, that he’d stopped paying attention to where he was. Swallowing thickly, his tongue caught a bead of sweat on his lip and he let the door fall shut. His fingers flexed as he reached up and swiftly ripped the mask off his face, balling it up in a fist as he turned toward the living room.

Soft, wobbling steps moved toward him. She was rubbing her eyes, one small fist pushing hard against her copper eyes as she yawned. The shirt she wore- an old one of her brother’s, too big for her- danced around her knees.

The flashing red and blue lights in the window rubbed out the tension in Matt’s shoulders, but his chest was still tight as he moved carefully back down the stairs. It was too dark for her to see him very well, thankfully, and through the sleep in her eyes, she might have been dreaming.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he mumbled, flicking the mask aside as he neared. She didn’t see it land on the steps behind him, her bleary eyes following her father’s face as he knelt in front of her.

“Hey,” he repeated, reaching up to smooth the hair back from her face. It was a tangled mess, and damp with sweat, but soft under his fingers as he tenderly cupped the back of her head. “It’s late, Maggie.”

“I know,” she said, her voice matching the whisper of Matt’s. Her hands curled around a teddy bear, holding it close to her chest. “Daddy, where are you going?”

The air caught in his chest. “Daddy has to go out,” he said, letting the half-truth out through his nose. “But I’ll be back when you wake up tomorrow.”

“I can’t sleep,” Maggie frowned, tilting her head down toward the floor. Matt adjusted his feet more comfortably, tilting his head. Her little heart was beating, slightly fast. His stomach sank, shoulders sagging. She was afraid.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

She paused, and Matt’s hand fell away from the back of her neck. He reached out with both hands, pulling her small body toward him. She stepped into him, gripping the bear with one hand as the other wrapped around his neck. Her cheek pressed against his collar bone, and he lifted her up in his arms and carried her, carefully, back to the bedroom. He found himself glad he didn’t need to turn on the light as he stepped over the pile of toys and dolls and stuffed animals between the door and the bed, and carefully lowered himself onto the mattress. He kept an arm around Maggie and pushed back the covers behind him.

“You want to tell me about it?”

Maggie shook her head, and made no move to get into the bed. Instead, she kept her head against her father’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he held her in his lap.

“Daddy?”

A low hum rumbled in his chest in response, and Maggie reached up to pinch the black shirt Matt was wearing between her tiny fingers. “Are you a superhero?”

Matt Murdock was used to taking a beating. He had been kicked and punched and stabbed and shot and beaten in the chest a hundred, a thousand, times. He had been thrown against buildings and falled from high places, had the wind knocked out of him by fists and crowbars and baseball bats; but he was not expecting the air to get knocked out of him by a six year old girl. His six year old girl.

Her eyes were moons as she looked up at him, the glow of a neon sign outside her window refracting in her kaleidoscope eyes as she searched his face for answers. He turned his head toward her, listening to the steady, unafraid rhythm of her heart. Whatever her nightmare had been, it had been snuffed out now, and all she felt was curiosity.

“No,” Matt finally said, lips twitching into a smile. Beyond Maggie’s door, he heard the floorboards creak. A familiar heartbeat, the smell of vanilla and honey, a sleepy sigh. “Sorry, Maggie. I’m just your daddy.”

Maggie’s turn to sigh, as she finally relented and crawled out of his lap. “Okay,” she said, disappointed. Matt’s smirk turned into a grin as she shoved her feet under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. He handed her the teddy bear, and leaned down to press his lips to her forehead. “You’d tell me if you were?”

“Absolutely,” Matt says, tucking the blanket around her elbows and shoulders. “You’d be my sidekick.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Maggie?” Matt trailed the tip of his index finger down the center of Maggie’s forehead, along the bridge of her nose, and stopped at the tip. Maggie giggled, and reached up to run her finger down Matt’s forehead and nose.

“I love you,” she whispered, like it was a secret, part of their bedtime ritual. Matt stood up and her hand dropped away.

“Love you, Magpie.”

She was on the couch when the bedroom door closed behind him. He’d known she was waiting, her legs tucked under her and a blanket over her shoulders. The smell of honey was strong as he sighed, smiling sadly in her direction. She had the teacup raised to her lips and smiled at him over it.

“Always knew the devil had a soft spot,” she teased, putting the mug on the coffee table between them.

“He has three,” he corrected, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m already late.”

“I know,” she stood up, rounding the table towards him, raising a hand. The mask dangled from her fingertips and he chuckled quietly. “Better get going, superhero.”

Matt wrapped his hand around hers, holding it for a moment before he took the mask in his hands. “Not a hero,” he said, adjusting it to cover his eyes. A soft sigh passed her lips, and she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Just a man.”

“A good man. And you’re Maggie’s hero. Jackson’s too,” she corrected. He could feel her looking into his eyes, the warmth radiating from her as she stepped in close. She stood on her toes, pressing her lips to his. Even as she spoke into his mouth, he could taste the truth of her words. “And especially mine.”

Matt’s hands found her waist and held her close, breathing her in as she kissed him, there, in the darkness just outside their daughter’s door. When he finally pulled away, her forehead pressed against his, and he allowed his senses to stop reaching, stretching, clawing at the world outside the rooftop door and the windows. He felt the moon, the beams of light falling on his face and hers, and he listened to her heart beating and the soft snores coming from both children, and let himself be Matt Murdock, hero of Maggie Murdock and Jackson Murdock and Y/N Murdock for just a moment longer.

#daredevil #matt murdock #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #charlie cox