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soupfiction · 2 years

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Late (NSFW)

Pairing: Sierra Six x Female!Reader

Warnings: Minor description of injury, mention of blood, and unprotected sex (don’t do this!). No other sex-related warnings I don’t think but let me know if there are any!

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: For the first time, Six is late. But not without a good reason.

A/N: Tried a bit of a different writing style. Feedback is appreciated!

Six should be home by now.

Time schedules were either completely null or explicitly stated in his particular job field. A plane here, a week to drive a knife between some poor guys ribs there, then done. Money wired into his bank account before he even landed back in the states. Before he could even waltz through the threshold of your shared apartment. Other times, a kill was written down to the second he was meant to execute it. Chattering com in his ear and finger hovering over whatever long range gun they supplied him with.

The latter was your favorite. At least then he could whisper when he’d be back between kisses, hands cupping your cheeks and assuring you that you could both have dinner together because he’d be back before that time. The assurance was nice. It offered a timetable in which your worries could be left off the table, mind confident that everything is alright because he’ll be back soon, and if he wasn’t, then you’d worry. But he was always back.

Until now.

The cool air of the apartment is dead silent. Suffocating. It consumes and warps, amplifying the sound of the ice machine whirring on, making the beginning of it almost sound like a door opening. You stare ahead, wooden door shut firmly but unlocked. Ready for his hand to wrap around the biting cold metal of the doorknob and to walk in, throwing down his black backpack and giving you that sweet smile in greeting. A softness only for you—something you have been without for over two weeks now.

A heavy feeling settles in your gut as the clock by the door ticks on, slow and fast all at the same time. He’s late by almost two hours now. No call, no text, and still no Six. Your phone sits on the kitchen table, screen dark and quiet. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you think it lights up despite the lack of noise that usually accompanies a notification. Muteness prevails, yet you turn your head towards the electronic anyways, tapping the screen to see your home wallpaper staring back at you and nothing else.

Your eyes sting, water rising to combat it and to get you to blink and shut your eyes for just a moment. Footsteps sound outside in the hallway, your back goes straight, muscles tensed and ready to shoot up from your chair and to the door. It passes, just like it has the other few times. Neighbors, likely coming home from a night out, stomping on the short carpet and to their own sections of the apartment. You blink, gaze blurry.

It’s past three in the morning now. The ticking hand of the clock has came and went over the number, not hovering over it like your stare did. Tck-tck-tck. It’s constant. You feel the tears coming.

Then, heavy-set footfalls rise above the ever present sound of the moving hour hands. Distant, but they itch at something that sits in your brain. Familiarity settles in, washing away any ounce of worry and replacing it with air in your chest, making you feel like you’re about to burst with each thud.

The doorknob rattles. You stand so abruptly that the chair scrapes against the wooden floor.

Blood. Lots of it. It’s smeared across his face, right cheek more red than flesh. A path of dried blood falls from his nostril and onto a puffy upper lip, discoloring already spreading enough that you can see it from feet away. Then you’re in his arms, ignoring the patches of darkness on his tan tactical shirt.

He groans as you wrap your arms around him, causing you to relent the small amount of pressure you had given and settle for practically hovering your arms around his waist. Warmness surrounds you, curling with the scent of musk and dirt. Only one strap of his black backpack hangs off his broad shoulder, the attempt to remove it forgotten by your sudden advancement.

“Hey,” Six whispers into your hair, voice catching in the middle like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Arms wrap around your body, pulling you further into him even though he winces at the small movement.

A lump settles in your throat. You swallow it down and murmur, “I missed you.” Worries amiss now that he’s back. Present and in your arms. Wherever he had been and whatever happened didn’t matter now because Six was home. Covered in blood, surely, but alive, nonetheless.

A barely audible chuckle that you feel against your cheek. It hitches into cough momentarily, and you attempt to pull back. His grip tightens. “Sorry for being late.” Is all he offers for the blood and evident pain, not even letting you attempt to ask until he’s good and ready to part with you, face smushing against his chest to prevent any further movement of your mouth. You can smell the metallic tang of gore on him.

A minute passes, documented by the ticking sound emitting from the clock. His hold on you ceases. All there one moment and gone the next. Now he’s looking down at you with hooded blue eyes, lashes brushing atop his dirty cheeks. “Go ahead,” he says, giving permission for the questions he knows you have.

Okay, most urgent inquiry first. “What happened?”

The muscles of his jaw clicks, poking out as he grits his teeth, eyes going all dazed and far away for just a split second before he’s back. “Got complicated.” It’s not exactly spat out, but tense. Like those two words alone bring him back to whatever had gotten the blood on him. You’ll press for more later.

You eye the dark bags lingering just below his own. “When’s the last time you slept?”

That, for some reason, is more nerve inducing than the initial question. He takes a moment, fully taking off the backpack and plopping it by the door. The loud thud tells you that there’s something heavy in there. “What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“About two days? Give or take.”

Your teeth clench against each other, the only physical sign of your rising emotions. Anger, worry, all for him, directed at wherever the CSS had sent him, and whoever had the unlucky chance of meeting someone as dangerous as the man standing before you. “God, Court,” you start, using his real name. It feels worthy now, like that one word could encompass all that you feel for him. Not the one assigned to him by Fitz, but the one only a handful of people know. “Let’s get—Let me start a shower so that you can,” you look him up and down, taking in the tan tactical shirt and a shade darker tactical pants, “Get all that off of you.”

He hums a low sound, going to wrap his arms around you again, chin bumping against the top of your head. “Thanks.” The word is soft, tender. Tired, you’d say now that you’re aware of how little sleep he has gotten. You both stay like that until you let go first. He lets you, shoulders drooping now that he’s inside the apartment.

The water is warm under your fingers. A pine green towel hangs over the rod that holds up the cloudy yet almost transparent shower curtain. Six lingers behind you, watching.

“Okay, this should help,” you assure, for both of you. Once he’s all clean and calm you can relax. Smother him in the love that he’s been missing while he was away.

Dried blood is better than wet. It doesn’t make the fabric stick to his skin as he peels it off, discarding it in the hamper for a later washing or two. He’s slow taking them off, and you help with his shirt. It’s damp beneath your fingers from sweat.

Soon, his tan skin is exposed to the bright light of the bathroom. You try to suppress it, but a gasp escapes.

Red welts cover the left side of his ribs, similar to the one on his upper lip. They circle around like your stretching fingers. Your hand tentatively brushes against the bruises. “What happened?” You ask again. Can’t help it when this is so fresh, so used to the healed over scars that mar his skin and not this.

A sigh. He stops in his journey to pull down his boxers, letting them grip below his V-line. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling your hand up to his mouth. Saliva wet lips meet your knuckles. “Told you. Got complicated,” greyish-blue eyes gaze into your own, taking in the worry before he continues, “I’m here now. We’re okay.”

Now that he’s here in front of you, you agree.

You know he won’t tell you anything more until he’s ready. No use in trying to ask again. Six will bring it up when he feels it’s time. So, you let him remove the rest of his clothing in silence.

Steam has begun to hover in the air. It slips out the open door, and you go to follow it. A gentle grip on your upper arm stops you completely. He turns you back around to face his now naked form, not embarrassed about it in the slightest. You have seen him in this exact state, minus the wounds, many times before. Still, a hot flush creeps up your neck and you blame it on the rising temperature due to the hot water pouring from the shower head.

“Stay with me?” He asks. You do, nodding and going to sit on the closed toilet lid before he shakes his head. “No,” an incline of his head in the direction of the running shower, “There.”

Oh. Okay, you can do that. Six steps into the tub as you strip off your pajamas, much quicker than he did his own clothing. He steps back from the water to allow you in front of him. You close the shower curtain behind you.

Warm air curls around your naked body, then so do his arms.

Two weeks seem to have taken their toll on Six, both physically and emotionally. He buries his head into your neck, breathing in deeply. You can feel the rise of his chest, then its downfall. Skin on skin with no barrier. Neither of you seem to care about the dirt or blood caked on his body. The contact feels too good to forgo so soon, and you relax into his hold. Let him breathe you in until his muscles loosen up.

His own bar of soap is generic. Picked up without too much attention to detail. It’s larger than yours, less used with how often he comes and goes. You pick it up and let the water run over it, suds forming, before twisting around.

Reluctant to move, he barely lifts his head out from your neck. It hovers just an inch above where it was previously, hanging down so that he’s close to your face, eyes closed yet a small smile gracing his lips. He doesn’t budge from his position as you begin to brush the bar across his skin. Doesn’t even open his eyes. If he wasn’t smiling, you might think he had fallen asleep.

Your chests press together as you go to swipe the soap over his back. Six makes it akin to a hug when he once again gathers you in his arms and tugs you into him. Calloused fingers brush over your spine, following the bones up and down. Another time you might’ve laughed at him practically petting you.

Goosebumps erupt all over your body, water spraying on your backside. Bubbles cover everywhere but his lower half. You’re reluctant to bend down, to move from how he’s got you. Eventually, he does it for you, kissing the top of your head before grabbing the soap and finishing the job.

Then he brings it to your own body, heavy scent clinging to your flesh with each swipe.

He moves slowly. Holding the bar in his big hand and rubbing it over your neck, shoulders, breasts. Pace lessening there, a quick kiss to the shell of your ear before he goes below them and to your stomach. Warm breath fans across your shoulder because he’s leaned down, peering over to see the front of your body. He doesn’t shy away from your hips or lower regions, movements almost measured. Only when it’s time for your legs do you take the soap and let him move in front of you to wash the foam from his own body.

As soon as only water lingers on his skin, he’s back on you, gently grabbing your hips to move you in front of the spray. Wide palms and long fingers splay over wherever he can touch, using his own hands in place of a washcloth. Helping the froth to disappear.

The faucet squeaks as you shut it off, bending over enough that your backside is momentarily shoved against his front. His fingers press into your hips, lips running over the fresh smelling skin of your shoulders. Teeth lightly graze against it, causing a shudder to wrack through your body. You attempt to stand up straight again, but Six just grips you harder, keeping you right there.

“Six?” You inquire, voice higher than normal, suppressing a whine at the feeling.

A breathless reply of, “Yeah?” Before he’s sliding his hands up and over your stomach, feeling the soft flesh there before rising higher. The way he palms at your left breast so suddenly has that same sound releasing from your throat. He hums in content, other hand smoothing down your side. Still so warm even without the steaming water.

Unable and not wanting to move, you remain there. Letting him grope at the tender parts of your body and growing hotter by the second. Something pokes at your ass cheek, and you whisper, “Court?”

That does it. He uses his hold on you to twist you around so that you’re facing him, lips findings yours.

The kiss is strong and desperate, pressing into you like he’s trying to get as close as he can. When he nips at your lower lip, you open up without hesitation. His tongue delves past your teeth to lick at the inside of your mouth, exploring everywhere as if it’s the first time. A deep moan falls into your open jaw, low and entirely desperate.

Once your lips are puffy and nearly numb, he pulls back to admire his handy work. Takes in your fucked out expression before going back in for another taste, hands grabbing at your backside. Palms full of your flesh, squeezing until you whimper into his mouth.

It’s only when you begin to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the pressure does he push you into the shower wall, back against the already cold tile. It pulls a gasp from you, and he swallows it down as it arises. Uses it to shove his tongue even deeper as he moves a leg between your thighs.

The muscles press against your folds suddenly. Six taking advantage of his hold on you to move you down onto the upper part of his limb before you even realize what’s happening. He takes in the moan that follows, sharp grip keeping you stationary as you wiggle at the sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, a string of saliva keeping you connected. The discoloration on his upper lip looks painful, and it’s now that you remember the forming bruise. You go to comment on it. To ask if he’s okay, but he cuts you off with a hand over your parted lips. It’s gentle, yet still gets his point across.

“Not right now,” he breathes, pupils blown. “Talk about it later.”

Got it. No complaints from you, especially when he moves you over his thigh, grinding that sensitive part of you against him.

Your knee touches his growing cock with each movement forward. Just a brush, but it has him jolting. Bending forwards just a fraction, he goes against your mouth again. A quick kiss there, then to your neck. Nipping until the skin goes red, just to soothe the sting away with his tongue. He repeats this until the beginning of bruises appear. Different from the ones that cover him. Born of love rather than hate.

It’s not long until the heat pooling in your stomach turns to tightness. Muscles growing taut in preparation for the rising orgasm that approaches rapidly. He moves in front of your face, noses nearly touching. You whine when he doesn’t move to kiss you, taking the initiative and going forward only for him to pull back. A short, breathless chuckle and eyes glued to yours before he goes next to your ear. “Go on, baby.”

You do as he says. Eyes screwing shut and hole fluttering. All the while he’s growling praises, letting you spasm and holding you upright. You’re glad he’s got you, otherwise you might’ve fallen from how intense the pleasure goes through you. Legs turn to jelly, and you’re barely coming down from it before he’s spinning you around and pressing your chest against the tiles.

He groans your name, word fanning across the damp skin of your back. Hard hips grind into your ass. “Fuck, tell me if you want me to stop. Please.”

When you remain silent, his head drops forwards where your shoulder meets your neck. His hair tickles against your skin. “Want to know why I’m covered in bruises?” Six suddenly asks, like he just lost an internal battle you hadn’t known he’d been having. Your mouth opens to ask him why. To ask why he’s bringing it up right now of all times. He guides his length until the hot head sits against your opening, and the words are lost. Can’t even remember what he said when he shoves up into you, using the wetness brought forth by your orgasm to enter faster than he would otherwise.

It's not until he bottoms out that he continues, mouth right next to your face. “Some idiot in Peru. Fleeing the CIA. Saw some—some bad shit, wanted me to take him out.” He pauses in his explanation to drag himself out of you, only to slam back in. You cry out, half muffled by how your face is pressed against the shower wall. “Easy and quick. Fitz got some mercenaries to fly me out when—original crew got more important plans.” Six scoffs at that, then bites your shoulder before grinding himself further into you.

You can feel yourself leaking down your thighs. Barely able to stay upright with the onslaught that he’s giving you. “Turns out they knew who I was. Fucking jumped on the chance to try and—and get me. Didn’t though,” the words turn into a growl at the end as he lowers until only his head is still inside of you. “One guy blabbered some shit before I,” hips meet your ass again, harder this time. He continues this as he speaks, words only audible over the sound of skin meeting skin because of how close he is to your ear. “Put a—a bullet in him.”

A high pitched, garbled moan that could barely pass for words comes from you. It sounds something along the lines of, “What did he say?”

His cock presses against that spongy part of your insides, reaping something akin to a sob. Adjusting his position, he begins to slowly hit into it again and again. “Said a lot of bullshit,” Six growls, pulling you away from the wall enough to slip a hand between your thighs. “Lot of nothing.” Three fingers find your clit with ease, rubbing leisurely yet constant circles around it. “Knew something, though. Knew enough to guarantee his death.”

Six lets out a groan, high enough in his throat that it’s animalistic and rough. Fingers move faster over your sensitive bud, mirroring the quickening pace of his hips. “Thought they had me,” he says, more to himself than you. “So they—they talked. Too much. Mentioned—Mentioned you.”

In your dazed state, the words take a moment to register. When they do, your eyes widen.

Being Sierra, all of his information has been wiped. Any mention of his past gone. No name to connect a past to. A clean slate that he always intended to keep that way, lest an enemy of Fitz or him find it. By knowing of your existence well enough to know your name—it meant leverage. But it also meant that you were in danger, which is why they were all dead and Six was here, taking you against the shower wall.

You go to say something, but he just rams himself into you. The fingers of his other hand go from gripping your waist to your face, slipping past your swollen lips and into your wet mouth. He effectively cuts off any further comment by laying them over your tongue. Instead of trying to speak, you close your lips over his fingers and lick the skin, the taste of soap filling your mouth.

He brings you to another orgasm, letting you grip his cock with how your muscles tighten and release with it. Doesn’t stop in his pace even when you tremble, moaning around his fingers. Just when you’re about to burst from the overstimulation, his hips stutter against your ass, going as deep as he possibly can before releasing thick ropes of cum inside of you.

The rest of the night you’re inseparable.

You turn the shower on again, washing away the sweat and bodily fluids. Six stays with you, helping you to stand when your muscles want to give out. Urging you to use his soap again to clean everything off of both you and him.

The clock by the door reads four as you pass, but its ticking simply falls into the background with how warm hands remain touching you over the towel. It’s only when you’re laying in bed, as naked as you were in the shower, tightly wrapped in his hold, that you really think about your earlier worries and how he had answered.

He was late not only because of the traitoring mercenaries but also because they had said one of the only things that would warrant complete and utter brutality: your name.

That fact could mean others know of his relationship with you. Could use it against him in the future. Maybe that should worry you more, but in his arms, you’re sure he’ll always be back to you. No matter what others do.

#sierra six #court gentry #sierra six x reader #sierra six x you #court gentry x reader #the gray man #the gray man movie #the gray man netflix #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six fanfiction #sierra six smut #court gentry fanfiction #court gentry smut

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kevainthemultiverse · 2 months

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Chapter 2 - Escape

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Fem!Reader

Summary: Kate's past comes crashing down on her when Kingpin's mafia makes her their new target.

Warnings: Invasions, murder, mentions of death, I put the slow in slow burn, cursing, fighting.

Word Count: 1.2K

I Chapter One I Chapter Two I Chapter Three I Chapter Four I Chapter Five I Chapter Six I Chapter Seven I Chapter Eight I

I Masterlist I

The bold phrase was on repeat on Kate’s mind, mingling with a flood of questions racing through her thoughts.

“Because I’m your only chance at survival.”

If the stranger was her only chance to survive, why was that? As a matter of fact, how did she even get the information Kate would be in danger? Was she trustworthy or leading the archer into a trap? The stranger’s attire mirrored that of the invaders she had killed, sparking uncertainty and suspicion in Kate’s mind, overshadowing any semblance of trust she might have harbored.

Positioned in front of the archer as a shield, gun in hand, the stranger exuded calculated confidence. Kate’s protests were stifled by fear of the gun’s deadly potential and her own survival instincts. She realized she had little choice but to obey and hope for the best. She also had an agenda of her own. Once the woman gets her out of the apartment, she’ll bolt.

They slowly make it out to the corridor, where another man waited hidden in the shadows. They get jumped by someone that was built like a distant relative of Hulk’s. Both the guy and Kate had little time to process as the woman between them react, a kick between the legs had him on his knees, whimpering before she took his head and smashed against metal railing with such force, it bended. Dazed, the man barely had chance to respond before he was shoved down the stairs with ruthless efficiency. Her swift and decisive actions hinted at a deeper knowledge of combat tactics, even more deadly than the invaders swarming around.

Bullets pierced the air, prompting the stranger to retrieve her gun and usher Kate back to the relative safety of the bedroom. Kate’s heart pounded in her chest as she grappled with the gravity of the situation. How many adversaries were they facing? Was escape even possible?

“Fuck.” She complained in an angry sigh, breathing heavily.

“Do you think we can take them?” Kate asked, starting to believe that it wasn’t so bad that the stranger was there, saving her. Yes, she was shady and killed two – possibly three – people with ease, but there was no way she would get out of there alone.

“Now’s not the moment to make questions, but yes.” The woman hissed, her urgency justified by the noises coming through: the invaders were strategically moving to be able to get both.

The archer almost groans at the rudeness but chooses silence over confrontation. Observing the stranger’s tense demeanor, Kate sensed an undercurrent of desperation beneath her steely exterior as she tapped her vest and got a hold of something unclear.

“How long can you hold your breath?” The woman’s hand grazed Kate’s arm, prompting a surge of adrenaline as she braced herself for the unknown.

The whispered question was serious, Kate wasn’t. And in the face of danger, she impulsively used the stranger’s words against her. “That’s a question.”

“Bishop.” The woman says, more serious than before.

“I don’t know!” Kate’s mind raced, grappling with the unexpected query. “Thirty seconds?” She ventured, uncertainty tingeing her voice.

“It’ll have to do.” the stranger replied tersely, revealing a bomb, and issuing swift instructions. “This will make it difficult for them to see us, but when it explodes do not breath in or you’ll pass out. When I run, go to the door to the rooftop and hide, I’ll be behind you. Got it?”

Kate gives her a short and fast nod, pulse quickening as she absorbed the gravity of their predicament.

The stranger nods and pulls the pin, holding it for a second before throwing it high. The explosion rocked the apartment, casting chaos and confusion in its wake, fog rapidly gaining space as the invaders screamed downstairs. Kate stopped breathing and followed as the woman rushed outside, shooting someone that was coughing on the steps.

“Run!” The stranger commanded, her voice the only thing grounding Kate in the chaos.

Kate sprinted with a newfound sense of purpose, her senses heightened by fear and desperation. She wanted to curse herself and the way she double checked if every door was locked before sleeping, until she turned the doorknob and saw the way to her freedom. There was nothing and no one in the rooftop but darkness, she sought refuge behind a weathered air conditioning unit, her breaths ragged and shallow. Moments later, the stranger appeared, her presence a welcome reassurance amidst the turmoil.

“C’mon, we don’t have much time.” Her savior urged, extending a hand to Kate.

Gripping the stranger’s hand with trembling fingers, Kate allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. As they fled down the fire escape, Kate’s mind buzzed with conflicting emotions. Fear warred with relief, uncertainty mingled with gratitude.

Kate regretted many things in life, and still being weak despite years of training was one of them. Blindly following someone that so easily kills, hopping on a motorcycle with an unknown destination, all while praying it wouldn’t lead to a trap, only added to her list of regrets. It was stupid, she should’ve run away already.

Their destination, an abandoned warehouse, did little to ease her unease.

“Are you trying to get me alone to kill me?” Kate half-joked as they entered the dusty and dark place, removing the helmet as the stranger closed the door behind them.

“Don’t you think I could’ve done that already?” The woman's tone held no trace of amusement, revealing a simmering impatience as she maneuvered her bike deeper into the warehouse.

Seeking answers to quiet her racing mind and pounding heart, Kate pressed further. "Okay, then explain to me how someone I don’t know was out to protect me, dressing just the same as the people who attempted to murder me?"

The other remained silent at first, leading them to a secluded room that – once the door was open – stood out amidst the warehouse's dilapidated surroundings. Clean and organized, it held a backpack, and two sleeping bags. The stranger moved with familiarity, retrieving a powerful flashlight from one of her many pockets and illuminating the room before starting to shed the glasses, helmet and balaclava. As she turned to face Kate, the archer was struck by her beauty despite the disheveled appearance and traces of blood – that clearly wasn’t hers – on her face.

But now was not the time for such thoughts.

“Long story short, you managed to piss off the king of New York.” The woman stated matter-of-factly, her gaze as serious as her voice as she removed her bulletproof vest. “You thought you could use your family’s company to search here, hack there and no one would notice or care because you’re a star athlete that barely has time to breathe between maintaining a 4.8 GPA and competitions for an overwhelming amount of sports.”

Kate lifted her chin defiantly, attempting to mask her uncertainty with her usual unwavering confidence. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

The woman emitted a dry chuckle before meeting Kate’s gaze once again. “I suggest you start jogging that memory of yours, Bishop, because the bounty in that pretty head of yours is enough to move an entire army.”

Kate's throat tightened at the revelation, feeling cornered and vulnerable, the echoes of her past struggles resurfacing once again. Under different circumstances, she was now Derek Bishop facing the barrel of a gun.

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#crimsonthreads #kate bishop x fem!reader #kate bishop x reader #kate bishop imagine #kate bishop x female reader #kate bishop fanfiction #hailee steinfeld #kate bishop #mcu #hawkeye

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monstersdownthepath · 1 year

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Monster Spotlight: Cetus

CR 13

Chaotic Neutral Colossal Dragon

Bestiary 5, pg. 54

Among the cruelest creatures a DM could send after their players, the Cetus (I prefer to think it’s a singular, legendary creature rather than a species) makes for an excellent quest objective or even BBEG for a seaside campaign, its impossible power making it essentially unassailable by sea and capable of harassing an entire city on its own, and its only weakness difficult for some parties to take advantage of (or even know about, if treated as a singular legendary creature). Players may have to go on an entire separate quest to gain a weapon capable of harming the Cetus, and all the while the dim-witted but demanding dragon is free to take tithes from terrified townsfolk in the form of food, gold, or even sacrifices if it’s feeling particularly peckish or lazy.

But so long as the people within its territory keep up their side of the lopsided bargain, they see some benefit, however indirect. With Control Weather available to it 1/day, the divine serpent may gift its chosen beneficial and beautiful weather, free of storms or chaos. Cities protected/tyrannized by the Cetus is also all but invincible from the ocean, because the serpent has Quickened Control Water at will, letting it create an endless number of ship-swallowing whirlpools and destructive water spouts of truly tremendous size. If that weren’t enough, then an at-will Control Winds allows the beast to create cyclones 600ft wide to obliterate entire fleets at once and render it all but immune to ranged attacks, even those launched from cannons. With a caster level of 15, that gives the serpent just enough juice to raise the winds from Strong to Tornado-Force (or lower them by the same amount in case it wishes to protect its home from a storm), the 200 MPH winds reducing all but the largest of ships to toothpicks impaling screaming sailors. Or, should the beast be offended, wiping entire sections of its chosen city off the map.

The “protection” offered by the Cetus is ephemeral at best, granted only to those who show it utter supplication, and its rage is downright apocalyptic. Thankfully, the creature’s gravely low Intelligence (7) and lack of any ranks in Sense Motive make it incredibly easy to trick and mislead, one of the few means a clever party (or desperate NPC) will have of defying the beasts and giving them time enough to find a way to beat it. This creates a tense time limit to gather the materials needed to combat it, because a straight-up brute force fight with the Cetus is nearly impossible.

The oceanic tyrant is practically built to thwart just about everything players can do. Its total control of wind and water makes assaults with war machines and heavy ships useless. It has Deflect Arrows for whatever reason, just in case something manages to sneak through its walls of wind. Its 30ft space and 30ft reach combine with its 120ft swim speed to give it a tremendous threat radius, nearly unmatched in the underwater combat the party will have to grapple with if they want to fight it toe to toe. And if you try to come at it from above? It has a unique ability called Impossible Leap, allowing it to use a full-round action to stretch its body to 1200ft and make a bite attack against any creature within that radius before returning to its former space. Yes, this creature can go from sea level to kissing the top of the Empire State Building in six seconds!

I hope whatever means you were using to stay aloft weren’t magical, either, because the Cetus is hard-coded to disrespect every method of flight and freedom. Its Dispelling Bite automatically targets any effect which would allow a creature to avoid being grappled or which would allow them to fly or hover. While this, thankfully, doesn’t strip creatures of their ability to swim, breathe underwater, or walk on water, that’s of little comfort to the unfortunate creature that just plummeted 100+ feet straight into the ocean.

But I’ve spoken of its ability to bite and what happens if it bites you without describing the bite itself! What does that look like? 6d6+27 plus Grab. That’s only when it’s swatting flies with Impossible Leap and striking fleeing foes with its Combat Reflexes, though; on its turn, its bite damage is actually 24d6+27 because it has Greater Vital Strike and literally no reason not to use it, so its average damage per round is hovering around 105, which is eyebrow-raising on its own even if it DIDN’T have extra bells and whistles. At the level a party can combat the tyrant serpent, that’s typically enough to knock a d8 Hit Dice haver from full to 0 unless they have some level of protection. Though it has 24 Spell Resistance, it has no status immunities aside from paralysis and sleep, so slapping it with as many debuffs as one can to drag down its otherwise monstrous +28 to attack rolls is one perfectly viable way to cut down its extreme DPS. With only one attack each round, if it misses that intimidating pile of d6s goes to waste.

if it hits, though? Whoof. Not only are victims potentially grappled, but the Cetus can Constrict such poor souls for 6d6+27 damage each round, and if that wasn’t enough? It can Rake grappled victims as a free action with its little arms for a not-so-little 4d6+18 damage. This is, of course, if it doesn’t simply Fast Swallow them into its gullet for 8d6+24 damage. Greater Vital Strike into a Grab to trigger Constrict, then Rake to follow up... Well that’s uh... That’s a very demoralizing number.

38d6+90 damage, or 230 on average, well over enough for a Cetus to kill even d12 Hit Dice owners.

It would be fine if the Cetus were a glass cannon, but it’s not. It has insurmountable DR 5, 28 AC, high saves for its level, and everyone within its 30ft reach is subject to Mariner’s Misfortune, a terrifying and terrifically powerful aura that forces every non-aquatic creature inside it to make a DC 26 Will save every round... which they must roll twice and take the lower result on. If they succeed, they cannot be afflicted by the aura for a full day, but if they fail? Oh god, if they fail? That’s disadvantage on ALL d20 rolls. Attacks, saves, skill checks, all of them. And this effect lasts for a full minute! And rounding off its defenses? Regeneration 10 that cannot be suppressed by any form of damage, making it unkillable even if the party managed to fight through its aura.

Thankfully, its Regeneration has a very specific weakness. Remember what I said about having to go on another quest to defeat this creature? I meant it. Much like its mythical namesake, the easiest way to beat the Cetus isn’t to fight it, but to kill it instantly. It has no resistance to instant-death effects or Polymorph effects, but more importantly it’s Vulnerable to Petrification. It takes a -4 penalty to any save to avoid being petrified, and even if it succeeds its saving throw it takes 1d4 Dexterity damage. What’s more, whether it passes or fails its save, it Regeneration shuts off for a full minute, allowing a party with the means to fight it on even terms and survive its damage

Though its CR is low in comparison to heavy shakers like the demigods, the Kaiju, the Spawn of Rovagug, and others, it nonetheless shares the same role as an almost epic, ‘setpiece’ style monster one must go on special quest to find a means of defeating. Discovering the weakness is extremely hard on its own (especially, again, if you play the Cetus as a unique creature), likely requiring some form of divination or bargaining with a knowledgeable force, but then there’s finding the right weapon! Preferably one which can bypass its SR to assure there’s no room for failure. The head (or cooperation) of a Medusa, a tamed Gorgon, the gaze of a Basilisk, scrolls or other means to cast Flesh to Stone if desperate... or perhaps supplications to the extremely powerful Euryale are all means a DM could have players face off against the Cetus, possibly after the party found out the hard way just how hard it is to harm the thing in the first place, let alone kill it.

It is, however, endlessly amusing to me that this great and powerful serpent, blessed and protected by the ocean itself, can either be a nightmarish, down-to-the-wire DPS race against a foe that counters every reliable player tactic... or have the epic fight end in a single round, if the party caster guesses correctly with Flesh to Stone.

You can read more about it here.

#CR 11 to 15 #Monster Spotlight #Pathfinder #whoof this one was a long one #it needed to be though just LOOK at it

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cedarstree · 1 year

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My Star Wars Fanfic Recommendations: Part Three

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

walk by faith/tell no one what you’ve seen - After the end of the war with the Empire, Obi-Wan wakes up in his twelve-year old body. Now all he needs to do is convince everyone he's psychic, trick his Master into taking him on before he's sent to Bandomeer, redeem a few bad guys, and try not to have a nervous breakdown. Pretty easy. It's not like the Sith are lurking on the horizon, waiting to devour the Jedi Order.

and the world tilts upon its axis - “You never told us.” Anakin’s words pierce directly into Ahsoka’s heart; she can’t imagine what they do to his master. That stricken feeling flits through the Force again before Obi-Wan can wrangle it again. At least it gets Anakin to look up. He looks torn, agonized, pained, but repeats, unsteady, “You never told us.” “The past is not an easy thing for me to speak of.”

Teach the Padawan - The man that was once Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, GAR General, knew that his death was finally here. Just as he was struck down he made a wish. As he disappeared from the mortal plane, he didn’t realize the Force had been listening. When he opened his eyes, with a younger body and in a time long past, it was apparent that the Force took a somewhat creative interpretation of his last thoughts. However, the man that was once Crazy Old Ben, Wizard of the Wastes, wasn’t going to squander this second chance. After all, he had a padawan to teach and the galaxy to save.

so old they were, and wise - Obi-Wan's arm had tightened around him to the point of squeezing. He felt sick swoops of nausea. "Anakin," he said urgently. "I don't care what the circumstances are or who you're with, if anyone tries to bring you to the Chancellor, stars forbid leave you alone with him, do not allow it. Do whatever is necessary - cry, scream, fight, use the Force, run - run to find me. Stay away from Chancellor Palpatine. Do you understand, young one?" Wide-eyed, Anakin nodded.

stars sing my name, scars tell my story - Anakin wasn’t sure how to ask, so he didn't. Instead, he waited until Master Kenobi fell asleep and stayed up to tinker in the dark, building his own scanner out of parts stolen from the trash. The chip was in his right thigh.

The Legend of Liob - The Republic sends a combat photographer to be attached to the 212th until further notice, citing the need for a morale boost. The clones make up a fake clone, citing the absolute fact that it is very funny. Somehow, these two things save the galaxy.

Care What It Cost - Five years after Naboo, Obi-Wan becomes aware that things between Anakin and Qui-Gon have become... tense. The obvious solution is to mediate their difficulties if at all possible. That is not what happens.

In all your wanderings - Passion, yet serenity. Shmi leaves Tatooine with Anakin and goes to the Jedi Temple.

Gra’pa - The tyrannical Empire is thriving, the young Rebellion is striving. Exhausted, Obi-Wan Kenobi needs a Hug, and gets two, not one, from his favorite set of twins in the entire universe.

Obi-Wan Declares Himself Dad Shaped - “Hello, there!” the probably-Jedi sumbitch says, completely ignoring the fact that he’s in cuffs, and being paraded in with great suspicion by a squad of six. He sounds more like he’s some politician asking for directions in a palace. ”I’m afraid we appear to have had something of a misunderstanding. I don’t suppose there’s someone I could speak with to get this straightened out?”

everything I have ever learned- Skywalker, the deep hollow voice of the desert says, echoing like a heartbeat in his bones. Do you know what your name means?

Hope and Ekkreth - how Anakin may not have been able to free the slaves on Tatooine, but he could do this. He could do this.

If You Ever Come Back - After Obi-Wan Kenobi's return from Melida/Daan, it is discovered that the Jedi Council and Qui-Gon Jinn have very different definitions of the word probation.

What Have We Become - One of Feemor's greatest regrets, was that he never had the chance to get to know his brother-padawan, but the Force is willing to give him one more chance. And maybe, if he's lucky, he can finally make amends with his former master and save them all in the process.

there you are (you’re there with open arms) - "You're alive," Ahsoka cries. And he's holding her head with one hand, pressing her head into the crook of his neck. "I'm here, dear one," Obi-Wan whispers. And she can't believe that Obi-Wan is here. And he is alive and breathing and he is holding her. "I'm here."

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #obi wan #anakin star wars #fanfic recommendations #fanfiction #fanfic #obi wan star wars #star wars prequels #anakin and obi wan #star wars anakin #star wars ahsoka #sw ahsoka #the clone wars

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kathrynalicemc · 2 years

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The Phoenix Resistance - Epilogue: Kaari Arcano

Skalafell, Norway - December 21st, 2008, 4:45 PM

A flash of fire lit up the dark kitchen as Kaari Arcano stepped out of the fireplace, returning home from Fossan where he worked. He looked around at the various pots bubbling away over the stove but found nobody tending to them. However, his eye did catch the fresh pie cooling by the open window. Tiptoeing over, he stuck a finger into it and then into his mouth.

“Kaari Arcano, you get your dirty hands out of that pie!” came the sudden voice of his mother Else from behind him.

His shoulders tensed up and he gave a quiet curse under his breath. Of course she would walk in at that exact moment. He couldn’t get away with anything. At least he found out that it was an apple pie and, like everything his mother made, was delicious.

“That pie is for the Yuletide feast tonight,” Else hit a dishrag against Kaari’s shoulder to shoo him away.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how my day was?” he teased, recoiling from her attacks.

“Sorry, min kjære. How was your day?”

“It was fine, Ma,” he chuckled, squeezing her to his side in a quick hug.

“Where is everyone? Usually the house is swarming with screaming Vikings.”

“Dafne brought some friends home with her for Christmas break. They are all out back playing knattleikr.”

“Mmmm,” Kaari murmured. “I bet they are,” he said sarcastically, knowing well enough that Dafne hated to play such a rough and dangerous game.

Pulling his fur cloak tighter, he stepped out of the door and into the deep snow as he made his way to the clearing behind the Arcano house. As he got closer he could hear the yells of combat. It seemed they had ditched knattleikr, the balls and sticks thrown aside into a snowbank, and now were in favor of glíma.

Dayamanti, the oldest of his nieces at fourteen years old, threw Siv’s small eight year old form down into the snow and pinned her down, a small wooden practice dagger poised above the girl’s neck.

“Ha! I won again, Siv!” Dayamanti taunted downward, her long dark hair cascaded down and the white ends of it brushed Siv’s face.

“No fair!” Siv, Kaari’s own daughter, cried back indignantly.

“What did you expect, Siv? Da outweighs you twice over,” Dafne, his second niece, called out annoyed from her seat on a fallen log to the side.

“UNCLE KAARI!” “DADDY!” came the cries of Dielle, his youngest niece, and his own son Mikael as they saw him approach. They were the same age as they were both six years old.

“Hey kiddos! Have you won any games yet?”

“Nah, Da says we are too young to play glíma,” Dielle pouted.

“I wanted to play quidditch,” said Mikael, also joining the pout.

“Well that’s no fun!” Kaari winked. “How about we get a game going tonight at the feast?”

“YEAA!” Dielle and Mikael both cheered and then ran off together, most likely to go find some brooms.

The wrestling match had stopped by the time Kaari approached, Siv and Dayamanti now sitting on a second log. On the first log next to Dafne sat two of her new friends, both catching Kaari off guard.

One of them was incredibly tall and lanky, so much so that he thought she might not be in first year after all. The girl's skin was a sort of tanned olive while her long tangled hair was a vibrant sea green.

The second girl, however, was almost the opposite. She was even smaller than Mikael and Dielle. Kaari wondered how she was old enough to attend Hogwarts. It wasn’t until he saw her long droopy elvish ears that a shock of recognition traveled up his spine.

It had been ten years since he looked into that kitchen window and saw that small elf baby sleeping in a pile of rags. He remembered the frustration and anger on Devon’s face when she had lost the trial on Neira Wilson. After that, neither of them had any contact with Lenwin or his daughter. They never knew what happened to them. Looking at the girl, Kaari couldn’t help but smile. It had to be fate that Dafne would bring her home. He’d have to send Devon an owl later. She would be happy to know about this.

“What do we have here?” Kaari mused as he stopped in front of them.

Dafne rolled her eyes in annoyance while the small elf girl turned a deep red and shrunk down, embarrassed at the sudden attention brought to her. However, the green haired girl didn’t share that sentiment and instantly jumped up, extending her hand with a large pointed toothed smile.

“Hi! I’m Nessi Lucerne! Who are you?” she asked bluntly.

“I’m Kaari, Dafne’s totally awesome and fun uncle,” he joked with a wink at Dafne who returned a scolding glare back at him.

“And you. You’re Kiri Wilson, right?”

The girl's head shot up at the mention of her name, her eyes peeking out from between her fingers. She looked around at all the people who were now staring at her and burst into tears, running off into the forest behind them.

“Ah, sorry about that. Kiri is really shy and hates being put on the spot. Especially with strangers,” Dafne grimaced.

“Why don’t you kids go to the Longhouse? The feast will be starting soon. I’ll go find her. She really shouldn’t be in the forest alone, especially since she could freeze out there,” Kaari offered.

The girls agreed and started to make their way down the pathway to the village. Kaari approached the edge of the forest, the pines covered in thick snow. Luckily, he was very skilled in the art of tracking thanks to his father Alatar. With a combination of footsteps in the snow and the faint distant sounds of sniffling, he spotted the small frame of Kiri half hidden behind the trunk of a tree.

“Hey, I’m sorry I scared you,” he spoke as gently as he could.

A few seconds passed but she didn’t respond. Only the quiet sobs permeated the air. Suddenly, he got an idea.

“Do you want to see something cool?” Kaari asked, reaching into his coat pocket.

The sobs stopped and a tiny hand and eye peeked out from around the tree, watching Kaari curiously.

“This is one of my best friends,” he said as a bright blue dragon resting in his palms yawned and blinked sleepily, having just been woken up. “His name is Nym and he’s very friendly.”

Nym’s head cocked to the side and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he looked at the small elf girl now slowly approaching, her hands tucked up to her chest nervously. She hesitated for a moment but then kept going, stopping right in front of Kaari who was now crouching down low.

Nym’s tongue flicked up and licked his eyeball, scanning the girl for treats. When he didn’t find any in her hands, he gave a small chirp. Kiri’s mouth pulled upwards in a smile.

“Go ahead, you can pet him. He won’t bite.”

Her small hand shook slightly as she slowly reached out towards Nym. As soon as it got close enough, Nym stretched upwards and nuzzled his head against her hand, giving out even more excited chirps. Kaari smiled as a laugh erupted from Kiri.

“Here, you can hold him,” Kaari chuckled and carefully placed the dragon in her arms.

Kiri’s hands were too small to hold him in her palms so she cradled him in her arms. Holding him tight to her chest, she gave him a kiss on the top of his head.

“Wilson isn’t my name,” Kiri suddenly spoke up, her voice quiet and soft. “It was my mother’s name.”

“You can’t use it?”

“House elves can’t have last names.”

“Who told you they can’t have last names?”

“My aunt.”

“Well she’s an arse,” he replied instinctively but then winced, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“I won’t,” Kiri giggled.

“You know, I knew your mother. We were good friends. She was one of the kindest and most selfless people I’ve ever known.”

Kiri was quiet for a moment. “My dad has told me about her. I wish I could have known her.”

“I was there when she died. She sacrificed herself to save so many people. I hope you know she loved you more than anything in the world. She never wanted to leave you.”

Tears started to well up in Kiri’s large eyes as she hugged Nym tight.

“You have her hair,” Kaari remarked, “and her smile. You should use it more, it suits you.”

“T-thank you,” Kiri managed to stutter between sobs as she cried again, this time not out of embarrassment or fear.

“C’mon, we should be getting back. The feast has probably started and you’ll catch your death out here in the cold.”

“Can I play with Nym more?” Kiri asked, wiping away tears.

“Whenever you like, kiddo,” Kaari answered and playfully mussed her hair as they made their way out of the forest and down to the Longhouse where a large bonfire and hot cider greeted them warmly.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #kaari arcano #kiri amaryllis #tpr #the phoenix resistance #dafne arcano #dayamanti arcano #siv arcano #mikael arcano #dielle arcano #nessi lucerne #tpr epilogue #arcano family

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sockablock · 3 years

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hey are requests still open bc I am still FULLY CRYING about Molly coming back to life holy SHIT. I have a thing I want to request and that’s Molly having to come to terms with whatever changes his body went through - new blood hunter abilities, longer hair, the much larger scar from Lucien’s v gory death - after he comes back to life.

Molly doesn’t ask what happened to Nott. He doesn’t ask them where they are. He doesn’t even ask who Essek is, and only gives Caduceus a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning away and wandering off.

His feet are bare on the soft teal grass. This time of year in the Blooming Grove, faint glowing insects hover around his ankles. The leaves of the old blue wisteria trees hang like a sheet across the sky. He is wrapped in a cloak of quiet moonlight, grey on the graves as he passes by.

Eventually, he comes to a lone headstone. It is long, and flat, and smooth. He sits down.

If he is different in any way, nobody says. It’s taken him a few days to find his words again, and it’s clear that his memories are still trickling back. Veth had joked that he used to be more entertaining, but they all know that his returning in any capacity is already nothing short of a miracle. To the Mighty Nein, he is still as miraculous as before.

To himself—to Mollymauk, he thinks he’s a bit leaner. He’d never really been one for rigorous training—not aside from what it took to throw a sword and catch it—and yet, this body seems hardened, now. It’s still a bit sore in some inconvenient places, and the tall one, Caduceus, mentioned that he shouldn’t do anything too strenuous to avoid opening his scar. This newest mark runs like a seam down his shoulder to his navel, making the rest of his scars look like paper cuts. He isn’t exactly sure how to feel about that, yet. Beau offered to help him design a tattoo to cover it, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that yet, either.

A faint breeze runs through the Grove, tousling his hair. It’s longer now, and Molly might have liked that more if he’d been around to enjoy it. He suspects that he might have been, in one way or another, though not nearly present enough to make the executive choices. Otherwise, he might have tried braids. Maybe hair dye. Not only that, but the...what had Caleb called him? The “previous occupant” had taken off Molly’s horn charms and necklaces. For the second-life of him, Molly can’t remember if he’d kept them. He can’t remember much about the last ten months—which might be alright. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

(He does remember some things, though. He remembers taking his shirt off the first night at the Grove and seeing the other scar left behind. It is closed now, and healed well over with blood magic, but when Molly reaches up and traces it down, he can feel how the cut drips into his abdomen. He remembers how it felt to have the blood pouring over, to boil with fury and die of shock, under the stars.)

He looks at them now. They haven’t changed a bit.

Another wind kicks up. Molly isn’t sure exactly what time of year it is, but he shivers. The Clays are kind, but the whole family towers over Molly, so their spare clothes fit him poorly. Firbolgs are also—well, furred—and Molly suspects that this borrowed tunic is on the thin side. His tail curls inward as he realizes he’s going to sneeze. He feels his muscles tense, he breathes in—

And suddenly, something warm is draped across his shoulders. He glances up.

“Oh. Yasha?“ His voice is strained. It feels as if Molly hasn’t spoken in a year, but at the same time, he feels like his throat is worn. Almost like he’s been giving frequent speeches with wild abandon. Now that he’s had some time to recover, the combined effect sounds like someone trying to remember how to talk, but only being allowed to do it through a rusty pipe.

“Come to join me in my musings?” he still says, stubbornly.

“She’s not the only one. ‘Sup.”

Molly doesn’t have to turn to know that Beauregard has walked into the rows of graves just behind Yasha. The two of them have been pretty attached to each other lately, except for when Yasha comes to check on Molly. The strongest part of him, the part that hung on the longest, is privately quite pleased by this.

“And you’ve given me your cloak.” He grins, but just at Yasha. “How kind of you, my dear.”

Okay, so not that privately.

“I was worried you’d be cold,” Yasha says, concern endearing. “Sorry your old coat wasn’t doing better. Jester says she can probably Mend it, or try to paint you a new one—“

Molly waves his hand. “No, no need, dear. I should do it. It’ll give me a thing to work on.”

Yasha nods. “I’ll let her know.”

Distantly, Molly can hear footsteps approaching. He counts four, maybe five pairs, if one of them is lighter. After a moment, there’s the sigh of cloth, and six pairs are walking.

Movement joins Molly on the headstone. He turns, and now Beau is seated beside him. Yasha stands like a guardian at his back.

Both of them are much, much wearier, Molly notices. Even though it’s been less than a year since his “death,” Beau is riddled with new scars from combat, and Yasha’s tattoos have gotten much bolder. Oddly, that’s reassuring.There’s something in the fact that Molly’s body changed, but theirs did too. And even if he can’t remember it, that’s something they have in common.

On the other hand, though, it makes him feel...he shakes his head. He gazes outward.

He asks, “Why did you follow me, then?”

Beau responds first. She does so with a snort. “Of course we’d follow you, you idiot. You were our friend—or...okay, technically, at the time you’re actually a crazy cult leader—“

“No, I meant—“

She cuts him off. “Right, yeah, details. Not important. Listen, it...it was a whole long thing, and it was complicated, but the important part is that we really, just really wanted you back. That’s why we did any of it. All of it. And why nothing could stop us.”

“Not even me?”

“Hell, no. Since when could you stop me?”

Molly chuckles at that. He glances at Yasha. “Is that true?”

“Which part?” she says. Then she says, “Yes. It is.”

He matches the tiny smile on her face. Then he turns back to stare at the woods past the graveyard while behind him, the rest of the Mighty Nein come to a halt.

His smile widens. “What I was actually trying to ask, though, is why you all followed me here. Just now. I thought you were going to prepare for dinner?”

“My parents took over,” Caduceus says. “They told us to take a break.”

“Besides!” With a burst of jewelry and her flouncing skirts, Jester squeezes onto the other end of Molly’s headstone. “We wanted to spend more with you!”

“Now that you’re interesting again,” adds Nott, taking a seat at the base of the stone with Fjord. He reaches up to wink at Molly, “Hey, roomie.”

“I thought I should get to know you as well,” says the new voice. Molly remembers that his name is Essek. “We, ah...we are both purple, so that is something we already have in common.”

Molly laughs at that. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Caleb. “It’s like there are two of you now. Like your shadow. Or a duplicate.”

“I am still the funny one,” Caleb says. “I plan on defending that title. Even from you.”

Molly laughs again, and this time, he does turn. He can see that the whole group have gathered around him now, sitting beside him, standing behind him, in the grass.

They are all so tired. They are all much stronger. Molly has gathered from the scars on their bodies—as well as from the scars on his own—just how powerful they must be now. He knows that he isn’t the same, either. Sometimes his blood feels like its boiling. Sometimes he is moving, and he can swear that it’s through snow.

But the Mighty Nein are here. There are nine of them, now. And that, he thinks, in and of itself, must be a miracle. And as he looks at them now, drinking their presence in, he thinks...

Maybe some things haven’t changed, after all.

—

✨ Ko-Fi Link in Bio! ✨ | Requests are OPEN

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bonky-n-steeb · 3 years

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𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘃𝗲

𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙑𝙀 𝙍𝙊𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙎 𝙭 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || Steve’s life takes a quantum leap when he finds you unconscious on the beach.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || ANGST (with a happy ending)

This is the second part of six feet under.

I know I broke your hearts, so here comes the second part to mend it! I hope you love this!

“You are my mission.”

Steve felt as if the walls of his heart were pricked by a thousand needles. It ached too much for him to bear. Unable to look in your eyes, he cried in his own palms.

The Asset wasn’t built to show emotions, but you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion at the picture in front of you; your mission had just dropped down on his knees and was pathetically sobbing.

Why wasn’t your target fighting. You were informed that he was great at hand combat but not really outstanding with guns. So why wasn’t he attacking you as expected. Why was he showing you his back in surrender?

You were told what to do if the mission fought. But you weren’t informed what to do if he just... surrendered.

Walking close to your mission where he was crouching down, you stared at him for a moment. You weren’t wearing your combat gear, and neither was he. You both were instead dressed in far from modest clothes.

You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t bring yourself to harm him in any way. With the way he was trusting you, you could’ve killed him within seconds. But yet your heart somehow ached at his situation.

When he didn’t even look up, you nudged his thigh with your left foot. When your mission finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and he was incessantly crying.

“Fight me.” You said as he just stared at you. Your blank gaze terrified Steve more than any alien or villain ever had. You didn’t know why, but you wanted him to fight you. You weren’t able to attack him if he just gave up.

Steve blinked his eyes as he took in your words. Why weren’t you killing him? He had surrendered to you and yet you were just looking back at him instead of fighting. Why did you want him to fight you?

“No.” Steve had never thought love would be his weakness. Or maybe he had never truly realised it. Steve loved Bucky as a friend and had rained hell when his friend was in danger.

And here he had signed off his soul in your name. He would literally bring you the moon and stars if you asked to. And he would bare his throat for you to slash through. But he couldn’t possibly ever hurt you.

“I said fight me.” Steve Rogers, your mission was supposed to fight you. Not just sit down and take whatever you gave him. You didn’t know why you were angry at his lack of self preservation.

What happened next was within the blink of an eye. Steve’s arm shot up and curled around your wrist. And with a quick pull, he pulled your entire body down.

His agility took you by shock and before you could react, you were down on the ground pressed against the floor with him straddling you. Taking both of your hands in his, he pinned them above your head, making sure you were immobile.

You were royally fucked. Your handlers wouldn’t take it lightly if you messed up. And that was if you reached them in one piece. Chances were you were gonna die here, right under Steve Rogers.

You opened your mouth to bite and hiss and Steve took the opportunity and dove right in. You stilled with surprise when you felt the captain’s plump lips right against yours. This man was super insane.

You mercilessly but his lower lip and ended up drawing blood. But as soon as he started licking in your mouth with his tongue, you melted right on the spot.

The warmth of his mouth slowly brought back the warmth of your memories. Steve felt you go pliant under him for some moments before you started fiercely kissing him back.

You entwined your fingers with his and gently pressed your tongue against the bite mark on his lips. You didn’t notice the tears that slipped through your eyes and how they mixed with Steve’s own tears falling against your face.

“Steve.” You called his name just like you always did. With love and belonging. He opened his eyes to see you staring right back at him with your lively eyes.

Steve had never been happier before. Pressing his forehead against yours, he just breathed you in for a moment. “Steve.” Your hand was now caressing his face.

Your eyes peering into each other were enough to convey the million thoughts you had and the thousand things you wanted to say. Pressing a loving kiss to your forehead, he got up and you followed him.

You both sat on the floor with your legs crossed, you kept some space between you two. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Steve repeated as he broke down once again.

You hushed him and held him in your arms until he calmed down. “I shouldn’t have done that, but… but I wanted to know.” Steve couldn’t ever forget how your face had morphed into that of betrayal as he recited the words.

“But I want to know one thing. Do you love me? Or… or is it some tactic of hydra to ruin me?” You wanted to slap Steve for asking this stupid ass question. Of course you loved him!

But then you realised where he was emotionally. If you were in his position then maybe even you would fear the same. “It’s real Steve. It’s definitely real.”

You framed his face with your hands and caressed your thumb over his cheeks. “Steve, I love you. And by ‘I’, I mean Y/N and Soldat. My soul belongs to you, no matter it’s name.

How can you doubt our love when it was the only thing that brought me back?” It was true, you wouldn’t have remembered anything if Steve hadn’t kissed you.

You could see the colour fill in Steve’s face. He pulled you in a bear hug and held you tight. “I love you. I love you.” Steve chanted in your ear just like before.

Once you were both calm enough to think straight, you decided to go out on the beach. You sat in the sand with your head tilted on Steve’s shoulder as the sea breeze kissed your wet cheeks.

“I barely remember who I was before all this Steve. I can only remember glimpses of the shield and the avengers. I’m no more the Y/N you once saw.”

Steve was silent as he listened to each and every word of yours. He wanted to say so many things back, but he knew he had to listen to you first.

“But I remember how they took me Steve. It was probably my third official shield mission and we had all thought that base was not active. But when we broke in, the operatives were waiting just for us.

It was trap and we fell willingly into it. The others managed to escape, but… but I couldn’t. And they took me Steve. I… I waited for you people.

I still remember shivering in that cold cell all alone, praying for you to find me. But you never came. And with time I just kept forgetting until I couldn’t remember anymore.” Your voice cracked yet you kept going.

“Even after you retired, you still were hydra’s number one target. It’s almost personal now. It took them some time, but they finally traced you and they knew you were alone.

I was supposed to use a boat as long as I was out of visibility and then swim till the shore so that you wouldn’t notice me. But I miscalculated the current and the rocks on the shore.

After I abandoned my boat, I jumped into the water and got caught in the water currents. It was a terrifying experience, just spinning wildly underwater as the water took you.

But I was oddly at peace as I thought finally I would be free. But then I hit my head on the rocks and got washed up. And I woke up remembering absolutely nothing in your warm bed.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve couldn’t ever forgive himself for all that had happened to you. He was sure shield must have tried their best, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. I’m sure they must’ve tried.” You both sat quietly staring at the calm ocean which reflected the night sky.

“Do you still love me?” You asked with a dejected sigh. “I’ll always love you.” Steve replied pulling you closer. “Even after knowing who I am and what I was here for?”

“You could’ve easily completed your mission. I know you are capable enough of doing that. But, you did not. You couldn’t harm me even when I openly surrendered to you.

So yes, I still very much love you and I’ll stay by your side forever.” The last word pierced through your heart like a knife. You couldn’t give him what he wanted.

“Steve, I… I have to go.” Steve looked at you quizzically. “Where?” You gulped audibly before meekly replying, “Hydra.” You could feel his body tense.

“You aren’t going back there, no matter what.” You wanted to believe Steve’s words, but you knew that couldn’t happen.

“I’ve tried to run away. So many times. But they always find me. They’ll find me this time too. And if they find me, they’ll find you too and I can’t let that happen.

I won’t be able to live if something happened to you. I’ll never forgive myself. And that’s why I need to go.” If this sacrifice was going to keep Steve safe, then so be it.

“Nothing will happen to me. And if they come, we will fight them. Together. And nothing and no one can stop us if we are with each other. Stay with me, please!”

You kissed his cheek to stop him from pleading anymore. You couldn’t tolerate the man you loved begging you. “I’ll… I’ll stay with you. I promise.”

Steve hugged you so tight, you wondered if you broke some bones. But being in the arms of the man who loved you, felt better than heaven itself. It was a different kind of a feeling, one that no words could ever describe.

“Steve, what do you think about Paris? I’ve always wanted to go there.” You asked as you both sat silently on the beach, basking in each other’s presence.

“I’ve always thought about visiting Louvre too. But I never really got the chance.” Even as a sickly kid, Steve wanted to get mesmerised by the art in the famous museum.

“And what about Sydney? Or Amsterdam? Or Barcelona?” Your eyes lit up like an excited kid. “What about all of them?” Steve jested.

Steve wanted to travel the world too. In a sense he already had, but it was always for some mission and never for the sake of relaxation. “Yeah, we could do that!” You exclaimed as if the thought hadn’t occurred to you.

It would be a new beginning for both of you. A new life away from your tainted past. A fresh canvas to paint with the colours of your own choice. A much needed restart that both you and Steve needed.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s pack our bags!”

#did you like it?#marvel #steve rogers #mcu #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #chris evans #steve rogers x y/n #chris evans x reader #steve rogers smut #chris evans smut #steve rogers one shot #nomad steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction

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dauntless-gothamite · 3 years

Text

Prove Them Wrong [2/?]

Fandom: Divergent Pairing: Eric Coulter x Fem! Reader Summary: Y/N is a Dauntless transfer from Erudite, and she has a drive, an ambition that sets her apart--it always has, even back in Erudite. She brings her perseverance (and need to prove others wrong) to Dauntless when she transfers, and she uses her mind to make her way through the initiation process. Along the way, she makes friends and enemies, and she finds herself comfortable around the man most people in Dauntless avoid at all costs: Eric Coulter. A/N: it seems this may be a little bit of a slow burn, based on the pacing and where I am in chapter three right now... Enjoy!

You woke up to the sound of metal clanging together, an unpleasant alarm if you’d ever heard one. “Get up, get dressed, and be in the training room in two minutes,” Four said, banging the metal together one last time before leaving the room.

Everyone scrambled to get dressed in their new black Dauntless clothes, and as people entered the training area, they began to form a semicircle around Four and Eric. “Ok, let’s get started,” Four said, clapping his hands together. “There are two stages of training. The first is physical, you will push your bodies to the breaking point and you will master the methods of combat. The second is mental, again breaking point. You’ll face your worst fears and conquer them--unless they get you first. You’ll be trained separately from the Dauntless-born, but you’ll be ranked together. After initiations, rankings will determine what jobs you move into: leadership, guarding the fence, or keeping the factionless from killing each other.”

“The rankings will also determine who gets cut,” Eric cut in, rising from where he sat on a concrete slab. An uneasy whisper spread throughout the initiates. No one knew about this, and you had to admit, you were getting a bit nervous yourself. “At the end of each stage of training, the lowest-ranking initiates will be leaving us,” Eric continued.

“To do what?” asked Al.

“Well, you can’t go home to your families, so you’ll be factionless.”

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd of initiates, but it was quickly silenced by Eric’s glare. “Someone should have told us,” Christina said.

“Why? Would you have chosen differently? Out of fear?” Eric replied challengingly. “I mean, if that’s the case, you might as well get out now. If you’re really one of us, it won’t matter to you that you might fail, alright? You chose us. Now, we get to choose you.” Eric looked at each initiate, his blue eyes challenging each person to look away. Some people did, others didn’t. You didn’t.

Instead, you held his intense gaze as the itch to prove others wrong that had been inside you since the day you were born rose up, ready to be set free. What Eric said was scary, but it didn’t matter--all your years of studying the faction system told you that they would try to scare the initiates, and while you hadn’t expected this, you had known it wouldn’t be easy. But you had worked your ass off for years to be top of the class in Erudite, and you’d be damned if you weren’t going to do the same here, in your new faction.

“Everyone, get some water before we move into the next segment of training,” Four called out. It took everything in you not to bend over as some others were doing; you knew standing up straight, getting fresh air in your lungs, would make the cramp in your abdomen go away faster, even if it hurt more now.

“Tris, stand up straight,” you whispered to your friend, who was red-faced after running twenty laps around the room, which was everyone’s warm-up for the day.

“Just so you know, tomorrow we won’t just be running laps,” Four said, surveying all the tired initiates. “So get used to this.”

You sighed, mentally thanking yourself for joining a small workout group in Erudite. It was fairly new, and it was only created because studies showed that after some physical activity, the brain was better equipped to come back to problems it struggled with earlier and continue working whereas remaining stagnant was more likely to result in burnout and fatigue. The workouts were nothing like this, but you were still appreciative of them.

“Alright, everyone find a punching bag and start hitting. Eric and I will be walking around correcting your form, but it’s on you to put our advice into practice. Go,” Four announced after barely even a minute of the “break” had gone by.

Turning on your heel, you walked over to the nearest punching bag and lined yourself up. Feet spread evenly about as wide as your shoulders, then step the left foot forward just a bit. Knees bent slightly, fists raised high. Then, you get to punching.

After what felt like an hour of hearing Four quietly critiquing other students between Eric’s shouts of disappointment at other initiates, the two trainers finally got to your area of the training room. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Four walking up to Tris, slightly adjusting her position and giving helpful tips. Another set of footsteps came to a stop behind you, which meant Eric would be the one helping you. Your shoulders tensed for a moment, but you quickly forced yourself into a more relaxed position and continued punching. Just pretend he isn’t there, you told yourself. After hitting the punching bag six times, called out “Stop” from behind you. He walked over to your side and took a fighting stance. “Make sure your hips are square, like this, so when you throw a punch with the hand that is further back, you can twist your hips and use core strength to put more power into it,” he said stoically, and you did your best to mimic his stance. “No, like this,” he said, grabbing your hips and twisting them, holding you firmly in place for a second before letting go. “Try it now,” he said. You started throwing punches again, and he nodded before silently walking away. When you paused to readjust your stance, you heard Eric yell “Did I say you could stop, Y/N? No, I did not; keep going!” You took a deep breath and began the next onslaught of punches as the room fell quiet save for the sound of fists hitting punching bags, a rhythmic thumping sound.

“First jumper!” Eric called out, disrupting the steady beat and sense of calmness in the room. “In the ring.” Beside him, Four sighed and looked down at his feet, and you had a bad feeling about whatever was about to happen. “Last jumper,” he continued, looking at a girl with dark hair--you think you may have heard her friends call her Molly, but you aren’t entirely sure. “Time to fight.”

Tris and the girl stepped up to the ring. “How long do we fight for?” the girl asked.

“Until one of you can’t continue,” Eric said in response.

“Or one of you concedes,” Four interjected, stepping forward.

“According to the old rules,” Eric corrected. “With the new rules, no one concedes.”

“You really want to lose someone in their first fight?”

“Well, a brave man never surrenders.”

“Lucky for you, those weren’t the rules when we fought.”

Eric clenched his jaw, irritated, before saying “You’ll be scored on this, so fight hard.” Tris and the other girl squared up and began to circle each other, but Eric was getting impatient. “Go!” he barked.

After nearly falling off the mat, Tris lunged, but the other girl dodged, twisted, and retaliated with a swing of her own, landing a punch to Tris’ face. As Tris retreated, the other girl pressed her advantage, catching Tris’ waist, bending her over, and punching her stomach a few times before Tris managed to break free of her hold. Just as she reached the end of the mat and turned, Tris was met with another punch to the face, sending her to the floor. The other girl--Molly--glanced at Eric since Tris was down, and he nodded, signaling Molly to send one last blow Tris’ way, knocking her out. As you watched the fight, you felt bad for your friend; she was much smaller than Molly, and part of you wanted to speak up about the cruelty that the trainers were showing, but you shoved it down. There was no need to compromise your position right now.

“Next,” Eric yelled, pointing to a girl named Selene and a former Candor named Peter who had made fun of Tris, calling her a Stiff several times. You secretly hoped Selene would kick his ass, but it was unlikely, he was tall and strong, plus he was willing to fight dirty--he’d admitted as much in the dorm area. Guess he still couldn’t keep his mouth shut, even though he’d left Candor.

Selene was tough; what she lacked in strength she made up for in endurance, but after a few rounds of dodging Peter’s punches, he finally landed one to her solar plexus, stunning her, allowing him to sweep her legs out from underneath her and kick her as she lay on the ground. You clenched your jaw as he did so, feeling anger rise up inside of you. Selene was unable to fight, that was the stopping point of the fights, but Peter was still kicking her. And Eric, the emotionless person that he was, didn’t do anything.

“Peter,” you said, “stop it.” Peter turned towards you and smirked.

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” he taunted. You considered for a second before turning to Eric.

Looking up at him, you steeled yourself. “I know we don’t get to determine the fighting order, or who we fight, but I would like to fight Peter. Now,” you said, sure to keep your voice level and maintain eye contact with the leader.

He raised an eyebrow at you curiously, and thankfully, Peter had stopped kicking Selene when you started speaking to Eric. Selene scooted to the edge of the mat, but that was as far as she could move without assistance. “You two,” Eric yelled at two initiates, “help Four get this one,” he pointed at Selene, “to the infirmary.” Then he turned back to you. “What are you waiting for, initiate? Get up there.” For a moment you were stunned, you didn’t actually think you would end up fighting Peter, and you knew that both Eric and Peter were expecting you to lose quickly. You caught Four’s eye as he carried Selene out with the help of two initiates, and you looked around to see Christina, Tris, Will, Al, Edward, Molly, and a few other initiates staring at you like you were mad. Maybe you were, but it was too late to back out now. You stood in a low, sturdy fighting stance, just like Eric had shown you. Peter did the same. For a moment, the room was dead silent as your eyes locked with his, and then both of you whipped into action.

Peter went right for the face punch, but you quickly blocked upward and threw a low roundhouse kick at his knee, making him wobble. He recovered quickly, and he quickly used his height to his advantage, moving to grab your shoulder and slam you into the ground. You were smart though, and you let him move you slightly before turning the downwards motion into momentum that allowed you to do a somersault, twisting his arm and landing on your feet. As he was turning around to face you, you sent a snap kick right to the back of his knee, making it buckle. You moved quickly to his other side, ready to send a few punches to his face and knock him out, but he sprung forward, wrapping strong hands around your neck and squeezing. For a moment you panicked, hitting his arms, but they didn’t move. Everyone was sure that was it for you, but you had another trick up your sleeve--Peter was overly confident this would weaken you and in the process of squeezing, he had left his own body defenseless. So you kicked him in the groin. Hard. He called out and released you, and as he leaned over in an instinctual reaction to pain, you kicked his forehead with your knee, shoved him to the side, knocking him over, and kicked him again, this time in the solar plexus. You stood there, stone-faced, and when Peter didn’t make a move to fight back, you turned to Eric, who nodded, and you jumped down from the mat.

You landed next to Will, Tris, and Christina, all of whom were staring at you in a mixture of horror and admiration. You blushed in embarrassment and looked at the ground, thinking to yourself, What the hell did I just do? You were so lost in thought that you didn’t realize the next two initiates were on the mat and fighting, and you only came back to yourself when Eric yyelled, “Hey! Are you deaf, initiate? I said go grab some ice for your neck, I don’t want to hear complaints about it tomorrow!”

You nodded to your friends and said “I’ll be back in a minute,” shocked at how hoarse your voice was. “Just going to… yeah,” you trailed off before walking quickly towards the infirmary.

A/N: can you tell I love writing fight scenes? also I do martial arts and have played sports my whole life, so I love when I get to use my knowledge of anatomy and physiology two write action scenes :)

Tag List: @shykoolaid

#eric coulter #eric coulter imagine #eric coulter x reader #divergent #divergent im #dauntless #erudite #divergent fanfiction #abnegation #amity #candor #tris prior #four divergent #tobias eaton #peter hayes #caleb prior #motherfxking-flannel #motherfxking flannel

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businessbois · 3 years

Text

whisper my name and i’ll follow you anywere

my c!crimeboys fic, wilbur mutuals if you’re reading this be kind

It’s a cold, drafty night in their little fortress when Wilbur kneels next to Tommy’s cot, hunched over with his head in his hands, and whispers, “I don’t think I know how to love you anymore.”

a look at brothers, things that change like the tides in the ocean, and the enduring nature of love

It’s 2AM. Fort Big is a house of stone built like a house of cards, and every stray breeze that sweeps through the cracks in the walls threatens to knock the entire structure down.

Tommy is lying on his side and pretending to be asleep. On the other half of the room, Wilbur sits at the edge of his bed, back bowed like an oak in the wind and head placed in his hands.

This isn’t a new scene, no, it’s one that’s been acted out in a variety of sets—the Camarvan of L’Manburg, the caverns of Pogtopia. Tonight, their backdrop is four grey walls decorated with shards of moonlight invading through the poorly built roof. Every so often, a cloud will pass in front of the moon, dipping the room into total darkness.

As it is, Tommy can’t see anything besides the vague shape of his brother’s prostrated figure, a brown lump with some white lacing through at the base of his skull. Back in Pogtopia, he used to think that Wilbur's silhouette looked monstrous as it appeared blown up and splashed against the ravine walls. Now he just thinks it looks sad.

The only hints he has that Wilbur hasn’t just fallen asleep in this position are the irregular, jerky movements of his shoulders and his uneven breaths, strangled like he’s trying to swallow them before they’re even out. Tommy’s just about given into the magnets pulling his eyelids down when one of Wilbur’s breaths becomes a harsh sigh that might as well be TNT in the silent room.

There’s the shuffling of bedsheets. Tommy only catches a glimpse of trenchcoated shoulders turning in his direction before he’s squeezing his eyes shut as Wilbur’s bed creaks in relief. Grass crunches underneath combat boot soles. Tensing and immediately relaxing, Tommy tries to school his features into a believable mimicry of unconsciousness. His fingers are still tightly curled around his blanket. He hopes Wilbur just dismisses it as bad dreams.

The footsteps stop and Tommy feels Wilbur’s presence hanging over his bedside. He used to think that it was such bullshit about feeling people’s presence, but Wilbur’s always had a very specific aura to him—dead heavy like the weight of the eyes of the world on you. Tommy has to remind himself to keep breathing and then has to remind himself not to hyperventilate into a panic attack and give away his ruse.

Cool air hits his face when Wilbur moves again, coat rustling as he does. He doesn’t dare peek to see where his brother has gone. His presence though, heavy like a government title, hasn’t gone.

It’s only after a few seconds of suppressing the urge to open his eyes just a sliver that he feels it, a whisper of a touch on his arm. Tommy suppresses a flinch. It’s hair, he realizes, it’s Wilbur’s hair.

The man hadn’t left, had barely moved, really. He was just kneeling now, ridiculous legs folded beneath him to fit beside Tommy’s bed, forehead pressed to the side of the mattress. It’s stupid how his big brother—with his six feet and five inches of height, a heavy presence like a warm coat, and words grand enough to carry both a revolution and a nation—could be so small.

For another minute, Wilbur doesn’t move, and when he speaks, Tommy almost misses it.

The words, quietly confessed to the night, are even more muffled by Wilbur’s own body. They slip from his lips like the most grievous of sins, a secret Wilbur’s only willing to share with the pre-witching hours. Still, they are spoken and they are heard.

“I don’t think I know how to love you anymore.” The statement hangs in the air between them, suspended between the speaker and the spoken-to. Tommy hears them over and over in his head, and he can’t decide whether he wants to jump up and say gotcha or curl further into the blankets and disappear.

In the end, he does neither. He just keeps quiet and keeps his eyes shut, and when Wilbur crawls back into his own bed, Tommy lies there with the certain knowledge that neither of them slept a wink that night.

He tells Tubbo about it the next day. He’d say it’s because he tells Tubbo everything, but that’s just not true anymore. It is, however, because he and Tubbo are trying this thing where they’re honest with each other. This technique was one recommended by Puffy and that Tommy thinks Tubbo is only following half the time. He doesn’t really mind though. After a lifetime of having things ripped away from him, he’d like for this, for these truths—as painful or boring as they might be—to be things he gets to give away himself.

They’re in the kitchen of Tubbo’s mansion (something Tommy’s only mostly given up on giving him shit about) when he brings it up. Tommy’s got his feet kicked up on the dining table, towel in hand, watching as Tubbo washes the dishes, because this whole maturing thing doesn’t mean wearing ugly yellow rubber gloves and doing the fucking dishes.

“I mean, it’s stupid, right?” he says, roughly dragging the towel across the surface of a mug. “It’s Wilbur. I’ve always loved Wilbur.” It’s a fact of life. The sky is blue. Creepers are green. Tommy would follow Wilbur to the End and back.

Elbows deep in dish soap, Tubbo only offers a half-shrug. “Well, that’s not what he said, is it? He said that he doesn’t know how to love you.”

“But that’s dumb.” Tommy throws out an arm, showing off the Bee Mine inscribed on the side of the mug. “There’s no how, you just love someone because you love them. And they love you for the same reason." He draws back into himself. "That’s the only part that’s worth anything.“

“Gonna be honest with you, boss man, don’t think it’s like that for everyone.” Tubbo reaches over to place a wet bowl on the table, water droplets sliding down his wrist and adding to the ever-growing puddle on the tile. He retreats to the sink. “And this isn’t about you, it’s about Wilbur,” he adds.

His face scrunches. “How can it not be about me? He said it about me.”

“But he said it because of himself.”

Tommy groans, falling back against the chair backing. He blindly slides the mug onto the table, hand coming up to rub at his face. “You’re not making any sense. You’re speaking in cryptics and shit.” He jabs out a finger accusatorially.

“I’m not being cryptic, you’re just a bitch.” Bright yellow gloves emerge from the cloud of suds to place a plate in Tommy’s outstretched hand.

“Fuck you,” he says, but accepts the plate.

“Anyways,” Tubbo continues in a formidable display of patience, “you’re sure about this part of your relationship with Wilbur. The loving part. The hating and the scarring each other for life comes after.

Tommy scrubs hard against the ceramic. “Yeah," he says. Quieter, “I thought Wilbur was too. At least about the loving part.”

Tubbo shrugs again. “People change.”

That stops Tommy in his tracks. The table shakes a little as he sets the plate down; all the dishes in the Underscore-Beloved household have chips in the bottom. “So?” he asks.

“So, maybe when you change, you don’t really fit into that old space you used to fit into. Maybe you can’t love like you did. Maybe you forget how you used to do it.”

Tommy furrows his eyebrows, lips twisting down. “Well yeah, of course you do, but that doesn’t mean you just stop." He speaks with determination weaved through his words, "You don’t give up on people. You’re meant to keep loving even with all that shit.”

“And what if you think you can’t do it anymore?" Tubbo challenges, "What if you’re giving up on yourself?”

Tommy opens his mouth. Closes it. “You—" He swallows. "You don’t think like that, do you?” His fingers curl around the edge of the table.

“No,” Tubbo says, “I don’t.”

Shoulders relaxing, Tommy nods. “Okay. Good." After a second, he adds, "'Cause if you did, I’d have to tell you you’re being dumb.”

“Wilbur might be being dumb," Tubbo says, bringing the conversation back around. At some point, he'd shut the faucet off. It's just Tommy and Tubbo in the silent kitchen with a slowly draining sink.

“Then I might have to tell him that too," Tommy replies.

“You should.”

Tommy prods his plate towards the dry section of the table. Before picking up another, he pauses. “It doesn’t matter," he says.

At Tubbo's raised eyebrows, he clarifies. "About the 'not fitting' part. We’re people, not puzzle pieces."

“Okay, Technoblade.”

That gets Tommy to crack a smile, flicking the towel at his friend. “Shut up.”

Tubbo lifts a soapy hand in retaliation. “Try me.”

Tommy narrows his eyes.

With a shout, Tubbo lunges for Tommy, who yelps and pinwheels his arms back as the chair topples like a government under their combined weight. They land in a heap on the floor, chair somehow intact beneath them. Tubbo really better have paid Foolish well.

Unfortunately though, not everything managed to get out unscathed.

A bowl, which had been precariously balanced on the edge of the spruce table, now lies in shards on the ground, having been caught by one of Tommy’s flailing limbs on the way down.

Tubbo pokes his head out from under Tommy's arm. He stares at the remains blankly. “Was that Michael’s favorite bowl?”

“That depends,” Tommy forces out the words around Tubbo's gloved elbow lodged in his gut. There's a dark spot smelling of orange and lemongrass forming at the front of his shirt. He gulps down a lungful of air. “Did Michael’s favorite bowl have a gold stripe around the outside?”

“Yep.”

"Shit."

They lie there for a moment, staring at the broken bowl, neither daring to speak.

Tommy's gaze flicks between the bowl and his friend. Tubbo's lips are pressed tightly together and his brow is creased to paint the countenance of a thoroughly vexed and also vaguely constipated young man.

Against his will, a laugh bubbles up in Tommy's throat. He quickly smothers it, but Tubbo knows him far too well.

“Are you seriously laughing right now?”

That's the last straw for Tommy, whose face splits open into a wide grin. A few wayward snickers slip free. “It’s funny,” he chokes out, sounding like a rapidly deflating ghast.

Despite himself, a smile tugs at the corners of Tubbo's mouth. "It's not funny," he says, like a liar.

Tommy makes a noise that might be from amusement or asphyxiation.

Tubbo can't hide the way his eyes gleam at the sound. "It’s a little funny," he admits. Puffy's policy on honesty prevails.

Head knocking back against the hardwood, Tommy lets the laughter rise from his chest and out his mouth, and pretty soon, Tubbo is joining him. Then, it's just Tommy and Tubbo on the kitchen floor, losing their fucking minds.

Chest heaving as he struggles to regain control of his breath, Tommy speaks up, “Hey Tubbo?"

Tubbo hums in response.

“I love you." He says it because he doesn’t say it often and maybe he’s afraid that one day his mouth will forget the shape of those words.

Smile still light on his lips, Tubbo shifts to bump against his side, all body heat and hairs tickling at his chin, “I love you too, Tommy.” He squeezes his hand.

And that’s that.

(Loving Tubbo used to be a sunset—brilliant colors and the promise of a blank canvas after it’s gone. Now, it’s a hand in his. Firm and rough. Never letting go.)

He finds Wilbur where they all find themselves at the end of the day.

L'Manburg is a beauty. Always has been, whether it was as a beating heart or a rotting carcass.

Tonight, she's draped in purples and pinks, silken gifts from the sun as it slinks down beneath the horizon line. Necklaces of vines and grass and water run over the scarred land, the Earth reclaiming what was once hers. His eyes, as always, are drawn to the monument of wood and wool, still proudly brandishing those forsaken colors, even when nobody else is.

Their L'Manburg.

Wilbur stands in a silent vigil at the base of Eret's tower.

Tommy makes no attempt to mask his approach, tromping over patches of dead grass and loose redwood bark. Even if Wilbur doesn't want to see him, nobody can get away from a conversation with TommyInnit.

It's clear he doesn't have to worry about that though, because Wilbur's the one who breaks the silence. "It's nicer like this, don't you think?" he says in a carefully easy tone.

Coming to stand next to his brother, Tommy surveys the guts of L'Manburg, carved out and filled to overflowing once again with life. He traces those hills and dips and bends that he used to know so well. The stilts and the lights are gone. Every blackstone pebble has been swept away by time. There are no Ninja Alleyways anymore. Somehow, he doesn't love her any less for it.

It doesn't hurt anymore, looking at her like this. Mostly, he just misses.

Tommy clears his throat. Wilbur's the writer, the conductor, the director, but this time, Tommy's at the reins of this conversation. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t know how to love me?”

Imperceptibly, Wilbur stiffens. “You heard." His tone is that intolerably impassive one he takes up when he thinks he might have to say something terrible soon.

“You’re loud as shit.”

Shaking his head, Wilbur scoffs. “Prime, you fucking gremlin child."

“I want to know what you meant." Tommy barrels on.

Wilbur makes a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter what I meant. It was 2AM, I was sleep-deprived, and you were not supposed to hear that.”

Tommy takes a step closer, peering up into his brother's face. Wilbur stands stock still. “I want to know why. Why you're giving up. We were family and you're giving up."

“People change,” Wilbur says, eyes pacing between the hills and dips and bends.

Conversation with Tubbo sitting freshly at the back of his mind, this time Tommy is ready when he answers, “So does love.”

And it’s true. Probably one of the only true things Tommy knows. The sky is blue. Creepers are green. His love for Wilbur used to be shining and warm, and now it’s old and familiar like a flat metal button you keep in your shirt pocket.

Wilbur heaves out a breath, shoulders dropping as he does. He steps away. Tommy lets him. His eyes fall shut and a hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Go back to Snowchester.” It’s more of a plea than anything else.

Tommy replies, “Don’t like the cold.”

Wilbur finally turns to face him. His eyes flit to trace over Tommy's features, his hair, his eyes, the things that changed and the things that didn't. “You still look at me like that,” he says, words heavy, voice heavy, everything so heavy. “Like you haven’t realized I can let you down.”

Tommy snorts so hard it hurts his nose.

A look that's half-incredulous and half-offended flits across Wilbur's face.

Tommy can't help himself, the smallest of smiles twists at his lips. “I think I’ve known that for a while, Will. I think I learned it the hard way. You’re the one who still thinks that it matters.”

“It should matter," Wilbur insists.

Tommy scoffs. “I could let you down too. I did let you down. During the elections. In Pogtopia. With L’Manburg.”

Before he's even done, Wilbur's shaking his head. “You didn't."

"I did."

"Well if you did, I don’t blame you for that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t blame you because you— Because I—" He huffs in frustration, hard-won eloquence having fled at TommyInnit's brand of brusqueness. He makes a small, aimless gesture. "You’re—" His mouth forms around the words he can't find. All at once, emotions flutter across his face like pages of a flipbook. "Oh. ”

Tommy smiles. “I don’t blame you either.”

WIlbur sighs and there's that heaviness again. What Tommy wouldn't do for Wilbur to just put it all down for a moment.

"You still look at me like that. Like I'm someone that I’m not. Or like I’m someone that I used to be." Wilbur looks him dead in the eyes. Tommy stares back. It doesn't hurt anymore. "Or someone that I never was."

He drops his gaze to the ground and Tommy's follows. There are little dents in the dirt where Wilbur's toed his boots into the grass. "Someone that didn't do this." A hand jerks out towards the not-ruins of their late great symphony. He goes on, “I don't know how to be that man again. Someone who could love you without hurting you." He swallows. "And so how do I do this"—his hands urgently gesture between them— "knowing that?"

Tommy lets out a short breath. When he inhales, he tastes the ash that never really goes away and the sea breeze that should burn more than it actually does. He lets it out.

"Wilbur," he says, the name pulled out of his mouth slowly, carefully, and with more thought than he's ever had for it before. "I think you're my brother. That's why I look at you like that. Why I've always looked at you like that. That’s the part that hasn’t changed. Everything else has." The fact that they're even having this conversation is proof enough of that. "That child who wanted to follow you everywhere, he needed protecting. I don't need you to protect me from yourself.” After a moment, he adds, “You said people change. That includes me.”

Grief is a familiar look on Wilbur, but this variation is one Tommy's only seen at his bedside with bandages wrapped around the phantom pains of an arrow. “Yeah,” Wilbur says, “I guess it does.”

Tommy feels one of his truths on the tip of his tongue, one he thinks Wilbur deserves to have just as much as Tubbo. "I don't think I'd follow you anywhere now." The button rests warm and solid over his heart. “I think I’d just want you to stay." He sniffs. "Is that selfish?"

By his sides, Wilbur's fingers twitch like he wants to reach out. He doesn't. Instead, he speaks, “I wanted you to follow me." He matches Tommy's question with his own. "Is that selfish?"

Tommy shakes his head. “You didn’t have to ask me to.”

“Would you ask me to stay?”

Tilting his head, Tommy mulls it over. “No," he says finally. "I don’t need my big brother anymore." Looking up into Wilbur's eyes he says, "I want you though.”

Now there's pride, exiling grief from the older man's expression. “You wised up,” Wilbur says.

“And you uglied up,” Tommy replies with a smile. “Look at us, we’re like brothers.”

"I will cry." Wilbur even sounds like he means it. He clears his throat. “You’re okay with that, though?” he asks, “With the change?”

Tommy thinks for a moment.

“He has fucking ruined me.”

"I feel thinner."

“I’m a little weaker than I used to be.”

“No," he says. "Not really. But I am okay with the love."

Wilbur is silent for a moment, lips pressed together in a thin line. Finally, he says, "Then I think I am too."

Tommy swallows. Nods once. "Alright." And then for good measure, he throws in a, "Dickhead."

"Alright, prick." What might be a smile plays at Wilbur's lips.

Something settles in Tommy's chest at the sight. He turns back towards their L'Manburg.

A skeleton rattles somewhere in the crater. The wind brushes over swaying flower heads. Two brothers stand dusted in torchlight, hovering over the edge of something both old and new.

And that's that.

#tommyinnit #wilbur soot #tubbo #mcyt #dream smp #crimeboys #clingyduo #dsmp fanfiction #mcyt fanfiction #my writing

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nagipops · 3 years

Note

Hello!Can I request Giyuu x wind hashira reader who is very kind and compassionate to others (even demons).She’s also a doctor who’s amazing at concocting a medicine ( just like Shinobu) and she’s also Giyuu’s best friend ( She always protect him from Shinobu insults).Thank you very much,feel free to write this if you’re comfortable❣️.Also Sanemi and Shinobu are like her real brother and sister💖)Love ya~Have a great day~💕

FEATHERLIGHT

FEATURING: giyuu tomioka!

SUMMARY: in which your reward after a poignant battle becomes your new motivation.

WARNINGS: blood/gore tw, fem!reader

A/N: loved this prompt! my apologies for this being so late; it got buried in my inbox :( thank you for being so patient, this was incredibly fun to write!

"Ara ara, Tomioka-san," your sister's lilting voice sounded from behind you as the familiar scent of flora enveloped your senses. "Having some fun with my little butterfly again, aren't you?"

"Tch." Giyuu's cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink as he swiftly dropped your arm from his grip.

Whirling around to face your sister with a scowl, you cried, "Shinobu! We were just practicing sparring, don't get any ideas!" You could feel your face begin to heat up at your teasing sister.

"Mmm," she raised an eyebrow inquisitively before poking your cheek with a slender finger. "Maybe you should get to work concocting a love potion for a certain someone..."

"That's enough," Giyuu muttered, grabbing a hold of your arm once again. "Come on, let's go practice somewhere with less Shinobu-ing and more room to spar." He cast a murderous glance over your shoulder at your older sister who was innocently waving at the two of you with the sweetest smile on her face.

You gave an exasperated sigh as your best friend dragged you out of earshot from your teasing sister. "Sorry about that, Giyuu, she really is insufferable, isn't she?"

"I'm just lucky you didn't get the same personality as her," he mumbled from up ahead as you navigated through tangled branches and boulders. “Her teasing is relentless.” Although his straightforward words must not have meant much to him, who always says what he truly thinks, they warmed your heart. You made him feel lucky.

“She’s only kidding, you know. She only teases people she really loves.” Taking a deep breath of the cool forest air, you recalled the countless times your older sister had been there for you, training you to create antidotes for all sorts of poisons, fighting off demons for you during perilous missions, and teaching you that the best way to get through a tough situation is to have a smile on your face.

She really did love you, more than anyone you knew. And you returned that love for your only sister.

All of a sudden, the raucous, persistent cawing of a crow circling above interrupted your nostalgic thoughts.

You immediately extended an arm, creating a perch for your Kasugai crow to land on. “What is it, Jiyu?” You soothingly stroked the ebony bird’s soft feathers, receiving grateful beady eyes in return.

“Caw! Sightings of demons reported in the forest in the South! Forest of the South! Wind and Water Hashira, report to the area immediately! Caw!” the crow screeched, tensing its sharp claws on your arm for a second before swiftly darting off into the sky.

You locked eyes with Giyuu, giving him a determined nod before dashing off to the forest in the South.

“There,” Giyuu whispered harshly, directing your gaze to the hulking demon less than ten meters away from you. The two of you were concealed behind a thick tree trunk as you scouted out the clearing, watching as the gigantic monster trundled around the glade.

A bloodcurdling shriek pierced through the air just then, instantaneously cutting off as soon as it sounded. You exchanged a look of horror with your blue-eyed partner, a pool of dread forming in your stomach.

A human life lost...

Heart aching, you sent a quick silent prayer to the gods above.

So many of those screams you have heard, so many lives lost to those demons. Those demons who are forced to live such a cruel, hatred-filled life.

Steeling yourself, you and Giyuu stealthily wove through trees and branches, nearing closer and closer to the demon ahead of you.

Their terror must end here.

The grotesque creature was no more than twelve feet away from you, snarling vilely as it searched the area for any humans. Laying in a bloody heap near its feet was the tiny body of a girl who couldn't have been older than six or seven years old. Stinging tears threatened to spill from your sorrowful eyes as you realized that could have been you many years ago had your siblings not rescued you from that demon.

Demons-- humans, just like you and Giyuu, who were forced to suffer the consequences of heir own unlucky fate. You became a pillar of the Demon Slayer Corps in order to help free these misunderstood creatures from their agony, and reunite them with their lost past. But their sins as demons could not go overlooked.

"Tomioka-san," you whispered to your best friend who was eyeing the drooling monster in front of you, hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sheathed sword. "You take care of the demon, I'll retrieve the girl and see if her life can be salvaged. Understood?"

He only nodded curtly in response, swiftly unsheathing his hefty blade with no more than a minute clink before teleporting to a lofty nearby branch. You remained hidden behind the thick tree trunk, watching Giyuu's fingers closely for a sign to commence the operation.

Giyuu tended to strike from behind with the advantage of the element of surprise, so you watched and waited for the demon's back to turn to him, flipping through your various concoctions stored in the tiny bag on your hip.

You waited, and waited, and waited...

Giyuu's thumb straightened out.

Immediately you were on top of the girl, analyzing all of her vitals and arriving at a diagnosis in a split second: she was still alive.

Injecting serum after serum and stitching up open wounds as the metallic clinks and crashes of battle surrounded you, you snuck glances at how your best friend was faring in combat. The demon appeared to be a formidable opponent, as it wasn't decaying into ashes just yet.

You felt trembling movement from underneath your steady hands.

"Gh..." A bubble of blood spurted from the tiny girl's crusted lips. Retrieving a vial of hydration from your pouch, you quickly wiped off her mouth and held it open as you poured in the refreshing liquid.

"Hello there, thank you for being strong." You hovered over your wounded patient, smiling softly. "I am the wind hashira, and we're here to exterminate the demon that hurt you. You're going to recover in no time, alright?"

The child squinted painfully at you, attempting to reorient herself in her unfamiliar surroundings. "Wh... where am I? Where’s my older brother?”

"The forest in the South." The sun was beginning to rise, but it was too dangerous to leave the injured victim out in the open clearing. “Your brother is…”

A wounded cry rung through the air just then, snapping your attention to the fight a few feet away from you. Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach as you saw Giyuu's haori stained in fresh blood, pooling from his chest. He was staggering about, body heaving from the effort to control his breathing as he stared down the demon with venomous eyes. The creature only responded with a warbled cackle as he lunged for your best friend once again.

And you were on top of it in an instant, slicing the wisteria-injected needle-like tip this way and that, targeting the weak points of the demon’s body that Shinobu taught you of which would allow for quicker absorption of the venom. You darted around in such a frenzied blur that the creature could barely even blink before you appeared in front of Giyuu, shielding him from his tormentor.

“(Y/N), I— I was fine…” He clutched a hand to his crimson-stained chest.

“Tomioka-san, you’re bleeding very badly. I couldn’t leave you to get hurt.” You spotted the girl in the middle of the clearing, sitting up and looking around the area with curiosity. Glancing briefly over your shoulder, you assessed what would be the best move for both of them. “Are you able to move?”

“I’ll go help the girl. You— hck… you take care of this.”

A smile formed on your lips as he dashed away at the synchronization the two of you always shared. It was like you could read each other’s thoughts.

A pained howl snapped you back to reality as the demon in front of you seized and whined in pain as the poison began to kick in. One of the only differences between you and your older sister was that you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy at the elongated suffering your fighting technique brought upon your target in their final moments before death.

What did they think of? What were they feeling? Who did they want to cry out for?

The demon thrashed once before every single muscle in their body froze, and their mutated body dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. You stepped closer to them, locking your apologetic eyes with their four frightened ones as they trembled in fear.

Lightly tracing their gnarled neck with the edge of your sword, you whispered, “I’m sorry. Please cross over safely, where your loved ones will await you.” You pressed the blade into their neck, various crimson fluids spilling out—

“Si… ster…”

You stopped.

Flakes of gray skin began to crumble away.

“Where… little sister…”

Your thumping heart froze in your chest.

The body in front of you continued to disintegrate.

“I’m… so sorry…”

It burned and burned and burned, until smell of ash and death was all that remained of the little girl’s older brother.

The glade was enveloped in the warm, glittering glow of dawn as the shimmering rays of sun trickled in through the thinning treetops.

A pair of kakushi had escorted the little girl away, who had been blubbering with tears as she was dragged away from the remnants of her demonized brother.

You knelt before your best friend now, applying an abundance of salves and bandages to his battered chest with a numb buzzing rushing through your veins.

“… Okay?”

You snapped back into reality.

“(Y/N), you’re out of it… are you okay?”

Your eyes latched on to Giyuu’s, who was gazing up at you from your lap with a concerned look.

“Yeah, it’s just…”

“Family.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to keep your tears at bay, nodding softly.

A weight lifted off of your thighs as you wiped at your cheeks, when you suddenly felt arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body.

Eyes snapping open, you realized that Giyuu was hugging you.

“Giyuu—”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

The labored, uneven breathing near your ear disputed that statement.

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

“Giyuu… let me take care of you. Please.”

“No. You need it more than I do.”

Arguing with him was useless, and you were so exhausted.

So you let him hold you.

And then he kissed your cheek.

It was only a soft, featherlight peck.

But it was your new motivation to fight.

if you enjoyed this post, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) feel free to request here, and make sure to read the rules first! have a lovely day everyone <3

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nightingaelic · 3 years

Note

The fallout new vegas companions reacting to some legion members being gross jerks to a woman courier (when I heard Siri tell me "i overheard some of the legionnaires taking about 'trying you out'", i physically cringed- ugh-) (sorry if this is a bad companion reacts ask-)

TW: Sexual assault, sexual imagery, blood, I put the worst of it under the cut

The walk through Caesar's camp at Fortification Hill was an impressive one, if you only kept your eyes up. Banners of red and gold blew in the afternoon breeze, walls of corrugated steel rising high above the landscape, plumes of dyed feathers and tanned animal hides swaying atop the heads of the men that patrolled the space. Yes, Caesar kept up appearances, if you didn't notice the women and girls who were desperately trying to melt into their surroundings, avoiding the eye of everyone they passed.

The courier stuck out like a sore thumb here, the only free woman for miles, the only woman gazing fiercely back at anyone who dared look at her. Maybe that was why the three Legionaries by the gate felt the need to comment, as she passed by on her way to meet with the mighty Caesar in his tent.

"This one has pretty eyes," one of the men in armor said, with a lascivious look. "But they would look prettier if she were on her knees, looking up at me."

One of his two fellow soldiers spat on the ground next to the courier's boots. "Women are beneath notice, Cassius. Remember what Caesar has taught us."

"Otho's right," the third agreed with a chuckle. "Besides, why focus on her eyes when you can turn her around and tear open her pretty ass?"

The courier froze.

Arcade Gannon: Arcade stepped in front of her, fuming. "Why don't you make like Odysseus and get lost?"

The Legionaries' hackles rose, and they sauntered forward to surround the researcher. "You forget yourself, profligate," Otho said, crossing his arms.

"Fututus et mori in igni," Arcade shot back, rolling up his sleeves. "Or did your masters not teach you enough Latin to understand me?"

He ducked the first blow, but the second caught him square in the jaw. It took several other soldiers and a pair of Praetorians to drag the five individuals apart.

Craig Boone: Boone's face remained expressionless behind his sunglasses, but he gripped his rifle tighter, stood a little taller and looked over to the courier for direction. "Ready?"

She shook herself out and cracked her neck. "Ready."

The two opened fire, starting with the three men in front of them. By the time they were finished, the banners weren't the only things running red on Fortification Hill.

Lily Bowen: Quick as a flash, Lily grabbed the nearest of the men by the throat and held him aloft, letting him struggle and kick in midair. "Apologize."

"Put him down!" Otho and Cassius demanded, scrambling to unsheathe their weapons and level them at the nightkin. Lily ignored them and glared at the man in her grip, watching his face redden and eventually turn purple.

The courier's hand slid up her shoulder, squeezed it reassuringly. "We're guests here, Lily."

Though her demeanor didn't change, Lily dropped the Legionary in a heap on the ground and stood over him, glaring at each of the soldiers in turn. "Disgraceful."

Raul Alfonso Tejada: "Whoa, culero." Raul stepped forward and put a hand up defensively. "You don't know her like that. Back off."

Cassius laughed. "And who's going to stop me? Some freak like you? You're lucky we didn't put a bullet in your head when you walked up to the gates."

"You'd be surprised, but that treatment isn't killing as many as it used to, nowadays," Raul replied with a glance back at the courier. "Keep walking, Six. I'll deal with these imbéciles."

By the time the courier made it back down the hill, the men who had been lewd to her were nowhere in sight, and Raul was leaning on the wall with a satisfied look on his face.

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Before either of the men could utter another word, Cass was at the last one's throat, her combat knife pressed against his jugular vein. "Keep going. Sounded like an interesting idea you were sharing, there."

"Whore," the man managed to gasp, while his companions fumbled for their own weapons.

"Whore? But I'm not the one whose mind went straight to fucking, you piece of shit." A bead of blood appeared on the tip of the knife, just barely cutting into the Legionary's skin. "A woman without a collar on is too much for you to handle, hmmm?"

Veronica Santangelo: Veronica grabbed the courier's hand. "Fuck off," she said angrily, pulling her away from the men. "Unless you want me telling Caesar that you're hassling his guests."

"The bitch is right," Otho grumbled. "Come. There is work to be found at the arena."

They stalked off across the camp, but Veronica kept herself between them and the courier even as they turned their backs on her. Only when they were out of sight did she turn to the courier and look them over with concern. "Idiots. Are you okay?"

ED-E: The eyebot whizzed up to the men, turning between the three of them angrily. When they tried to look around it at the courier, it blocked their line of view with a low-toned blip. By the time they tried to swat it away, the courier had fled up the hill, and the eyebot trailed in her wake.

Rex: At his companion's tensing, the hair on Rex's back rose in a line and he bared his teeth to snarl. Suddenly the Legionaries looked a tad more unsure of themselves.

"Didn't Caesar used to have a cyberdog like that?" Otho asked, taking a step back.

The courier patted Rex's shoulder and turned a look of absolute venom upon the three men. "He doesn't belong to Caesar, and neither do I."

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purpleshallot · 2 years

Text

Take On The World | Bucky Barnes

Prompt: "Nobody knows you the way that I know you, look in my eyes I will never desert you, and just say the word, we’ll take on the world."

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers (romance or friendship; your choice)

W/C: 1.1k

Warnings: Angst, canon-typical violence, mentions of Hydra, TWS trigger words, the winter soldier, implications of sexual assault.

A/N: This is my entry for @sunshinebuckybarnes their jukebox writing challenge! Thank you Zoey for hosting this challenge! I've chosen the song "Take On The World" by You Me at Six and immediately thought of Bucky and Steve's friendship/relationship. Big thanks to @lunarbuck for beta reading this story and being so supportive and thank you to my friends from the TN discord server for making me feel confident in posting my first angst fic!

Writing challenge // Main masterlist // AO3

I can see, see the pain in your eyes Oh believe, believe me and I have tried No, I won't, I won't pretend to know what you've been through You should know, I wish it was me not you

Nobody knows you the way that I know you Look in my eyes I will never desert you

Step out of the shadows and into my life Silence the voices that haunt you inside

“... Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Товарный вагон.”

He sat up with a sharp gasp, beads of sweat rolling down his face onto his sweat-drenched back. It’s cold. It’s so very cold. He was panting, his chest heaving with every intake of breath. Stop being so loud. They will hear. They’ll punish you. They’ll hurt you. His throat tightened, he swallowed hard. He felt like throwing up.

His mind was clouded by a thick fog, but at the same time, it was racing through a bunch of memories. Mission. There was a mission. What mission? Flashes of shadows and people dressed in dark green combat suits and doctors in white coats flickered before his eyes. Screaming, he remembered the screaming. Arms bound to cold metal.

Soldat. That’s what they had called him.

A burst of blinding pain shot through his head, making his left shoulder tense up in response, heart pounding in his chest. Afraid of the time he’d lost inside his own mind, he quickly opened his eyes to assess the situation. When was the last time they’d woken him up? He was lying in a bed, a painfully soft and damp duvet covering him from his toes to his chest, and once his eyes were able to focus in the dark, his gaze moved towards the small door-opening which had light shining through it. A bed? This was new. Abnormal. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Danger. He quickly closed his mouth and tried to even out his breathing. One breath in through the nose. One breath out through the nose. Even out your breathing. In. Out. In—Footsteps. He heard the sound of a steady stride coming closer and closer. Someone is about to enter the room. A spike of adrenaline surged through his stomach and chest while his eyes darted back towards the light. He quickly but silently removed the duvet covers from his body and stood up. He felt a cool breeze on his skin and realized he wasn’t wearing any clothes or underwear. They’d undressed him. No, that can’t be. They wouldn’t do that. No, no, no—Eyes quickly darting to every possible exit from the room, his gaze landed on the open window on the left wall and back to the light spilling from the door opening. He could escape through the window. A second glance towards the window, and he sensed the person entering the room. No time. There’s no time.

“Bucky?” he heard a soft-spoken voice ask. His head turned toward the sound, and his empty eyes gazed into big questioning blue ones. Trapped. He was trapped. The only thing standing between him and this person was the queen-sized bed he’d just left.

Male. Approximately six foot one and two hundred twenty pounds. In his thirties. Muscular build. Focus on upper body strength. Dressed in a grey shirt and thin blue and white striped pajama bottoms. Not naked. Holding a glass filled with clear liquid.

“Bucky?” the man asked a bit louder this time, standing frozen in the door opening. His head tilted, blond hair shifting as his eyes narrowed, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. The soldier felt like a deer caught in headlights. Blue eyes. He felt like he knew those blue eyes. They felt safe. No, that couldn’t be. He was being deceived.

His breathing quickened, and he clenched his fists in anticipation of a fight. That’s what he did, right? Fight people?

“Hey Bucky, it’s okay, it’s me—” the man slowly and carefully moved his left foot before his right one, and immediately his, the Soldat’s, fight or flight response kicked in.

Within seconds he was standing in front of the man. His metal hand raised to punch the center of their torso, and in surprise and shock, the man dropped the glass of liquid to the floor. It shattered at their feet. The noise rang twice as loud in the silent room; the sound of the impact reverberated through the building. The first punch was successful, but the man was able to catch the second one. His strength resembled that of his own, which shocked him.

He took a step back, balancing his weight on the ball of his left foot. His upper body turning ninety degrees to the side, he brought his right leg up and aimed for the ribs. Strike. Having the wind blown out of him, the man took a sharp intake of breath.

“Buck—” the man gasped as he tried to block another blow to his ribs. The Soldat’s eyes widened as he realized this was the third time this man was addressing him with that name. Bucky. It didn’t sound right. He wasn’t supposed to know that name. His throat felt tight, and his mouth went dry. He grunted in response, unable to find his voice.

His metal hand found the man’s throat, and he started squeezing, the whirring of the arm ringing in his ear.

“Sir, your oxygen levels are dropping. It seems like Barnes is not aware of his surroundings. Do you need me to alert the team?” a mechanical-sounding voice filled the room. The Soldat narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, his hand squeezed tighter. Where was this voice coming from? Who is Barnes?

“N—” The man wasn’t resisting. On the contrary, his eyes turned hazy and his skin turned a slight shade of blue. His body went limp and slid down onto the soft carpeted floor.

“Understood. Do you wish to alert Wilson?”

The man gave a slight nod, and his fingers reached for the Soldat’s hands, gently placing his thumbs on the inside of his wrists. The sensation of the man’s warm fingers against his cool skin made him shudder. His eyes gazed into the steely blue ones of the man below him. There was a voice inside his head telling him to stop—stop fighting.

His hand loosened ever so slightly, and he could see some of the color returning to the man’s face. The Soldat was scared. So incredibly scared. Terrified. The voice in his head was fighting against the images of torture and pain. His heart clenched, and his head spun.

“It’s okay, Bucky, I’m here. I’m here for you,” the man rasped, closing his eyes.

It’s okay, Bucky. I’m here.

It's going to be okay.

#sunshine jukebox 1k writing challenge #stucky #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #stucky fanfic #stevebucky #stevebucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #📝 finn writes #📌 challenge

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professorspork · 3 years

Note

If you're accepting non-superhell prompts, I'd love to see a conversation between Nora and Emerald! I've been REALLY loving these microfics, I've subscribed to you on Ao3, I'll read whatever else you write

[Gahhh that’s so nice you’re so nice!! thanks for being patient on this one, finding my Nora took some doing]

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before.

You say that like you’ve ever had any friends before, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mercury needles her, but she brushes it aside. Like—okay, yeah, she’ll concede the point when it comes to Cinder. In hindsight, whatever they’d had going on between them may have been... super intense... but it probably had never been friendship, in the usual definition. But she and Mercury were friends, no matter what the judgy little shitstain version of him who lives in her head has to say about it. They’d always gotten along. Told each other stuff. It’s not like there’s more to it than that, right?

It had always been like that. Been—instinctive somehow, with guys. Before Cinder, on the street, it was always the men who’d been easiest to manipulate; who would empty their pockets for a smile and a sob story. And then she and Merc had been two sides of the same coin for so long, and then... well, Hazel’d liked her enough to die for her, apparently. (Which—that’s a door that she keeps closed, thanks. She shuts it firmly again, now.) Oscar seems fond of her, in a sweet, uncomplicated sort of way that she really doesn’t know what to do with, seeing as he shares headspace with like a trillion year old man and the idea that anything to do with that kid could be “uncomplicated” is batshit. Ren vouched for her once, and then again, and now he keeps doing it, like it’s habit, like she should just be used to the fact that people are going to have her back, to ask her if she’s eaten, to turn to her with a raised eyebrow in conversation like her opinion would be constructive.

Anyway.

Now that she’s noticed the pattern, it seems like the kind of thing she should probably… work on, or whatever. And Nora seems like an obvious place for Emerald to start. They’ve been thrown in together a lot, lately, Emerald and Oscar expected to fill in the gaps of what’s left of the old JNPR by default. Not that they’ve ever really had a conversation about it—Emerald can’t think of the last time Nora said two words to her that weren’t combat warnings like “more Grimm coming” or “on your left,” but. That’s probably just because things have been tense. She remembers Nora being friendly, on the whole of it. Off-puttingly friendly, even, back at Beacon.

How hard could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is absurdly hard. Nora’s barely ever in the temporary barracks they’re all living out of, instead always checking on the refugees, going on supply runs over esoteric requests, volunteering for extra patrols. Emerald used to find that kind of dogged do-goodery gag-inducing, but now that she’s been the helping hand herself a few times, she’s starting to see the appeal. The way people look at you when you’ve been of service, it’s—nice. Really nice. But Nora works utterly thankless jobs, the kind most people don’t even notice, let alone appreciate. And when they have their insufferably long leadership meetings and they’re talking about distribution of resources or whatever, Nora’s a fierce debater—jumping in to advocate for the people from Mantle sometimes even before May can. As far as Emerald can tell, she does this stuff just because... she believes in it. Because it’s the right thing to do, and someone has to.

She can’t imagine what it would feel like, to have the attention of someone like that turned on her. She’s craved it from the wrong people for so long, but now that she has her pick of options... she’s letting herself actually want the right kind, for once. She thinks.

Which is all to say that largely through no fault of her own, Emerald unexpectedly finds herself sitting with a profound, fervent desire for Nora Valkyrie to think she’s cool.

She hates that.

Fighting with Nora is easy.

(—er. Alongside. Fighting alongside Nora is easy. Emerald’s done fighting with these people. Very done.)

It’s weird, because Emerald’s finding working with a full team to be a real adjustment. When battles get big enough to merit it, she’s used to keeping to the sidelines to use her Semblance for nefarious purposes, or, in a jam, used to having Mercury’s six—literally, because all the forward momentum from his feet-first style always left his back wide open. Figuring out where to put herself so that Oscar can use her shoulder as a fulcrum as he dodges, or trying to aim for the Grimm Ren isn’t already shooting (ugh)—it’s taking work.

But somehow, it’s not work for Nora. Nora seems to anticipate with perfect ease how Emerald will move or what she’ll be doing; Nora bobs and weaves around their ragtag little band with her war hammer like it’s breathing.

It doesn’t bother Emerald until it does, and she means to bring it up casually but there’s never a good time. So it just… stews, and stews, until she can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Which means that instead of the earnest question she intends it to be, it comes out like this:

“Okay, seriously? It’s creepy how you do that.”

It’s just the two of them, plus the handful of dweeby Atlesian tech-types they’re escorting back from their foray installing some fancy hydro-filtration modules on the outskirts of the camp. And it’s not like Emerald had felt outmatched by the half-dozen Ravagers that had decided they looked like lunch—she can shoot Ravagers in her sleep, at this point—but still. The way Nora had moved around her, it was like they’d been fighting side by side for years.

Nora just cocks her head to the side. “Do what?” she asks, like she hadn’t just basically read Emerald’s mind in front of the water nerds.

Emerald does a complicated gesture with her hands, wrist over wrist, and then flicking two fingers—trying to evoke the way Nora had flipped over Emerald’s back and then kicked off, just trusting Emerald would reel her back in with a chain in midair before a Grimm could fly away with her sorry ass. “That.”

“Oh!” Nora laughs and rubs at the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing. I guess it’s just not a big deal for me? Like—I was there when Ren built StormFlower. The cables are newish, but we practiced so much back in Atlas… I dunno. It’s just reflex, when your weapons are so similar. Fighting with you, it’s almost like fighting with him. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Nora swallows, then, and makes a face Emerald can’t interpret—disappointed, maybe, or ashamed. Which: good. She probably should be, taking things for granted like that.

“Well—just—” Emerald’s not even sure what she wants to say. Ask, next time? Don’t? “You shouldn’t make assumptions. I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

The venom she puts behind the word is directed more at herself than Nora—frustrated, again, that she’s put herself in the position of wanting so desperately to be liked.

Pathetic.

Nora just nods, looking glum.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, cheeks pulling in a bitter smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep that one straight, huh?”

She says it with such pointed irony that for a second Emerald wonders if she’d gotten it wrong somehow, but like—Nora and Ren are a thing, right? That’s—everyone knows that.

“Hey, what—?”

“Let’s just go,” Nora says, and Emerald automatically falls into line behind her.

They make the rest of the walk back in silence.

Sometimes at night, when she can’t sleep, Emerald likes to climb up to the roof of the barracks and look out over the refugee camp.

It’s—peaceful, is all. A good reminder of where she is; how far she’s come. The night sky in Vacuo has more stars than she’s ever seen, and being able to watch over all these people who have somehow become her responsibility… well.

A part of her will always be standing on the rooftop at Beacon, looking down on pure chaos as a queasy, frightened sensation twists in her gut and its noxious voice whispers you did this, you did this, you did this. What did you think was going to happen, you stupid little girl? You don’t get to feel sorry for it now.

But she does.

Weird how the only thing that’s helped is actually doing something about it.

She hears a scuffling noise over her shoulder, and she’s got Thief’s Respite drawn and ready before she can even really register what she’s heard. She relaxes when she sees it’s Nora at the other end of the barrels, unarmed and hands raised—a funny little smile on her face, like yeah, fair enough, I should have known better than to try and sneak up.

“Just me,” she says, unnecessarily.

Emerald holsters her guns. “Can I help you?” she asks, and—what is it about her voice, that makes sentences that would be nice if any other human said them come out straight-up hostile?

Nora shrugs, hands dropping to her sides. “I was hoping we could talk; I figured you’d come up here if I waited long enough.”

Well, see—what kind of lesson is she supposed to take from that? She’s been hoping for Nora to talk to her for weeks, and acting like a bitch is the thing that gets her what she wants? Good guys are supposed to know better.

And there’s the way she said it, too. Like everyone knows Emerald comes up here to brood; like it’s a big open secret. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in her stomach, makes her feel watched. Even now, even here, she can’t get a moment alone. Not really.

“What, so you’re spying on me now?”

Nora’s eyes narrow. “I have a pretty bad track record when it comes to losing people. Makes a girl want to put in a little hustle when it comes to keeping tabs on her friends.”

And Emerald would snark at that, or maybe apologize, or something, only—

Nora thinks they’re friends?

“Well, take a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, scooching to the side as though she needs to make room on the massive, empty roof.

Nora walks over and joins Emerald on the asphalt, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Seemingly unsure of where to start, she stares at her hands. Emerald stares too, but her eyes can’t help but wander—tracing the way scars, silvery in the moonlight, spiderweb up Nora’s bare wrists and forearms to fetter her shoulders, clavicle, neck. Like cracks in a pane of glass, right before it shatters.

(Only that’s not it at all, is it? It’s not a sign of weakness, but a warning of strength. I care this much, her scars announce to the word. You wanna try me?

Hazel’s arms always looked like that.)

Emerald doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, sure that whatever she’d say would be incredibly stupid.

Luckily, Nora has no such qualms, and opens with: “I really admire you, you know?”

Emerald stares, jaw slack, certain she’s heard wrong. “I—what?” She’d say something defensive, like yeah right or you don’t have to make fun of me, only Nora’s eyes are so wide and so guileless they don’t leave any room for argument.

“I mean it,” Nora adds. “I know we don’t know all that much about each other, but… here’s what I do know: I can’t remember a time I saw you without Mercury right behind. Just like me’n Ren. And the way you fought for Cinder…” Nora smiles a sad, private little smile. “You don’t fight like that unless it’s personal; unless someone means something to you. Just like me’n Ren. And now you’re here. All on your own. And you didn’t have to be. That’s—don’t you think that’s crazy brave? I sure do.”

Of course she fucking doesn’t. Crazy brave would have been walking away the first, tenth, hundredth time she had a flash of panic about what she was doing. Or, better yet, doing something about it. Crazy brave is taking thirty thousand volts to get to your friends; it’s flooding your veins with pure crystalline power and saying Go, I’m doing what Gretchen would have done, it’s—

She closes that door.

“It’s not like I really had a choice,” she sighs, dodging the question.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Nora scoffs dismissively, tilting sideways to nudge Emerald with her shoulder.

And Emerald jolts, because—look, it’s not like no one touches her. They have to manhandle each other all the time in battle, and… and Oscar gives her high fives sometimes, which makes her embarrassingly pleased. But what Nora’s offering now, that kind of buddy-buddy casual contact…

… it’s been a while, is all.

“So, why did you want to talk to me?” Emerald asks, overwhelmed and suddenly desperate to find a way to get this conversation over with. She feels like she’s sprinted five miles; like she’s had the crap kicked out of her and she has to go somewhere to lick her wounds. Too much, too fast.

Nora laughs—a chuffing, cynical noise that doesn’t sound at all like her. “Looking for pointers? See, I’m trying this thing where I do things on my own, but I just—I suck at it. Like today; you saw. Even when I’m not with Ren, all I do is… is act exactly the same way I do when I’m with Ren. Like I literally don’t know how to exist without him, whether he’s actually there or not. And I know that’s not fair to anyone; I didn’t mean to treat you like—” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “You’re not just some stand-in. It’s not you at all. I’m just—broken, or something. One trick pony.”

“No, hey—”

“But you figured it out,” she barrels on, which is good, because Emerald doesn’t actually have a clue what she would have said there. “You don’t have anyone and somehow you’re just, like—good to go!” Nora says it cheerily, like it’s a compliment, but has the grace to balk a little when she hears how it sounds. “…sorry. That’s—sorry.”

Emerald shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She feels like an idiot; building it up for weeks like spending time with Nora would solve all her problems when, surprise surprise, Nora’s just as fucked up as she is.

“Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have any hot tips,” she mutters into the crooks of her elbows. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Like—you want to know the really sad part? I was just following your lead.”

“My…?” Nora can’t even finish repeating it, which: Emerald can’t blame her. It’s so dumb. “Huh?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I don’t,” Nora says, voice thick with exhaustion. Like she’s sick of herself. “Ask anyone—I’m not the brains of the operation.”

Hearing Nora talk about herself that way makes Emerald’s chest feel tight; like her ribs have locked in place so her lungs can’t expand. She doesn’t know how to explain it; not without sounding like a starry-eyed fangirl or a moron with a crush and that’s not what this—it’s only that—

She chooses to start a different way.

“You wanna know why I switched sides? Like, really why?”

Nora softens, and reaches out to touch the back of Emerald’s left hand, where it dangles over her knee. “Sure,” she says, but Emerald barely hears it; it’s taking all of her concentration not to clench her fist or pull away in response.

“I overheard Oscar—or, Ozpin, I guess, I don’t know—talking to Hazel about Salem, about her goals. And… listen. No one joins under Salem because they’re trying to kill the world, okay? I mean, no one but Tyrian, anyway. We were all just trying to… find ways to get by. And when Cinder found me, she—” Emerald swallows, hard. This cuts too deep, too close. It’s not something she can just say. “I wasn’t trying to be some big villain, or something. I was just—looking out for the people who were looking out for me. And why wouldn’t I? No one else ever seemed to think I was worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Nora cuts in, quiet but vehement. “Everyone is.”

“See, the worst part is that you mean that when you say it,” Emerald grumbles, scrubbing at her face until smears of color kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. “I figured people like you didn’t exist, and then Cinder and Merc were glad to prove me right, and—I let them. You know? And maybe if I’d just held out a little longer…”

“You’re not the only one here who’s ashamed of her past. Harriet tried to blow up Mantle, like, a month ago.”

“That’s not—forget that. I’m talking about you. Nora.” It’s the first time she’s ever said her name like that—addressing her, in conversation. It feels… astonishingly intimate, for so small a thing. Emerald powers past it. “Every day, I see you do something ridiculous, like double back on a patrol because you forgot you promised some kid a candy bar, or something, and that—matters. To me. It’s so stupid, but it’s not, because… argh! I want—it’s—” She tries to get her mouth to form the words, that’s the kind of person I want to be, but they stop in her throat.

Still, Nora seems to get the message. Her eyes seem suspiciously shiny for a moment—but when she blinks, it’s gone. “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emerald grumbles. Saying it like she means it: seriously. Don’t mention it.

“I understand what you mean, though. For years, the only person who looked out for me was Ren. And if he’d said…” Nora trails off, then, cocking her head to the side as she works through something. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just. I remembered something. I was about to say that if Ren told me the only way for us to get by was a life of crime, or something, I would’ve taken his word for it, but—the opposite happened. We decided to enroll at Beacon. And that wasn’t his idea; it was mine. I always wanted to be a Huntress. To… to be the one strong enough to help people, instead of always needing the help. He wasn’t sure if we would make it, but I was. We were together, right? How could we lose?” She chuckles, a little, shaking her head at herself. “Get a load of that. He followed me.”

They smile at each other, then. Like they’ve figured out something profound. Maybe Nora has; Emerald hopes so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emerald,” Nora says, and—there it is again. The frisson of electricity that comes with being referred to by name.

Of course, then Emerald ruins it by blurting out:

“Of course you are, all your other friends are dead.”

Which—“Fuck!” she sputters, because she didn’t mean to say that. What is wrong with her? “Sorry! Sorry.”

Nora only grins at her, feral and incisive. “Yeah, well. Yours are evil, so. Pick your poison. At least I’m proud of mine.”

Touché.

“Still glad I’m here?” Emerald jeers, because her first instinct is still to press on the bruise to see how much it hurts.

Nora laughs, and gets to her feet. “Believe it or not, yes. If putting your foot in your mouth was all it took to get booted from Hero Club, I’d have been kicked out a long time ago.” She reaches down to offer Emerald a hand; Emerald takes it, letting Nora pull her to standing. “Now go and get some rest, huh? None of us can ever sleep when you’re up here thinking so loud.”

“That an order?”

“Advice. Friends give it, from time to time.”

And—yeah. Maybe they do.

#typeoneninja #emerald sustrai #nora valkyrie #rwby #emerald and nora #fic what i wrote

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ihatebnha · 3 years

Note

*clenches fist* shinso be havin xl fingers and an xxl dick. i know i’d be feeling that hog in my THROAT

damn… hot girl has some taste… this message touched me in my soul...... in my vagina.. not one lie was spoken... NOT ONE... and i love u for that.

anyway hope u enjoy and don’t tell my mom i wrote this PLEASE

Shinso is the best.

Shinso is the best boyfriend you could’ve asked for, like ever.

It’s not just that he’s a hero, not even that he’s also rather quite handsome…

There is just so much to love about him: for one, he’s thoughtful and courteous, always putting your needs first, asking how you feel, making sure you’re okay. For another, he’s generous and kind, feeding the local cats of your neighborhood in his spare time, voluntarily covering patrols for his fellow heroes when they need him, and most importantly, never hesitating to spoil you, always buying you little tokens of love, from candies to perfumes to little, tiny purple panties… truly, the most wonderful man you could’ve asked for.

It also doesn’t help that he has a fantastic body, either.

What a man he grew into, five, six inches taller, long and lanky limbs now thick and hard with corded muscle, veins protruding from his pale skin without him even needing to flex, all tied together with combat skills enough to terrorize the lowliest of villain even without the use of his quirk…

All facts that you are, he is, so proud of, never hesitating to gift people with his proud smirk or strong gaze, whether it’s simply at a cashier, after he wins a fight, in the bedroom, or literally anytime else…

And it makes you absolutely shake to think about, legs quivering and stomach tightening in pleasure, practically soaking through your panties at just the thought of his fingers brushing your clit or his dick in your mouth.

Because what else is a girl with a man so fine supposed to do except push him down on the couch despite his instance that you don’t need to... tugging down his pants so fast that he often has to push your forehead back gently lest you slobber all over his legs in excitement.

“Sweetness,” he always purs, voice rough but so romantic, “I��m not going anywhere…”

Which you know is true, despite the fact that you still find yourself unable to stop from wanting to worship him with love.

And boy, does that make Shinso’s heart flutter.

Despite the many years you’ve spent with Shinso, you still find yourself delighted and amazed at the sheer size of his cock, the curved shaft large and impending from where it protrudes from neatly trimmed purple pubes and heavy balls.

One hand resting on his knee, you take him in the other gently, smiling when your lips brush against the tip and his eyes flicker to yours as you press soft kisses up and down his length.

You scoot closer to him in between the space of his thighs, adjusting to his warmth while you make yourself comfortable on your knees, still nuzzling your face into his cock like it belongs there, like he deserves.

Shinso lets out a deep breath, never the most vocal, but looks at you with soft eyes when you glance up at him, his cheeks just barely flushed a mute pink when you smile before circling your tongue around the head of dick.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, reaching to run his knuckles across your temple, hand suddenly halting as you dip forward to take him in your mouth completely and suck.

You start slowly, noting the tensing of muscles in Shinso thigh, doing your best to pay attention to the tip before moving downward, tongue held flat in your mouth, pressing against him as your lips hold tight around his cock.

The first time he hits the back of your throat, you can’t help but gag, eyes tearing up as you continue to take him as far as you’re able to, toes curling in your socks, lips nearly touching the base, but not quite.

Pulling back, the second time is a little bit easier, more comfortable now that you’ve got a handle on his size, and if you weren’t so busy paying attention to Shinso’s cock and the way it pulses in your mouth, you’d stop to wonder why the size of him never seemed to get old.

As if sensing the sudden lack of focus, Shinso begins to help you along, the hand on your head stretching as he presses a large palm into your scalp to help pull you up gently and then push you back down. The first bob is slow, but his true intentions soon become clear when he begins rapidly facefucking you, no longer the gentle boyfriend he was two minutes ago, drool and precum now spilling from your lips and dripping down his balls as you take the entirety of him down your throat over and over and over again.

“This what you wanted, princess?” He snarls, breath heavy and he holds your face down, nose crushed to his pubic bone, “Being all good for me?”

Suddenly, he pushes your head off him, aggressively, assertively, and you do your best to suction yourself to him as he pulls you off of him by the back of your hair.

Popping off of Shinso’s cock with wide eyes, you look at him, his own purple ones dilated in pure bliss from watching you. Now heaving, he doesn’t hesitate to grab his spit-covered length and start slapping your cheeks with it, the tip bouncing off your lips as you open your mouth as if to catch it.

But he pulls back too quickly, gripping your chin so he can steadily look into your eyes as he starts to jerks himself off, his teeth clenching when you swallow, fingers brushing against your lips surprisingly gentle.

“Open,” he demands, deep voice causing your drippy cunt to clench as you do what he says without thought.

Your tongue barely having met your bottom lip, he doesn’t hesitate to shove himself halfway back down your throat, cumming immediately, his eyes closing as he groans and throws his head back in pleasure, ropes of sticky seed hitting the back of your throat.

Despite the shots being expected, you can’t help but jump at the force of each one, Shinso coming down from his high to admiring this, as well.

“Let me see,” he says, the hand on your throat now loose, as you again do as you’re told, opening your mouth unashamedly so he can stare at the mixture of bitter cum and sweet saliva that is now dripping down your throat.

He smiles at the sight, at the way you stick your tongue out farther to show him the mess, his cum dribbling from the sides of your lips, the fat globs glossing over your chin as you do your best to.

However, Shinso is quick to catch them, smearing his fingers over your face as he moves to press the mess back into your mouth, his fingers going with it.

You enthusiastically accept the gesture, sucking the digits between your lips as you swallow down his load, and he smiles at the sight.

“Kitty.”

You glance up at him, still resting between his thighs, suddenly bleary-eyed and drowsy.

“You okay?”

Looking into your eyes, he holds your jaw in his hands, leaning down to press his lips to yours once, twice, and then three times, ignoring both the drool and cum that is currently coating most of your face.

“I’m good,” you whisper against his lips, and he nods, forehead brushing yours. You smile with heavy eyes, almost sleepily, barely registering the feeling of him lifting you into his lap.

Cuddling into his bare chest, you wrap an arm around his neck and squeeze, Shinso immediately gripping your waist to hold you to him tighter.

“Baby,” he whispers again, pressing a single kiss to your warm cheek as you hum in acknowledgement, “Let me know when it’s my turn.”

Even though your eyes are closed, too exhausted to care, you can’t help but curl your lips into a smile.

You really did luck out.

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softinkshadows · 3 years

Text

battlefield encounters (gojo, nanami, geto, sukuna) (part 3)

Some short vignettes of jjk men x female reader imagined scenarios, where reader meets them for the first time in the middle of a fight (all taking place within the same world and timeline of the manga/anime, although as parallel storylines). Geto Suguru “You disgust me.” His voice is hot against your ear as his strong hands slam you against the wall, nails digging into your flesh. “What is a filthy human like you doing here at this hour?” You try to turn and speak, but your face is pressed hard to the crushed stone wall, and you can feel a thin trickle of blood dripping down the side of your cheek. On most days, Geto would not even deign to touch a human trespasser, preferring to unleash one of his low-level curses on them instead. But today, he is in the mood to get his hands dirty. 10 hours ago, you had received a tip-off at the agency that some nefarious dealings might be underway at a temple on the outskirts of Chiba prefecture. Some suspicious deaths and probable connection to the Star Religious group, the report had said. Now, it is night, and here you are unceremoniously pinned to the outer façade of the main temple by a stranger, your hands held behind your back, agonisingly out of reach from the gun on your holster. “Talk.” His tone is sharp and dominant. A rough grip twists your head to the side, allowing you to finally catch your breath. Lessons from your years of training begin to swarm your mind. Play dumb. “I-I’m a fellow devotee,” you stutter nervously, praying whoever is behind you won’t notice the gun at your belt, and quietly thanking the gods that you wore a long coat to hide it today. “I’m a new joiner, and I heard from a friend inside that there were night sessions as well.” You are spun around, back to the wall. Your hands, still caught in the vice-like hold of his pale arms, are starting to feel bruised. A man with long black hair stands inches away from you, dark locks falling over his face, his flowing robes brushing up against your thighs. His black eyes are terrifyingly cold, piercing, and you catch them glancing to the wound on your head. For a moment, he looks pleased. A shudder runs through you. “A devotee, hmm?” he murmurs thoughtfully, though his eyes never leave yours. There’s something about his gaze, the way he’s holding you, that suddenly fills you with vertigo, as if you’ve tumbled off the edge of the universe and found yourself on its flip side, a darker, frightening world that no one should ever have to encounter. You feel your guise slipping away. Oh god, he knows. Your body tenses. His fingers now stroke the inside of your palms, running them lightly across your heavily calloused skin, the scars from all the combat you’ve faced throughout your time at the agency. The hands of an experienced fighter. His mouth turns up in a slight smirk. “You’re not a very good liar.” ---- Ryomen Sukuna “Hurry up, Itadori,” you yell over your shoulder, scaling the large stone boulders dotting the forest path, moving deeper into the trees. The sun is setting, and the way downhill will be getting dark. But the pink-haired brat is still at the clearing, gawking loudly and admiring the cityscape of Tokyo from the viewing point. So much for babysitting a small-town bumpkin, you groan inwardly, pausing to wait for him. The day before, Gojo had called in a favour. As always, that smart-mouthed ass didn’t bother to give much information. The boy known as Sukuna’s vessel was recovering from a fight with some “patchwork curse,” and both him and Nanami would be busy with jobs the next day, so “would you please look after him, being the independent ‘window’ that jujutsu society doesn’t know about, and oh, by the way everyone thinks he’s dead!” Bewildered, you didn’t have much of a choice but to accept, given how Gojo had been helping to keep your identity under wraps for the last few years. Thus resulting in you having to entertain the boy with a low-key sightseeing tour of Tokyo. “Sorry Y/N-san!” Finally, you hear Itadori’s light footsteps approach from a distance. He catches up with you easily, his physical prowess allowing him to leap from boulder to boulder with ease, even in the growing darkness. You don’t hear the chant that follows next, and neither does Itadori. “Enchain.” The forest grows cold. You feel the cursed energy leaking out from behind you like a frothing pit, curling and extending its tendrils towards your feet. The hairs on the back of your neck stand frigid. You turn around fast, knowing that the person in front of you is no longer the annoyingly cheerful brat you spent the afternoon taking care of. Why now? “Sukuna,” you hiss, moving into a defensive stance. This is a troublesome scenario. In the worst case… your eyes flit to the set of bronze cursed rings on your fingers. You may even have to use it. Not even Gojo, bearer of the Six Eyes, knew about that. He emerges from the shadows into the faint moonlight, torso bared, revealing the black tattoos running across his body. He stretches his arms as if they have stiffened from a long slumber. Now he’s awake and ready. The glint in his eye unsettles you. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you,” Sukuna says. His voice is flippant, though edged with curiosity. Like a king seated on his throne casting a second glance beneath him out of amusement. “To what do I owe this honour?” you scoff sarcastically, gritting your teeth. Then, sharp pain courses through you, and the air is knocked out of your lungs. You feel yourself crashing through tree bark, the wood splintering and scraping your skin. When you come to on your knees, slightly dazed and mouth tasting of blood, you realize Sukuna is already standing over you. A strong hand grabs you by the throat, lifting your body off the ground. “Now, I don’t have much time.” You can feel the pressure building in your chest, as you grasp the thick hands around your neck. In most cases, you’d have kicked your way out by now, but Sukuna’s cursed energy is so immense it paralyzes you, especially in your current state. He continues. “Gojo Satoru thinks you’re just a non-sorcerer who can see curses, but that’s not the case, isn’t it?” He rams your body against the tree, making you gasp in pain and cough from his hold earlier. Blood trickles over your eyelids. He leans close to you, nose almost touching, eyes boring into yours. His left hand remains closed over your throat. His right grabs your left hand forcefully, raising it close to his face. “This…” he smirks, pressing so hard on the cursed rings on your fingers that you wince, “has a pretty interesting ability, after all.” Your eyes widen, then narrow in irritation. Shit. Of all the people who could know about this, it has to be him. Then again it makes sense, given how long the king of curses has been around. He strokes your cheek with a finger, making you grimace. You feel his punishing fingers about to pull the rings loose. Your heart hammers wildly. “Show me my dear,” he whispers slowly, “what you’re hiding.” ---- Notes: The Sukuna portion makes some references to the binding vow made between him and Itadori Yuuji. A ‘window’, like Ijichi-san, refers to non-sorcerers at Jujutsu Tech who can see curses and help to report curse sightings/missions. Hope you guys liked this one and hope it tingled your imaginations~~ --- Taglist (っ˘ω˘ς ) : @encrytpta @wilddreamer98

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader

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