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slut4thebroken · 7 months

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All Work, No Play: hour two

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jackson Ripper × reader

Summary | Jackson makes it clear that he has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

Warnings | NON CON 18+, sexual content, fingering, dubious consent, degradation, humiliation, choking, crying, breeding, unprotected sex, emotional manipulation, objectification, dehumanization, anal rape, no lube, spit as lube (don’t do that besties), spanking?, knife play, cutting, carving?, blood play, spitting lol, breeding

Words | 5.6 k

Notes | READ THE WARNINGS. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CHOOSE TO VIEW.

Ao3 link | <3

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Hour one

“Push it out. Yeah, there you go.” He cooed, collecting his come on his fingers as if trickled out of you. When he deposited it onto your asshole, you stiffened.

“Jackson.” You warned, getting an incredibly painful slap on your ass in response.

“Relax. Like I said, I’m not completely cruel. I’ll prep you a bit first.”

“Jackson, no-” You whined, trying to lift yourself up onto shaky arms, but falling back down with a scream when he hit you again, this time on your clit.

“I’m more than happy to just get right to it, if that’s what you want.” He waited for your response, then continued with a scoff when you stayed silent.

He suddenly pushed his fingers in your cunt and your hips moved back to chase the pleasure when he pulled them away after only a few seconds. He dragged them up, teasing your other hole, and you tried your best to relax, but when the first one pushed in, your whole body tensed up.

“If you just relax it won’t hurt as much.”

No shit, you wanted to say. Instead you bit your lip and buried your head in the sheets, trying not to make any sounds. When the second finger pushed in, it forced a sharp breath out of your nose and you started to taste blood from how hard you were biting.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He groaned, then spat on your rim and you let out a choked moan, making him laugh under his breath. “Of course you like that.” When the third finger pushed in, you jolted and moved up the bed, but he grabbed your hip and roughly pulled you back, making sure not to move his hand so that the motion would bury his fingers even deeper. “Remember what I said. I’ll gladly fuck you right now. This is me being generous so I suggest you don’t abuse my kindness.”

“Jackson, please don’t.” You sobbed, head lifted just enough so your voice wasn’t muffled. “Please-” He all but punched his fingers inside you, making you cut off with a whimper.

“Jesus fucking christ.” He grumbled and you heard the sheets rustling as the bed shifted, then he was pushing your face down into the bed to muffle your sounds. “I’m trying to be nice but you just can’t quit the whining, can you?” You let out a strangled whimper and fisted the sheets until your fingers ached.

“You’re lucky I was your first rapist. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t give two shits about prep. But maybe that’s what you deserve.” He grabbed your hair and lifted your head, then leaned down so his lips brushed your ear, never stopping the movement of his fingers. “After all, no one wants a loose cocksleeve. So prepping you just seems a little counterintuitive don’t you think?” You let out a quiet sob as your eyes filled with tears once again.

“What do you say to me for being so generous?” He asked lowly, making you almost shiver. “If I don’t think you’re grateful then I’m not going to waste my time with this.”

“…Thank you.” You whispered.

“What was that?”

“T-thank you.” Your voice was barely a whimper now and when you squeezed your eyes shut, a tear rolled down your cheek. “Thank you.” He shoved your face back into the bed, then added another finger. He fucked you slowly, focusing mostly on spreading his fingers to hurry this up.

You’ve never felt this full before and the stretch was burning a little, but for some sick reason, you still wanted to come. You knew you wouldn’t be able to though, not like this.

“What do you think? You ready for my cock?” You wanted to say no, but at the same time, you just want to get it over with. “Yeah, I think you are.” He answered for you, removing his fingers then moving behind you again. He roughly flipped you over and you turned your head to the side, not wanting to look at him.

“I’ll let you choose. I can fuck your face and get a little more lube on my cock, or I’ll just fuck your ass right now.” You glanced down at his length nervously. It was completely dry and you knew that the small amount of spit he just used wouldn’t be enough.

“Fine.” You said quietly, making him chuckle.

“You know that’s not good enough.”

“Please fuck— please fuck my… my face.” You choked out as your whole face got warm.

“With pleasure.” He manhandled you so that your head was hanging off the edge, then placed your arms on your stomach and pinned them there with one hand. “Open.” He commanded. You tentatively let your mouth drop open and he wasted no time sliding inside. “If I feel any teeth, I’ll break your jaw. Do you understand?” You shuddered, but hummed in acknowledgment, not able to speak.

He didn’t even start slow to let you get used to it. He just started rutting against your face, the tip of his cock punching the back of your mouth with each thrust. You gagged and choked, body writhing on the bed, but his grip was unmoving.

“I said no,” a sharp smack on your clit had you crying out, “fucking,” the second one brought tears to your eyes, “teeth.” You sobbed around his length on the third slap, your clit burning now, but what made it worse was the fact that it made you want to come even more.

He didn’t bother keeping this up for long though. After only a few moments, his pace slowed a little.

“This is your only warning.” He said and you furrowed your brows in confusion. On the next thrust, he remained buried in your mouth, then pushed against the resistance until he breached your throat barrier. The whimper that escaped you barely made any sound and he let out a low groan as his free hand settled on your neck, pressing on where his cock was bulging your throat.

You were starting to panic now and with him buried this deep, his balls were resting on your nose, not letting you get any air in. You tried turning your head to the side but you could barely move. When he pulled out, you took in a huge breath and started coughing, on the verge of tears from the rough treatment.

“Open.” You whimpered and shook your head, making him grip your throat. “Open.” He growled and you let out a choked sob, but parted your trembling lips. He didn’t wait for you to open all the way before pushing inside again. He resumed the fast pace and it was almost as if he was purposefully trying to breach your throat barrier with each thrust, that’s how forceful he was being. With how much you were coughing and sputtering, spit was escaping your lips, trailing up your face, adding to your humiliation.

“I know...” He said softly as you thrashed in his hold. “You can take it.” You whimpered in response and tried to shake your head. His thrusts slowed to a rocking motion, going down your throat each time. Through your crying and the intrusion in your mouth, it was almost impossible to breathe and your head was starting to feel heavy from being upside down for so long.

“I’m doing this for you, remember? I’m doing this because you wanted me to— because you begged me to.” You tried to free your arms so you could push him away but he just tightened his grip and pressed them harder into your stomach. He pushed all the way in and froze, keeping your head still against the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed over the column of your throat again, then he wrapped his hand around your neck and started stroking, stimulating his cock from the outside too. He let out a low moan, leisurely rutting his hips, but still staying buried deep.

You were panicking even more now because it felt like you were about to pass out any second. Your lungs burned and you were practically dry heaving with how much you were gagging, but he ignored you, continuing this for a few more seconds before pulling out. Immediately after he released your arms and stepped back, you rolled over on your stomach and coughed almost violently, watching a trail of saliva fall from your lips.

“If you throw up, I’m not paying for the extra cleaning fee.” He said, sounding almost bored. You closed your eyes as you panted, trying to catch your breath. “Do you need some water?” He sneered and you wanted to tell him to fuck off, insult him, anything… but you’re just so tired. You just want this to be over already.

“How do you want me?” You asked quietly as you rose to a seated position.

“Who said I was done fucking your mouth?”

“Please, no more.” You whimpered, keeping your eyes on the floor. He stepped forward and grabbed your cheeks in one hand, making you whimper and try to flinch away. He just tightened his grip before tilting your head up to face him.

“Did you finally break?” He cooed, so sweetly that for a second you almost didn’t realize he was mocking you. When you stayed silent, he continued. “I must say, you lasted longer than I expected.”

“Please stop tormenting me and just do it.” You whispered, making him click his tongue and shake his head in disagreement.

“How am I tormenting you?” He asked softly— innocently. He tilted his head slightly to emphasize the question and you tried to figure out how to put it into words.

“Please just do it.” You decided to say instead. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly as he thought.

“You think after I fuck your ass, we’re done.” He realized, making you nervous. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to mislead you.” Closing your eyes, you let out a choked sob, trying to hold in the tears. “I have this room until 11 a.m. tomorrow, we have all night.”

“Jackson, please..” You cried, feeling bile rise in your throat at the thought of what he could do in that amount of time. “I— I gave you what you wanted. Please just let me go.” You said quietly. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, then released your face.

“I can’t do that yet.”

“Why not?” You whimpered, bottom lip trembling.

“Because I’m not done with you.” When you let out a broken sob, he cooed and gently cupped your cheek as he shushed you. “You know how I feel about the crying.” He said softly, but you still knew it was a warning.

“How am I supposed to not cry right now?” You whimpered, sounding just pathetic enough to not set him off.

“You’re a big girl, I’m sure you can figure it out.” He lightly slapped your cheek, making you flinch. “On your stomach.” You bit your quivering lip and hesitated for only a moment before obeying.

“How about we play a little game?” He kneeled over your legs and you craned your head back so you could see him. When he reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a switchblade, you visibly jumped as it opened. “Since I couldn’t trust you to shut up before… everytime I hear a noise, you bleed.” Your eyes widened and your heart dropped into your stomach.

“What?” You said through a breath, trying not to start hyperventilating.

“Relax. It’ll just be a small cut. And besides, if you can resist moaning while being raped, then I won’t ever need to use this.” He waved the blade around teasingly and you frowned. When he realized you weren’t going to respond, he used his free hand to pull your ass cheeks apart, then spat on your hole.

“Jackson— Jackson, wait,” You whimpered, reaching behind yourself to try and push him away.

“The game starts now.” You had no reason to not believe him. So you bit your lip and buried your face in the sheets, making him reach forward and roughly yank you back up by your hair. “No cheating.” You let out a shaky breath through your nose, trying to calm down. When he let go of your hair, you kept your head up. “Good girl.”

You took in a sharp breath at the feeling of his cock against your ass. He applied some pressure and you stiffened, waiting for the pain you knew you were about to feel. When he finally breached your hole, you screamed and tried to move up the bed, letting out a violent sob when you felt the sharp sting on your ass. It quickly turned into a deep throbbing and you let your head fall forward as you clung to the sheets, trying to ground yourself. You did your best to silence your cries, the only sounds being shaky breaths and quiet whimpers that were mostly muffled by the bed.

“Gonna be quiet now?” You weren't sure if you were allowed to answer verbally, but you tried anyway.

“Please, I- I can’t.”

“You can. Either voluntarily or involuntarily, but I’d rather not have to clean up a big mess and I’m sure you’d prefer to keep your tongue.” You let out a strangled whimper, your sobs intensifying. “So— We’re going to keep playing the game. I’ll only cut you four more times, after that I’ll move on to something more permanent. Understand?”

“Jackson, please.” You whined, trying not to focus on the sharp pain in your hole and on your ass.

“If you’re not going to answer a simple fucking question, maybe I’ll cut it out anyway.”

“No! No- I’m sorry. I’ll try but— I really don’t think I can.” You whimpered. “I’m not just saying that. I genuinely don’t think I can do it.” You added, when he didn’t respond.

“Fine. I’ll give you a choice.” Your stomach churned just thinking about what he would say. “Either we continue the game— four more warning cuts before I shut you up for good— or I carve my name and you don’t have to worry about staying completely silent.” There’s not a chance in hell you’ll be able to take that much pain with him cutting his entire name. You’ll probably throw up or pass out or both. But you also don’t think you’ll be able to stay silent— not with his cock splitting you open like this.

“Tick tock.” He singsonged, dragging the tip of the knife over your ass.

“The— the first one.” You said quietly. He let out a disappointed hum and lifted the knife off your skin.

“Not what I would’ve picked but I guess I should honor my word.” While you waited, you took deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. “Starting now.” He immediately continued pushing in the rest of the way, only stopping when he was buried to the hilt inside you. Your eyes widened and you placed a hand over your mouth, swallowing down a whimper as you breathed heavily through your nose.

“Atta girl. Stay nice and quiet.” He slowly pulled back, then pushed in a little faster, continuing that rhythm. Your eyes burned as you tried not to cry, but it hurt. He’s big and didn’t use lube and barely prepped you— not to mention the fact that you rarely do anal.

“Since I’m so nice, I’m gonna give you a warning; I’m speeding up now.” You choked on a moan after the first hard thrust, then whimpered at the sharp sting on your ass, this time on your other cheek. “Stop whining. I did warn you, it’s not my fault you didn’t listen.”

His thrusts only got harder and faster. You slipped up on a particularly brutal one and he went back to your other ass cheek— that was when the tears started falling again. You pressed your hand harder against your mouth and squeezed your eyes shut, but his movements only got rougher and you slipped up again.

Doing your best to stay quiet, you kept repeating to yourself that you only have one more chance, but this felt impossible. How can he expect you to be completely quiet during something like this? Especially when he’s cutting you too.

You tried to cry silently, but when a sob accidentally came out, your heart dropped. You winced at the sting of another cut, then started babbling out pleas and apologies.

“Please— it was an accident. Please, I’m sorry.” You whimpered. He let out a heavy sigh and his hips slowed to a stop.

“It’s okay, baby. Make all the noise you want.”

“What?” You asked quietly, taking in a sharp breath when he pulled all the way out. He got off of the bed and you turned your head to watch him with furrowed brows.

“Stay.” He ordered, pointing the knife at you. You obeyed and he walked over to grab your dress, then laid it down next to you on the bed. “On your back, ass on your dress.” You tentatively turned over and sat on the dress, but immediately turned back onto your stomach with a hiss of pain.

“It hurts.” You frowned.

“It’s gonna hurt a whole lot more if you don’t do what I say.” He raised his brows and you whined quietly, but got onto your back again. It was less painful laying down, but the pressure still hurt. “Good girl. You keep following those survival instincts and you might just make it out of this alive.” It sounded like he was joking… but you were also pretty sure that he was being completely serious.

Moving to the foot of the bed, he grabbed your ankles and roughly pulled you down, making you cry out as the pain on your ass flared up. He quickly undressed and you tried not to stare at his body too much— you didn’t want to give him another reason to mock you. When he got on the bed again and started moving toward your head, you suddenly realized what was happening.

“No,” You whimpered, shaking your head.

“What happened to those instincts? I mean, seriously, who says no to the person holding them at knife point?” He chuckled. Your eyes shifted to the weapon still in his hand.

“Please don’t.” You tried again.

“Getting warmer.” He said teasingly. “I’ll give you a hint; drop a word, then you’ll get it.” You frowned and shook your head, biting your lip. He laughed quietly and kept moving until he was behind your head. When you tried to sit up, he blocked your path with the knife, making you stiffen, but fall back down.

“Final warning. I’m done fucking your ass and your cunt for now— Either open your mouth or I’ll make a hole somewhere else and fuck that instead.” Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat. He had to be bluffing… right? “Trust me when I tell you I’ve done worse.” Okay maybe he’s not bluffing…

“Will you just— not do it like before please? I almost threw up.” You said quietly, too scared to speak any louder.

“Why exactly should I do that? All you’ve done is make things harder for me.”

“I- I’m sorry… I’ll behave, I promise.” He raised his brows, seemingly not believing you, making you try harder. “Please, Jackson.”

“We’ll see. Arms above your head.” You frowned, but obeyed, and he straddled your arms, pinning them to the bed with his legs. “I feel any teeth, you’ll need stitches. Understand?” You glanced nervously between his cock and the knife.

“Yes.” You whispered. He positioned himself over your face and you opened your mouth, waiting, trying not to think about where his cock just was. He placed it inside and you closed your lips as he slowly pushed in deeper. When he met the resistance of your throat, he stopped, then slowly pulled back, making you all but sigh in relief. He only fucked you a few more times before pushing in and staying there, the tip brushing the back of your mouth.

“Remember what I said about teeth.” You were confused about why he said that because you were pretty sure your teeth hadn't touched him at all.

Pain erupted through your chest and you almost thought you imagined it, but when it turned into a white hot burning sensation, you knew you hadn’t. You screamed around him and tried to move your arms out from under his legs. When that was unsuccessful, you started thrashing and he smacked your clit, making you cry out.

“If you keep moving, I’ll have to start over.” Your chest went from a deep throbbing to the sharp pain again and you let out a broken sob, your eyes burning as they filled with tears.

With the pain, his cock in your mouth, and the way you were hyperventilating, you felt like you were going to pass out again. You welcomed it though— you prayed you wouldn’t have to endure this any longer.

But you didn’t. You remained conscious, your lungs burning along with your chest. You wanted to bite him— to do anything to get him to stop— but you had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t follow through on his threat. Not with the way he was so easily cutting you and ignoring your cries.

Your sounds alternated between screams and violent sobs and after a few seconds of that, he huffed, then pushed in deeper. You choked on the sudden intrusion in your throat and he let out a low groan, continuing with whatever it was he was carving on your body. When you tried to scream, only a garbled whimper came out.

“Be as loud as you want. No consequences this time.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. Now that he was fully sheathed in your mouth, his balls rested against your nose, limiting your breathing even more. It was getting harder to tell if the nausea was because of the constant pressure on your gag reflex, or from the pain.

He finally stopped, then pulled out of your mouth not long after. You coughed at first, but quickly resumed crying.

“God— will you shut up?” He reached out and you flinched away from him, squeezing your eyes shut. “Oh you poor thing.” He cooed, cupping your cheek. You jerked away from his touch and your sobs intensified. “You must be so scared. It’s okay, it’s over now.” He said softly, moving his hand to pet your hair.

“That means stop crying.” His voice was significantly more harsh and you couldn’t help it when you cried even harder. “Jesus..” He muttered. You felt the bed move, then heard his footsteps, but you didn’t dare change your position. His hands suddenly wrapped around your ankles and he yanked you even farther down the bed, making a sob catch in your throat as your eyes snapped open. You stared at his blurry figure, watching him wrap your legs around his body, lining his cock up with one of your holes— you weren’t sure which one. When you looked down and saw the jagged lines, you let out a broken whimper that turned into a mewl when he pushed inside your cunt.

“I know… But don’t you just look so much prettier branded with my initials?” Squeezing your eyes shut, you continued crying, feeling too overwhelmed now that you felt full. “I couldn’t cut too deep because of the mess, but I think I cut deep enough to leave a scar.” He said proudly and a strangled sob left you, making him chuckle. “You may be crying but we both know you like that. Why else would your cunt have squeezed my cock so hard?”

You shook your head with a whimper. Sure you’ve read about this kind of stuff and fantasized about it, but you never wanted it to actually happen. You never wanted any of this to actually happen. Maybe this was karma for reading so many fucked up books— the universe’s way of punishing you for liking it.

He started fucking you, bringing you out of your thoughts. And the overwhelming pain was starting to compete with the overwhelming pleasure.

“I know I said I’d keep my word, but technically I never said what I’d do after our little game. Plus, you should probably be branded anyway if you’re going to be breeding stock for sale, right?” You don’t know how he was able to say something like that so casually.

“No..” You whimpered, shaking your head.

“No? Why not?” He asked innocently, tilting his head a little. His thrusts never faltered through your conversation though.

“Please.” You whined, feeling another wave of tears approach. “Please— I‘m sorry…”

“But you’d look so pretty with your belly nice and full.”

“Please, Jackson.” You cried.

“Shh. Don’t talk back.” He presented the knife that you didn’t realize was still in his hand and your stomach dropped as the throbbing in your chest flared up at the reminder of what just happened. “Can’t believe you’re this scared of a tiny little knife.” Technically you’re scared of the knife in his hands… you didn’t say that though.

He moved the blade down to trail the tip over your inner thigh, making you tense up. He let out a low groan as his hips stuttered for just a moment before he resumed the steady pace.

“I’d put the knife down and focus on fucking you, but your cunt gets so tight when I do this.” He moved to your other thigh and did the same thing, lightly dragging it up the soft skin, leaving a pink line behind. “You can’t really blame me can you?” He chuckled. You stayed perfectly still, not wanting to be cut again. You were barely even able to focus on his words.

“But if you really hate it so much, I guess I can think of another way to get your pathetic little pussy to squeeze my cock.” He removed the knife and set it on the bed before grabbing your hips to help control his thrusts. “Rub your clit.” He ordered. You shook your head, not wanting to be forced to do something that would actually help you enjoy this.

“Seriously?” He scoffed a laugh. “Your options are that or the knife and you’re saying no?” He asked in disbelief, making you frown. Your gaze shifted to the knife on the bed next to you and you swallowed down a whimper as you slowly reached your hand between your legs. “There you go.” He cooed when your fingers met your clit. “I doubt I need to tell you what will happen if I’m not satisfied with your effort?”

“No…” You muttered, rubbing your clit harder and faster because of his warning.

“Good girl. Make that pussy milk my fucking cock.” He groaned and you flushed at the vulgarity of his words as thrusts sped up, rapidly pounding your hole. Your tits were moving embarrassingly, but that feeling wasn’t as prominent as the pain on your chest when the skin stretched with each thrust.

Despite your revulsion for him and his current actions, you wanted to get close. You wanted your brain to stop focusing on all of the mental and physical pain and just let you forget— if only for a few seconds. You just needed a break— from crying and screaming and the aching and throbbing, and from him.

“You’re awfully quiet.” He noticed.

“I thought you wanted me to stop crying.” Your voice was raspier than you’d ever heard it. Based on his expression though, your tone clearly didn’t sound the way you meant it to; small and obedient.

“What’d I say about talking back, huh?”

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I just… wanted to make sure that I was still doing what you wanted.” You said quietly, fear blooming in your chest once again.

“That would’ve been a good save if you didn’t add on the obvious lie.”

“I wasn’t— I wasn’t lying…” You whimpered, making him scoff.

“I don’t believe you but I’m close enough that I don’t care right now.” You all but breathed a sigh of relief. “Faster.” He ordered, so you sped up your fingers, your breath hitching at the slightly more intense pleasure. The cuts on your ass and chest have dulled now, mostly overshadowed by his cock ramming into you and your fingers stimulating your clit. You bit your lip to try and stifle your moans, but there was no chance— you’re too tired to put all of your energy into something as pointless as that.

Even though your body was begging for an orgasm, your mind couldn’t let yourself do that, not after what he just did to you. But his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside of you that made your eyes roll back into your head and your fingers were working even harder, voluntarily. You were solely relying on him coming before you had a chance to, but with how rapidly you were approaching the edge, you weren’t sure that’d happen.

“Look at you… Are you close?” He cooed and you squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “No? It seems like you are.” He said teasingly.

“Fuck— please just come.” You choked out, gripping the sheets with your free hand as your chest heaved.

“Poor thing. You can’t hold it, can you?” His voice was still laced with the patronizing, sweet tone. You whimpered and kept your eyes squeezed shut, trying not to give in to the pleasure. “Maybe I should finally give you what you want.”

“No.” You said quickly, back arching a little as a low moan escaped you.

“But you were crying and begging for it earlier. What changed, hm?” You let out a choked sob and turned your head to the side even though your eyes were already closed. “You worried it'll make you have to admit to yourself that you liked it? That you liked me raping your ass and carving my initials into you?”

“Stop,” You whimpered.

“No. You’re going to come and if you stop rubbing your clit, I’ll cut off those fingers. Understand?”

“Jackson…” You sobbed out, unable to say anything else.

“Do you understand?” He repeated, his tone making you shiver.

“Y-yes.” You whispered. His pace became even faster and harder somehow, almost punching the breath out of you with each thrust. When you could feel yourself on the edge, you let out a choked sob, trying— uselessly— to bring yourself back down.

“I think you need a reminder of what made you come.” He said suddenly. Your moan cut off into a cry when he ran two fingers over his initials and you opened your eyes just in time to see him shove them in your mouth. You gagged at the coppery taste, then again when he forced them to the back of your mouth, purposefully pushing down on your tongue to make you gag. “Suck.” He ordered. You did your best to shake your head with the intrusion in your mouth, letting out a garbled whimper when you could barely move. “Now.” He forced them in impossibly deeper, making you choke and bring your hand up to claw at his arm.

“Fine.” He removed his fingers and you gasped in a breath, trying not to throw up at the taste of your own blood lingering on your tongue. You let out a broken sob when he swiped his fingers over the wound again, this time using more pressure and staying there longer. When he finally removed them, he immediately brought his hand up to wipe across your lips and cheek. You cringed at the mixture of your own saliva and blood, and kept your lips tightly sealed so you couldn’t taste any.

He moved his hand to your neck, squeezing hard enough to make you choke and gasp for air. Leaning down over you with a dark look in his eyes, he spat on your already messy face, and you let out a choked moan, making him push down on your windpipe to cut off the sound.

The knot of arousal in your stomach finally snapped and if he wasn’t preventing you from making any noise, your sounds would’ve been almost anguished moans. Instead, all you could let out was a quiet wheeze. Because of all of the build up, your orgasm hit you hard, making your body shake as your crying picked up again.

Even after you finished, he kept his hand firmly on your throat, desperately bucking his hips into you, chasing his own orgasm now. Your hand slowed to a stop but you were too tired to move it anywhere else, so it remained trapped between your bodies. Just as your eyes started growing heavy and your head felt light and dizzy, he buried himself to the hilt with a low groan, putting his face in the crook of your neck. You could faintly hear his moans and feel hot come filling you up, but it was hard to focus on anything other than your inability to breathe and the feeling of losing consciousness.

He suddenly loosened his grip and you wheezed in a breath, coughing and trying to gasp in air as your head rushed with the sudden blood flow. He panted for a moment, then leaned back up and pulled out, making you hiss because of how sensitive you were.

Hour three

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#jackson rippner x reader smut #jackson rippner smut #jackson rippner x reader #jackson rippner #red eye movie #red eye

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

Drawn Together 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

I saw this and had to

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You are not a rebel. You are clean cut. You live within very precise boundaries. Minimizing every part of yourself to evade notice. Rules are not meant to be broken, despite that old cliche.

That is until that day. It's foolish, you know it. That voice in the back of your head repeats your foreboding. You know you can't go back. There isn't a magic eraser for this one.

Shut up.

You're over it. Over yourself. Over your boring life. You've never done one fun thing for just yourself. It's always been what has to be done. What must be done. You're thirty years old and you don't even know if you understand the concept of 'fun'.

You sit on the leather bench. Nervous and shaky as hell. There's still time to change your mind. You can take your deposit and go, with clean untainted skin.

No! You're not going to chicken out this time. You want one memory that doesn't end in you tucking tail and running.

"Do you like the sketch?" Sam, your assigned artist asks.

You glance over at him as he pulls on a pair of black gloves, his gun laid out and sterilised. You peek at the open sketchbook, the drawing of a simple red poppy outlined in black with a thick spiraled green stem. Nothing too big or extravagant, easy to hide. If your mother or father ever saw that, you would be excommunicated.

"I love it," your voice quavers and you clear your throat, "I'm sorry, I'm just a little anxious."

"That's fine. First time, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I don't even have piercings," you give a brittle chuckle, "I'm not really the adventurous type."

"I'm sure you are in your own way," he grins, a look that calms you. "So, we still set on ankle?"

"Um, yeah, I think that's good."

"As good a starting place as any. Glad I talked you off the ribs. Those are tender."

"Just an idea," you breathe, "I don't know much about these things."

"Not to worry, you're in good hands," he winks, "you can just relax," he rolls his stool to the foot of the bench, "and pop your leg up here."

"Right," you gulp down another chest full of air and follow his direction, "that's it?"

"And keep still. Tell me if you need a break. The pains a bit much at times so don't be afraid to speak up."

"Okay, sounds good," you try to settle in but your blood feels thick and your vision speckles with silver. Oh god, you're really going to do this.

"Don't hold your breath," he says, "really, I don't like my canvases passing out."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, you want something to drink before we start?"

"No, I'm good."

"Awesome," he says and grabs his gun, double checking the tip before moving back to your ankle. "Alright, I'll count down so you're not too surprised."

"Thanks," you fold your hands over your stomach as he positions your leg and bends forward.

He counts from three and you focus on not moving at the first stab of pain. Don't be a weak bitch. You grit your teeth and let out your breath as the gun buzzes loudly. The pain keeps a steady sear in your skin but you slowly get used to the sensation.

As he works, your eyes wander along the dark red walls and the artwork hanging all around. Tattoos in colour and black and white. The schematics of a tattoo gun. A falcon crest wrought in brass.

You hear the door open and the smoky voice of the other artist, Nat greets the newcomer you can't see past the pillar. The response is a deep, rocky timbre. You can only imagine the inked up brute behind it.

"Always with the notes," you hear a paper crinkle, "I'm the artist here, Rogers."

"Hey, I'm an artist too," the man counters lightly.

You peek over as the redhead woman appears on the other side of the pillar and guides her client through to her open workspace. An open curtain drapes against the wall at the other end of the shop. She sets down the page and tuts as she looks it over.

The man slides off a pair of dark sunglasses, black lenses with golden frames. He slips them into the pocket of his denim jacket and tugs at the sleeves. Their actions seem to be routine and you can see why. His arms are covered from wrist to shoulder in ink, a few smaller tattoos on his knuckles. Now you really feel out of place.

"Sam, what's up?" The other client calls over as he hangs the denim on the coat rack.

"What's it look like, Steve?" Sam says, his eyes not leaving your ankle.

You take in the interaction silently. You're a stranger among the usuals. The poser getting their taste of artificial danger. Your ankle tweaks and you smother a grunt between your teeth. The noise catches the blue eyes of the man, Steve.

You quickly avert your eyes back to Sam and knot your fingers together. Steve's shadow moves away. The artist at your bench hardly seems bothered but gives a shake of his head.

"You want the curtain?" Natasha asks as she approaches the black drapes.

"Nah, you know I don't care."

Your eyes flick up as the man peels off his tank top. Wow. You blink rapidly and make yourself act normal.

He lowers himself onto the leather seat as Natasha takes out her tools and starts sterilising. You once more force your attention back to Sam's careful work. It's going to take a while.

"You good?" He asks as he glances over, lifting the gun from your skin.

"Great," you murmur in an airy voice.

"Still nervous?"

"No, actually, kinda excited," you try not to speak too loud, overly mindful of the other client in the shop.

"Good," he hunches again and you suck in as he put the needle back to your skin. "So, what do you do? When you're not getting sick tats, that is?"

"Um, I, er, I teach. Music lessons."

"Music, huh? You seem like… the drummer type."

"Piano," you correct him, "I can carry a beat–" you pause to check the pain in your voice, "but I mostly teach piano."

"Classy," he remarks, "so, a poppy, any particular meaning to that?"

"Er, no, uh," you rub your neck nervously but make yourself quit moving, "it's my favourite flower."

"Pretty sombre fave but I get it," he remarks.

"Yeah, I guess…"

Your attention is drawn at the soft slap of skin and the rattle of metal. You look up as Steve retracts his hand and Natasha points at him with a sharp nail, "this is a sterile workspace."

He chuckles at her irritation and shows his palms before he sits back. He rolls his shoulders as he leans casually and twiddle his fingers against his jeans. Once more, your eyes meet and his mouth slants slightly. You gulp and look down again.

"So, any ideas for a second piece?" Sam asks.

"I think I'm gonna stick with one."

"Not gonna get a full bouquet?" He wonders.

"Not yet."

"Better get cozy, Rogers," Natasha says.

You look up as she sprays shaving foam onto his chest.

"You know this is my second home," he teases as he relaxes and she spreads the cream.

"Don't remind me," she grumbles as she takes a razor.

You tear away from your distraction once more. Gosh, it is painful. You don't know how people end up like him. Your tiny little flower will be more than enough for you.

You close your eyes and groan. Sam rests his hand on your calf. He squeezes as he pauses again.

"Need a break."

"No, keep going," you puff out.

You grip the side of the leather bench and bite down. You've always been a big baby. You bat away the gloss of tears threatening to confirm that and take another breath.

The subtle creak of leather pulls your gaze back across the room. Steve leans slightly around to see you past Nat as she shaves one side of his chest. You grimace and hide beneath your lashes.

Why is he looking at you like that? It must be amusing, someone like you in a place like that. Now you know this is definitely a mistake.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #drabble series #mcu #marvel #captain america #sam wilson #natasha romanov #au #tattoo au

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a-writer-on-elm-street · 2 years

Text

Haunted

pairing: brahms x gn!reader

summary: haunted by a terrible past, you find comfort in a lonely man that has been confined to the walls of the house you have begun staying in.

warnings (for the fic as a whole): brahms doll, brahms' little voice, stalking, mentions of past abuse (verbal and physical), mentions of murder, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (happy ending), smut, somnophilia, slow burn.

specific warnings (for part 1): brahms doll, mentions of murder.

a/n: so i've been thinking about brahms a lot lately which is kinda why i wrote this. this will be multiple parts. i hope you enjoy! also, this takes place after the first movie. the second movie may as well just not exist in my opinion.

word count: 937

A shiver crept up your spine as you stared up at the magnificent house that stood before you, your new home, if you could even call it that. The place had been abandoned for almost a year now. People were too scared to even cross its path after hearing of the horrors that happened here.

A man was killed in this house, and then his killer disappeared, believed to be dead too. And since then, nobody has ever dared to come near this house. Until now.

You were drunk, you were drunk and scared, and you were looking for a quick escape. This house was exactly that. It was cheap and it would be the last place your family would expect you to go. So you put in a deposit and you packed your bags. And now here you were, standing in front of the Heelshire mansion with your suitcase trailing behind you.

You inhaled a shaky breath before finally making your way up to the front door, the keys clutched tightly in your hand. This was your home now, whether you liked it or not.

When you finally got inside, you weren't surprised to see the state of the place. It had been cleaned out shortly after the murders, but judging from the thick sheet of dust that covered it, it had been left untouched ever since. At least you'd have something to keep you occupied for a while, cleaning was always a good distraction.

You locked the door behind you before making your way up the stairs to find a bedroom. It was only four 'o' clock in the afternoon, but if you were being completely honest, you just wanted to go to sleep. You'd deal with everything else in the morning.

The bed was covered in a thick layer of dust but you didn't care, you were too exhausted to give a damn about the state of the bed. So you set your case down by the door and climbed ontop of the mattress, folding yourself into a fetal position before closing your eyes, sleep quickly taking you.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Most people would have to be mad to willingly live in a house like this, to even think of calling it home, but you were already finding a strange sense of solace within these dusty old walls. There was something oddly comforting about being here.

You took a shallow breath as you reached up to wipe the sweat away that was beading on your forehead, a sense of relief washing over you as you surveyed your work. You'd spent the better part of this morning dusting every inch of the house, and despite the floors still being a little grimey, you'd done a pretty decent job.

You hadn't showered yet, but you'd been more focused on getting this place clean. And thankfully, the house seemed to contain every item needed except for food. It was clear that no one wanted to return to this place after they cleaned up the crime scene.

And speaking of food, your stomach was beginning to rumble. You had half a mind to just order takeout, but you didn't really want to force a delivery driver to approach this place, not when you had the option to simply buy groceries. You may have found comfort in the house but that didn't mean others did.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

When you arrived back at the house a couple of hours later, you headed straight for the kitchen, two heavy bags hanging from your fingers. All you could think about was making a ham and cheese sandwich, your stomach growling even louder now as you hurried to put the shopping away.

When everything was safely stored away in the cupboards and the refrigerator, you finally set to work on making your long overdue lunch.

Once you'd finished making the sandwich, you quickly retrieved a bottle of water and proceeded to take them into the living room. But once you entered the room, you stopped dead in your tracks, your breath getting stuck in your throat as you stared at the sight in front of you.

There was a porcelain doll sitting in the armchair. Well that wasn't there earlier. You carefully set your plate and your water down on an end table, and then you advanced towards the doll. Upon closer inspection, you noticed that there was a clipboard on the arm of the chair, and the doll's head was turned towards it. Like it was telling you to take a look.

You picked up the clipboard with shaky hands, your eyes immediately scanning over the sheet of paper clipped onto it. It was a list of rules, and they indicated that this doll's name must've been Brahms. What the hell?

Your attention was quickly dragged away from the clipboard, however, when a bang sounded somewhere from the hall. You spun around, the board still clutched tightly in your hands, as you walked towards the door, your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

"Hello?" Your voice sounded strange when you spoke, reminding you of the fact that you had barely spoken a single word in the past week. You peered around the corner to find the dark hall empty, so where did that bang come from? "Is anyone there?"

There had to be somebody in the house, right? How else would the doll have ended up here?

Finally giving up on calling out to nobody, you turned back around and returned to the doll, your eyes flicking between the rules in your hands and the cold dead stare of the boy. "How did you get here, Brahms?"

[Main Masterlist] [Brahms Masterlist]

#brahms heelshire #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms heelshire fanfic #brahms heelshire oneshot #brahms x reader #brahms heelshire x you #brahms x you #brahms heelshire fluff #brahms heelshire hurt/comfort #brahms heelshire angst #the boy #the boy 2016 #the boy movie #brahms the boy #the boy brahms #slashers #slasher #slasher x reader

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theharrowing · 2 years

Text

❥ YOONGI MASTER LIST

❣ ALL LISTS ARE IN ORDER OF DATE POSTED WITH THE MOST RECENT UPDATES AT THE TOP!

❥ YOONGI X READER

❣ Note: Sometimes there are still mem x mem relationships in my reader insert stories. If that bothers you, please do not proceed.

♡ - fluff | ☽ - smut | ☁ - angst | ✎ - wip | ☆ - personal fav

White Lies | series, coming soon ✎ ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader x Taehyung | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers & established relationship, college au, cop au, poly, hurt/comfort ⚠ graphic violence, yandere behavior - see fic warnings ↳ Yoongi is everything you could ask for. He is attractive, confident, and smart. And his boyfriend Taehyung is as possessive as he is beautiful. Too bad a relationship would be a major conflict of interest. You need to have them at all costs.

Collateral | series, 21 parts, 222k words, ✎☆ ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. Taehyung x Jungkook, Seokjin x Hoseok, Jungkook x Reader ❣ strangers to lovers, mafia au, poly ⚠ drug use, graphic violence, dark themes - see fic warnings ↳Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You. But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

Devil with the Mint Hair | series, 11k words + images of texts ✎☆ ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader | ☽ ❣ brother’s bestie, enemies to fuck buddies, porn without plot ⚠ drug use (weed) & dub con - see fic warnings ↳You get way too high and finally have sex with your brother’s best friend—and your sworn enemy—Min Yoongi.

Boy Blue | 46 parts, 89 words + images of texts ❣ Taehyung x Female Reader x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. Jungkook x Reader, Hoseok x Reader, Namjoon x Reader (kind of), Original Female Character x Reader, MxM ships ❣ strangers to lovers, college au, poly, hurt/comfort ⚠ graphic violence, dub/noncon, infidelity, drug use, yandere behavior (stalking, gaslighting, etc.) - see fic warnings ↳ While going through a painful but necessary breakup, you meet someone who is patient, kind, and understanding; everything you last ex was not. Or is he?

Dominance & Domesticity | drabble, 1.1k words ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader | ♡☽ ❣ established relationship, porn without plot ↳In between moments of domestic bliss, Yoongi always finds time to dominate you.

Outro: Tear | oneshot, 5.5k words ❣ Namjoon x Yoongi x Hoseok x Female Reader | ♡☽ ☁ ❣ strangers & friends to lovers, lovers to exes, hurt/comfort, poly ↳Your relationship with three amazing men felt like a dream come true until insecurity and failed communication caused everything to slowly fall apart.

Shaky Deposition | 7 parts, 35k words ❣ Hoseok x Female Reader x Yoongi | ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers, poly, lawyer au ⚠ infidelity ↳ Things are getting spicy with your fellow paralegal Jung Hoseok, when senior partner Min Yoongi takes an interest in you. It’s risky, but you choose to juggle the two of them, trying your best not to get caught.

Couldn’t Pin You Down | oneshot, 14k words ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ exes to lovers, somewhat slow burn ↳ You had finally moved on when that certain someone from your past pops back up, throwing the trajectory of your life into a tailspin. Will you forgive him for his past mistakes, or is it too little too late?

The Hooksborough Demon | 14 parts, 20k words, ☆ ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader x Jimin | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ established & friends to lovers, horror au, found footage au ⚠ haunting imagery, gore, possible character death - see fic warnings ↳ You and two friends ventured into the location of an urban legend with the intention of exploring an abandoned building and having a laugh at small town lore for clout. But after a series of mysterious events, you’ve turned to a forum a year later to try to piece everything together, and to find out what the fuck happened to Yoongi & Jimin.

Sharing is Caring | oneshot, 4.2k words ❣ OT7 x Female Reader | ♡ ☽ ❣ established & strangers to lovers, porn without plot, poly ↳ Your date with Taehyung ends with a bang when his roommates invite themselves into his bedroom, one by one.

Deadly Desire | oneshot, 5k words ❣ Yoongi x Female Reader | ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to…???, serial killer au, porn with very little plot ⚠ dub/noncon, graphic violence, snuff - see fic warnings ↳ You agree to go on a date with a handsome stranger despite there being a serial killer terrorizing the streets. What are the chances of it being him?

❥ YOONGI X MEMBER

♡ - fluff | ☽ - smut | ☁ - angst | ✎ - wip | ☆ - personal fav

Showstopper | 4 parts, 31.5k words, ✎ ❣ Hoseok x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers, model & photographer au ↳ Hoseok knows the rumors. Everyone in the industry knows the rumors. Min Yoongi is a player. Min Yoongi is a snake. Stand in front of Min Yoongi’s camera, and you will be just another one of his victims—prey for him to use as he pleases and toss away when he gets bored.

Forever in His Shadow | 2 parts, 14.4k words, ✎ ❣ Yoongi x Hoseok | ♡☽ ☁ ❣ rivals to lovers, requited unrequited, artist au, camboy au ⚠ contains some intense bdsm acts - see fic for warnings ↳ These days, Yoongi has two major things going on in his life: 1.) He finally has his first big break at an esteemed art gallery, but he has to share the spotlight with his college rival, Jung Hoseok. 2.) He has been spending a lot of time watching a pretty dominant camboy who goes by the name Jay.

Ghost Friend | drabble, 1.8k words ❣ Yoongi x Jimin (platonic) | ☁ ❣ friends who encounter a ghost, haunted house au, crack treated seriously, tagged as “angst” but it’s the tiniest bit of hurt/comfort ⚠ Yoongi is a ghost, and is therefore dead ↳ Yoongi’s spirit has stayed in his dilapidating home for decades. One day, Jimin and his friends Taehyung and Jungkook decide to visit the property, and Jimin makes a ghost friend. Or, the one where Jimin is totally Jean Grey.

Denim & Strawberry | onesot, 19.6k, ☆ ❣ Yoongi x Jimin | ♡ ☽ ❣ friends to lovers, burlesque au ↳ When Yoongi gets invited to watch his crush perform, he has no idea what to expect. Jimin stripping on stage and singing a sultry little number while tugging on his hair is definitely not what Yoongi had in mind, but who is he to complain?

Dollhouse | 25 parts, 178.3k words, ☆ ❣ Hoseok x Namjoon, Jungkook x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. Taehyung x Jimin, Hoseok x Taehyung x Jimin ❣ established & strangers to lovers, sci-fi au, body swap, poly ⚠ infidelity, graphic violence, major character injury, unhappy ending ↳ Hoseok’s job is simple: He enters the host’s body, he confiscates or terminates the target, and he gets back into his own body by dinnertime. Easy peasy. Until a host comes along whose body he becomes obsessed with and he questions whether or not he wants to come back to the real world or leave his old life behind.

One Day at a Time | 2 parts, 39.4k words, ☆ ❣ Yoongi x Namjoon | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. established Namjoon & Jung Wheein ❣ past acquaintances to lovers, a/b/o ⚠ infidelity, mpreg, painful knotting ↳ Yoongi loves to help others. As a professional surrogate, he takes pride in using his body to help families bring life into this world, and love into their homes. But when his high school crush Kim Namjoon hires Yoongi to help him and his wife conceive, things get…precarious. | Or, Omega Yoongi gets bred by Alpha Namjoon and holy shit, does he fall in love.

Sun Seeker | 3 parts, 38.7k words, ☆ ❣ Namjoon x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers, tattoo shop au ↳ Namjoon does not do impulsive. He doesn’t understand the fuss about body modifications, and he has never considered getting one. That is, until he meets Yoongi—the prettiest man he’s ever seen, who happens to be a tattoo artist—and he can’t stop thinking about going under Yoongi’s needle to have an equally pretty design tattooed onto his skin.

The Ghost of You On My Skin | oneshot, 11k words ❣ Jungkook x Jimin x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ established & strangers to lovers, monster fucking ⚠ illusory blood sucking & vore - see fic warnings ↳ Jungkook and Jimin travel to a remote island in hopes that the trip will allow them to unwind and reconnect. When their plans turn on them and they wind up lost in the woods, they seek refuge with a mysterious stranger who opens their eyes to a world of desire beyond anything they have experienced before.

Entanglement | oneshot, 10.9k words ❣ Namjoon x Yoongi | ☽ ♡ ❣ best friends to lovers, confessions, loss of virginity, very little plot ↳ Namjoon is eager to finally lose his virginity and decides it would be wise if his best friend Yoongi helps him. (He is totally not in love with Yoongi, or anything…)

Pretty in Pink (Make Him Purr) | oneshot, 15k words, ☆ ❣ Yoongi x OT6 | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ established relationships, canon compliant, animal play, marathon sex, light angst, very little plot ↳ Yoongi—long-established power top of the group—secretly wishes he could shed all of his responsibility and allow the members to take care of his needs while he’s dressed in a frilly pink kitten outfit. Well, it was a secret until Namjoon discovers the outfit, pulling the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and forcing Yoongi to decide whether to show that side of himself to the rest of the guys.

Deep Spaces and Unsteady Explorations | oneshot, 6.7k words, ☆ ❣ Yoongi x Seokjin | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers, college au, light angst, very little plot ↳ Seokjin thanks his lucky stars that Yoongi is his destiny. Yoongi may not be sold on astrological alignments but he won’t deny Seokjin’s hold on him is akin to how the moon controls the tides.

Lips Like Honey | oneshot, 13.6 words ❣ Namjoon x Yoongi | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ strangers to lovers, light angst, very little plot ↳ Chef Min is easily the prettiest man Namjoon has ever seen and now Namjoon is questioning everything—including his sexuality.

Do You Want To Eat Some Ramen | oneshot, 4.1k words ❣ Yoongi x Jungkook | ♡ ☽ ❣ friends to lovers, idol au, brat taming, porn without plot ⚠ pain kink ↳ Jungkook finally gets the courage to ask Yoongi if he would like to “eat some ramen.” So when he shows up to find Yoongi literally made him ramen he’s left conflicted, disappointed, and a little bratty.

Honsool | 3 parts, 8.5k words ❣ Yoongi x Namjoon | ♡ ☽ ❣ friends to lovers, requited unrequited, snowed in au ↳ The whole group is snowed in during their winter trip and Yoongi drinks enough whiskey to finally tell Namjoon how he feels.

❥ STORIES WHERE YOONGI IS A SECONDARY CHARACTER

♡ - fluff | ☽ - smut | ☁ - angst | ✎ - wip | ☆ - personal fav

❥ MEMBER X READER

none, yet ~

❥ MEMBER X MEMBER

Lost & Found | drabble, 1.9k words ❣ Taehyung x Non-Gendered Reader (platonic) | ☁ ♡ ❣ formally Taehyung x Yoongi ❣ strangers to friends, haunted house au, angst, hint of fluff, hurt/comfort ⚠ brief description of Taehyung dying, grief - see fic warnings ↳ Taehyung just wants to be left alone. Too bad you need a place to stay.

This Sordid Place | 2 parts, 27.4k words, ☆ ❣ Namjoon x Jungkook | ♡ ☽ ❣ feat. Yoongi x Seokjin ❣ strangers to lovers, dating app au ↳ Namjoon breaks down and installs Grindr after his friends complain he is “terminally single,” despite never really being into hook ups. Jungkook is an old pro at the hookup app. Their connection is instant.

Arcade Concessions | oneshot, 14.4k words ❣ Jimin x Taehyung | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. Yoongi x Jungkook ❣ idiot friends to loves, requited unrequited, the angst is light ↳ After listening to Jimin whine one too many times about needing to get laid—and feeling the need himself—Taehyung sets the two of them up on a double date with two others. However, over the course of the date, the two of them realize that the feelings they thought were unrequited for the other are, in fact, reciprocated, accidentally third-wheeling their dates in the process.

Abyss | 5 parts, 51k words ❣ Seokjin x Taehyung x Jungkook | ♡ ☽ ☁ ❣ feat. Seokjin x Yoongi, mention of Taehyung x Namjoon ❣ friends & strangers to lovers, college au, hurt/comfort, poly ⚠ age gap, toxic relationships, intense sex without proper aftercare ↳ Campus fuckboy Taehyung likes to break hearts. After Jungkook falls victim to Taehyung’s games, Seokjin has decided that he’s going to take revenge by making Taehyung fall in love, only to give him a taste of his own medicine.

#yoongi master list #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenarios #yoongi x reader #yoongi x member

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heraldeez · 2 years

Text

Fidget Toys

Viktor x Reader | 1.8K | NSFW

Warnings/Tags: fondling, oral, facials, come sharing, and copious descriptions of touching this man’s balls.

You sneak in some quality time while Viktor deals with paperwork, and need something to keep your hands busy. Luckily, he comes equipped.

A/N: I’m not going to lie, balls are weird. But I was having many ball thoughts while at work a couple weeks back, and this little fic demanded to be written.

@dicax-asina also demanded it be written. Go thank her for being a peach and for talking with me about balls for two weeks straight. :]

—

Viktor is cradled in your lap, legs spread just enough to fit your hand between them.

He rapidly twirls one curl of hair around his finger, eyes locked on the papers in front of him, while you gently, gently rub at his balls, cupping them in your palm, stroking your thumb over the sensitive skin.

They’re soft against your hand, in direct contrast to the needy hardness that lay just above. You swirl your fingers against the light layer of downy hair, enjoying the texture of the delicate skin. It’s soothing, you decide, to play with him like this, merely enjoying the closeness without chasing its completion.

You knead at him gently, mind briefly flitting to the motion of contented cats and finding yourself feeling much the same - until Viktor emits a tiny moan, hips giving an even tinier jerk in your hold.

You pause, eyeing his tense profile, but he stares forward resolutely and takes a deep breath, composing himself in the lull of your movement.

Despite your best efforts, he’s still trying to focus on his work and ignore how you’ve been playing with him for the past half hour. You have to admire the stubbornness. He never was one to back away from a challenge.

You lean in, breath washing hot over the curve of his shoulder. This close, he can’t hide the shiver it elicits. Grinning, you press your teeth hard into his skin.

With a curse, Viktor drops his pen.

“Distracted?” you hum, peering at him expectantly.

For a moment, Viktor is quiet, staring at the pen on the floor.

“I want to come,” he confesses, voice barely stronger than a whisper. His hand raises an inch from the desk, perhaps to reach for the writing instrument. You smile when he reaches down for his cock, instead.

“Sure, you can come,” you breezily confirm, “but I’ll keep going after you do.”

His hand falters, squeezing nervously at the base of his dick. You shift your fingers to rub your thumb against his hand, while still teasing at his balls.

“You have to keep me entertained, remember? That was the deal. You’re the one who claimed you could ‘multitask’.”

Viktor swallows, uncertain.

You lean in for the kill. “I’ll finish you with my mouth, if you can hold out, darling.”

Gingerly, he pulls his hand from his cock to retrieve his pen.

“I… can multitask,” he breathes, voice gaining confidence with each word, determinedly putting pen to paper once more.

You smile smugly against his neck, and give him a small squeeze.

—

The lantern oil has grown low when Viktor sets his pen down again.

“I’m finished.”

“Oh?” you prompt, peering down at his erection. Viktor gasps when you flirt the pads of your fingers against the head of his cock, red and neglected. Though you brush over his skin just barely, you come away sticky. “You don’t look finished to me.”

“The- The paper, the report summary,” Viktor huffs, “It’s finished. I did what you asked.”

“Oh, that.” You feign surprise. “Show me?”

Viktor obediently hands it over, a bit rushed, hands shaky. Frankly, you’re not actually worried about the quality of his work. He’s obstinate enough to produce good quality, even while being fondled mercilessly.

Still, it does please you to see that his report looks brilliant, as expected.

“Very good,” you purr, abruptly pulling Viktor with you to stand.

He doesn’t question as you deposit him on the floor, laying on your back before patting your chest in invitation. With a flush growing atop his cheekbones, Viktor scoots closer so you can sling one of his legs over you, pulling him to rest just above your chin.

“I suppose you’re hoping for your reward, then?” His thighs tremble just barely as your lips brush against his balls with each word. Face red, he offers you an eager nod.

You barely have to purse your lips in displeasure before he’s verbally confirming, “Yes, yes, I - please, I want your mouth.”

His hips jerk when you stick out your tongue, laving along his skin without any further teasing. Slowly trailing up, you lick a line directly up the underside of his cock, sucking a kiss to the tip before you head back down.

The skin of his balls is soft against your lips, plush, and you hum, nuzzling in closer to lap at his seam.

You trace swirling patterns into the sensitive skin, trailing adoringly over the curvature, and Viktor’s hips begin to rock against you as he releases a shuddering exhale, relieved at the stronger stimulus after such prolonged teasing. Your hand comes up to rest at the small of his back for support, thumb rubbing gently at the lower edge of his brace, encouraging him even closer to roll his hips against you and chase his pleasure.

Pressing your face deeper, nose nudging at his balls, you sweep your tongue further to slide against his perineum, slicking the sensitive skin. His hips falter in their rhythm, a needy noise of surprise slipping through his lips.

Viktor’s hand reaches for his cock, wrapping around the base and dragging a tight stroke up, squeezing at the head indulgently. His hips kickstart back into motion at the stimulation, working himself between his hand and your mouth.

Listening to him pant, you draw back, kissing delicately over his balls before focusing your mouth on his inner thigh instead. You suck sweetly at the skin for a moment, then work it with your teeth, drawing up a bruise.

Viktor’s unoccupied hand shoots down, hissing at the sting, fingers threading through your hair. He doesn’t stop you as you bite another bruise, fingers curling and uncurling against your roots, and you can feel his cock twitch at your gentle sucking of the abused skin. A string of precome drools out from his tip, landing on your forehead, and Viktor hastily wipes it off with his thumb, muttering an apology.

You’re quick to grab his hand, tilting up so you can lap the stickiness from his thumb, carefully watching his reaction.

His eyes blow wide, staring open mouthed at your lips. Precome is already welling up again, so you crane to suck it off, swirling your tongue against his frenulum to catch it all before trailing your tongue back down.

Viktor’s already begun jerking himself again, movement desperate, and his knuckles bump against your nose as you press a kiss to his balls.

“Keep going,” you usher before he can apologize again. “I want to see you come, sweetheart, I want you to feel good.”

You gently suckle one of his balls into your mouth. Viktor cries out, eyes clenching shut and head thrown back, the combined stimulation and your words almost too much. You stare appreciatively at the mussed locks of hair pooling at the base of his neck, framing the long, alluring line of his throat. Watching him swallow, breath coming sharp.

“I- I am close, so close,” he pants, looking down at you with hazy eyes. His lips are reddened from where he’s been biting at them.

“Go on.” You don’t want to deny him his pleasure any further - you’d teased him more than enough today. “Show me.”

His fingers grow frantic on his length, whining as you continue to press sucking kisses against him while he squeezes at the tip and rocks into his own grip. Though hazy, his eyes are focused solely on you, watching overwhelmed as you slide your tongue out to cup his balls.

You can feel them draw up tight against your tongue, Viktor letting out a ragged groan of relief as he begins to come, fingers tightening in your hair. His release lands heavily across your face, ropes of white dripping down in tangible proof of his enjoyment as he continues to rub himself, dragging out the pleasure past the point of comfort.

He finally lets out a sensitive hiss and pulls his fingers from his length, surveying his work. His eyes catch on the line of come streaked across your cheek, framing where you gaze back at him in smug satisfaction, the cat that got the cream.

With a shaking hand, Viktor swipes at the mess with his first two fingers, gingerly pressing them to your bottom lip in offering.

His eyes are dark when you open your mouth, greeting his fingers with your tongue. He’s pressing deeper immediately, splaying them out to let you savor his taste, leaving you sighing in pleasure. The pads of his fingers rub against you, pressed so closely that you could memorize the texture of his fingerprints dragging over sensitive muscle, spreading come. You swirl your tongue around them to clean him up, flicking it between each finger, rubbing against the webbing all the way at their base.

Viktor gives a few gentle circles of his wrist, losing himself in the silky feel of your tongue. You swallow as his index finger slides deep, fighting not to choke, happy to let him plot out your mouth to his heart’s content.

His breath hitches at the feeling of your throat spasming around the tips of his fingers, spent cock drooling one final pearl of white in response, and he outright whines when you pull away from his fingers to suck the drip off.

Viktor’s hips buck, oversensitized, when you circle your tongue indulgently around the head to clean him up. His fingers tighten in your hair when you stick your tongue out to proudly display the come you’d gathered, eyes crinkling with glee as Viktor bursts into motion, clumsily scooting back on come-drunk limbs.

His hips align with yours, softening cock tucking snugly between you as he licks his way needily into your mouth. Viktor moans lowly at the taste of himself seeping through yours, tongue twining with your own. The kiss lingers until stars bloom behind your eyelids, breathless, Viktor taking care to lap every ounce of himself from your mouth.

When he pulls away, Viktor does it slowly, eyes glossed over with pleasure and tongue poking out just the tiniest bit over the swell of his lower lip. His eyes flick over where the rest of his come adorns your face, lazily tilting his head to drag his tongue over the length of your cheekbone, chasing his own residue to gather on his tongue.

He cleans you up like that, lapping at his own release just to feed it right back to you, groaning into the kiss as you work your tongue against his.

When you’re both panting, lips slick and sensitive, you pull back enough to sit up, dragging him with you, cradled to your chest. He’s stunning like this, flushed and sweat slick and spent, hair sticking up at odd angles. You press a final chaste kiss against his lips.

Viktor’s a bit wobbly when you back off to let him catch his breath, dazedly looking you over as well. “I… Some of it landed in your hair.” He has the decency to look guilty about it, grimacing a bit abashedly.

You pat gently at his trembling thighs. “It’s alright. I already know you’ll help me wash it out.”

#oh to use Viktor as my personal squishy toy...#i am wistful </3 #mdni #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #my work #the balls would not leave me alone #but now I have time to work on some other wips!#like the longer Viktor oneshot I'm cooking up #and the Jayce pegging drabble lol

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im-feelin-sick · 2 years

Text

GUESS WHAT, it’s more Pokémon AU, and this time it’s a fic. Special thanks to @that-kangaroo-fish for much plotting and conniving. Call this part one out of ???

(1/?)

“You heard that too, right?”

Devi glances at Grafaifai, who stands at attention. Its giant ears twitch, and Devi isn’t sure if she’s relieved to not be imagining things again, or if she’s horrified that something unknown is in the room. The latter seems most urgent, but she doesn’t want to be scared. Scared meant being stupid. Stupid meant slipping up.

Careful not to spill her cup of instant noodles, Devi stands from the couch and looks around the apartment. Grafaifai joins her, leaving sticky paint trails across the apartment. That’s fine. Devi’s long given up on getting her deposit back, and Tenna knows to avoid the toxic paint marks. And Tenna’s the only one who ever comes around.

Well, usually. Devi squints and stops to listen. It could just be some stray Dedenne, searching through Devi’s barren pantry. That’s the best case scenario. And Devi knows that she doesn’t get best case scenarios. Instead, she’s probably looking for the worst case scenario, which is…

Johnny Fucking C.

He stalks her. She knows he does. She sees him out the corners of her knife-sharp eyes, as he peeks through windows. When she dares to venture out (usually for food,) she picks out his too-polite reedy voice from crowds. It’s one of many constant reminders that she’s never safe. Not even here, in her own home.

Devi clings harder to her instant noodles. Unfortunately, even spicy ramen didn’t make for much of a weapon, but Devi still wields her cup like it can make a difference. It’s basically pepper spray, right? The baseball bat’s by the door, but she doesn’t want to turn her back on the noise. Grafaifai’s sticking close to her side anyway, ready to attack.

There’s another rustling noise, and Devi snaps her focus on it like a whip. It’s in the kitchen. Whatever it is, it sounds too small for Nny, but she’s terrified anyway. Grafaifai, normally not allowed in food preparation areas, climbs onto the counter and tenses.

A cupboard swings open, to reveal something purple and twitchy, and several things happen at once.

Purple thing, a Sableye, waves its hands in some wild gesture, and makes chirping noises. Meanwhile, Devi throws her noodles and hot broth onto it, and Grafaifai pounces. The noodles hit. Grafaifai doesn’t, and instead leaves neon green smears everywhere and pulls the cupboard door off of one hinge.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” Devi screams, and Sableye does some kind of noodle-covered dance. With a single sharp claw, it points to itself. Devi picks up an old bottle of hot sauce and throws it, because yeah, it’s not Nny, but she sure does recognize it as Nny’s Pokémon. His favorite one- the one that followed him everywhere- a fucking fidgety gremlin that probably snuck in to finish what Nny attempted.

Sableye dodges the bottle, and a dirty dish, and then a banana, all while waving its hands and shaking its head. It makes a stabbing motion, and then crosses its arms into an X-shape. Hissing, Grafaifai tackles Sableye again. This time, he lands right on top. The two roll around on the ground while Devi searches for another makeshift weapon.

“Out,” she repeats, with more poison in her voice than in Grafaifai’s paint. Sableye cringes at the tone, and slips out from under Grafaifai. With a snarl, Grafaifai chases Sableye, until Sableye leaps on top of a bookcase. Now covered in noodles and paint, it resumes its gesticulating. This time it points to Devi and makes a stabbing motion- a pretty terrible look for Sableye. Devi’s face pales, as she picks up a kitchen knife with a shaky hand.

Grafaifai seems not to mind so much, watching Sableye with narrowed eyes. The Pokémon chatter at each other. Devi doesn’t understand either of them, but she slows down. As she holds up the knife, Sableye sweats and gestures even faster.

“Sableye, Sableye,” it chirps. It points at itself. It shakes its head, then stabs its finger at the ground. It points at Devi.

Didn’t

Attack

You.

Devi starts to understand, but she won’t trust one of Nny’s Pokémon. Not after that night. She steps closer to Sableye, looking fiercer than ever now that she has a real weapon.

With giant gem eyes, Sableye stares at her for a moment, before grimacing, holding up its hands, and backing away toward the wall. Grafaifai copies Devi and stalks its way closer to Sableye, who decides it’s not time to fuck around and find out. It leaps down, and digs at Devi’s floor. Sableye’s claws, designed to tear through rock, make quick work and like a soggy tissue holding up an anvil, the wooden planks collapse. Sableye drops through the hole in a cloud of asbestos, splinters, and cold noodles.

The room goes still and silent. Devi finally takes a careful step toward the new hole in her living room, peering down into it along with Grafaifai.

“Hey!” calls out a familiar voice, “New shortcut to my place! Nice!”

Tenna stands below, grinning, with Sableye in her arms. Spooky, her Duskull, bobs merrily through the air. Devi blinks a few times, coughs, and exchanges a look with Grafaifai.

She yells back down,“That’s Johnny’s Sableye!”

“The homicidal dumbass of a gym leader?”

“That’s the one!”

“Oh fuck!” Tenna looks down at Sableye, and then back up. “This guy is so cute though! Aren’t you the most adorable widdle murderer’s pet!” Tenna pinches Sableye’s cheek, and it has the goddamn idea to look smug and snuggle into Tenna’s arms. Then again, that might just be an effort to protect itself from Devi’s wrath.

“That widdle guy fucking tried to kill me!”

“This widdle widdle guy?”

“Yeah!” But Devi isn’t so sure anymore. Sure, a lot of Johnny’s Pokémon attacked her. She tries not to remember it. But she can’t remember Sableye being part of them. “Wait- maybe not, maybe it was just him and different Pokémon?”

“Widdle Guy is not a killer,” Tenna decides, as she pets Sableye. The positive attention melts a grin onto Sableye’s face. The apartment is a total mess. Tenna trusts Sableye. There’s a giant hole in the floor. Devi groans, and Grafaifai copies the noise.

“Oh, wow,” Tenna laughs, “he smells like ramen!”

#jthm #johnny the homicidal maniac #nny #devi d #devnny #my art #my writing #Pokémon AU #im writing this out of chronological order and you all get to deal

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biillyhargroves · 2 years

Note

if you’re looking for eddie/billy/steve prompts… what about the three of them post s4 finale? just steve and billy taking care of eddie? i’m truly just a sucker for hurt/comfort we know this

this has been sitting in my inbox for far too long, it's time to feed our collective need for hurt/comfort (because girl same, it's my lifeblood). i present to you: soft bois.

it's you i can't deny (fic requests open)

"Woah, hey." Strong arms lock around Eddie's middle before he registers that Billy is there, that he's spotted Eddie gingerly picking his away around the edge of the kitchen counter. Eddie's whole body aches, angry wounds pulling at taught stitches, skin hot and red beneath his borrowed t-shirt — one of Billy's, sun-bleached and smelling faintly of chlorine and cigarettes. "Easy," Billy says, voice soft and low. "Easy. I got you."

Eddie swallows thickly as Billy hauls him upright. He presses him palms against the formica, tries to free Billy of his weight, hyper-aware of the scars splattered across Billy's own chest, his belly, his ribs. The skin there is thick and rough, the wounds healed, but Eddie knows they still give Billy trouble, that they're still sore and painful when he twists the wrong way or strains the still-strengthening muscles beneath.

"Sorry," he murmurs, face flushed, embarrassment and guilt shown in splotchy shades of pink.

Billy's grip loosens, his hands settling on Eddie's hips, holding him steady. "The hell were you doing?"

"I was just..." Eddie starts, then trails off. He glances across the kitchen, zeroed in the white paper bag stamped Melvald's perched by the fruit basket. Wayne had handed it to him on his way out the door, reminded Eddie not to overdo it with the pain pills, recited the dosages to Billy before they left. Billy follows his gaze and sighs.

"C'mere," Billy says, hooking arm around Eddie, mindful of the stitches and the gauze patchworked over every angry wound. He pulls Eddie to him and Eddie twists slightly, slings an arm over Billy's shoulders.

"I'm okay," he says, trying to lean away, but Billy holds fast, and Eddie is too tired to fight him. He relents, lets Billy guide him back into the living room. Eddie's legs are shaky beneath him, and the further the walk the tighter Billy's grasp becomes.

"You're supposed to be resting," Billy chides as he deposits Eddie onto the couch.

Eddie grabs onto Billy's arm before he can turn away, fingers sliding down to Billy's wrist and twining with Billy's own. He squeezes Billy's hand and mutters an only mildly petulant, "So are you."

Billy doesn't let go of Eddie's hand, but he does crouch down beside him, uses his free hand to lift the hem of Eddie's shirt. Eddie winces as the cool air hits his skin, tries not to flinch when Billy's touch ghosts over stomach.

"I'm not held together like a fuckin' rag doll," Billy says. Eddie can't bite back, not at this. The doctors say the sutures are stuck there for another few weeks, at least. Billy inspects the damage, gentle as he slips his hand around Eddie's sides, tilting his head to get a better look. "You didn't pull any stitches."

"That's good," Eddie says. "Right?"

"They're only staying in place if you do," Billy reminds him.

Eddie frowns, opens his mouth to retort, but Steve's voice comes out — "Look who's talking." — as he pads into the room. He smells like the same soft-scented soap that Billy does. He rests a hand on Billy's shoulder when he's close enough, juts his chin toward Eddie. "What happened? You okay?"

Billy stands, squeezes Eddie's hand once before letting go and retreating into the kitchen. Steve settles on the couch beside Eddie, helps him smooth his shirt back down, snakes one arm around Eddie's shoulder and tugs him close.

"Does it hurt?" Steve asks, hand hovering over Eddie's chest, his touch always feather-light, as if applying any pressure will split Eddie at his seams.

Eddie wants to play it cool. He watches Billy's shadow moving in the kitchen, thinks about the way he's borne his pain, the grit it must take to move so smoothly despite the depth of his scars. Eddie has seen Billy falter when he thinks no one's looking, the mask slipping down. He hadn't been there for Starcourt, hadn't seen Billy at his worst, his weakest, but he can guess what it was like, how frustrated he must have been. He sees whispers of it in the early mornings, when he is stiff and achy and Steve always hovers close.

He thinks of Steve, strong and steady beside him, still-healing wounds that look a lot like Eddie's hidden beneath the terrycloth of his Hawkins High sweatshirt. He's poured all of his energy into Eddie, into Billy. But Eddie has cleaned his wounds for him, and he's seen Steve curl into the safety of Billy's arms at night.

"Hm?" Steve hums, tugging Eddie a little closer. Even that soft syllable says, Don't lie.

Eddie lets his head fall against Steve's shoulder and nods. Steve smooths back Eddie's hair, kisses his temple lightly. When Billy returns with a couple of capsules, Steve holds his hand out to take them. He hands them to Eddie as Billy settles at Eddie's other side, offering a water bottle once the pills are on Eddie's tongue. Eddie takes a healthy swig, coughs a little, lets Billy rub his back until his chest stops spasming.

"Thanks," he says softly, and then he yawns and Billy sidles closer. Eddie shifts in his spot, nestles between Billy and Steve, safe and secure with them at each side.

#wndasmaximoffs #answered #harringroveson #stedilly #stilldie #metalsandwich #just some lil babies #being cuties

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greta-van-chaos · 2 years

Note

“did i say you could stop?” for the smut blurbs, perhaps w joshua 😏

eee I was hoping i'd get this one! Its a pretty generic plot but i thought it was fun!

Warnings | Explicit sexual content, cursing, m masturbation

You got off early today from work and decided against telling Josh, hoping that you could surprise him. You expected Josh to be puttering around the house, probably cleaning or cooking, maybe even utilizing his home studio but when you enter the house and toe of your shoes you aren't expecting a quiet house with all of the lights off.

"Josh?" You call out for him but not too loud, maybe he's sleeping?

Slowly you work your way through the house, setting down your keys in the dish by the door, depositing your lunch containers in the sink and then heading upstairs.

The door to your shared bedroom is closed, not a usual sight in your house and you can't help but press your ear against the wood, noticing a thin sliver of light shining from under the door.

There's music playing so Josh is most definitely behind the unusually closed door and upon further listening you strain to hear his soft breathing and occasional moans.

Cracking the door open you softly push it until Josh is in your line of sight. He's sprawled out on the bed, bare chested with a pair of grey sweat shoved haphazardly around his hips. His hand is working quickly over his bare cock.

"Hey baby." You whisper, moving further into the room and allowing your presence to be known.

His eyes flick up to you in shock and he halts his movements, a blush tinging his cheeks, "Hey mama, I didn't realize you were home." His voice is shaky, just above a whisper and you assume it's all he can manage.

"Did I say you could stop? Let me see you Joshy, keep going."

(i feel like this needs a part two)

subtle smut sentence starters

Short fic requests are now closed. I might start doing one day of the week where I open requests for shortfics and write a ton! What do we think of that?

#ask mars #greta van fleet #josh kiska #josh kiszka x reader #gvf #jake kiszka #danny wagner #sam kiszka #josh kiszka #gvf x reader #greta van fleet x reader #danny gvf #jake gvf #josh gvf #sam gvf

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kasienda · 2 years

Text

When You Love Someone (Let them Go)

A Miraculous Reveal

Note: This is the one shot Love Square version of chapter 9 of Right Behind You that was edited to stand alone. Break Up Fic. Lots of Love here, but not a happy ending.

Read on Ao3

When You Love Someone (Let Them Go)

Adrien exalted in the feeling of vaulting from building to building as Chat Noir. He focused solely on the placement of his baton to guide his movement across Paris’s skyline, and the sensation of the air sliding through his unstyled hair.

It was freeing.

It reminded him that he was alive.

He landed in a crouch at his and Ladybug’s usual rendezvous point half an hour early with only a small amount of trepidation. After working with her for nine years, he knew she wasn’t going to be pleased with him. She never was after he had sacrificed himself in the middle of an akuma battle. It never mattered that it was often the only way to keep her in the fight.

And according to Plagg, this sacrifice had been more terrible than normal. He hadn’t been zapped out of existence or turned into an inanimate object. He had apparently actually died, saved only by Carapace’s endurance and Ladybug’s miraculous cure.

So he settled on the edge of the building half an hour early, prepping himself to reassure that he was totally and completely fine. That he wasn’t affected by this mere setback, that he would always be there at her side. She needed that confidence, even if it was a lie because he knew that she was struggling.

With what, he didn’t exactly know, but she needed something more than she was currently getting, and he promised himself that he would do everything he could to support her.

He hadn’t been sitting long when he was tackled from behind in a bear hug.

He laughed and turned around. “Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s early today. Eager to see me, m’lady?” he teased, pulling back just enough to pull her hand to his lips, depositing a kiss on her knuckles, as he searched her face.

She was not smiling at him, and her eyes watered at the same time.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, as he released her hand.

“Am I alright?!” she repeated incredulously. “Are you alright?!”

“I’m fine! I swear I’ve survived worse.”

She glanced away, but she wasn’t fast enough. He saw the tear slip down her cheek. “I’m not sure that’s true this time.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “I don’t know what to say. I’m fine now.”

And then she smiled brightly, but her tears were still falling. He wanted to wipe them away. He didn’t.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I was really worried about you. Carapace was too.”

“He was?” Adrien asked, his eyebrows scrunched together in surprise.

“He yelled at me,” she admitted, a blush blooming across her face.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“No! He was right! I… I sometimes feel like I’m not the best at being Ladybug.” Her shoulders dropped and her face fell.

“What are you talking about? You’ve literally never lost! And you’ve had to decipher some cryptic lucky charms.”

She blushed under his praise, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“Last night, I didn’t do a good job,” she said softly, “I just wanted it to be over, and I tried to rush it. And you were the one that almost paid the price.”

“LB, I’m fine.”

“But you weren’t. You died. You actually died.”

Her breathing quickened, and her eyes went wild.

He put a hand on her shoulder, leaning into her line of sight.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Her wide blue eyes swiveled to him, but her breaths still came in shallow rapid pulses. She grabbed onto his arms, clinging to him like a baby chimpanzee clung to its mother, trembling like a leaf in an autumn storm.

“Breathe,” he urged, their gazes locked on one another.

She took in a shaky breath, and he smiled his encouragement. She took in another.

And then another.

And then her panic broke, and she threw herself into his embrace and just cried.

He rubbed her back and held her until she calmed.

“Have they been bad?” he whispered when she stopped shaking.

She nodded. “I can’t break them when you’re not here anymore,” she admitted. “I’ve tried everything. They can last for twenty or thirty minutes.”

He squeezed her tighter, his own eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish I could be there all the time.”

She pulled away, and he reluctantly let her go. She scrubbed the tear tracks from her face. “It’s not your fault,” she said.

His heart fell. He wished that they could reveal to one another, but she had told him years and years ago that it could lead to the end of all things. The hardest part of that revelation for him had been that he couldn’t be there for her when she needed more than he could give her as Chat Noir.

He pulled her slowly into his side. She nestled next to him, with her head on his shoulder and he let himself hold her. She didn’t speak, and he felt no inclination to break the silence between them. Sometimes, words just weren’t needed.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Are you okay?”

“Better now. It’s better to see you, to feel you, and know you’re okay.”

He squeezed her tighter. The close calls were always hard on both of them. And over the years, there had unfortunately been more than a few of them.

“Carapace gave you CPR for like an hour before the ladybugs healed everything,” she said, her voice toneless. “Plagg said that if he hadn’t kept your heart going, the ladybugs wouldn’t have worked.”

Adrien sucked in a breath. “What?” he exhaled. “But why wouldn’t they have worked?” he asked. Her ladybugs had brought him back before. Granted, his peril had always been of the “turned into a statue” or “blinked out of existence” variety, but he had been no less gone.

She hunched into a ball, still rolled into his side. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, “but Tikki admitted that he was likely right. She said that the ladybugs would have healed your body, but that your soul would have already been gone. Apparently, it works better when your body is completely destroyed. She said she couldn’t explain it.”

She trembled in his arms, but one glance at her face told him it was due to her tears and not another panic attack, so he just held her and she cried harder.

He knew there was nothing to be done except to let her cry herself out, so he just rocked her in place. “I’m okay,” he assured. “I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked.

“For?”

“For falling to pieces when you were the one that died.”

“For trying to rush that battle,” she continued. “I don’t know what I would have done if Carapace hadn’t been there. If the Ladybugs hadn’t worked. I wouldn’t have survived it.”

“Please don’t say that.”

She looked at him then. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He could see the bags under her eyes even through the mask.

“I wouldn’t have. And I’m still so mad at myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he insisted.

“But it was!” she bit out harshly.

He shook his head. “We agreed long ago that it’s all Hawkmoth’s responsibility.”

“This was different though,” she growled. “I made the wrong decision, not because I thought I was right, but because I was feeling resentful and lazy!”

“You are not lazy!” he growled. “We all have days when the Akumas are the last thing any of us want to deal with.”

But it was like his words fell on deaf ears.

“My judgment is compromised,” she concluded, her gaze turned towards the city below them, but her eyes were clouded and unfocused.

“We all have bad days,” he insisted again.

“I only seem to have bad days.”

He frowned. “This is more than last night, isn’t it? What’s this actually about? What’s wrong?”

She sighed, and her shoulders dropped. He had never seen her so worn down, so defeated. “I just… keep having these thoughts. Like why do I have to work so hard, why do I have to sacrifice everything, so everyone else can be safe?”

He squeezed his eyes shut against her words, willing his own tears to stay back. She needed him in this moment.

“I don’t know, LB,” he whispered. “I don't know.

“Do you think this will ever be over?” she asked, her voice quiet and hoarse.

“We haven’t had a lead in awhile, but that doesn’t mean we’ll never have a lead again.”

“Three years. And Hawkmoth doesn’t seem like the type to give up no matter how many times he fails because he only has to win once. It doesn’t matter how many times he fails. We have to be fucking perfect.”

“Tell me what you need,” he begged, clutching her hand within both of his own. “What can I do? I want to support you, LB. You know that I do. I will do anything.”

The wind was cold and biting, and Ladybug was once again staring into the distance without seeing.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she finally whispered.

The world seemed to shrink around him, pressing down from all sides. He forgot how to breathe even as his heart took off like a herd of wild horses.

“Wh-what are you saying?” he managed, his voice sounding strangled even in his own ears.

“I’m sure it’s just a phase. I’ll be fine,” she said, pasting on a false smile, and it might have worked if he didn’t know her so well, if he wasn’t an expert at fake smiles himself.

“I am a good Ladybug, or at least I was. But I’ve turned into something I don’t like as the Guardian.”

His heart sank with every word. She wasn’t okay. And he knew from his own experience that she wasn’t going to be.

Not without something changing drastically.

“I’m paranoid. I don’t trust anyone,” she continued. He wondered when the last time she had truly unburdened herself like this, or if this was the first time. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Surely, she could at least talk to her kwami.

But would Tikki understand?

“And I can’t be completely honest with anyone in my life either. My relationships with my friends and family feel hollow. Like I’m just going through the motions. It doesn’t feel real,” she said, staring blankly into the distance.

“And they can tell. They keep reaching out to me, and I love them for that, but they can tell that I’m not reciprocating, and it takes longer for them to try again. I’m so scared that someday they’ll stop trying all together.” She turned back to him then. “I’m amazed that any of them still do! I certainly don’t like the shadow I’ve become, so why would anyone else?!”

“Can you not be yourself as Ladybug?” he asked.

“I am! And I’m not. I don’t know how to explain it. You’re the only person in my life that I trust anymore, Chaton. And I can’t share everything with you either.”

He wished he had something to say. He wanted to tell her that she could tell him everything. He would listen, he would support her, but he knew she wouldn’t ever risk it.

“I don’t feel like a good leader. I don’t think long term. I just react to the situation in front of me. I rely on the rules because they’re all I have, but I apply them inconsistently or am constantly taking short cuts. I’m literally risking the lives of my friends and teammates to spare myself an hour of time during an akuma battle? And I hate myself, but I keep making the same choice.

“And I’m not thinking about how to defeat Hawkmoth,” she continued, “or even just how to find him. I’m just trying to survive the next minute, and sometimes, I can’t even face that.”

She stopped talking then. And he waited to be certain that she was finished. But she didn’t continue.

“You’re being awfully hard on yourself, my lady,” he told her, praying that she would hear him, and more importantly that she would believe him. “This is hard, and you’re only human. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“Master Fu managed to keep the miraculous a secret for almost two centuries!”

“You’re comparing yourself to a man who had more than a century of practice. You don’t know how many times he messed up during all that time. And he wasn’t also fighting battles on the front lines at the same time.”

“Yeah… but I think the problem is I don’t want it. I don’t even want to be Ladybug anymore.”

His eyes watered. He feared his words weren’t going to be enough, but they were all he had. And he had to try.

“I got a job offer overseas awhile back,” she said. “It was such an opportunity for exactly what I want to do, right after I didn’t get a job in Paris. I didn’t even apply for the job. A firm here in Paris just passed it along to them. No one in my life understood why I didn’t take it. And I wish with every bone in my body that I could’ve gone. And since then, this only feels like a ball and chain weighing me down. I feel like I’ll never really get to live my life.”

“I’m so tired of fighting. I’m tired of secrets. We are no closer to defeating Hawkmoth than we were when we started. And it’s been almost a decade! When do I get to live my life?!”

He yanked her into his arms, the tears now flowing freely over his mask.

He knew what he needed to say. But he didn’t want to. It was going to rip out his own heart to give this to her.

But he had never been able to deny her anything.

Even when it cost him.

“You don’t have to, you know,” he said, proud of himself for how steady his words came out.

“What?”

“I know what it feels like to feel suffocated and trapped. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, m’lady. Least of all you. You don’t have to keep being the Guardian. Or even…” his voice cracked, but he forced himself to keep going. “Or even Ladybug.”

He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t even want to think about her forgetting him.

But more than that, he wanted her to be okay. He wanted her to have a chance to breathe, to heal, and to be happy again.

He would make any sacrifice to let her have that.

“You do realize that if I stop being the guardian, I won’t remember ever being Ladybug, right?”

He didn’t try to stop his tears. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t want you to go. And I don’t want you to forget me. But you can’t choose based on what’s best for me, m’lady. You have to choose what’s best for you. And if that’s a price you’re willing to pay… then who am I to say no?”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. He had to look away, unable to face the surprise on her face. Did she think he wouldn’t support her in every way possible? Did she really think that he would prioritize what he wanted over what she needed?

A second later her arms slammed around his torso and he almost tipped over before he managed to restabilize both of them. “I have no idea what I ever did to deserve you?!”

He let his arms circle around her. His grip tightened each second they held each other, suddenly terrified this might be the last time he held her.

She squeezed back just as hard.

Maybe she feared the same thing.

“Would you want it?” she finally asked.

“The guardianship?” he asked, still clinging to her. “I will take it if you need me to, but I don’t know if I’d be a good leader.”

“I think you’d be better at it than me,” she whispered, pulling away.

He missed her already.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You talk about only following rules, but you think with your brain. I tend to just react - I think with my heart and my gut. And in the moment, that’s often helpful, but making strategic long term decisions?” he shrugged. “That’s not my strength.”

She didn’t say anything for a minute, considering him with a thoughtful expression. “I will think about it. I haven’t really made up my mind.”

He nodded stoically. But it was clear she craved the freedom. Clear that she needed an escape. He knew what she would choose.

And it had never been him.

“I promise if I decide to give it up I will come talk to you,” she said, rising to her feet.

He nodded. “Of course.” His throat felt tight.

“Chaton?”

He cocked his head toward her. His head on his knees.

“I love you.”

He closed his eyes against her words.

“I know I’ve never been able to give you what you wanted or what you needed,” she said.

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought possible,” he confessed. He never wanted to ask for more than she was willing to give.

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But I want you to have even more. You deserve the absolute best.”

He couldn’t look at her, and a few minutes later the familiar zip of her yoyo announced her departure.

He remained sitting and unmoving on the top of that tower long after the sun had set. Somehow, his eyes remained dry.

…

A week had gone by since he and Ladybug had talked, and it was like nothing had changed. There had been only one akuma that week, and it had been easily dealt with. She had been in rare form during the battle, smiling and joyful, like she was enjoying the role for the first time in years. She seemed tired, but lighter and he was relieved. He found himself hoping that something had shifted for her, and that she would stay.

But they hadn’t talked about it and he was terrified of bringing it up. And then she had asked him for this meeting so they could talk and his fears were rumbling in his gut all over again.

He didn’t want things to change. Not between him and Ladybug. But he promised himself he would support her in whatever decision she made even if didn’t want her to leave. Even if he couldn’t contemplate doing this without her, couldn’t imagine ever filling her role on the team.

For her, he would try.

He sighed, letting his masked face fall backwards, peering at the darkening sky overhead that was filled with thick gray clouds. He hoped it wouldn’t rain, but that was probably wishful thinking on his part.

As was hoping she wanted to talk to him about anything other than her leaving.

He heard her arrival before he saw her. The zip of her yo-yo was a sound he associated with her and had somehow become one of the best sounds in the world.

She landed lightly next to him, and sat down beside him. She sat so close there was almost no space between them.

She didn’t say anything. She just followed his gaze and stared into the overcast sky that was growing darker by the minute. He couldn’t identify her expression. She was smiling slightly, but her eyes were sad. Her fingers curled into his gloved hand and he squeezed back, her silence telling him everything he needed to know.

He glanced down at their joined hands.

“You’re leaving.” They were the only words he managed before his throat lodged close and his eyes welled with tears.

And then she was crying, too. He untangled their fingers so he could wrap an arm around her. She found his other hand a second later and clung to it harder than he could ever remember.

He smiled gently. “I’m really going to miss you.”

She crumpled into a ball again at him. “I'm going to miss you, too,” she sobbed. “So much.”

He held her tightly. “I appreciate the sentiment, bug. But you won’t.”

Her cries intensified and he just rocked her for several moments until eventually she calmed. “I’m sure some corner of my heart will remember. And I will definitely miss you,” she said, her voice raw.

He squeezed her tighter. “I’m really proud of you,” he told her.

Her eyes blew open, and she stared at him like he had grown a third set of ears. “What?! You’re proud of me for quitting?!”

He nodded. “I’m proud of you for doing what you always do. Looking an impossible situation in the face, and the deciding what needs to be done and just doing it. No matter how much it costs you. You are so brave.”

Her eyes glanced away. “I don’t feel brave.”

He shrugged. “I just tell it like I see it.” He knew there would be no convincing her, so he didn’t elaborate. “What’s the plan?” he asked instead, knowing she wouldn’t tell him she was leaving until she had all the details worked out.

“I’ve been training Carapace this week to take on the Guardianship.”

He was so thrown, the sentence didn’t compute for a second.

“What? Carapace? Why him?”

And even before she answered he realized he only felt relief. He had been terrified to take on the role himself, and he had been just as terrified he would have an unfamiliar face that he had to train.

But Nino? He was prepared and experienced with the miraculous. Adrien trusted him through and through already. And Adrien could see Nino slipping into the Guardian role so seamlessly, Adrien wondered how he hadn’t considered the possibility before.

“There’s a lot of sensible reasons why he’s a good fit, but honestly, I chose him for one reason only.” She paused, her eyes looking right up at him. “If I gave it to you, you’d be all alone. So I had to give it to someone else, and he’s the only person I trust to protect you even more than I would.”

He sucked in a breath, and his heart squeezed in his chest.

She turned back to the cloud-filled sky.

“He also has a good balance with what you talked about before. He thinks with his head, but he also sees us all as real people.”

Chat Noir nodded, but he didn’t say anything not trusting his ability to form words.

“Thank you,” she said into the silence.

His eyebrows furrowed together under his mask. “What for?”

“For letting me go? You always were too good to me. And I’ve only been selfish.”

“You are not selfish!”

“This feels selfish.”

He took her hand again and squeezed it tightly. “LB, you’ve been at this for nine years. Serving the city in secret takes its toll. It bleeds into every part of your life. It’s hard on your relationships, your school work, your career. You’ve done almost a decade of service. If your heart's not in it anymore, you’re allowed to retire… go live your own life for you.”

Her eyes turned glassy. “How did I not fall in love with you right in the beginning?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I have no idea,” his voice glib, even as his heart tore into shreds.

She didn’t laugh. “I was an idiot!”

His eyes squeezed shut. “Please stop,” he begged.

A single tear slipped over her mask before she could wipe it away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “I’m being selfish again.”

“You’re not!” he insisted harshly. “You’re being honest.” He considered her for a moment before he turned his attention back to the swirling clouds. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe if someone who wants to do the job takes up the mantle, we’ll do even better. And this is the most selfless thing you could do. Take your ego out of it.”

She clung to his transformed hand. “You always see me in the best light.”

“You deserve it.”

And for once she didn’t argue. He was grateful for small mercies.

She hugged him fiercely instead. “Thank you for always having my back,” she whispered into his ear. “For teaching me what real love looks like. And for everything! It doesn’t seem like enough to say.”

And she was crying again. He hugged her back, breathing in the scent of her hair and trying to memorize what it felt like to have her form pressed against his own, knowing the memory of their current embrace might have to last him for a lifetime.

“And thank you for giving me an ideal to live up to,” he murmured into her hair. “For being my dearest friend, for trusting me for all these years, and for trusting me to take care of your city in your stead,” he said.

She tucked her head under his chin, like he alone could shelter her from the storm that was brewing above.

“I have one last selfish thing to ask of you,” she whispered.

“Anything,” he promised, leaning his cheek into her hair.

“I want to tell you who I am.”

He tensed for a moment, and pulled away enough that he could see her face. Her bright blue eyes stared back unerringly. And his heart twisted in his chest.

At least this way he wouldn’t have to wonder if he would ever see her again.

He nodded. “As long as I can reciprocate?”

Her eyes clouded and she hesitated. “Are you trying to change my mind?”

He shook his head. “Never! But you’re allowed to if you want.”

“I… don’t…”

“It’s okay, bug. There’s no pressure here.”

“Thank you for that. I just... I wanted you to know who I am because I want to continue to be in your life. I want you to be able to find me, and I know I won’t remember, but…”

“I understand,” he said, cutting her off. “You can tell me if you want. You don’t have to.”

“I want to!” she exclaimed. Her excitement was so clear he suspected that she had hated the secret as much as he had since the beginning even without threats of the end of the world hanging over their heads.

She peered up at him, biting her lip, fidgeting nervously.

He grinned. He hadn’t seen this side of her in a long time.

“So… I guess it’s just easier to show you,” she said, leaning back. “Tikki, spots off.”

He closed his eyes. It was an ingrained habit by now. And she laughed, shaking his arm. “You’re supposed to look!”

He took another breath and forced his eyes open, and stared at her familiar face in shock. “Mari…?”

She grinned.

“I’m such an idiot!”

Her smile widened. “I always wondered if you knew more than you were admitting when you started showing up regularly on my balcony.”

He laughed. “You give me too much credit.”

“I think I didn’t give you enough credit,” she countered softly, her smile falling and her gaze returning to her now bare hands. She shivered, not dressed for the weather.

He reached forward and took her hand, praying her smile would return.

“I had another reason for feeling comfortable on your balcony, Marinette.”

She looked up at him with arched eyebrows.

“Plagg, claws in.”

Her eyes dilated and her mouth dropped open.

And goodness, he felt so vulnerable in front of her, like he had been stripped naked.

She seized him in another hug.

“Adrien!! I’m so glad it’s you.”

“You are?”

“There’s no way I’m going to stop being a part of Adrien’s life! This honestly explains so much. Why being Chat Noir has always been so important to you,” she rambled. “I’m so sorry. I was so blind.” Tears fell down her face once again.

He brushed them away with the pad of his thumb. “It’s not like I wasn’t just as blind,” he soothed. “I can’t believe you’ve been right here this whole time. I feel like I should have figured it out.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

“It was hard for me to hear about Marinette leaving for New York,” he admitted. “Especially when I knew Ladybug might be leaving, too.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Actually, it makes it easier.”

She scrunched her eyebrows in confusion.

“I understand why Marinette didn’t go before. And why she needs to now. I can be happy for the freedom you’re gaining.”

“How are you always so sweet?!” she whined. “I’ll have you know I had the biggest crush on you since the day you gave me your umbrella in the rain and that continued all the way through lycee! So big and embarrassing that I kept saying no to my amazing partner even though I knew he was crazy about me.”

“Really?!” he asked, laughing. “I hated that boy! For not seeing you. I guess I only have myself to blame.”

When he gave her his umbrella? He racked his brain. He had only done that once. But that was the day they met. She’d loved him for that long? They’d loved each other for that long?

“I guess you did fall in love with me right at the beginning after all,” he said softly, wanting to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

She smiled sadly. “But we never lined up at the right time. I’m sorry.”

And now they never would. Because she was going to forget so much of their time together.

But… she wouldn’t forget all of it. She would remember Adrien.

He pulled her into another hug. “I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything, m’lady.”

And it was true. He loved her. And loving her had changed him. He had needed her light in his world where he didn’t know what affection looked like.

“Me neither, Chaton,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “Me neither.”

He pulled back. “Will Marinette remember me?” he asked urgently.

She frowned. “What do you mean? I should remember Adrien from how I understand it. The memory loss protection has to be subtle - if it’s not, it’s too easy to identify former guardians by anyone who knows how the magic works.”

He shook his head. “I mean, I know you’re going to forget Ladybug. And all the time you spent with Chat Noir as Ladybug, but will you remember the random times that Chat Noir showed up on your balcony and hung out with Marinette?”

“I…” and she shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know? I hope so.”

“I hope so, too.” He pulled her back into the hug.

“Are you scared?” he asked. “To forget?”

“Terrified,” she whispered. “Being Ladybug… it has been such a defining part of me for so long. I wonder if I will change without those memories.”

The both sat back down on the rooftop’s edge with their feet dangling over the edge as they had countless times before. Only this time there were no suits, no masks between them.

This one time only.

“Perhaps, we could come up with some work around,” he suggested. “Maybe you don’t have to give up being the Guardian technically. You could just… I don’t know, leave the box with Nino. Show him how to access it.”

She smiled sadly. “It’s a nice idea, but Nino can only be the Guardian if he bonds with the box. That’s what will allow him to summon a miraculous straight to the field. And the box is like a miraculous itself - it gives you the power to be able to see people’s auras.”

“What?”

“It gives you a sense about people, and it helps you whether they’d be good holders or not. It’s gradual. I didn’t even notice it at first.”

“We have enough holders already,” he countered. “We don’t need this ability.”

“He has to choose a new Ladybug,” she said softly.

“You could choose a new Ladybug before you go,” he insisted.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she took his hands. “Chaton, I wish I knew of another way. Or at least a way, where you didn’t have to pay this price. But I won’t go and not make sure that you and Nino have every single advantage and tool I can give you. Do you understand?”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” he insisted petulantly. It wasn’t fair. Not to her, and not to him either.

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I know. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?” Her eyes turned glassy.

His eyes widened, and he reached for her. “There’s nothing to forgive!” he insisted. “Nothing,” he repeated when she remained silent.

She nodded, and her chin shook. “I love you,” she choked out.

He yanked her into his arms. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I love you, too.”

“This is good-bye?” she asked.

His whole body shook like an earthquake, and he held her tighter. “Goodbye m’lady,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She pulled away, tears streaming freely in thin rivulets down her cheeks. “And I hope you find the love you long for. Someone who can be for you what I never was.”

She leaned forward and kissed him gently. It was soft and it was warm. He breathed in the floral scent of her hair. He tried to stay in that moment forever, but she was already pulling away. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, savoring the only kiss from his lady that he remembered. The memory would have to last him a lifetime.

Then she was gone.

And Adrien was alone. His stomach dropped like an avalanche, and his whole body crumpled like tissue paper. The cry that tore past his lips didn’t sound human. He didn’t have words for the maelstrom of grief that overtook him.

He didn’t fight the raw wracking grief. He wanted to feel this pain.

Tomorrow, he would find the strength to stand up once again as he had so many times before. And this time, he would do it for her. He would protect all of Paris in her stead so that she could be free.

#ladynoir #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #identity reveal #break up fic #lots of love #no happy ending #a miraculous reveal #my own content

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some-kindofgnome · 3 years

Text

Hitoshi tests a more creative application of his quirk on you, his willing submissive.

characters: dom!pro hero!hitoshi shinsou/sub!f!reader

wc: 5.3k

warnings: smut (18+), aged-up characters, pro hero Shinsou (who is kind of a softie), hard BDSM and control dynamics, edging, consensual mind control, sex toys, praise kink, blowjob, unprotected sex, some loooong and tender aftercare/yearning

notes: the dynamic in this fic was partially inspired by We Wear Chains on the Weekend [ao3] and a conversation with @shadowworks about some fun applications of Hitoshi's quirk 👀 I hope you enjoy this horny little bit of fun! I enjoyed thinking about this dynamic with 'Toshi. He talks big, but we know deep down he's just as soft and squishy as us 💖

One more note: The dynamics and safety measures in this fic are the result of a little bit of research that I conducted. It is not meant to encompass EVERY BDSM experience, nor was my research exhaustive. This was just my little take on some kinky business with Hitoshi, so please let me know if there are any elements I've overlooked or misstepped!

(MASTERLIST)

Hitoshi will never forget the first night he spent in this house.

The little semi-detached in a quiet, trendy neighbourhood was one of the first things his pro salary earned him. Having the place to himself is still one of the biggest perks that salary ever provided.

Privacy, as he’s learned since, is paramount to the life he’s crafting for himself.

It’s Friday evening, and the early spring rain’s showing no sign of letting up when you ring his doorbell. The sound echoes through the house like the bells of Notre Dame- terrifyingly gothic, considering it was like that when he moved in, but not entirely out of character for him.

And his heart swells quietly every time he knows it’s you behind that door.

He pads easily down the polished steps, already showered and changed out of his work clothes. He likes to dress up for you a little, sporting a pair of dark slacks and a black button-down with the top four buttons undone. His hair, still damp from the shower, sits a little tamer and darker than usual.

No matter how good he looks, you manage to knock him on his ass with a single glance.

“Hey,” he greets with a quiet, familiar sort of warmth as he pulls open the right half of the double front doors. His smile slips a little at the sight of you, shaking the water out of your umbrella and soaked to the bone. You catch his gaze out your peripherals and start a little, shooting him a sheepish smile.

Something claws tight and possessive at the pit of his chest. You’re so cute, even water-logged like this.

“Getting worse out there, huh?” He quips, stepping aside to let you in.

“It’s not exactly prime umbrella weather,” you giggle, setting the dripping, half-broken monstrosity in the umbrella tray that he keeps by the door. “But I made it, didn’t I?”

He can’t help but reach for you, letting his fingers brush attentively at your clothes as he helps you out of your drenched coat. The dress you’re wearing looks devastatingly easy to remove, and his chest lurches a little with the urge to have you bare for him.

He resists. For now.

“Right on time,” he replies, taking your coat neatly by the collar and hanging it over the bannister. “Do you want to dry off a little before we go upstairs, or…?”

“No.” You answer suddenly enough to prompt his inquisitive gaze, and Hitoshi turns to look at you with a purple brow quirked perfectly.

“I’m just feeling a little antsy today,” you continue, and he watches the way your tongue darts out to wet your lower lip. “So, I’d like to get started right away, if that’s okay with you.”

You meet his eye again. Hitoshi’s starting to wonder if he’s the one who should be getting on his knees in front of you upstairs.

“That’s okay with me.”

He smiles thinly, making his best attempt at hiding the affection that’s bubbling shallow and steady in his chest. He reaches for you, uncurling his fingers to offer an eager palm.

You take it. The contact is breathtaking.

He climbs the stairs with your fingers grasped firmly in his. The suspense never fades.

Hitoshi keeps his bedroom a few degrees warmer than the rest of the house, and as he twists the knob and pushes the door inward, he can feel your palm relaxing in his. You’ve always liked it in here- warm and humid, from the house plants that line the windows and add lush splashes of colour to every corner.

It means more to him than you’ll ever know, that you find such comfort in a space so full of him.

He lets you slip in ahead, closing the door behind him and reaching for the colourful remote nearby. He dims the lights overhead, stroking his thumb thoughtfully over the rainbow buttons. He peeks at you through his peripherals, watching the way you glide your fingertips over the broad leaf of a money plant that blooms atop his dresser.

“What colour should we use today?” He pushes a button, and hidden strips of lighting illuminate in a deep shade of blue-green. The bed and walls are cast into a cool, oceanlike glow, reflecting blue off the room’s vegetation and creating a floating, almost aquatic sense of serenity.

“I like this one,” you confirm. “Keep it.”

“Whatever you like,” he promises, setting down the remote. “Today’s all about keeping you relaxed.”

He approaches you at last, cupping either side of your face in delicate palms. He tilts your gaze to his.

“You’re still up for it?” He asks, low and sincere as he searches your eyes. “What we had planned for today?”

“I am,” you confirm. He’s nervous that the rain may have upset things, but you’re clearly as ready as ever. “Been thinking about this all week.”

His shoulders drop a little, relief trickling into the fluttering cavity of his chest. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He bends, pressing a quiet little kiss to your forehead and smoothing his palms over the wet surface of your hair. He holds you there for a moment, staying close. He forces power into his shoulders and steps back from you, unbuttoning his cuffs. He breathes a deep sigh- focus, Hitoshi- and settles into the power dynamic you both can’t seem to stay away from.

He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, depositing it neatly over the back of the nearby armchair. He nods toward you, slow and discerning.

“Strip.”

That dress is precisely as easy to remove as he hoped it would be, and he gets to watch as you slide each strap slowly down your arm, letting the fabric pool at your feet. His jaw gives an interested little tick as he gorges himself on the sight of you.

You’ve developed a nasty little habit of leaving your bra at home for sessions like this, as if he wouldn’t notice the way your tits sat beneath that loose silk, your nipples tight and hard from the wet chill outside.

You are delectable. Hitoshi feels infatuation crawling up the column of his spine every time he has you like this. But he’s about to take you even deeper, and while you’re more than ready, he’s not sure his heart can take it.

You’re wiggling out of your underwears now, exposing that perfect little patch of hair between your legs. What makes his cock throb even worse, though, is the way that you already know how he likes you. And so, kicking your underwear away and smoothing your hands down your sides, you don’t wait long at all before dropping to your knees and settling your palms on your thighs.

You lower your chin and go still.

For a minute, he lets himself admire you. He’s aching to touch you, but today will be all about patience. For both of you.

But he can’t take you, sitting so still for him like this. He caves to the warming in his chest and steps forward, tucking two fingers beneath the point of your chin and pulling your eyes to his.

“You sure about this?” He asks you. You lick your lips again, slow and thoughtful and torturous, now that he’s already so captivated by you. You’re giving it the honest thought it deserves. But when you purse your lips and nod into his palm, your eyes are certain.

“I’m sure.”

He’s been working you up to this for weeks. Exploring the unique possibilities of a relationship with him has always been in your contract, but it’s not something Hitoshi ever planned on rushing into. Only now, after months of playtime and weeks of careful preparation, does he feel ready to practice this with you.

“We left you your signals,” he reminds you, tenderly stroking the backs of his fingers from your chin up to your cheek. You’re staring up at him with such trust and admiration it’s hard to imagine anyone ever thought him a monster, for possessing such power. “You can come out of it whenever you want to.”

“Hitoshi,” you prompt, and the fall of his first name from your lips is enough to quell all his rising nerves. Despite the way you’re looking at him, memories of those poison words he’s been hearing all his life are flooding him. They’ve always served as a grim reminder of the damage he’s capable of.

But you wanted this. You’re ready for it. And he’s taken every precaution to ensure that you’re going to be safe.

So much reassurance, wrapped up in the three tiny syllables of his name.

It’s his turn to nod. He takes your jaw into his hand and drops to one knee in front of you, stooping to press his lips to the shell of your ear. Your sweet scent washes over him as he leans close, enhanced by the fresh rain on your skin and the rapid swell of your chest as you breathe.

“So you’re ready to drop, then?” He keeps his voice as low as possible, delighting in the way that you shiver in response. Your breath hitches against his chest, puffing quietly across his cheek.

“Yes.”

The word barely edges from your lips before the influence of his quirk fills every hollow in your ready bones. It’s a presence like nothing you’ve ever felt before, like the rising tide filling your lungs and weighing down your limbs. You take a deep, shaky breath to remind yourself it’s still possible.

Hitoshi’s used his quirk on you before. Preparing for this level of control, he tells you, takes practice. The more time he has to inhabit your mind, the better control he’ll have over what you experience and what you miss. The first time he ever used it on you is still a blank slate. But he only kept you under for a couple of seconds, building slowly over the course of many sessions toward the layered control he has now.

The sensation is thrilling. And yet, simultaneously, you feel completely safe. He will not misuse this power that you’ve so blithely handed over.

The sounds around you are muffled as Hitoshi gets to his feet, but when he speaks, his voice echoes in your mind like a bell.

“Can you understand me?”

Your body feels heavy and warm and semi-solid, but you manage a slow, clear nod.

“Good girl. Give me your hands.”

When he gives you an instruction, your muscles move without your consultation. You stretch your hands out toward him eagerly, and he takes both of them between his. He gives your fingers a sharp little squeeze.

“Can you give me your signals now?”

You cycle through them like clockwork. This is the part you had to work hard to develop, working through the specific layers of his quirk that might have been able to prevent such advanced thought.

With practice, though, here you are.

The system is one you’ve always used in parts of your arrangement where your ability to speak freely has been repressed. Hitoshi’s always been good at checking in with you no matter what, but thankfully he doesn’t push your boundaries too often.

You squeeze his hands in a slow progression, leaving long, deliberate spaces between each signal so that their distinction is clear.

One squeeze: keep going, all is well.

Two squeezes: slow down, I’m getting frustrated/uncomfortable

Three: STOP NOW

When you finish your stop signal and let your hands go still, Hitoshi’s fingers go slack in yours.

“Good girl, good,” he coos. “God, you’re so pretty like this. Look at you.”

He drops your hands, carefully letting them fall back to their neutral position on your thighs. There’s a pleasant tingle filling your dulled senses. In this state of mind, you can feel his gaze on you like a careful touch.

“I can do whatever I want with you,” he grunts. “Fuck, I can feel how much you want this.”

He’s moved away from you for a couple of seconds, but when he comes back he’s bare. Your vision is blurred about the edges, but you feel a wet little push he presses the tip of his cock, already hard and weeping, to the swell of your cheek.

“Don’t be difficult,” he purrs in your mind. “Open up.”

Your mouth drops eagerly open as you let your eyes fall shut. As he eases his hips forward, you let the flat pad of your tongue slip forward to cradle the tender head of his cock. Hitoshi groans low and soft, but the sound echoes through every nerve in your body, reverberating from within.

“That’s it,” he prompts softly. “So pliant for me, beautiful. Take it.”

He rocks slowly into your throat, letting sloppy drool slough from your tongue and coat his thick shaft as his fingers spread across the back of your head. He grips you tightly, keeping your neck in place as his tense thighs work to keep himself steady.

He eases himself onto your tongue and stops there for a moment. His pulse thrums in your ears, syncopating steadily with yours. He lets his head lull back as he lets out a deep, shaky sigh.

“Suck,” he commands, and you comply.

You bob your head eagerly back and forth, settling into a numbingly precise rhythm. Sucking Hitoshi’s cock has never been a chore for you, but in this state you’re conditioned to like it.

He grips you tighter as his hips begin to stutter a little. Every sound that leaves his mouth passes into your mind well before it reaches your muffled ears. You’re beginning to realize, in the deep, sunken place where your consciousness still rests, that allowing him into your mind has connected you more intimately than ever before.

You can feel his pleasure in the same way that he can sense your desire.

“So good,” he gasps, and the sound rappels down your spine. “Fuck, you’ve always been so good at this. I know how much you love it.”

He’s losing his cool now, thrusting against the barrier of your throat with more reckless abandon. But you’re numb to the feelings that might have stopped you before, swallowing him eagerly down to double his pleasure.

It shows. His fingers twitch against the back of your head as he grits his teeth and grunts, a breathy, feral sound with every rock of his heavy balls against your chin. Your eyes have slipped open again, but you don’t see him. Not really. All you can sense is his ecstasy, building to a rapid peak as he humps and pants and shivers into your needy mouth.

“God,” he rasps, “not gonna… t-that’s it… f-fuck!”

He rips away from you in one fluid stroke, that ecstasy boiling right to the surface before it’s halted in its tracks. He’s got one hand wrapped tightly around the base of his flushed cock and his pleasure’s dwindling.

He’s saving himself, to fill you properly later. While controlling your pleasure has always been a part of your games, Hitoshi’s taken to controlling his own as well. Lately, he doesn’t even let himself cum until you’ve seen your climax.

You’ve been trying not to let yourself read into it.

“Good girl,” he pants inside your head. “Come here.”

You’re a little shaky as you climb to your feet, but the numbness that you might normally get in your toes by now persists through your entire body. You close the distance to him in a handful of deliberate, steady steps, and he settles a hand on your hip to stop you when you’ve come close enough.

“Look at you,” he growls. “You’re still under, aren’t you? Incredible.” He takes one of your hands between both of his, dropping a kiss to your knuckles before giving your fingers a meaningful squeeze.

“Check in for me, sweetheart.”

In the receded depths of your on consciousness, you’re nothing but eager to continue. Hitoshi’s weighty cock in your throat sent spirals of aggressive arousal through your entire body. Your pussy is swollen and tingling, smearing the insides of your thighs with thick desire.

You give his palm one long, deliberate squeeze.

You need more.

“That’s what I like to see,” he purrs. He leads you to the bed and takes the liberty of lifting you into his arms. Your body collapses eagerly into his hold, and you let him deposit you gently onto the neatly made sheets. You stretch into the pillows, but your blank stare is always fixed on him.

“Okay, pretty girl,” he croons, and you’re still and stiff before he even finishes his thought. “Lie still for me, okay?”

He lifts one knee onto the bed and casts a gentle hand down the column of your belly, taking a gentle tilt to the left and sliding his fingertips along the column of your thigh.

“I’ve got your favourite toy here,” he croons, but you can’t respond. Instead, the buzz of nerves builds in the back of your skull, where your meager ability to feel has been preserved. Hitoshi wraps his graceful fingers around the toy in question- a sizeable wand vibrator in a deceptively pleasant shade of pale lilac silicone- and waves it in front of your eyes.

“Let’s see how much you can take, hmm?”

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to the point of your collarbone before tilting his chin forward to find the shell of your ear.

“Don’t cum,” he croons, sending a fresh thrill of terrified arousal into your veins, “until I say you can, alright?”

He slips the vibe between your legs and you feel it rumble to life. He knows your favourite settings easily by now, setting the toy to buzz low and hard between your legs in a series of long, rhythmic pulses.

Your body starts to pitch and tremble, but it cannot disobey his strict instructions to stay still. Your pleasure spikes the instant the vibrator’s soft, flexible head makes contact with your swollen clit. You want to press your legs together, whine with overstimulation and bat away the offending toy. But the influence of Hitoshi’s power is stronger than any physical restraint. Even as your muscles strain, you are powerless to move.

He holds you there, amusement lighting his features. You can feel the satisfaction thrumming in the back of his mind, building slowly. You know he can feel the unbearable sensations racing through your entire body. But he refuses to let up, even as desperate tears break from the corners of your eyes.

This vibrator has always been your favourite of his, thanks to its unshakeable ability to bring you to orgasm within the space of a minute. There’s something about the depth of the vibrations (and Hitoshi’s expert handling) that never seems to fail.

Tonight, that fact isn’t working in your favour.

Your pleasure reaches its peak devastatingly quickly. But every part of your body is under Hitoshi’s complete control. And he’s given you strict instructions not to reach that climax.

Your nerves are struck dumb as the pleasure bleeds into a desperate ache. You can feel the edge of your climax, dangling just out of reach. And the longer he keeps you on the edge, the more torturous the sensation.

The tears are coming faster now, streaming down your temples and soaking into your hair as you whimper and pitch, trying to shrug his control and force the vibrator away from your overstimulated pussy. He lets you thrash and struggle for a dozen heartbeats, picking up on your discomfort and pulling the vibrator away from your body as you gasp for shaky breath.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” He coos, switching the vibrator off and laying a hand on the flat of your stomach. Your body’s gone slack, but the muscles in your lower belly are still twitching and fluttering, trying to make sense of your waning pleasure.

“I can feel you fighting me,” he continues, voice dropping into his chest. He rubs soothing circles into your tender skin, letting you catch your breath. “You know you don’t have to struggle, sweetness.” He leans in, dipping his forehead against yours and giving your mouth a soft little taste.

“Are you ready for my cock now?”

Yes, your mind screams, and he starts, pulling back to look at you in mild surprise.

He actually heard that. After the surprise fades from his expression, he lets the barest hint of a smile touch his mouth.

“Good.”

When he touches your thighs they fall limp into his palms. Any commands he’s given your paralyzed nerves are overridden by the force of his touch. So, as he kneels between your thighs and pushes them apart, you relent easily.

Your senses are still a hazy blur, but you feel it like a bolt of lightning when he swipes the tip of his cock over your sloppy folds. You give a sharp little yip and Hitoshi chuckles, with the breathy edge of pleasure slipping into his voice. He rocks his hips forward, grinding against your needy hole and grunting through his chest.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Can’t hold on any longer.” He edges forward, prodding his thick tip against your entrance. As soon as he’s lined up he slides home in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the base with a shaky groan.

The pleasure is enough to prompt a quiet whimper from your absent mind as your body eagerly takes his stretch. Hitoshi’s cock has always seemed perfect for you in size and form. And he’s proven many times over that he knows exactly how to use it.

He fucks you with devastating precision, slipping one hand under your thigh to brace you against the mattress while he anchors himself by the knees and ruts against your body. He lets his hips slap ruthlessly over your skin, his weighty, spit-soaked balls swinging heavy against the curve of your ass with every thrust.

You’ve been well prepared for this moment, messy-wet and smearing his shaft with your slick. Every time he drives his cock into you, his groans are punctuated by the soft little whimpers that break from his control to escape your clenched jaw.

The pleasure is already unbearable for you. That peak you weren’t allowed to reach before is approaching quickly, and all you can hope is that Hitoshi will have the sense to let you release before he’s tumbling over the edge himself.

You have no choice at this point but to trust him completely.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he gasps above you. Your pleasure is doubled by his sensations racing through your neurons, and you can tell before he speaks that he’s not going to last long at all.

“Don’t know how long I can hold out,” he warns anyway, and his hips are already beginning to stutter inside you. You could have easily cum two times over by now, but your body is held back once again, forced to linger on the edge of bliss until he decides to let you fall.

He shoves his hips against yours one, two, three more rough times before stilling abruptly inside you. His body’s stiff, straining against the threshold of his pleasure. But he catches his breath, and his next words ring clear as day among a sea of troubled sensations.

“Are you ready to cum for me?”

You let out a low, desperate whine, focusing every ounce of concentration you have left into amplifying those desperate emotions.

Please, your mind screams. I’ll do anything, please.

Hitoshi nods slowly, your body going slack when you’re sure you’ve been heard. He slips both hands under your thighs, stroking his thumbs lovingly along your flesh. He bends over your torso, dropping a kiss to your mouth and steeling himself as his lips trail to your ear one last time.

“Cum,” he orders, and you do.

All the pent-up tension and pleasure spirals from your body in the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever felt. What would normally send dull flutters into the pit of your stomach has deep, earth-shattering tremors wracking your entire body. You thrash into the pillows, crying out your pleasure in eager, greedy gulps, and your pussy seizes around his cock as tight as a fist.

Hitoshi curses against your skin, rutting his hips into your convulsing depths and matching your peak with a climax of his own. His balls draw up against your ass as he pumps hot spurts of cum into your needing cunt, fucking the fluid back into your body as your thighs clamp over his hips and the last tremors of your orgasm recede into dull trembles.

“That’s my girl,” he gasps. In the pleasure that overtook him, he’s de-activated his quirk. He lets you surface as he stays inside you for a couple long breaths, tasting the crook of your neck and rubbing sensation back into your limbs.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he croons. “Come here. Give me your hand. Show me,” he prompts, and you’re far from surfaced but you know what he wants when he slots his fingers between yours.

You give him another long, deliberate squeeze. You can’t form words yet, but you’re okay.

“That’s okay,” Hitoshi prompts. He pulls slowly back from you, sliding out of your body and easing onto the pillows beside you. He keeps his movements slow and gentle, handling you with extra care while you’re still feeling delicate.

“You were so good,” he growls, reaching for you. “So good for me. My perfect girl.”

His touch is the first sensation that clears the fog in your mind. He pulls you tightly against his bare chest, and the sweet touch of his skin to yours is like a soothing tonic for your frayed senses. Skin-to-skin contact has always been a big part of aftercare for you, but tonight it hits so hard that it sends relieved tears to your eyes.

Hitoshi’s patient as a lamb with you, stroking slow circles into your shoulders, belly and hips as you cycle through the complex progression of emotions that stand between you and the surface of your consciousness. He keeps his lips nuzzled tight to the shell of your ear, speaking low and soft and constant, grounding you in him.

After a long few minutes, you blink a little faster and stir a little heavier in his arms. You’ve fought your way to the surface, like breaking out of a deep sleep, and the weight of all he’s put you through settles into your chest. Hard.

You shiver. “Cold.”

“Okay,” he promises, shifting both of you a little more upright. “I’ve got clothes for you right here. Let me just-” He lets go of you to reach for the drawers of his nightstand, and anxiety rushes hard and fast to the back of your throat.

You whine. Loudly. You reach for him without thinking about it, and he comes back to you in the span of a heartbeat.

“Okay, okay,” he soothes. “I won’t let go.”

You’re always clingy after a scene. But today you can’t bear to be parted from him. While he’s the one that sent you spiralling, he’s also the one who brought you down to earth again.

With you looped carefully in one arm, he scoots the pair of you toward his side of the bed until he can reach the nightstand with one hand still carefully draped over your middle. He dumps a pile of soft cotton fleece onto the sheets in front of you, then presses himself up tightly behind you to reach forward with both hands and unfold the garments.

“There,” he hums, showing you the sleeves of one, the cuffs of another. “Warm clothes. Can I help you put them on?”

You give a pouty little nod, so he slips you into the pants one leg at a time and pushes your arms gently into the hoodie, staying as close as possible and letting you keep the black hood pulled over your head. He finds his discarded undershorts and slips into those, too, prompting another defeated whimper from you when he has to pull away to find some clothes of his own.

Once he’s dressed (and you’ve cuddled him long enough to quell some of the pouting) he pushes the edge of your hood back and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Do you want to visit the fish?” he asks. Your mood spikes and you cling tighter, but nod nevertheless.

The most prominent feature of Hitoshi’s lavish house is mounted into the wall in the upstairs hallway. During the day it’s surprisingly easy to miss, but now that the light has waned and the house is dark, it glows an ethereal blue that casts a liquid pool of light across the dark hardwood and ornate rug.

Lining the entire wall stands a massive tropical fish tank, maintained professionally and kept in impeccable order. It’s filled by a multitude of different species of tropical fish, darting in and out of live coral in warm splashes of vibrant colour. The pump in one corner sends a steady stream of bubbles toward the surface, and in the quiet, the bubbles make soft little gurgles as they break the surface.

Hitoshi brings you into the hallway cradled tightly in his arms. The moment your face is bathed in that pretty blue light, the last dredges of anxiety bleed from your chest. There’s something immensely calming about the gentle, rhythmic way the fish move. Some of the more curious ones even see you peering in at them, emerging from their little hideaways to swim up to the glass and investigate.

“Hi,” you croon softly, touching one fingertip gently to the glass where a bright yellow tang noses eagerly at its smooth surface from the other side. Hitoshi chuckles deeply into your neck, always charmed by how soft and quiet and vulnerable you get after a particularly tough scene.

This part, the tender healing that comes afterward, is half the appeal for both of you. But with every passing session you can feel yourself growing more deeply attached to him. You’re falling for him, despite everything you put into words- on paper for him- that said you wouldn’t.

Love was not what either of you wanted to get out of this arrangement. But when he handles your trust so delicately where so many others have failed, it’s hard not to fall.

It’s hard not to wish, watching over such a tiny, peaceful little underwater world, that you could belong in there, too. Maybe, if you’d been born a little blue surgeonfish, you wouldn’t have to deal with such complex feelings.

But then you wouldn’t have all the pain and all the joy of falling for someone like Hitoshi Shinsou.

After you’re satisfied with the state of the fish tank, Hitoshi brings you downstairs to the kitchen. He’s not letting you go home tonight, but you were prepared for that possibility. You have pills and a toothbrush in your purse, and he’s had extra clothes lying around for you from the moment you signed that contract.

He bundles you into the couch. Puts on your favourite sitcom without needing to ask. He brews your favourite kind of tea- liquid heat that warms you to the very core- and stretches out next to you for the rest of the evening.

You wake hours later, sleeping next to him in the wee hours of the morning. He is stretched out on his side next to you, spooning you lovingly with one heavy arm draped over your side. He’s always reaching for you, ready to catch.

In moments like this, it’s easy to believe he might love you. And in the deepest hours of doubt and vulnerability, you let that feeling lull you back to sleep, just as he might if he could soothe your restlessness.

#bnha x reader #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #bnha shinsou hitoshi #shinsou #bnha #tw dom/sub #tw mind control #my hero academia #gnomewrites

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years

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SLEEPOVER CONFESSION: feeling in the mood for some lemons 😋

LOL ok ok. I've got something written that is kind of lemony for one of my stories. Idk if I will end up using it in the fic tho. I'm leaning towards a different direction these days, so let me just drop it right here for your reading pleasure...

Bakery Kiss

(Katniss POV)

Ever so slowly, I gently cup his hand in mine and bring it parallel to my mouth where I debate for a fraction of a second before drawing it forward, drawing him forward, because Peeta follows, swaying closer on unsteady feet, pulled in by my brashness. I lower my lips to his knuckles and deposit a quick press of my lips to his warm skin where notes of flour, and spices, (cinnamon, always cinnamon first, and then other spices, a myriad depending on what he was making, today it was cinnamon and cardamom) is brought into my body through my indelicate and greedy inhale.

I am sure I look mad. I certainly feel mad. And everything in Peeta’s posture shows his shock. I could feel the tension radiating from the top of his blond wavy head, to his usually sturdy legs and feet, which seem unsteady for a moment.

When I finally drag my eyes upward to peek at him through my dark lashes, I can see he is actually astounded. I quickly drop his hand like it is hot coal.

I feel mortified, and a little stupid. I am an idiot for assuming that one gesture could communicate all I am trying to say.

“I just wanted to see what it would be like.” I try to explain, embarrassment getting the better of me and making me blurt out things without cause.

My words seem to snap him out of his stupor, because his eyes widen and focus on me – he gives me such a look that the force of it alone could flatten me.

The longing in his gaze leaves me breathless and shaky, but there is more to it than just that. There’s also such tenderness, and warmth, with an undercurrent of unexpected heat in his eyes that leaves me feeling scorched in its wake, so much so that I sway closer to him, gripping his shirt in a feeble attempt to keep my balance after that look he leveled at me.

His hands shoot out to steady me, but grip me at the same time.

Oh, those hands.

Those hands alone could undo me.

Their warmth, and steadiness, not to mention his gentle touch that borders on sweet torture.

Nothing feels as good as his hands on me at this moment.

I am inevitably proven wrong when I see the questioning gaze in his eyes.

A question that begs an answer. Where the slightest word, or sign of encouragement from me would be like a key opening up a door to floodgates of unknown waters.

I fear I might drown if I do this.

I also fear I’ll go mad if I don’t slate this curious hunger that’s racing through my blood.

But Peeta also shows such restraint – he holds me so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him, I can smell the delicious fresh earthiness of the sweat on his skin, and I can almost taste the softness of his plush looking lips. And yet he holds himself back, like a vestige of strength and something more noble than I could conjure up in myself. It only makes me want him more.

I tilt my head back to look up at him, our eyes meeting, gazes crackling like lightning striking the ground before the resounding book of thunder hits. Electricity dances between us, and the spark is lit. I purse my lips ever so slightly, knowling he is watching my every move, examining me in detail, for one sign of acceptance.

Once I give it, his answer is swift and sure.

His lips are on mine before I can even blink and it is like sweet surrender. Full, and all encompassing as the sensation washes over me. It was then I learned that the feeling of his mouth on mine, and his hands on my body simultaneously surpasses whatever ideas I had before about ultimate pleasure.

He tastes sweet and warm and richly decadent from whatever batter or treat he’s been taste testing today. His hands pull me closer, palms splayed across the small of my back and cupping the back of my head. I groan embarrassingly loud into his mouth, but he just slants his lips over mine, his breath kicking up and exiting in a rush of exhale somewhere between a quiet moan and a sigh.

He is impossibly good at this. Better than I remember. But then, of course, the last time we did this he was injured, hooked up to medical equipment, on strong pain medication, and had just come out of a two day coma.

Still, kissing Peeta while he is fully awake and aware, (and while I am too) is an experience on a whole new level. My hands whip up on their own accord, to grasp his forearms, moving up to his elbows where I try to hold on for dear life as he gently, (so damn gently) prods my lips with the tip of his tongue. I know he wants to gain entrance, I have heard of that kind of kissing. While in the back of my mind I have always thought it a little disgusting sounding, at the moment I find I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than letting Peeta explore me in the same way I am desperate to explore him.

It is like the weeks of feelings have built up and exploded in one moment of simultaneous desire and need and we are both running on instinct.

I part my lips for him, and he wastes no time in deepening the kiss, delving into my mouth with abandon and igniting an even larger fire within my blood. I am sure that if I don’t get closer to him, if I don’t fit my mouth more securely against his, I will never find satisfaction. So I press myself into him, my hands moving up and roaming along the thick muscles of his upper arms, squeezing, caressing, committing to memory the strength and shape of him. Peeta’s breath quickens, and he flexes his hands against my flesh, scraping my scalp with blunt fingernails, in a move that makes me writhe against him. He moves his other hand along my back until it rests against my hip, where he can gently knead my curves and learn the shape of my body as well.

Great shivers run down my spine, despite the humid heat, and Peeta groans deep in his throat before nipping my bottom lip with his teeth. My gasp is swallowed up, as he places soothing kisses on my lips and strokes my tongue with his, slowly, but firmly, with such obvious skill that for a moment I wonder where he has learned to kiss like that. The concern lasts only a second before he coaxes my tongue forward, inviting me to plunder his mouth as he had mine.

After that, I am lost. In the sensation, the taste, and the smell of him. He is everywhere and he is mine to behold, to explore, to possess. He opens himself to me, basks in my eagerness, and when I have captivated him as fully as he has me, he presses me back, into the rough bricks of the side of the building.

I whimper, softly, but not from fear. From the indescribable need that pounds in my blood, in my chest, and yes even between my legs. I ache for him. For more.

I remember the dream of him pressing me into the side of the cornucopia, I remember the unnameable need I felt then. The hunger. I don’t know why I do it, but something drives me to nip his deliciously plump bottom lip as he did mine. He gasps against my lips and his grip on my hip tightens, as does his hand in my hair. It’s not painful, really, just an incredibly wild feeling that spurs me on. I lift my hands to wind in the short curls at the nape of his neck and tug gently on them.

With a rough, tortured sound, he sinks against me, fitting his body completely flush with mine and even through the frenzy of lips, and teeth and tongues crashing against and melding with each other in a mad, dizzying chase, I still feel him.

Hard and thick, and undeniable against my quivering thigh.

He breaks away from my lips with a gasp, sounding shocked, reluctant, and pained all at once. I know he’ll pull away and leave me now. Maybe because he is embarrassed at the way his body reacted to mine. And as terrified as I am at the force and the speed of everything that has unfolded, I still don’t want him to go.

I shift my hands down, until they cup the firm and defined muscles of his sculpted back and refuse to let him pull away. His breath is a ragged song, and I am little better than a panting mess myself, but I hold him against me. I feel him stiff in my hold, and resistant for just a moment, but I grip the material of his shirt stubbornly and bury my face in his chest, until finally he gives up.

He leans into me with a quiet moan, pressing his hips into mine, grinding that hardness right between my legs and making me choke on a startled gasp.

Saliva pools in my mouth at the same time something warm pools in my lower abdomen, and trickles down my thighs, dampening my already wet underwear until I feel thoroughly saturated with hot, slick want.

The delicious friction he has caused in me flares up, bright and blinding so that I barely remember where we were, what time of day it was, and how precarious our situation really is, as I rock my hips against him instinctively.

“Katniss,” He says my name once, a plea and a warning. And with that, reality comes flooding back in, unwanted.

I lean back with my eyes closed, desperately seeking to shut the world out for just one more second and revel in this new found whatever it is that Peeta is doing to me, stirring in me. But he gingerly peels away from me, and I let him go reluctantly.

“We should be careful.” He tells me, and I don’t know how he finds it in him to think straight, much less be responsible and chiding after all that. My eyes are still closed, my back pressed against the bricks, my heart still hammering in my chest.

I open one eye to peer at him and find his skin flushed brilliantly, almost like a sunburn. The sight makes me feel better. I’m happy I’m not the only one scorched by the fire that burned between us. I’m glad his skin retains traces of me, and everything I made him feel, lingering even after we stopped. I refrain from looking down at his lower half, knowing that I’d most likely still find the evidence of his arousal on display. But something in his gaze tells me he would prefer me not to, I don’t know if it's to save him from embarrassment, or to save me from temptation, maybe both.

“Did that answer your question?” He asks me suddenly, as he steps back towards the bakery door, his hand gripping the handle tightly as if to anchor himself in the moment.

I lock gazes with him and I know he probably can tell from the lingering flush of my cheeks, the quick rise and fall of my chest, and the dazed look in my eye, what the truth is.

But I nod anyway. He nods in return, a quick but serious gesture, that seems to seal everything that came before, in a succinct, complete way.

“Good. Now you know. I’ll see you later.” He adds, and then he opens the door and lets himself in.

#outtake #deleted scene #lemons #smutty stuff #lemonluvwrites #sleepover asks

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anthemxix · 3 years

Note

Fierce deity wars aftermath? :o (I'm sorry if this comes across as demanding or rude, was just excited to see the fic and was curious how what happened after might go, it was really good!)

this isn't rude at all, my friend! i'm flattered you enjoyed my fic enough to ask for a follow-up! thank you ;w;

this picks up right where the previous one left off (here's the first part)

"Injuries?"

"Nothing major."

Voices drift through the dreamless void, which clings to Warriors like cobwebs: wispy, malleable, adhesive.

"Is he awake?"

"Maybe. Not aware, at any rate."

The words seem insubstantial, impossible to grasp, like specks of light.

"Captain? Can you hear me?"

"Time to wake up, Pretty Boy."

Like a borealis, the voices shimmer above him. Though tangible, they shy from his reach.

Warriors concentrates on forcing his eyes open, and his lashes scrape against red cotton.

"Hey, Captain? You with us?"

The stench of death saturates the air, so he must still be on the battlefield. He tries to lift his head, to see his surroundings, but all he glimpses is red.

"Hey. Pretty Boy. You awake?"

Still, he pieces it together by feel. His side is pressed against someone. His head is lolling on their shoulder. Their arm is around his back, fiercely gripping his sleeve.

"Captain, can you look at me?"

He's being held. Huh. That's a nice feeling, being held. Safe. His eyes begin to slip closed again.

"No, Captain. Stay awake. Look at me."

Always one to obey orders, he drags his head around a fraction, searching for the source of the voice. His vision is blurry, but he can see a green tunic, brown hair. The Traveler.

Something cool brushes against his hand. Glass. A bottle. His fingers automatically hook around it. Something warm wraps around his hand, affixes it in place.

"Drink this for me, okay?"

Warriors' bones are infused with lead. He watches the Traveler guide the potion to his mouth, but his body won't cooperate. His throat muscles seize, and he coughs out the liquid. It speckles across the red tunic he's cuddled up against.

"Don't make him choke!" someone outside his line of vision squawks. That's the Sailor. He knows the little Sailor's voice.

"Sorry," Hyrule laments, and cups a hand under Warriors' chin, tilts his head back. Tries again with the bottle.

This time, Warriors downs two gulps before his throat locks up and he coughs out the rest of it.

"You're getting my tunic wet." A gripe, but the grip on his arm tightens, protective. The Vet. That's the Vet, holding him. Red tunic. Right.

A thought emerges from his mental haze. Twilight. Hadn't he been with Twilight? Warriors wishes he could ask, but he's so tired. He closes his eyes again, sinks back into the void where his friends' voices echo around him. It reminds him of being trapped in the Great Fairy's bottle, the way everything is muffled and obscured and looming.

Warriors lets their voices wash over him, idly picking out words when he can and examining them like puzzles in need of solving.

"There's caves that way, half a mile or so."

"He can't walk."

"I can carry him."

"No. Traveler's magic may have stitched your wounds up, but your body still needs time to recover."

"Here, I can do it."

There are hands on him, and he's getting shifted around, and he wishes he could move. Instead, he completely retreats to the empty dark space in his head.

Then the concept of time becomes as ephemeral and elusive as his friends' voices around him.

Sometimes when Warriors opens his eyes, there's sunlight, and sometimes there's only the hazy glow of embers or the flicker of a lantern. He can't shrug off the mental mire that pins him down, can't ever keep his eyes open long enough to fully process where he is or what's going on.

That would feel more disconcerting if not for the constant, comforting presence of his friends. One of them is always right at his side when he wakes. The little Sailor, snuggled against him. Sky, carving wooden figurines. Four, polishing weapons. Even as he slides back into the dreamless dark, he feels safe.

That is, until the dark stops being dreamless.

Memories begin to unravel before him, unspooling into formless shapes and colors. At first, all he can see is blood-drenched chaos; he hears dying screams and clanking weapons, smells copper and iron. Slowly, the memories come into focus, draw together into distinct scenes. He can distinguish certain moments: a lizalfos sliced in half at the waist; a darknut's chopped-off head thunking to the dirt; a bulbin slipping on spilled moblin guts as it tries to run, then shrieking as it gets skewered.

These memories aren't his, per se; they belong to his body. His body, which he can see morph into someone else's. His hands, which are someone else's hands, brandishing a double-helix sword that cuts through monsters with no resistance.

Although Warriors has witnessed much more gruesome atrocities, these memories steep him with burgeoning unease. The violent images burrow under his skin like termites, boring tunnels into him from the inside out, as he watches them play in a loop, over and over. They continuously reignite in the dark like poe lanterns, haunting and undead.

Oblivion shifts from a refuge to a prison. Warriors starts to jolt awake with startled gasps, his terror wrenching him back into consciousness. In these moments, he often finds Time next to him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing platitudes that Warriors can't hear over his pounding heart.

Once, he lurches awake with a shout, wide-eyed and shuddering as detailed visions of massacre still float through his head. Time gently shushes him, tucks him back into his bedroll, and pulls out the banged-up wooden ocarina he used to play as a child.

Warriors curls up on his side, hearing the distant whispers of rainfall beneath the unfamiliar melody that Time plays. The tune is wistful and haunted, layered with tragedy, like its player. But it massages away the tension rigidifying Warriors' muscles, calms the frantic adrenaline buzzing through his system. When he falls asleep, he doesn't dream anymore.

- - -

Sighing with relief, Warriors slumps back against the door. The past few days, he's managed to stay awake for longer and longer stretches, but constant fatigue still holds him hostage. Finding a town with an inn feels like a miracle, and even though he could easily collapse right here on the floor, he is eager to finally sleep in a real bed.

With effort, he straightens and shrugs off his shield, sword, and bags, depositing them by the nearest bed. The weight of his equipment has never felt so burdensome before; he's concerned that this debilitating exhaustion is atrophying his muscles and permanently docking his stamina.

But like every thought lately, he can't keep hold of his concerns for too long. They slip away from him, and he gladly lets them go, concentrating instead on the unnecessarily arduous task of shucking all his armor.

As he loosens the leather bracers on his arms, Warriors absently scans the compact rented room, which only contains two twin beds and a shabby dresser. He blinks at the dresser mirror, freezing as he registers his reflection.

Armor temporarily forgotten, Warriors strides across the tacky rug and splays his hands on the dresser. Most mornings, he spends what the others consider an unreasonable amount of time fawning over his hair in his hand mirror—personally, he thinks none of them spend enough time on making themselves presentable—but lately, he's forgone that ritual, only casting cursory glances at his reflection to ensure he's not overwhelmingly unkempt.

He hasn't gotten a proper look at himself in days, which is why the sight of the mask's red and blue brands give him such a shock.

Though their colors have already begun to fade, the sharply angled lines remain prominent. No wonder the other heroes, who have been treating him delicately, like he's liable to break, can't look at him without staring at those marks. What do they think, when they see them?

Warriors find them abhorrent. Finds that looking at them triggers unease and discomfort and nausea.

He turns away from the mirror and resumes removing his armor, gracelessly dumping it on the floor and topping the pile with his sloppily folded scarf. As he flops onto the bed, he sighs again, the relief of getting off his feet immediate and encompassing. The mattress is thin and there's a rogue spring jutting into his lower back, but goddesses, does it feel good to lie down.

Lazily, he drapes an arm over his eyes to block out the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the flimsy curtains. He doesn't feel sleepy, exactly, doesn't feel like he'll get dragged into unconscious oblivion like he was for several days right after donning the mask, but he truly is exhausted.

Physical exertion, sparse as it's been, contributes to Warriors’ fatigue. Progress across this Hyrule has been slow; the distance the heroes have covered over the past few days could be crossed, under normal circumstances, in half the time.

Warriors didn’t even walk for much of that distance. He couldn’t. Along with his sluggishness, his legs wobbled like a newborn deer’s and his sense of balance was skewed. Wind continually remained next to him, catching him when he stumbled and preventing him from toppling over.

When walking became too infeasible (and he was too tired to care about pride and dignity), he'd ride Epona. By that point, he'd usually feel so weak and shaky that he would require a boost from Twilight just to mount the horse, and from there it was a perpetual struggle to stay upright.

Fortunately, he's steadier now, able to walk without feeling constantly on the verge of collapse, but the fact that he is not okay is tremendously self-evident.

He hears the door to his room open and close, but he doesn't bother uncovering his eyes. He's certain it's just whoever decided to room with him this time—probably Wind or Legend—dropping their belongings off before venturing into town.

A lengthy moment passes before he recognizes the sound of heavy plate armor clinking. Moving his arm a fraction, he peeks out to see Time shedding his armor, setting it aside with more care than Warriors had mustered.

Warriors blinks in surprise. Time is the last person he expected to see here.

The other heroes' behavior around the Captain is subdued, and they speak to him quietly, like he's an animal prone to startle. They act so sad, he thinks now. Like they're grieving. Like they've lost something.

But Time... He was there for those horrid days when Warriors was drifting in and out of consciousness, trapped in nightmares, but ever since then, he's kept a distance. He won't even look at Warriors most of the time.

It would be unfair for Warriors to be bothered by that, though. Like a coward, he's been reciprocating the cold shoulder treatment, because he can't bear it.

He can't bear thinking about his little Sprite using that cursed mask. How old was the kid when he first used it? And what was the aftermath like for him? Was he alone? Did he have someone to comfort him through the nightmares? To help him walk or tend his wounds?

How many times has Time used this mask for those marks to permanently smirch his face?Is the aftermath of using the mask always this dreadful? What if it's not, because Time has gotten used to the effects of the damn thing?

And if Warriors feels so strange after what must have been mere minutes with the mask on—if he feels like his very essence has been ripped apart and reassembled—if he feels like some of his pieces are missing, or that now there is something new inside him, something he can't quite identify or describe—then how must Time feel, having used the mask for decades?

How does it feel to sacrifice yourself over and over, to let an inconceivable power destroy and rebuild you however it pleases, and then carry that weight alone?

With his armor off, Time turns around and catches Warriors' gaze. His neutral expression doesn't change. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Warriors breaks eye contact, repositioning his arm over his eyes. Coward. "I thought you'd be making sure the kids don't set the town ablaze."

"I'm sure the Rancher can handle it."

For some reason, this statement pricks at Warriors' heart. "I know he's your favorite, Old Man, but don't misplace your faith. He can be as much of a troublemaker as the rest of them."

After a long stretch of quiet, Warriors feels the thin mattress sink. He peers under his elbow to see Time sitting at the foot of his bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Hands folded, he's looking at the opposite wall, expression still deliberately blank. "Is that what you think?"

"Yeah, I do. Didn't you hear his arson story?"

Time huffs a soft, startled laugh. "No, I meant...you believe he's my favorite?"

Warriors shifts, pulls his arm away from his face. "Well, yeah? It's not up for debate, is it? It's obvious."

"Hmm." Time looks down at his hands, and his mouth flickers between a slight smile and slight frown before settling on the latter. When he speaks again, it's stilted, like a formal recitation. "Captain, I owe you an apology. I've left you to deal with the mask's effects by yourself."

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Warriors says, "That's not true..."

He's suddenly struck by a vague memory of a recent night where he fell asleep as soon as the heroes found a campsite. Tired beyond caring, Warriors had promptly slid off Epona and settled in the dirt a few paces from the horse. Prone on his stomach, he pillowed his head with his arms, despite his bracers digging into his cheeks.

Later, Time roused him, herding him upright. He was still half-asleep, struggling to keep his eyes open, as Time worked on taking off his protective gear piece by piece. Warriors' chainmail had pressed grooves into his torso; it was a relief to have someone else guide the heavy armor over his head and set it aside.

"Come to your bedroll," Time had said softly, and he ushered Warriors into his sleeping mat, which lie ready and waiting. Exponentially more comfortable now, Warriors had dropped off to sleep almost instantly, but still, he registered Time gently tucking the blankets around him.

Weary, Time sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. "It is true. I've been selfish. I shouldn't have left you to figure this out on your own. I know how it feels. How...confusing it is. How strange it is, like your body isn't quite right anymore, or like you're not quite the same. How..."

He flexes his fingers, searching for his words, and a mournful look breaks through his stony facade. "How...broken it makes you feel."

After a silent, somber moment, Warriors shifts to sit next to Time, dropping his bare feet to the warped hardwood. The mattress creaks. He feels another damaged spring jabbing into him.

"I'm sorry that you've always had to handle this alone," Warriors says. A lump hardens in his throat, and he swallows. "I'm so sorry, Sprite."

Time looks at him then, really looks at him. Slowly scans the red and blue lines before re-locking eyes. He smiles, sad and small but genuine, and sets a hand on Warriors' shoulder. "I'm proud of you, you know. I've always been proud of you."

Warmth blossoms in his chest at the unexpected words, and Warriors has to turn away.

"Perhaps you should get some rest." The smile lingers in Time's voice. "We can talk when you wake up."

With Time's hand still on his shoulder, Warriors says, "I can stay up a little longer. I think we have a lot to talk about."

#catch me once again only hinting at emotional closure but not actually providing it :D #i gave time and wars a cute moment though #oh yeah ps. i like the idea that wars is a lil jealous of time and twi's relationship #like idk how true to character that is #but i like it #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #lu warriors #warriors #lu time #time #fanfic #anthem answers #anthem writes

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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theharrowing · 2 years

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hi! i hope this isn't annoying but i saw your master list says you're queer and you write queer characters, but your master list is also BIG so i was wondering if you would point me in some directions? thank you in advance!

hello, lovely anon! this is not annoying at all and i am so glad you asked! it is, however, a bit of a task, so bear with me.

note: i tend to default to saying "bisexual" because i am bisexual, but what this tends to mean is "x is attracted to their gender and not their gender" and can also mean pansexual if that works for you. i don't mean to exclude pansexuals in any way.

all of my mem x mem fics are obviously queer (on account of men having sex with, and often feeling romantic feelings for other men) but here is some less obvious-at-face-value fics containing queerness:

fics where members are not cis:

hope for the holidays: hoseok says he relates more to reader's gender expression than to being cis

dollhouse: jungkook is non-binary, has top surgery, and takes hormones (afab)

fics where reader is not cis or gender is not described:

hope for the holidays: non-binary (afab)

moonstone & onyx: agender (afab)

babyface: non-binary, has top surgery (afab) - hiatus

feeling nauti: non-binary (afab) - hiatus

ride with me: no gender described

fluff prompt, “you can tell me anything”: no gender described

smut prompt: “not so cocky now, are you?”: no gender described

smut prompt: “call me that again”: no gender described

smut prompt, “louder, I want them to hear you”: no gender described

fics where members are bisexual:

devil with the mint hair: yoongi also hooks up with jimin, who will be present in a later chapter (+ reader)

one day at a time: namjoon is married to a woman and develops feelings for yoongi

moonstone & onyx: seokjin has feelings for reader without knowing their assigned at birth gender

consecration: jimin & all members, jimin & fem oc

collateral: yoongi & namjoon + reader, jungkook (in a relationship with Taehyung) + reader

adrenaline: hoseok & jimin + reader

outro, tear: yoongi & namjoon & hoseok + reader

lips like honey: namjoon thought he was straight (has an ex-wife), has a bi-awakening

shaky deposition: yoongi & hoseok + reader

the hooksborough demon: yoongi & jimin + reader

sharing is caring: ot7 + reader (i can't remember which members are bi, tbh it's a big fuck fest)

boy blue: taehyung & yoongi + reader

fics where reader is bisexual:

collateral: reader is very flirty with a female character (but this will become more of a plot point in the sequel where she does more than flirt - spoiler alert lol)

hope for the holidays: reader is bisexual

couldn't pin you down: mention of reader being bisexual (but it's not part of the actual story)

boy blue: taehyung & fem oc + reader

i think that's everything...? i have quite a few wips with non-cis reader and members, and i will be branching out more into ace and aro dynamics in the future, too. so if there is something you would like to see representation for, please let me know!

also, i changed my url at some point, so some reblogs of this have links that are no longer supported on mobile, sorry about that! links have been updated!

#lovely anon #i love asks like these!#but wow i really do have a lot of works lmaoooo #bts fanfic #bts queer #bts trans #bts poly #bts fluff #bts smut #you've got mail 💌

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fanartfunart · 3 years

Text

More Time & Time Again/ OoT Timeloop. (I think this is just a multichapter fic now) Link is helping his younger self out when the boy asks about his own adventure. Link recalls how he failed to change the future. (Tw for death mentions/implied death, fire/destruction, injury and angst.)

Time & Time Again & Part 2

Ao3

"How do you know all this?" The Kid asked, holding the Megaton Hammer uncertainly.

Link just smiled, "I went on a journey like yours a while ago....In retrospect, the hammer wasn't too hard to use compared to this one sword that was like, twice my height at the time."

The Kid glanced at Navi with wide, excited eyes. She frowned, "No."

"If I found a sword that big though-"

"Stick to the hammer right now," Navi sighed, giving Link a side eye.

He restrained a chuckle and leaned over to his younger self. In a low whisper he said "I'll give you a tip to getting a sword from Biggeron when she isn't watching."

The Kid pumped a fist and Navi zipped over to gently bop Link's head. "Don't give him ideas."

Link laughed, "I'm not! The idea is all his!"

Navi glared. Probably internally cursing the technicalities of them being the same person.

"Actually though, can you tell me about your adventure?" The Kid asked, tilting his head.

Link frowned. (He was small again, placing the Master Sword back in it’s pedestal. His legs still felt shaky from finally, finally having defeated Ganon.) "Maybe later. ...Besides, you still need to practice with that hammer. You do not want to pull a muscle using that thing... Trust me."

The Kid hummed, and shifted back into a readied stance with the hammer. He grinned "If I win will you tell me?"

"Who said anything about winning? It's practice, not a game."

"Sounds like you're scared you'll loseee, Grasshopper."

Link's eyes narrowed and he grinned, "Oh its on Shrimp."

"Wha- We're the same height!"

Link could’ve sworn he’d rigged this game so he wouldn’t lose. Link guesses he’s always had a habit of succeeding despite all logical odds out of sheer determination. He also blames the fact that Navi was helping Little Link and that was just unfair. He sighed as he stared up at his younger self’s near manic grin, laying on the ground.

“Story time!” the Kid said, putting the hammer down and holding out a hand to help him up.

Link accepted the boy-teen’s hand, defeated. He walked over to a nearby crate and hopped up to sit on the edge. The Kid followed and plopped himself in the grass, watching attentively.

He couldn’t tell the Kid his actual story, so he’d have to make up something. He hummed, “...Where should I start?”

“The beginning?” The Kid offered, laughing.

The beginning of his real story was complicated. Was it when the Great Deku Tree sent Navi to him? Or, with that adventure a closed book, was it when he returned to his time, to grow up as he was supposed to?

“Right... Well, when I was younger, I knew a princess in Termina... She saw that an evil man... uh, her uncle, would be king soon and no one believed her... She had asked me to help her.”

He skidded to a halt as he spotted the King and...Ganondorf. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the Greudo King. Images of his beastly transformation overlapped with the man currently in front of him.

Link dashed forward, past the guards and into the castle itself. He heaved his breaths as he took the most obvious path to the main hall. He didn't even stop to admire the original architecture of the building that would be transformed into Ganon's Castle.

"Who let this boy in?" The King asked, gesturing at him. "This is a private meeting."

Link swallowed, "Where’s Zelda?"

"Are you one of her playmates? Are you lost?"

He shook his head. He stared at the man, balling his hands into the skirt of his tunic.

"He appears overwhelmed," Ganondorf said, oddly soft, "Let him gather his thoughts."

Link shrunk away from Ganondorf’s full attention. He partly expected Navi to start speaking for him... The silence of her absence echoed like the quiet before Ganon burst from the rubble of the castle. His heart began a drum beat of “Danger, danger, danger,” in his ears.

He ran. Link ran past the crackle of fire echoing in his mind and behind his eyelids. The distressed shrieks from Zelda, unable to help, ringing in his ears.

“I stood in front of the current King, with evidence of the man’s plans in hand, and explained what I knew...” Link said, wishing that had been true.

“What? Already? You didn’t even get the big sword yet!”

“Oh, but you see...The King didn’t believe me. Put under a curse by the evil man. He was merely a puppet... But the evil man wanted more than the throne.”

He took in panting breaths as he stood in front of Zelda. The royal garden a soft earthy type of quiet. The twitter of birds promising calm. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Link? You're back already?"

He nodded and gasped for breath, "Ganondorf... is going to... get into the Sacred Realm."

Zelda's eyes widened, "Are you sure.... Oh... The Ocarina?"

With a nod, he let gravity take him and he plopped onto the ground.

"We must stop him then!" Zelda announced with determination.

Link smiled warily.

They had sat for hours. Zelda planned out how to deal with Ganondorf with the little information Link had been able to provide the words to explain. Exhaustion catching up with him, Link eventually fell asleep. His head on her shoulder. Her voice guiding him to kinder dreams than he'd had in a while. Even before starting his quest.

“The princess allowed me to sleep in one of the rooms in the castle. Although she probably didn’t need to since I usually ended up sleeping outside anyway... Got used to it. Sleeping in the big bed just felt too strange.”

“The princess seems really nice.”

Link nodded, “She is....” he sighed, “But, before we could implement our plan-”

He woke up to a muffled thunk. Link sat up and groggily wandered to the noise. He hadn’t thought about picking up his sword. He faltered as he noticed Ganondorf and a Gerudo woman bringing in a set of barrels.

Ganondorf turned to look at him and raised a brow. "Child. What are you doing up?"

He pointed to the barrels, brows furrowed.

"Ah, they are a gift to your King."

"It's night," Link forced out. Voice raspy. His glare strengthening.

The Gerudo King walked over to him, dramatic strides intimidating and imposing. Link scrambled to stay out of arms reach of the man. Ganondorf halted. "I get the sense you and the Princess don't like me too much."

Link distinctly regretted not grabbing his sword. His hand itched for something to hold, to protect him. "You're going to hurt people." He said in a harsh whisper, curling his fist.

"You sound so sure.... Why?"

Link looked away and took a step back.

"I don't intend to harm you, child."

"You killed the Great Deku Tree." Link hissed, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

"Ah. I didn't expect one of you to come out of that forest. Do you plan on speaking to the king? Tell him I killed a tree? I don't think he'll quite believe that... And if he did, it was one tree, do you think he'll care?"

"I'm not going to let you get into the Sacred Realm! You won't get Zelda or I to open the doors for you-"

"The Princess can open the doors?" Ganondorf grinned, "Thank you, young one, for that insight. I would have thought that particular goal lost without the Kokiri Emerald.... Now I can simply move on."

Link's eyes widened, he turned to run to Zelda. To get his sword. To do something. Ganondorf was fast. Especially so now that Link was small again. He never hated being small before this moment. He writhed against Ganondorf's grasp on his arm. He yelled and twisted and kicked.

"Stop it. You'll wake everyone up." Ganondorf snarled. He huffed, "I do hate doing this to a child but you give me no choice." He spoke in a language Link didn't understand. With a sharp jolt in the back of his head, he felt the energy sapped from him. He dropped to the ground. He felt wooden. Like a doll.

Ganondorf picked him up with ease. Dropping him over his shoulder. "It shouldn't kill you. Don't be alarmed. It took significantly more work to kill the Great Deku Tree."

Link's eyes widened. He hit Ganondorf weakly, struggling with the rest of his might. Ganondorf gave him a curious look, seemingly surprised he had even this much fight in him.

He was deposited in the bedroom the princess had given him. "Do try to get some rest, boy.... You'll need it." The door shut and locked.

Slowly, everything went dark.

"He cursed you?!"

Link nodded, "I later would realize that the reason I managed to stay awake as long as I did was because I had my own magic.... I had learned some spells before, but found out I could no longer do them."

The Kid frowned, "That's terrible!"

"I learned more later, it didn't entirely sap my aptitude for magic." Link glanced at his own hands. "I don't know... I don't need them as much anymore."

Zelda shook him awake. She shoved him to the floor in her urgency.

She pulled him up and before he was truly aware of his surroundings, he was being lifted by hands much stronger than Zelda. Link squirmed, the sleepiness draining from him quickly.

"Link wake up! Please!"

He groggily reached out to her. She gasped "Oh thank the Goddesses."

"Impa!" Zelda cried out. "My father! Where is he?"

"We don't have any more time to spare. I'm sorry Princess. We must leave. Now."

Link gasped. No no, this shouldn't be happening. It shouldn't be happening at all.

Impa ran. She remained surprisingly dexterous and agile despite carrying both children.

Link watched over Impa's shoulder as Ganondorf appeared from the door. His sword was stained red. He grinned and took large, striding steps after them. Impa threw Zelda up onto a horse. Link squirmed out of her grasp before she could toss him up with her.

"Link!" Zelda shrieked, "What are you doing?"

He took out his sword and gestured towards the gates.

"You can't!" She cried, reaching towards him. "You... you could-"

Impa spurred the horse on before she could finish. Link closed his eyes to dash out the image of Zelda's panicked face.

"I... never saw the Princess again for a long time after that."

Link nodded, "Eventually."

The Kid stared at him with a deep sadness. He knew he probably resonated too deeply into truth. He would have to change more in his story.

"But you did see her again. Right?"

Link tumbled to the ground, ignored. Ganondorf grabbed his own horse. Link roared in fury and made a leaping strike.

Zelda's scream echoed in the distance as Ganondorf clashed against his sword, creating a slash across Link's arm.

Ganondorf pushed him back before he could complete his attack. Knocking him several feet back. He scoffed, "I don't have time for you, child."

Link winced as he scrambled to a stand, listening to the clop clop of hooves. Legs shaking, he raced to the Temple of Time. He knew Ganondorf would be back. He hid behind a pillar, and waited. He could still stop it. He would just have to stop his past self from opening the doors! That could work.

"I ran to get the King's Mask before the evil man could. With that, he could rule the kingdom as he saw fit. Masks have great power in Termina, as symbols and sometimes magical items." He explained.

"Oh cool." The Kid leaned forward, "I wonder if any of the masks I had as a kid would be important to people in Termina..."

Link looked down with a soft smile, "Some of them, maybe. But anyway.... the mask was... gone, by the time I got there."

The boy ran in just as he expected, the Ocarina of Time still gripped in one hand. Link attempted to dash after him, only to he grabbed from behind. A large hand muffled him. He kicked and squirmed and bit. All it got him was a tighter hold.

“I should’ve known the royal family would send someone through time to stop me.” Ganondorf whispered to him, “I didn’t expect a child. Although, perhaps that’s all they have left.”

Link growled and knocked his head back, hitting Ganondorf’s chin. He was dropped unceremoniously. Scrambling to a stand, Link readied his sword, glancing at the spiritual stones in their places.

“Really?” Ganondorf huffed, “You think that little tumbtack will stop me?”

Link glared.

Ganondorf summoned his magic and Link dodged out of the way. “Hm, you learned. Good to know.” Ganondorf walked past him, and Link ran forward to attack, but was yet again thrown back by a dismissive smack. Everything after that was a hazy blur.

Link woke up to the crackle of fire and a burning sensation on his left hand.

Link was quiet for a moment, feeling the oppressive smoke and heat suffocating him. Imagery of Castle Town on fire flickering behind every blink.

The Kid frowned at him, "Are you okay?" He whispered.

Link nodded, tracing the shape of the triforce of courage on his hand. He didn't quite know how the time travel worked with the sacred relic. He glanced at his younger self. He had it too, didn't he?

"Grasshopper?"

Link took in a breath and straightened his posture, "Right. Right. I'm fine. But um. Can we finish this another time?"

The Kid nodded. He stood and stretched. "...Um, quick question... If you don't mind... Why did you leave Termina? You grew up there. And you said it's doing fine now-"

"I was looking for an old friend... Now I just want to help people here."

"Oh. You're a nice person." The Kid concluded.

"...I've been told that." Link said softly. He ruffled the Kid's hair because he knew it would annoy him. "But! It's getting dark and if you don't go back home and rest, I'm gonna go find Sheik and he'll make you sleep."

The Kid gasped in indignation. Then blinked. "Wait you can find Sheik? Really? How!?"

"Oh my Goddesses, go sleep!"

"Is he here!? Is he following me or is he just going to places I need to be before me?"

"Forget Sheik, I will drag you to the forest."

The Kid laughed, "Okay, okay."

#tw death mention #tw injury #loz #legend of zelda #ocarina of time #loz link #loz zelda #loz ganondorf #fanarts fanfic #loz au #loz angst #im gonna go back and add it to ao3 later because rn im on my phone so i have to copy by paragraph >_<

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