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ashlingnarcos · 11 months

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blood on vacation

David Barrón/F!Reader

written for @narcosfandomdiscord's smut alphabet, namely the July 2 prompt blood

tags: fistfight, absolutely unhinged preoccupation with bloody knuckles, fingering, oral sex

warnings: blood, probably unsanitary, reader is an OFC (Sabrina Tanaka), violence, this was not beta read and it kind of sucks ngl

length: 1.8k words

You’ve only been Mexico City for a week, and you’re already all vacationed out. It’s not Marcela’s fault. The two of you make no sense as friends—she, the trust fund kid formerly known as Marcelo who initially met you at your dad’s jiu jitsu academy, currently partying her way across the globe with an increasingly dodgy set of cousins, exes, and assorted other rich vagabonds, and then you, the standoffish sparring tutor forever known as Mr. Tanaka’s kid, with an unhealthy penchant for taking your skills to street wanderings, just to see if you could. She was whimsical and merry, spiritually curious and given to bouts of dangerously committed romantic pining, and you were stolid and practical and highly suspicious of anyone as eager to please as a car salesman, much less a preacher or supposed future lover. The one similarity between the two of you is that you both were born and raised in São Paulo, and could both kick hard enough to break bones. But the rest? Pure opposites attract chemistry.

She’s been generous on this trip, doing the rich girl thing in splendid style, and footing the bill for your part completely. She translates for you whenever she sees you getting lost—Brazilian Portuguese is similar enough to Mexican Spanish that you can kinda sorta understand what people are saying if they’re saying it slowly and doing overtime with the nonverbal cues—and does it naturally, not like it’s a chore or an opportunity to show off. She introduces you to her club kid friends with excitement, like she’s showing them someone really cool. She’s a sweetheart, Marcela is, and you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón. But the good food aside, you’re still so alienated and bored that when a fistfight breaks out in the club, it come as a welcome change of pace.

There’s broken glass on the ground—Ramón’s older sister smashed a bottle over somebody’s head, good for her—so no ground fighting for you. And there’s too many people around to dedicate yourself to a hold. So you fall back on a motley bag of street fighting tricks, plus what you learned from a misspent summer at a boxing club, mostly just trying to stay upright and get your licks in where you can. It’s all fun and games until one of them slaps you, open palm. A punch would’ve been fine, but this? You hit his nose with the base of your palm, driving up to break it, then follow that up with a jab. Not satisfied yet, you sweep one of his feet out from under him, shove hard, and finally get him on the ground (broken glass be damned) in a hold that has him gasping fruitlessly for oxygen, his neck in the crook of your arm, his body trying to wriggle round and find an angle at which his elbow shots to your ribs will actually mean something. Unfortunately for him, when you’re pissed off, you could take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care. Fortunately for him, nobody there actually wants anyone to die, so after a bit, several people pull you off him. One of them is Marcela, so you give it up. The fight has died down anyways; both sides are separating into bloodstained, wary-eyed groups.

Keeping steady eye contact with the man who slapped you, you lift your bloody-knuckled hand to your mouth, part your lips, and lick a long stripe of his blood off your skin. Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied.

As you turn to talk to Marcela, ask her where the bathrooms are so you can clean yourself up a little (Ramón is already yelling about partying the whole night through, and Marcela seems completely unruffled, so you doubt you’re all about to leave now), you catch a glimpse of something. Everyone here is preoccupied with their injuries, or other people’s, or the retreating crowd of interlopers, except for one man who seems to have witnessed your last threat. He’s dressed a little different than the others, in an oversized polo shirt. You remember getting a glimpse of him in the fight, thinking you might need to take him on next and grimly assessing that prospect as a dangerous one before he easily elbowed a guy who was heading for Ramón’s brother. So he’s not useless, and he’s not easily cowed. Just now, he’s looking back at your challenge of a glance with a flat-eyed expression that you can’t quite parse.

Hm.

No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death.

Inside the club bathroom, he hooks his fingers over the top of your jeans and tugs you forwards a couple inches. Commanding, but not a threat. Not trying to make you stumble, just getting you that much closer.

Regarding him with a curious, almost lazy look, you’re almost inclined to let him have his way, but then, as he goes to unbutton your jeans, his knuckles smear blood along your stomach. You close your hands over his wrists, and he pauses.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, slow and clear, lave as mãos. And he gets it.

You know he gets it, because he looks down at your hands, your bruised, swollen, bloody hands, and then back up at you in a way that makes his blank expression rather pointed. Oh, does the international man of mystery have a sense of humor after all?

“Do it,” you say, faça isso. That must not be close enough to Spanish, because he frowns a little. You give up.

You pull his hands out of your jeans, feeling a shiver go through you at the friction, and then you let go of him, walk over to the sink, and turn on the tap. As you lean back against it, the countertop digs into your thighs, suggestive. The dull pulsing thump of the club music outside gives the tiny bathroom a cloistered, cocooned quality. His dark eyes meet yours evenly.

You don’t move, don’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Silent. Yeah?

Yeah. He takes a couple steps forward and washes his hands, and as he does so he mutters something to himself in yet another language, English, maybe. As he dries his hands, he smiles. It’s a wry, private smile.

Two can play at that game. In your mediocre, third-generation Japanese, you say, “I have every intention of eating you whole” in exactly the same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy.

As he steps towards you, you could swear he says something that sounds like gostaria, dangerously close to I would like that, almost like he understands you.

You decide: no more talking.

Zero to a hundred. He tastes like beer and you, unfortunately, can’t get enough; your hands cup the back of his head, his neck, fingertips digging in as he finally unbuttons your jeans and shoves them and your panties down your thighs in one impatient motion. You could hop up onto the countertop, but why do that? This way is so much better, his wet hands gripping your ass, the swift coolness of droplets sliding down the back of your thighs, the low grunt he makes when he lifts you.

“Sorry, was that hard for you?” you say, but he’s two steps ahead of you. Got his palms warm on the inside of your knees, spreading your thighs and catching sight of just how wet you are for him. It’s his turn to be smug, clearly, but you can’t even be mad at it when he wears that smile so well.

He gets on his knees.

You should’ve known it’d be like this from the second you caught his eye in the aftermath of the fight. You really should’ve known, but it still punches an unwanted sound out of you, a small sound in the back of your throat, when he gets his face between your thighs in seconds, no hesitation, and starts to lick your cunt like it’s ice cream and he’s starving.

With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do. With your fingers sunk into his hair and your eyes half-lidded, you feel like you could melt and slip right down that drain. For his part, he’s got you just how he wants you, with your legs parted wide to accommodate the width of his shoulders, his right forearm a bar across your belly. You have no fucking idea how or why he’s doing this—men who see you gone full destroyer don’t usually think to themselves, I want to make her feel good, they tend to think along much darker lines. They want to dominate you, and you get what fun you can out of the process of denying them that. But this? He got on his knees like it was his first choice. You do not know what this is, but you’ll take it. He slips a finger inside you, and you’re so wet that it barely burns at all. Two fingers. Fuck. He leans his weight into your stomach, across your thighs, to stop you from bucking up into his mouth, and that’s—that’s fair. It’s all you can do not to whimper, and your heavy panting sounds desperate enough. Three fingers and you do whimper.

He looks up, and you’re already bracing yourself, but no. There’s no sneer in it; there’s something else. All night, this nameless man has been quiet, unnoticeable, and then, once noticed, mysterious, but now you see him. The first look is caution, but the second? The second is all appreciation, like he could drink the sight.

That look hits you hard. You close your eyes, because you don’t want to see it, don’t know what the hell to do with it, and choose instead to sink deep into the sensations in your body as he wrings you out. A wave of euphoria hits you as you come, and it’s just the body, you know it’s just the body, but when it’s over and he has his chin propped up on your thigh, both of you looking exhausted, neither of you done, you get the weirdest urge to push his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Little killer, you want to say. Damn near affectionate. (It’s just the body.)

The cops arrive at the club before you can manage to return the favor, and Marcela hates all interactions with the cops with a flaming passion, so you have to get her out even though in all likelihood Ramón will just have to flash them a medium-size wad of bills. Later, though, when you can, you confess all (most) of the strange encounter to her, and she gets the message out to him. Through which of the tiny terrors, you don’t want to know. Probably Ramón, a thought that does not fill you with confidence. But he gets the message anyway.

The message is: I owe you one.

#David Barrón x reader #Narcos mexico #narcos mexico imagine #narcos mexico readerfic #David Barrón #mine #nffalphabet #well. that happened.#was it good? no but we gotta make progress somehow. gotta start somewhere. etc

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tmwwriting · 2 months

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Title: Make a heaven of hell Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI) Chapter: 1/3 Word Count: 8.8K Tags/Warnings: Lucas Grey x female reader. No use of Y/N. Smut. Porn with plot (lots of plot). Bleak. Angst. Hurt No Comfort. Grimdark. Seedy strip club. Vixen Club from Hitman: Absolution x1000. General gross vibes. Hostile work environment. Illegal activities. Set during Lucas's mercenary years. Reader is a dancer. Both damaged and unhinged in their own ways (how can this go wrong?) Unhealthy relationships. Friends with benefits. Threats of violence. Threats of gender-based violence. Background/implied/referenced violence. Implied/Referenced Prostitution. Minor Original Character(s). Death of Minor Original Character(s). Undernegotiated Everything. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Dry humping. Fingering. Oral sex. PIV sex. CNC. Stranger sex. Unprotected sex. Semi-public sex. Rough sex. Hard kinks. Consensual but NOT safe or sane. Dark fic. Ambiguous/Open Ending. Dead dove: do not eat. A/N: Gonna have to keep writing fics set in Grey's merc years just so I can keep making hostile work environment jokes. And shout out to John Milton's 400 year old poem for the fic & chapter titles.

AO3: (X)

It's a familiar rhythm. Terms. Conditions. No hard feelings.

(Pretty songbirds belong in pretty cages, and running out the clock only works if you're the winning side.)

chapter i. in the lowest deep a lower deep

The other girls notice him first. There's a possessive tenor to their stories, the way the words curl in their mouths in a haughty bestowing, interrupted only as they part for you; you rush to the counter, wincing and clutching your bag, slotting between them and a chorus of "welcome back" before they continue, the giggling and chattering so fever-pitched you fear for the structural integrity of their vocal cords.

On a normal night you'd drop everything to get in on the gossip, kick up your feet and settle in, warm yourself by the campfire of other peoples' trivialities. But there's no time, the last bits of sand trickling down the top of the hourglass, the grit of it sinking between your teeth, even though you've broken every traffic law in the book in your efforts to get here faster. (And no doubt irreparably ruining your relationship with the scrap heap you call a car.) You've both made it though, so all's well that ends well, no matter how much the engine wails at you in protest. Stupid thing.

"And the one always in the corner, don't forget him!"

"The blonde?"

"No, no, the dark one across from him, the good-looking one. I think he—"

You'd sigh—the impatient exhale of coming in mid-story—if it wouldn't fuck up your painstaking, halting attempts at a cat eye. No matter how you angle yourself or your hand (sharp inhales when you lift your arm and move something painful behind your ribs), every flick of the gel pen leaves you more and more uneven in an odd seesaw of black ink. Cocking your head in the mirror and staring in stunned disbelief only brings the mess into further focus: definitely more Marcel Marceau than Sophia Loren, and it only gets worse. This liner clearly hates you and wants you dead—perhaps from all the times you've dropped it on grimy bathroom floors—and it's five seconds away from being javelined across the room before Maria finally takes pity on your increasingly frustrated strokes. She deftly slips the offending pen from your hand as she sits you down and goes to work fixing your face.

"Have you seen him yet?" She asks you, practically humming, so close the brightness of her aches to look at. "He's usually with a few others, at least these past couple of nights. They all look military to me, but Susy says no, too wild."

"That, and they sound British," Susy says, shrugging her shoulders and swinging her manicured feet from her perch on the countertop. Cigarette ashes gather below. You can see the No Smoking sign in the reflection of a mirror—an old joke and sour, pungent punch line. "D'you think we're being invaded by the British Army?"

This causes a cascade from the others:

"You've clearly never worked a club near a barracks—"

"Practically French, the way you'd surrender—"

"Horizontal collaboration, was it?"

"Taking your Chanel obsession a little far—"

The argument escalates without any input from you, with much maligning of various nationalities, Maria insisting that some of the men are actually American, and Susy rebutting that her handsome one, at least, is British.

"If they tip well, I don't care if they're the FBI or MI5," is all the answer you give when they turn to you as the tie breaker, kicking off another round of giggling about how good the men would look in suits, and whether they'd keep their weapons on them during sex. You do sigh, then, but not all the chirping that follows is useless, and you tuck away the tidbits of information that filter through: who stacks dances, who asks for extras, who tips well or not at all, and then more speculation about the glowering dreamboat who spoke only just enough for the girls to ascertain his accent. There's a pang of conscience from somewhere deep inside, stashed out of sight in the dark recesses of some boarded-up ruin—hunting your friends' regulars is a little low, but. . . Maybe these new guys do have money, and maybe one of them will be careless enough that you'll be able to buy yourself something nice this weekend.

It depends on the group, whether this becomes a windfall for the club or a complete shit show. Complete shit show is the safer bet—odds so short no bookie would take you up on it. These guys don't sound military, but you need to see for yourself. Experience is the best teacher: you get all kinds here, the allure of such a lively, colorful watering hole bringing everyone in from their arid planes of existence, and by now you have a pretty solid idea of what to expect from a guy just by the look of him.

Most are boring. Faceless. Excruciatingly normal. Just looking for an escape from the suburban nightmare of their daily lives, bitching and moaning as though someone's holding a gun to their head, making them work that shitty job or cave to a girlfriend's demands for marriage and babies and a white picket fence. They treat dancers like therapists, even in the champagne rooms (a real therapist would be a lot cheaper—they wouldn't have to tip those). If the guys are regulars, you know their kids' birthdays and the drama with their coworkers. Good, boring, decent take home. Things get spicier when the Delgados and Morenos start arguing over turf, as though there's not multiple routes to traffic narcotics from one side of the globe to the other; oh no, they need this little corner of the world, the bastards. Every decrepit, pot-holed street in the city will overflow with their violence, always catching more than one dancer in the floodwaters that spill over into the club. Doesn't help that management will dam the doors open for them. You try and stay far away if any happen to saunter in—bad news all around.

Mercenaries, though. . . hit or miss. Some will tip well for a dance or two, and some are like the men from the cartels. They'll take what they want, and your menace of a boss won't care as long as they empty their wallets in the process. You try not to think of the girls who have gone missing over the years.

There's a reason this place doesn't offer health insurance.

Continue reading on AO3.

#hitman #hitman fanfiction #lucas grey #lucas grey x reader #dark fic #x reader #x female reader #fic: heaven

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kimageddon · 2 years

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A Prince of Dathomir - Chapter 103

Maul x Nightsister OC (Zaiya Valessa) - Slight Canon Divergence - Prince of Dathomir Masterlist

Word count: Approx 3700 Contains/Warnings: blood, reliving trauma, wounds, panic attacks, threatening behaviour and an unhinged droid. Chapter Summary: Maul, Zaiya and Venn make it to the station… and meet someone unexpected. Notes: I'M BACK BABEYYYYYYYY!!!! You may have noticed I took an extra week. My apologies but I was in a bit of a state after the trip back and while mostly good, a lot of it was very stressful! >.< I am back now however. Second thing you may notice is I am posting this chapter on Sunday and not Monday. There is a reason for that which brings me to an:

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

During my time off I had a lot to think about ant to assess when it came to my life and the way things are going and how things are going to get significantly busier in the foreseeable future for me. Not to worry, I am not abandoning APOD, but I am however having to drop my update schedule to once a fortnight instead of once a week. This is for two reasons: One - to avoid burnout, I was really starting to struggle for a while there. Two - to give me time for other projects and activities. I will probably have more of a social obligation soon with the new appointments and recommendations. I also, am planning of writing a book. Or rather I am writing it. Sins of the Father I eventually want to turn into my own novel and I have decided I need to work on it more diligently and really get cracking on the story. So going forward, I will be posting on Sunday nights (Sydney time) one week will be APOD and the other will be Sins. It should ease my workload as I have also been doing commissions in regard to my artwork and I am always hoping to improve in that regard. (More at the end!)

Junked - Part 1

The rest of the journey was far more than awkward and Zaiya spent the majority curled in the cockpit and trying to rest, though not fully allowing herself to sleep. It seemed every time she had a moment to sleep lately, she was interrupted --whether by nightmares or Maul. The last two days she hadn’t minded, having been as insatiable as he was.

She hadn’t even known that side of herself until he had unlocked it. It was also becoming increasingly difficult to be able to lock that part of herself up again. Every time she looked at him she was reminded of those soft expressions and affectionate words he’d been so free with, and the moments she’d felt the galaxy around them fall away into bliss.

How was she supposed to come back from that?

The cold manner he now regarded her with was jarring in comparison. It hurt to look at him. Better then, to sit in the cockpit with her knees drawn up to her chest with her eyes closed. That way, if he decided to grace them with his presence she would not have to see him at all. Currently he was in one of the side rooms, probably meditating. Part of her hoped he stayed there.

“We’re coming up on our location,” Venn said and Zaiya opened her good eye. With a quiet sigh she unfolded herself in the seat and tapped a few buttons in which to assist her friend as they left hyperspace. The blackness of regular space surrounded them and the orb of yellow and green hung before them in the distance. The planet was tiny in comparison to others, more of an asteroid with atmospheric domes than anything. It was a traders port, where sentients would sell exotic plants, species and in their case, droids and ships. It wasn’t the most affordable place, but Venn said they had someone that owed them… and Zaiya didn’t want the details. Despite Venn being more than willing to give them.

She watched as the planet grew larger in the viewport and she heard the door slide open, the oppressive presence that was her Lord -- full of rage and bitterness -- stood at her back. She felt herself getting annoyed and even angry, Venn had told her she didn’t deserve to be treated like this; and while she perhaps was not in full agreement, she did however agree that something needed to change.

He either needed to have it out and fight her as they had done in the past or… or perhaps banish her completely. At least then there would be an end to it.

Even if a deep pit opened in her chest as she thought about it. After everything… could she really accept that? Would she be able to walk away? Or would she rather he take his lightsaber and drive it through her chest instead.

It might hurt less if she chose that option.

Either way, something had to give. The tightening of her throat from her own anxiety was enough to drive her mad. With a frown she did her best to push it down and away as they came in on the docking bay.

The hangar was wide, cobbled together from various parts, as was the entire station, all built from recycled ships, scrap and reused pieces. It was rather ingenious, though it did look much like a trash heap at first glance. It was a great place to trade items inconspicuously.

Zaiya had visited only once before, and it appeared to have accumulated even more junk since the last time she’d been there.

“Alright, follow me!” Venn said, their tone was light, but there was a significant shift in mood from before. Likely due to Maul’s attempted murder of the Iridonian. Zaiya knew she had to separate the two sooner rather than later. The word ‘behave’ was not in Venn’s vocabulary.

He moved like a menacing shadow that seemed to loom over her shoulder. Maul’s mood was equally foul and she was rapidly running out of patience. The sooner they got this ship, the better. She could feel something swirling in the Force within him as well, and while it nagged at her, she was still far too on edge to pay it much mind.

They passed a few smaller places, the plan was to fetch the droid after they had procured a ship, and Zaiya was distracted by a vendor off to one side as Venn grabbed some supplies of their own. In her effort to focus anywhere that was not her Lord, she failed to notice the figure approaching rapidly from her left.

[Mistress!]

Zaiya vaguely heard the call but did not think it was for her as she traded her credits for the item she wanted. An eyepatch. Relatively plain and in black, she slid it over her head and her braid, then began to replace her hood.

[Mistress!] the electronic voice buzzed louder now. Which sentient wasn’t paying attention to their droid? [Mistress!] That was loud, and right by her ear! Her head snapped up to glare, only to realise the droid was speaking to her.

“What?” she asked with a start. The ocular implants of the droid seemed to shine happily. She didn’t understand why it was here. For a moment she just stared back at it until she realised she recognised the tall humanoid-shaped machine. It stood tall, and was badly scuffed now, the black paint job was significantly damaged.

“Sixy?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

[Yes Mistress!] it said brightly, there was far more intonation in its modulator than she remembered. [It is a relief to see you again, I feared you had perished like the Master.]

“Lieutenant, what--” Maul began in a rough tone as he approached but stopped as he laid eyes on the droid. Zaiya looked over to him, his eyes were locked onto the droid and… he didn’t seem pleased.

In fact he stood there with wide eyes like he’d seen some sort of nightmare. Maybe he had.

[Master!] Sixy wobbled toward the crimson Zabrak on its damaged leg, one of them was certainly not its original model. [I had thought you were dead!]

Maul stared at his former training droid with apprehension. He did not take his eyes off it but he did reach out in the Force. Looking for something.

“How is it you have come to be here?” he asked slowly.

[It is a long and strange tale, Master, but after your mission I was left in the training facility for some time. Eventually I must have been deactivated as I reactiated in a strange place. My memory banks had been wiped but eventually I began to recall our training, and the Mistress!] Zaiya stood on the other side of the droid, inspecting its grease-covered face.

“How is this possible?” Maul sounded disbelieving, it was not heard of for a droid to be able to regain their memories unprompted. How was it possible?

Then Zaiya realised.

“The spell,” she whispered.

“What?” Maul snapped, his eyes darting to her. If she didn’t know any better she might have thought he was afraid.

“Before our last mission, I was rewiring Sixy's chassis, I… may have used magick to aid me. it seems to have had more of an effect than I anticipated, I had meant to make him better able to protect you from Sidious,” she explained and felt his anxiety spike in the Force.

“Did he send you?” Maul hissed to the droid. “Did Lord Sidious send you to find us?” Zaiya slowly looked at him. To anyone else he would have seemed angry, impatient. But to her there was something beyond it.

[No, I was not sent by anyone. I have been on this station for several galactic standard cycles, but I knew that I would find the Mistress again!] His expressionless head turned to her, [Mistress, I am most grateful to have regained my memories, but please do not be so invasive with me again. I am distressed to hear I was interfered with.] Zaiya frowned slightly, since when was he so emotive?

“Sure…” she said, sounding slightly confused, had her spell done all this? Or was it the result of a faulty memory wipe? Sidious would not have been so careless as to not fully wipe the droid’s databanks, it had to be the spell.

“I thought we were looking at droids after we found the ship?” Venn’s voice interrupted as they trotted over, they gave Sixy a once over and frowned. “Really? You want this one? It looks like a walking scrap pile.”

[I will not tolerate your insult!] Sixy said, suddenly and aggressively, outstretching an arm as if to grab at Venn’s face. They jumped back and Zaiya instinctively stepped forward.

“Sixy stop!” she demanded. The droid calmed at once and in a far softer voice said;

[Of course, Mistress. Do you know this creature?]

“Yes,” Zaiya nodded, “they are a friend of mine.”

[Hm.] Zaiya looked at Venn with a sigh.

“Venn, this is Sixy, it was once Maul’s droid,” she explained.

“Yyyyeaaahhh…” Venn said very slowly, lowering their arms from their defensive position. “I see the resemblance.” They looked between Zaiya, Maul and the droid, likely regretting answering her call at all. “Anyway, Dran will have the ship you need, he’s just down here--” they pointed down the way toward a large opening, Zaiya could only assume it was a hangar and their destination.

[I know that vendor, I can assist!] Sixy chimed in and powered off in that direction. Zaiya just watched him go, wondering where the droid’s current owner was.

“And I thought this day was already weird,” Venn scoffed, “c’mon, let’s go get your kid.” They followed the droid, leaving Zaiya to stare at them like they'd grown a second head. Venn wasn’t the only one having a weird day. She headed toward the hangar and Maul too was an ever-present oppressive feeling in the Force. Relatively passive, but on the inside was something frantic like a bag of angry snakes. Something was going on with him.

She reached the area, only to find the Twi’lek that was apparently Dran, backing away with hands raised from the training droid. He had a broad frame and bulky arms, his face seemed conventionally handsome, and there was quite a bit of scarring on his arms. Zai could see why Venn might like him, from what they’d said, the Twi’lek ticked a lot of boxes regarding their taste. The alien did nothing for Zaiya however. She watched him back into a large durasteel hoist frame and smirked, he seemed terrified of Sixy.

“Keep back!” Dran cried, waving an arm at the three sentients. “The droid is crazy, it’s malfunctioning! Keep away from it!”

[That does not answer my question,] Sixy said in a firm tone, it had its hands outstretched toward the vendor rather threateningly. Zaiya tilted her head and stepped closer, confused by the Twi’lek’s reaction.

“To whom does the droid belong?” she asked with a frown.

“It- it doesn’t belong to anyone, when it arrived here they said it just went mad, killing people… it only stopped because they got a restraining bolt on it!” Dran warned. Zaiya raised a brow, they just let the droid walk around with no one in control of it? Even when it was apparently so violent?

“Sixy will you step back from the Twi’lek please?” Zaiya said with a calm voice.

[Yes, Mistress,] Sixy immediately lowered its arms and took two small steps backward. Dran’s eyes widened and darted between her and it.

“You’re its mistress?’ he gasped, “That means you’re gonna take it away, right?” A glimmer of hope in his gaze. Zaiya looked him over before answering.

“That depends,” she replied, folding her arms.

“On what?” Dran muttered hesitantly. Zaiya’s monochrome lips became a feline-like smile.

“On whether we get the ship we need.”

----

The Twi’lek seemed more than pleased to assist them, no inane questions or displays of cowardice. Maul was indeed on edge. The scrap everywhere, the loud sounds of industry in the hangar, and the wide space beyond, located within a shielded bubble. It was full of the grinding of metal, the smell of grease and tibanna, the heat from the welders. It was too much. Too familiar, too painful. He had spent just short of two years trying to be free of the memories and the madness of Lotho Minor.

Now he felt like he was back there.

Zaiya was distracted with the droid and the Iridonian and procuring a ship. She did not see his anger and feelings. These thoughts and feelings he did not dare name. He was not afraid. He would not panic. He was trained to be the one to make others afraid, not be the one to feel fear. He had conquered it! He would not succumb to it now.

He did however need to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Movement had his yellow eyes flick over, seeing Venn’s arm slide around Zaiya’s shoulder, watching her just accept it. Like the clone on Kamino. Too close, too personal. She slid from the smuggler’s grip but it had already sparked a thought in him

He remembered the depths of that labyrinth, so dark and miserable. The madness clawing the inside of him, trying to rip its way out and tear him to pieces as it did so. For a time he thought he’d been there forever, that he would be there forever.

Then he remembered the song. The light in the darkness that called to him when he didn’t even know his own name. She’d come for him. She too was wounded and scarred and yet she had come for him. Maul watched her as she inspected one of the ships and his teeth grit. She had been different when he’d woken from the tank on Kamino… and she had stood between him and the smuggler when they had dared to insult him and threatened her.

After the last two days he had thought she might understand. But the way the Iridonian was with her. The threats… were they going to take Zaiya away? Was this what he was witnessing?

He’d had the thought that he didn’t need her. That she should leave. He’d been trying to convince himself of that for the last several hours. But it made his chest tighten and a lump form in his throat. He couldn’t.

Was she going to leave him behind? Abandon him like his master had? It was only a matter of time, really. Yet…

[Master, your breathing has increased and your heart rate indicates a high level of stress,] TD-66 spoke, breaking away from the other two. Maul scowled, but he found he could not bring himself to speak. He dared not let them see him like this and turned away, his face hidden by his hood, though he just looked angry as usual.

He felt a familiar calm reach out to him in the Force and a tendril of her presence touched him. That did it. His hand grasped the side of the table beside him and a crate full of tools crashed to the floor. The other hand reached for his lightsaber, the anger in him boiling up.

A second later he felt a firm grip on his wrist. Zaiya positioned herself to block him from looking out to the rest of the junkyard, or from anyone seeing him. She held his wrist from grasping his weapon and squeezed gently.

“Sire,” she whispered, urgency in her voice, her lips brushing his cheek. He let out a strained sound and tried to push her off, but he found he couldn’t move. His breathing was laboured and his other hand gripped the front of her vest tightly. Her second hand came to rest at the base of his throat, a gentle, grounding touch.

“Breathe with me,” she whispered, and began taking slow, measured breaths, in and out. He did his best to match them, listening to the sound of her own.

A vision formed in his mind and he could see a younger and unscarred Zaiya running along a much smaller Venn. Why was he seeing this? They looked frightened, searching desperately for something.

“Are you alright?” Venn asked, their voice strained.

“‘M fine, you were the one they went for…” Zaiya replied with a rasping tone. She didn’t sound well, and Maul moved closer, seeing that she had a hand over her shoulder -- she was bleeding! Despite it being a memory, and clearly Zaiya had recovered, Maul could not help but feel his chest tighten.

He didn’t like seeing her wounded.

The two made their way to a small alcove and hunkered down, the sounds of blaster fire and shouts getting closer.

“You should go,” Zaiya whispered, “Adaji’s on his way, you should hide until you get the all clear.” She sank against the wall of their little corner, her expressive face contorted in pain as she rested against the wall. The young Nightsister held her hand over the wound and the other reached for a blaster at her hip, though her movements suggested the blaster was too heavy for her to even lift.

Maul waited for the Iridonian to abandon Zaiya, leave her there like the coward he knew them to be. Venn however surprised him, and sat beside Zaiya.

“I’m not leaving,” they insisted and took up a small pouch at their belt with what looked like a very basic first aid kit. “You took a shot for me. No one’s ever done that before. No one… thinks much of me. But you do. So I’m not leaving.”

“I didn’t do it so you would help me, I did it so you wouldn’t die,” Zaiya chuckled with a slanted grin. She had a waxy look to her face and Maul wanted to reach through the dream to do… something.

“Well, I’m not gonna die and neither will you,” Venn insisted. They opened a bacta patch and tugged Zaiya’s collar aside to press it onto her skin. She hissed as the cold gel touched the tender wound but remained still.

“You might if you stay here,” she said and gripped her blaster tighter, though her expression seemed less strained.

“No way, we’re gonna patch you up and you’re gonna be fine!” Venn’s voice sounded wobbly, like they were emotional, and as Maul looked closer, he realised they were misty-eyed, the child must have been terrified.

“It’ll be alright, if they come this way, I’m a good shot--”

“No! I’m not leaving!” Ven cried. “You’re my only friend and I am sticking with you! No matter what!”

Zaiya’s mouth opened to reply but the sound of blaster fire sounded down the hall. Venn launched themselves against Zaiya and did their best to shield her with their body. The Dathomiri woman in turn raised her own blaster and aimed into the opening. Grim determination marring her youthful features.

A second later an armoured warrior -- a Mandalorian in black and orange armour -- appeared.

“Kid! You’re alright!” Maul recognised him as the one Zaiya called Adaji Treshan, and it was he that swooped in and brought the two teenagers with him, telling them they were safe now and they could be tended on the ship.

With that, the memory faded.

After several minutes, Maul returned to the moment and concentrated on her touch; the movement of her chest rising and falling where his hand gripped her shirt, his grasp slackened and he felt the levels of the strange feeling subside. He’d never felt anything quite like it, not since he was very small. He refused to name it.

“I didn’t put it together, sire, I’m sorry.” She spoke gently in his ear, her tone so warm and soft. “I didn’t realise how a place like this might affect you.”

“I am not affected,” he sneered, and moved to pull away.

“Should I leave you?” she asked suddenly. He stopped and looked back at her. “Should I leave your side?”

“I should say yes…” he muttered. He admitted it, she weakened him. She made him feel things he had never imagined and he craved her far more than he had cared for or wanted anything. “But I cannot.” There was a long pause. “Do you wish to go?”

“I would rather carve my still-beating hearts out, sire.” He looked up and met her eyes with a hard look. She meant that?

Suddenly he pulled her in by the waist, speaking low in her ear, shame burning him to speak the words.

“Do not leave me,” he breathed. “As your Lord, I command it.”

“I will never leave your side, sire. Even if you are ashamed of me, will still stand by--”

“What?” he asked, confused. “Ashamed? Of you?”

“You put distance between us,” she said plainly. “I understand it, you would not wish to be seen with someone like me--” he cut her off again, this time with his mouth slanted on hers, dragging her in and holding her tightly. He kissed her like he needed her to breathe.

How could she think he was ashamed of her?! She truly did not know how agonising it was to not touch her like this? How having her close was so soothing and comforting? Was it not obvious what she did to him?! It took all his inner strength to not pin her to the table right there. He pulled back slightly, a hand to her cheek, and pushed the eyepatch aside to look into both of her eyes.

“I put distance between us because--”

“HOLY MOTHER OF KRIFF!”

Oh kark it to the Void… He’d forgotten Venn was there. He shot a glare in their direction and then the expression softened as he looked back at Zaiya.

“We shall discuss it later,” he said quietly.

“Yes sire,” she replied in a breathless voice that nearly made him shiver. He had to pull away before he lost the last shred of control he had. The dregs of that awful feeling lingered, but he felt infinitely better. She wasn’t leaving. She wasn’t abandoning him.

“Kriff that was hot,” Venn said with a low whistle, approaching Zaiya. “That zabrak is the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.” He heard Zaiya scoff, but for the first time, he might actually agree with the smuggler.

Notes: Well well well! Look who it is! I hope you all liked today's chapter, it was a bit of a cliffhanger last time, but things are looking up for these two lovelorn fools! …Let's see how long it stays that way, hm? And what was he going to say???

Thank you for everyone who has stuck with me over the last year or so, and I know there are new readers all the time so welcome welcome! As always I appreciate you all very very much! I think you're all great and if you can, please consider a like, a comment or sharing this story with another SW fan! I think you guys are the best! I hope you are all doing well!

See you next week for Sins! <3

----

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#a prince of dathomir #darth maul #star wars #nightsister oc #maul #maul x oc #maul fic #darth maul fic #darth maul x oc #lord maul #zabrak oc #zaiya valessa

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dhr-ao3 · 1 year

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ChatGPT writes Dramione fanfics based on my increasingly unhinged prompts

ChatGPT writes Dramione fanfics based on my increasingly unhinged prompts https://ift.tt/RFPvecE by uncontrollableranter Ever wonder if artificial intelligence could write fan fictions with the same zest and zeal as some of our favorite human fanfic authors? Well, wonder no more! I feed chatgpt word foods, chatgpt spits out word salads. Grab some popcorn and prepare to be cringe, cry, and be confused (mostly confused). Words: 3544, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: ChatGPT, AI, Artificial Intelligence, Zoo, unhinged, dramione - Freeform, robots can write books now, do these stories even make sense, plagiarism but with extra steps, is this ethical?, what is happening to the world, will writing go extinct, definitely not if this is the best chatgpt can do, leave me comments that will make me huff gently through my nose via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/2j6N78q June 16, 2023 at 12:44AM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

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ao3feed-dottorescaramouche · 1 year

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#genshin impact #genshin impact scaramouche #genshin impact dottore #dottore/scaramouche #il dottore/scaramouche

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viking-raider · 3 years

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Hoist the Colours - Part II

Summary: You try and survive being Henry's captive, while your father plans on how to get you back.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 7,629

Warning: PG-13 - Pirate!Henry, Some Dark Themes, Language, Kidnapping, Ransom, Captivity, Possible Trigger Warning, Unwanted Physical Contact, Angst, Fluff, Bondage

Inspiration: Pirates of the Caribbean and Henry Cavill!

Author's Note: Gotta love Pirates!

Tag List Blog: @viking-raider-taglist

Henry woke with the sun glittering off the ocean and into his face and groaned, rubbing at his bearded cheeks and sat up, rolling his stiff neck and shoulders. His body was sore after the battle the day before, he crossed the swaying room and poured himself a stiff drink and quickly downed it with a groan.

Splashing some water in his face from a small basin, Henry peeked through the narrow gap between bed curtains and saw you sound asleep, before a light knock sounded on the still locked door.

“What is it?” He asked, opening the door to his first mate, Benjamin Nullings.

“Morning to you too, Captain.” Nullings greeted him back, with a smile.

Henry shook his head at the man, a smile tugging at his lips. He and Nullings had known each other for a good many years, back when they were both crewmen on another Pirate's ship, before Henry acquired the Crimson Jersey, a Spanish Galleon, and he made Nullings his First Mate, being one of the only men that he trusted.

“Good morning, Benji.” He replied to him.

“Well, good is going to depend on how you take the news I have for you.” Nullings answered, his brow creasing.

“What news?” Henry frowned, not liking the tone or the look Nullings was giving him.

“It's Valentine.” Nullings said, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his bald head. “He was injured in the skirmish yesterday, took a musket ball to the arm. The surgeon had to take it off during the night, but he ended up bleeding out and died early this morning.”

Henry's head dropped back with a growl. “Fuck.”

“Exactly.” Nullings nodded, pressing his lips together. “You know old man Norris entrusted us with his son to try and straighten the boy out, not get his arm blown off or him killed.”

“He's going to kick up quite the fuss back at the Island for this.” Henry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Has Quartermaster Astley tallied up the new loot?”

“He has, and we should make a very tidy profit of ten thousand pieces of eight.” Nullings informed him.

“Divided by a thirty man crew.” Henry squeezed his eyes closed and did the math. “Three hundred pieces per man. Norris will want his son's portion plus compensation for his death. Give him Valentine's portion and I'll compensate Norris for the death of his son.” He told Nullings, pushing his jaw forward.

“Once we get back to the Island, that is.”

“I'll have Astley make a note of it in his logs.” Nullings nodded, agreeing with his Captain and friend. “How's our bargaining chip holding up?” He asked, with a knowing smile.

“Stubborn and feisty.” Henry replied, glancing over his shoulder.

“Typical of all women.” Nullings laughed, his head thrown back.

“True enough.” Henry agreed, looking back at him. “Have Ellis keep us on course for Tortuga, but we won't be harboring there. So, have him anchor us off shore and the men will row out to it. They've earned a jaunt on shore after being at sea for the last eight months.”

“When we get the girl's ransom, do we still intend on returning to the Island?”

“Yes, we won't be able to hold anything more and we're already starting to ride lower in the water than we should.” He commented, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, we'll be in Tortuga within two days.”

“Excellent.” Henry nodded, pleased. “Have Valentine's body put in a shroud and we'll pay our respects to him this afternoon.” He instructed him, hearing you start to stir, disturbed by the sound of their voices.

“Aye, Captain.” Nullings nodded his head at Henry and went about his duties.

Henry closed the door as you pulled back the curtains, whimpering as the bright sunlight hit your unprepared eyes. “Good morning, pet.” He purred, smirking at you as you brushed your sleep tousled hair out of your face.

You huffed at him, rolling your eyes at his continued nickname for you, but didn't answer his greeting.

“Someone is a grumpy morning person.” He chuckled, openly teasing you.

“Only with bloodthirsty pirates.” You growled at him, trying to soothe the wrinkles in your skirts.

“Well, they don't call me Henry the Red for nothing, pet.” Henry grinned at you, unashamed and proud of himself. “We'll anchor off the coast of Tortuga in two days' time.” He informed you, combing his fingers through his messy curls.

“Tortuga?” You frowned up at him, surprised. “Why not Lockemirth?”

“I'm not going anywhere near Lockemirth until your dear papa has your ransom.” He replied, pulling his hair back with the leather string. “I'm not a stupid man, if I was to go near that island before hand, it would give him and the Crown amble opportunity to try and overtake my ship and crew. So, we'll wait in Tortuga.”

“Then, how will you know my father will have it?” You asked him, lifting a brow at him. “Tortuga and Lockemirth are eighty kilometers apart.”

Henry smirked at you, impressed. “A woman that knows her cartography.”

“I'm an educated woman, not the plague ridden whores you gallivant with.” You hissed at him, venomously.

“I have much finer tastes.” He replied, his stormy blue eyes scanning you for a long moment. “Anyhow, I have my ways of getting messages between the islands. So, you don't have to worry about that, pet.”

You glared daggers into him, wishing you had some means to wipe that smug look off his face. Henry stared back at you, he could see the thoughts flitting across your mind, you were either terrible at hiding how you were feeling or you weren't bothering to do so. Either way, he wasn't threatened by it or worried that you could pull it off or even attempt it to begin with, and he let that show on his own face.

“Enter!” He shouted, just as a knock came, causing you to jump at the sudden sound.

His cabin door opened and the same man from the night before entered with another silver tray with food upon it, he paid no attention to you as he bowed his head to Henry, set the tray down on his desk and left again.

“Are you starving this morning as well, pet?” Henry asked, picking up a few bits of food off of his plate and popped them into his mouth, making a big deal out of chewing and how good it tasted.

You watched him eat and felt your stomach rumble in your stays, you hadn't eaten since early afternoon the day before and were parched beyond belief. Henry lifted a silver goblet to his nose, swirling its contents and taking a whiff of it with a satisfied hum, before taking a deep swallow.

“Mmm, simply remarkable.” He said, after rolling the mouthful of wine in his mouth for a moment, before swallowing. “A 1681, Spanish Red.” He spoke, licking his lips. “I've always loved red wine, so it works out in the end.”

You gulped, feeling your hunger start to break down your willpower as you watched him enjoy the wine and food, purposely taking his time and making a show of it. With every bite of food and sip of wine your hunger and desperation grew, to the point you almost became unhinged. Henry set his goblet down and picked up yours, holding it out to you, a playful and teasing smirk and expression on his face, continuing to poke holes in your weak resolve.

“You know you want it, pet.” He hummed, lowering the deep timber of his voice, taunting you. “Wet those sweet lips of yours.” He purred, his tone teasing more than one meaning of his words. “Be a pity to let yourself go to waste.”

Gulping and licking your lips, the last of your will dissipating as you shot forward and snatched the goblet from his hand, making him laugh, as you hastily downed it, your mind not taking a moment to ask your taste buds how it tasted. Henry picked his own goblet back up, slowly sipping his wine, while you started to gorge yourself on the food. He plucked up the uncorked bottle of wine on the tray and refilled your goblet, the rich and deep red liquid splashing onto the stained oak wood of his desk as the ship bucked on the waves.

“Easy, pet.” Henry cooed at you. “Don't make yourself sick.”

You slowed down, looking up at him as you swallowed down the bit of food you had been devouring, the look in your hungry and exhausted eyes shifting, then you gulped down, audibly. A broader smirk crossed Henry's face and he rolled his eerily blue eyes at you.

“I ate the same food off the same plate, pet. It's not fouled up.” He laughed at you, increasingly amused at your silliness at thinking he, or the cook, had some how poisoned the food. He touched his fingers under your chin, smirking at you.

“For Lord's sake, you're no use to me dead or damaged.”

Another knock sounded at the door and it opened without Henry's permission, revealing Nullings. “Captain, Valentine and his shroud have been prepared, all we wait for is you.” He informed Henry, lifting a brow at the two of you.

“If you aren't busy.” He added, clearing his throat.

“I'm not.” Henry replied, dropping his hand from your chin. “Just making sure the Governor's daughter had her breakfast.” He chuckled, gently patting your cheek, then polished off his wine and set it down on his desk. “Come along, pet. All aboard are required to attend.” He told you, starting for the door.

“Attend what?” You asked, staying where you were.

“One of my men, Valentine Tash, was injured in the skirmish yesterday.” Henry replied, pulling on his jerkin. “He died, after having his arm nearly blown off.” He explained to you, settling the garment on his body.

“What's that matter to me?” You snapped, narrowing your eyes at him. “You were the monster that attacked my ship. It's your fault, he's dea--”

Henry bolted across the room, the back of his big hand connecting to your surprised cheek in a harsh smack; if it wasn't for his desk, you would have crumbled to the floor, instead you fell upon the desk, sending the tray of food crashing to the floor and spilling your goblet and the bottle of wine across it.

“Every man, and woman, on this ship knows the difficulties and dangers of being on these seas and in this occupation. Death is part of that expectation, no matter who they are. If they die, from whatever the cause, they have been cautioned and informed of it, and still they chose to come. That isn't on my head or on my heart.” He hissed at you, face twisted with rage.

“So, I suggest you watch your tongue, especially when you speak of things an insolent and ignorant girl does not understand.” He grabbed you by the elbow and yanked you up onto your feet. “Do you understand what I've said?”

You looked up at him, sniffling, eyes brimming with tears and your cheek welted with his knuckles. “Y-e-s.” You hiccupped and gulped thickly.

“Good.” Henry replied, tense. “Now, we're going out there and you will behave yourself, and if you try anything stupid, you won't leave this cabin again, until I have everything I want from your father in three days.” He warned you, shoving you in the direction of the door.

You tripped over the threadbare rug on the floor, but was thankfully caught by Nullings, before you fell. He gave you a soft and sympathetic smile, supporting you until you managed to right yourself, then kindly let you go. Henry moved in behind you, making you shiver as you followed Nullings out of the Captain's cabin. You blinked at the bright light of the morning as you stepped out onto the main deck of the ship, it seemed by the amount of people there as well, that the entire crew was out and waiting for the ceremony to send Valentine off to his watery grave.

It would be a lie, if you said you weren't interested in how pirates dealt with their dead. You had spent much of the voyage on the Kilmartin dreaming up scenarios about pirates and their ways of life on the high seas; but being kidnapped and held for ransom wasn't one of them though.

You saw a canvas wrapped body on a long wood platform that was balanced on the edge of the ship with two men holding onto it, so it wouldn't prematurely fall into the roiling sea below. The men gathered around their Captain, removing what hats they were wearing and bowed their heads. Henry stood tall beside you, his broad shoulders straight and tense as he surveyed his crew, his expression hard and unreadable.

“We gather here in honor of our mate, Valentine Tash.” He said, speaking loudly over the waves crashing against the hull. “He was a good man, a hard worker and a sound fighter. It is unfortunate that we have lost him, but he will forever be remembered.”

The crew let out three cheers in agreement and honor of their fallen comrade, before Henry gave a stiff nod of his head and the two men holding the body, lifted the platform and the shrouded body of Valentine Tash slid off of it and into the abyss below, never to be seen again. The crew lingered for another moment of quiet, before silently returning to their stations. You stood beside Henry as he continued to stare after the now vanished body, you saw, now that his men were gone or distracted by their duties, the look in his ordinarily hard and guarded eyes was one of a raw heart, one that had lost many men over the years and, even after telling you he felt none of it, was a man that had felt all of those deaths as if they were his own.

Henry caught you staring at him. “What?” He snapped, regaining command of his face.

“Nothing, just enjoying the sunshine.” You replied, blinking up at the blue and cloudless sky. “You?”

His eyes narrowed, then blinked at you, softening slightly. “Same.” He answered, his voice calmer. “It won't last though.” He added a second later, squinting into the sunlight.

“Why do you say that?” You replied, frowning and trying to see what he was talking about.

Henry dropped his eyes to you, amused. “I've spent my entire life either on or by the sea.” He replied, moving to the railing. “All that experience teaches you the language and nature of it. Even if it looks calm, sunny and beautiful, there's always something brewing just beyond the horizon.” He told you, leaning his forearms against the worn and sun faded railing.

“There's a storm coming.” He whispered, narrowing his eyes at a very thin strip of dark clouds. “But, we should be off Tortuga by the time it arrives.”

“Will we make landfall then?” You asked, gulping at the thought of being on the ship, any ship, with a storm going off.

“No.” He chuckled, shaking his head and looked over his shoulder at you. “We'll be as safe on the ship as we are on land.” He could see the fear and anxiety in your face and eyes. “Don't fret, pet. I've sailed this ship around hurricanes and she hasn't sunk yet.” He grinned at you, giving you an odd feeling of safety, but also a feeling of uneasiness.

“Then again, she can't.”

“All ships sink.” You frowned, shaking your head at him.

“Not this one, pet. Not this one.” Henry replied, still grinning as he looked his beloved ship over. “She's special.”

“Special how?” You answered, starting to worry for the pirate's mental soundness.

Henry pushed off the railing and caught your chin in his fingers, tipping your head back to look up at his amused face. “That's nothing for you to worry about, pet. There are some things beyond your innocent understanding in this world and beyond it.” He told you, his eyes darkening with an almost sinister delight.

You jerked up with a gasp as a crack of lightning struck the water, so close to the Crimson Jersey that Henry's cabin lit up like broad daylight. You gripped the blankets of Henry's bed as the ship tilted and swayed at nauseating degrees under the heavy winds, the torrential rain hammered every part of the ship, pattering against the glass of the stern windows like small pebbles. You gasped again as a hiss filled the cabin, but slightly relaxed again, a spark of light flared to life and illuminated Henry's face as he leaned over his desk to touch the flame to the blackened wick of his tallow candle.

“I didn't mean to wake you.” You spoke, barely audible above the storm.

“You didn't.” Henry replied, crossing the room with a small struggle.

“I'm impressed how well you and your men can walk across the room or deck, when the ship is bucking like a wild animal.”

“It's land that tends to be tricky for most sailors.” He chuckled, pouring a drink, unphased by the glasses moving across the table. “Your body gets so used to the sway of the ship, it doesn't know how to react when you're finally on unmoving land again.” He told you, picking the glasses up and crossed over to you, holding one of them out.

“It's like watching a newborn babe try to walk for the first time.” He laughed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I'm supposing this is your first time at sea.” He said, sipping his drink.

“It is.” You nodded, staring into your own glass for a moment, before lifting it to your lips. “I would have rather stayed in London.”

“With your mother?”

Your eyes jerked over to him.

“You were the only woman on board the Kilmartin that my men and I encountered.” He clarified. “I doubt your father had you himself, so that leaves your mother still in London herself.”

“She is still in London.” You nodded, chewing on your bottom lip and trying to hold back the overwhelming wave of tears that wanted to overtake you.

You were so consumed by all the events of late, being forced to leave the only home you had ever known, to sail half a world away to a teeny island, where you knew no one other than your father. Then to be kidnapped by Pirates and held for a ransom, that you feared if your father didn't or wasn't able to pay would only end badly for you. It was all adding up on you, especially when you were still trying to deal and come to terms with your mother's passing.

“I doubt we could have brought her, even if we wanted too.” You mumbled into your glass.

“Did she not wish to join you both?” Henry asked, head slightly tilting as he noticed the cloud that crossed your face, even in the crepuscular light of the cabin.

“I'm sure she would have come with us, if she could have.” You looked up at him, eyes shining and red. “But, sailors already believe a woman on board is a bad omen, I shudder to think what they would have said about transporting the dug up coffin of one.”

Henry's mouth dropped open for a moment, before he regained his composure. “She's passed on then.”

You nodded your head, dropping your eyes back to your barely touched drink. “A year ago, this past month.” You whispered, ringing the tip of your finger around the rim of the glass. “She was sick for a very long time.” You sniffled and gulped, feeling your strength start to waver.

“I'm very sorry.” Henry whispered, softly. “It must still hurt you deeply.”

His words were the keys that opened the floodgates to everything you had pushed behind it. The walls of your throat closed and your eyes burned with the liquid fire of your tears, your breathing hitched, catching in your throat, and your shoulders trembled as tears washed over your cheeks, dripping into the glass still in your lap. Henry sighed, his face pinching in concern and sympathy as he watched you melt into sobs. Setting both glasses on the rocking floor, Henry reached out for you, resting his hands on your arms and gently pulled you into his arms and lap, tucking your head under his chin and rubbed your back, letting the sway of the ship rock the two of you. You clung to him and cried yourself out in his arms, drenching the shoulder of Henry's shirt, but he didn't care, he was a pirate after all and used to being wet.

He gently traced the outline of the whale bones sewn into your corset, beneath your dress, feeling the steadily growing weight of your body on top of his as you calmed down and fell half asleep. Biting and pressing his lips together, then sighing, Henry stood with you in his arms and leaned over the bed, gently laying you down and covered you up, before tugging his tear stained shirt off over his head, tossing it on his desk. He studied your sleeping form in his bed and sighed again, before taking the two neglected glasses back to their tray, then returned to the bed, sitting down on the edge and stared out the stern windows as the storm continued to rage around the ship.

“Look after us.” He muttered to himself, before getting into bed with you and pulled the curtains closed against the bright lightning flashes.

Henry stiffened as you whimpered in your sleep, at a rumble of thunder, before rolling into his side and relaxing again. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but didn't move away from you, not that he could to start with, he was already laying on the very edge of the bed, so if he wanted to get away from you, he'd have to go back to where he'd been sleeping below the stern windows. So, he didn't move or push you away from him, knowing you would likely only find your way back up against his side, figuring if it gave you some measure of comfort, he might as well enjoy the warmth of your body pressed up against his, being the first woman of any standing to share a bed with him in many months, even since the last time he was on land.

“Land ho!”

The cry woke you from a sound sleep and for a moment you forgot what ship you were on, until you opened your eyes and saw Henry pulling on his discarded shirt and his boots, before unlocking his cabin door and stepped out onto the deck.

Glancing out the stern windows, you saw the mid morning sun was shining and there was even the cry of seagulls, as if the storm had never happened, and the first real sign there was actually land nearby. Excitement blossomed inside of you and you jumped to your feet, quickly going out of Henry's cabin, hot on his heels. Henry was standing on the starboard side of the ship, a spyglass held up to one of his eyes as he swept it over the glittering water.

You didn't need a spyglass to see the approaching stretch of land and felt your heart and spirits soar as high as the seagulls beginning to circle the masts. Tortuga. You heard several of the men aboard murmur across the deck as they gathered, grinning and clasping each other on the back and shoulders, excited at the prospect of touching down on land again, getting their hands on quality booze and ladies of the evening. You couldn't wait for the opportunity to sneak off the ship and find safety somewhere on the island, surely some kind soul would point you to the Mayor or Governor, a British Subject, who would then give you safe passage to your father in Lockemirth.

“Nullings, have Ellis anchor us close enough off the island that the men can row out and enjoy themselves.” Henry barked the order, snapping the spyglass shut.

“Aye, Captain!” Nullings shouted back and ran up to the helm to relay the message.

“Drop the long boats once we're anchored offshore, men!” He yelled to the gathered men on the deck.

“Aye, Cap'n!” His men roared back, throwing up their hands in cheer.

“You.” Henry called, turning towards you.

You started and looked at him as he strode over to you, catching your elbow and turning you back towards his cabin, marching you through the door.

“From this point, until your father gives me my ransom, you are not leaving this cabin.”

“Why!” You protested, planting your hands on your hips.

“Because, I know in that little head of yours, you're already plotting on how to get yourself to that island and I'm not losing my bargaining chip, and if my men have to spend their first time on land, in months, looking for you, they'll bitch about it until we get home.” He told you, sternly.

“Now, stay put and behave.”

“And if I don't?” You retorted, lifting your nose at him.

“I'll tie you to a fucking chair for the rest of your time here.” He replied with a growl, then slammed the cabin door shut, the sound of it locking following.

You let out a frustrated shriek and stomped your feet, before angrily pacing the cabin, mumbling under your breath about how much you hated him and his stupid pirate crew, hoping your father and the Crown sunk his unsinkable ship with him on it. You soon felt the ship slow and the scrapping of the anchor chain unwinding from its storage as they dropped anchor, no doubt close enough to the island for the crew to row the longboats out to shore and enjoy themselves.

“I hope they all get the bloody pox!” You shouted at the cabin door, picking up a glass from Henry's desk and launching it at the door.

“I want you to employ our usual method of message running for our ransoms.” Henry told Nullings as they stood on the deck, huddled together.

“Aye.” Nullings nodded, taking the heavy pouch of gold coins Henry held out to him. “The auction should be bustling, taking in all the ships currently in harbor.” He observed, glancing at how packed Tortuga harbor was. “I'll have Barnard and David take our messenger to Lockemirth Island. With any luck the Kilmartin survived the storm and is already anchored in their harbor. But, if they're late getting in, I'll have them wait.” He explained to Henry, running a hand over his smooth, suntanned and sweat drenched head.

“That leaves one other thing.” He sighed. “What if they wrecked in the storm? What do we do with the girl?”

Henry rolled his jaw, mulling over the possibility. “We'll deal with it, if it happens. Until then, act as if its still sailing.”

Nullings nodded. “Aye.”

With that, Nullings boarded the first long boat that had been lowered into the water and rested as the men manning the oars rowed them ashore. Once they landed, Nullings marched up the crowded beach, smiling as a few of the Crimson Jersey crew called out to him or made lewd gestures before vanishing into the streets to find the taverns and whore houses. As much as Nullings wanted to do the same, he was on official ship's business, so it would have to wait until later in the day, once his task was completed.

It only took a handful of minutes for Nullings to find the place he wanted to be, the Tortuga Slave Auction, melding into the crowd that pressed in on the auction block, voices from various positions in the crowd shouting out prices. He waited until he found one of interest and joined the chorus, not allowing the other buyers to push him out, until he finally won the bid and left the crowd to pay and collect them.

“You understand English?” He asked the teenaged boy, pulling him into a quiet and discreet corner.

“Yes.” The boy replied with a mild accent, and a nod of his head.

“Excellent.” Nullings smiled. “What's your name?”

“Hany.”

“Well, listen here, Hany. I'm the First Mate of the Crimson Jersey, and I have a task for you; a task that once you fulfill, you'll gain your freedom and a passage to any place you wish to go or a place on our crew, that will be left up to you.” He explained to him.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do.” Hany nodded again, blinking at Nullings, wide eyed.

Nullings removed a small, rolled up piece of parchment out of his pocket. “You will take this to the Governor of Lockemirth Island, two of my men will take you there, then wait for his reply and return here with it. You will find me at the Golden Mermaid, ask for Nullings.” He said, handing him the note.

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.” Hany shook his head, tucking the note into the pocket of his filthy and tattered pants.

“Great! Follow me.” Nullings nodded, then took the teen to the boat where Barnard and David were waiting for him.

With that done and nothing else to do, Nullings went to the Golden Mermaid tavern in central Tortuga and ordered a room, a pint and a woman to fill his time, while he waited for Hany, Barnard and David to return with Sir Thomas's reply.

Thomas was a mess after Henry had taken you for ransom, going from spurts of violent anger to deep depression and lamenting. Captain Davis tried his best to keep the new Governor's spirits up, but more often than not, failed at it.

“The vile things that damned pirate and his men could be doing to my beautiful and innocent daughter.” He raged, pacing the cabin in a highly agitated state. “I swear, if he harms a hair on her head, I'll hang the bastard thrice!”

“You must keep your composure, Thomas.” Davis replied, watching his friend pace from his seat behind his desk.

“Composure!” Thomas roared, stopping before the Captain's desk and slapped it with his palms. “I don't have to do any such a thing! You are not a father, you do not know the pressure and responsibility it is for one to care for their children, especially their defenseless daughters!”

Davis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “You know my meaning, Tom.” He replied, exhausted. “We'll be in Lockemirth harbor in a couple hours time, then we can muster what we need to rescue her, in safety.”

“Yes, we will.” Thomas growled, starting to pace again. “I'll be damned if I give that abominable pirate a cent from anywhere! The only payment he will get will be to the hangman's noose.”

A few hours later, the HMS Kilmartin docked in Lockemirth harbor and Sir Thomas disembarked from the ship, meeting the welcoming party the gentry of the island had put together for him, and you had you been with him. But, Thomas was in no mood for a welcome party and good cheer under the circumstances. He demanded to be shown the base of his operations and have all the top officials of the island to be assembled there, at once.

Several people branched out from the large group that had congregated around him, to set about his orders, while the rest of them showed him the Governor's office.

“What is the meaning of this?” One of the officials demanded as he entered Sir Thomas's office.

“Yes.” Chimed another, entering behind the first.

“We have serious business to conduct.” Thomas snapped, glaring at the full room of officials.

“What business can be so urgent that you must conduct it the moment you've stepped on the island?”

“While we were sailing here, we were attacked and boarded by pirates.” Thomas replied, his temper mounting more and more.

“Pirates!” Several gasped.

“Yes, pirates!” He barked, impatiently. “They've not only stolen several valuables from the HMS Kilmartin, they've also kidnapped my daughter and are holding her for ransom.”

A murmur went through the collection of men in the room, agitating everyone.

“What is the pirate's demand for her back?” One of the men asked, lifting a brow at Sir Thomas.

“Three-fourths of the islands money and goods.”

“Absolutely not!” The man roared back. “You can't just show up here and give them almost all that we have, I don't care if the pirate has your mother!” He protested, several of the others agreeing.

“I have no intention of giving them anything, you fools.” Thomas hissed, banging a fist on his desk.

“Then, how do you propose we retrieve your daughter back?”

“That—what is it?” Thomas barked as the door to his office opened to his clerk, Samuel.

“There is a boy here to see you, Sir.” The clerk replied, sheepishly. “Says, he has a message for you.”

“Tell him to wait.”

“But, Sir, he says it's from a man on a ship called the Crimson Jersey.”

Thomas stiffened at his words. “Let him in.” He said, pushing off his desk.

The clerk pushed the door open and stood out of the way, omitting Hany into the office. He looked around at the full room and gulped, slowly removing the note Nullings had given him out of his pocket and held it up, looking into the face of everyone in the room, not sure which of them it was meant for.

“Governor?” He said, hesitantly.

“Yes, that's me.” Thomas replied, stepping from behind his desk. “Hand it here.”

Hany took a couple steps forward, meeting Thomas halfway and allowed him to take the note from his hand. “I wait for reply.” He informed your father, uncomfortable.

“Yes, yes.” Thomas nodded, breaking the wax seal and unrolled the stiff paper.

“To the Governor of Lockemirth Island. I send you this note to inform you that I and your daughter, who is in good health and condition, are quite nearby to your island of Lockemirth. I send this messenger and expect him, and your answer, back before first light tomorrow morning. If he, or your reply, do not return by that time, I will take that as a sign of your refusal to pay her ransom and your leaving her to my mercy. Captain Henry Cavill of the pirate ship, the Crimson Jersey.”

Thomas read the note aloud, his hands slowly starting to shake with the multitude of emotions he was struggling to keep at bay.

“What is your plan, Governor?” One of the men asked, watching him restlessly pace the room.

He paced the room for several more moments, trying to gather his thoughts and form some sort of plan to get you back from Henry. Stepping up to the globe that was beside his desk, he studied it for a long moment, before turning to his desk and took up a quill and a piece of parchment paper, scribbling down his reply to Henry's note, and sealed it, pressing the signet ring on his pinkie into the cooling wax to make it official.

“Take this back to him and tell him we'll be waiting for him at that location.” He told Hany, then dismissed him to return to Nullings with the reply.

“Sir?” A man impatiently growled.

“We'll be meeting the pirate on Hafstead island.” Thomas replied, meeting the group's eye. “There is only one likely place that the Pirate and his men would make harbor in, and that's Tortuga. It's the only Island close enough to us and is friendly to their kind.” He explained his logic.

“Putting Hafstead island between Tortuga and Lockemirth, a perfect neutral ground for our transaction.”

“You stated you wouldn't be giving them their ransom demands? How then, are you planning to get your daughter back from them?”

“Misdirection.” Thomas smiled at him.

“We'll fill two crates with the goods and the rest with something else that will weigh roughly the same as the real two. They'll demand to see proof that we have their demands, so when they do, we show them the first two. Once they've handed my daughter over and move to start loading the ransom onto their long boats, we'll have guards from here attack, and all will be well.”

“I'll have my daughter back and the island will lose none of its profits.”

“You're sure this will work?”

“Yes.” He nodded, confidently.

With what men who wanted to go ashore gone, Henry let some of the tension go out of his shoulders, before heading back into his cabin. He opened the door just as you were opening one of the windows at the back of the ship, crouching in it, poised to jump into the water blow.

“Don't you dare!” Henry barked between clenched teeth, pointing a finger at you in warning, his lip curling with anger.

You looked over your shoulder at him, heart racing in your chest and hands shaking as you gripped the open window frame. Both of your hearts paused for a frightful moment, and everything became slow-motion; Henry taking a slow step forward as you gradually let go of the window and tipped forward out of it. Reality caught up as you slipped out the window, free falling countless meters, just as Henry stuck his head out the open window to see you crash into the foamy waves.

“Fuck!” He shrieked, enraged and concerned.

Glancing behind him for a moment, Henry tore off his jerkin and boots, before swan diving out of the window and into the water after you. Making it into the water, Henry saw you slowly sinking and struggling to swim with the weight of your clothing bearing down on you. Bubbles rose towards him as you struggled to hold your breath and quickly losing the fight. Kicking his feet harder, Henry reached you and wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you against his sturdy body, buoying both of you, before his fingers dug into the ties of your corset and dress, ripping them open and letting the heavy garment slip off your body and sink into the oblivion of the ocean below. Kicking his legs in unison with yours, Henry propelled you both to the surface of the choppy waves.

“You fucking brat!” Henry hissed, shaking his head, his long hair coming free from its tie, before sticking two fingers into his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, right beside your ear, uncaring if it hurt you as you coughed and sputtered for air.

A shrill whistle sounded back as he guided you around to the side of the ship, the remaining crew leaning over the railing, to see the two of you treading water.

“Man overboard!” A call went out, the men jumping to action.

“Captain overboard!” Another corrected back.

Several of the crew helped Henry haul you back onto the ship from a small ladder built into its starboard side. You stood on the deck in nothing but your shift, hugging your arms against your chest and shivering violently in the strong breeze. Henry finally set his soaking feet onto the deck, the men huddled around him for a moment, to make sure he was all right, but his blue eyes were burning holes into you.

“Go back to your duties!” He bellowed at his men, who paused for a moment, then scattered out of sight.

Henry snapped across to you, his hand raised and stopping a centimeter away from your cheek, you scrunched up your body, wincing and turning your head away, anticipating the slap. He shook, throat bobbing up and down as he struggled to control his white hot anger. His hand unclenched and squeezed around your jaw, in a bruising grip. He jerked your head forward to look up at him, making you whimper. Your frightened eyes looked into his furious blue gaze, like he was tearing you apart with his sight alone.

You shivered again and whined, cold and scared, the suspense of not knowing what Henry was going to do to you, for your open and continued disobedience.

His hand moved from your chin and grabbed you by the neck, making you yelp with alarm, terrified he was about to kill you. But he growled deep in his throat; dull nails digging into your skin. Henry jerked you sharply towards him, crushing you against his soaking body and crashing his lips to your cold ones, in an angry and sloppy kiss, his other hand coming up to tangle in the back of your wet hair. You struggled against him, squirming, beating and clawing at his chest, but Henry wasn't deterred, his continued to kiss you, for a long moment, before breaking it, then, with his hand still in your hair, Henry dragged you back into his cabin and shoved you onto his bed, uncaring that you would get the blankets and mattress wet.

Stomping across the cabin, he retrieved a coil of twine that was on a sideboard and crossed back to you. Yanking your arms up, Henry tightly weaved the rough twine around your wrists and tied it off, leaving a length of it hang from it, before cutting the excess with a small knife that was in his belt. Taking the lead of your bonds, Henry tied it to one of the bed posts.

“You're a fool.” You hissed at him as he picked up his boots and jerkin, closing the window as well.

“Am I?” He laughed, tossing his jerkin over the back of his chair.

“My father doesn't suffer Pirates.” You replied, jerking on your bonds. “He never has and he never will. You may think you'll get what you want. But, the moment he has me. He will kill you.” You told him with a deep conviction.

“He's been killing Pirates, better than you, before you were alive.”

Henry turned towards you, eyes wide with focus as he regarded you and digested your words, but before he could answer you, the door flew open and Nullings came flying in, skidding to a stop as he noticed you tied to the bed, then looked to Henry with a questioning look.

“What's the word?” Henry asked, ignoring his expression.

Clearing his throat, Nullings replied. “The Governor has replied to our ransom, he'll meet us at Hafstead island with our demands in exchange for the girl, tomorrow afternoon.”

Henry gripped the back of his chair, drumming his fingers against the carved dark wood, then glanced over at you, before pushing off his chair and hustled out of the cabin with Nullings, closing the door behind them.

“It's a set up.” Henry told him, keeping his voice low.

“What?” Nullings snapped, brow and forehead creasing. “Why do you say that?”

“Something she said.” He replied, carding a hand through his drying curls. “I want you to go back into town, find a girl her height and appearance..”

“I'm sure the man knows what his own flesh and blood looks like, Hank.” Nullings huffed, shaking his head. “Be real.”

“Listen to me.” Henry growled back, chest heaving. “Cover her head, so they don't see her face. That way, we find out just how truthful the dear old Governor is being. Take everything they bring for the ransom, only after everything loaded, will you give her to them.”

“And where will she be?”

“With me.” Henry replied. “I know Hafstead island, I know a good place to keep her. If anything goes wrong, I'll take her back aboard here, we'll all come back to the ship and head for our island.”

“You want to take her back to Shipwreck Island, if something goes awry?”

“That was the deal.” Henry barked at him. “His refusal to pay, would forfeit her to my mercy.”

“What do you bloody plan to do with her?” Nullings asked, exasperated.

“I'll figure something out.” He replied, unperturbed. “Do you understand the plan, Ben?”

Nullings tapped his foot, antsy, as he ran through the plan in his head, things were getting so much more complicated than he anticipated.

“Yeah, yeah!” He sighed, giving in. “I got it, Hank.”

“Great, get about it.” Henry smiled, patting his friend on the shoulder and going back into his cabin. “You and I, my sweet pet.” He grinned, tilting your head back to look up at him.

“Have a date tomorrow.”

167 notes · View notes

justmypartner · 3 years

Text

Make it Work: Chapter 8

Summary: When offered a permanent position with the FBI, Hailey agrees to take it under one condition: Jay comes too. As their personal lives and work lives begin to change, the two partners find it increasingly difficult to navigate their complex relationship and manage their feelings for one another.

Writer’s Note: This is my favorite chapter so far. I cried, I smiled, I felt a lot of emotions while writing it, and I’m pretty proud of how it turned out. There are a few warnings for this chapter, so see those below. Not to give anything away, but if you didn’t like Walker before, you really won’t like him after this chapter. Thanks to everyone following this story, I appreciate each and every note so much! Prepare your tissues and please enjoy!!

TW//: mentions of assault and attempted sexual assault

Tagging: @angelsjedi , @brookerz122493 , @cpdfan2014 , @the–carousel , @maya-asturias , @itsdesiree86 , @tvshowsaremyhappyplace

Read on AO3 or below

A light patter on the window woke Jay long before his alarm did. He threw his duvet from his body and rose from the bed, stretching out his tired limbs before moving to the window to watch as rain fell from the sky. It was his first rainy New York City day, and his mood certainly matched the weather. Unlike the day prior, he was hangover free, but he had a strange dismal feeling in his chest he couldn’t explain. He chalked the feeling up to the dreary weather and slowly began to get ready for the day.

He walked to work, maneuvering through the sidewalk traffic carefully as his umbrella bumped into those around him. When he made it to the office, it was uncharacteristically quiet. He went to the break room to make a cup of coffee before settling into his desk. He had been quietly catching up on things when Walker walked in. Jay’s attention shot up when he noticed the red and purple bruises scattered across his face.

“Dude, what the hell happened to you?” Jay questioned, suppressing a snicker that leapt out from the back of his throat. Walker only replied with a scowl and a shake of the head. Jay threw his hands up in surrender, but he wasn’t planning on fully letting it go. Whatever happened, he figured must have taken place sometime after he left work the night before. Then it hit him, Hailey went out with him and would surely know the story.

Jay pulled out his phone, clicking on her contact and typing her a message.

Cannot wait to hear about what Walker got into last night. He’s being tight-lipped about it, but I’m sure it’s a story you’re just itching to tell ;)

He sent the text with a concealed smirk before slipping his phone back into his pocket and bringing his attention back to his computer. Not long after Walker showed up, Daisy walked in, immediately taking note of the bruises on Walker’s face and chuckling to herself.

“What happened Burrows, sleep with the wrong guy’s wife?” she mocked with a sneer as she settled into her desk. He silently shut her down the same way he did Jay. Daisy’s eyes met Jay’s, widening with curiosity and amusement. He shrugged, shaking his head with an entertained grin.

After a while, Hailey still hadn’t shown up, causing him to worry. She was never late, so he decided to call her. No answer. He texted her again, this time asking if she was alright. By the time Drake had come in to brief the team on the day’s case, she still hadn’t shown up and she still hadn’t responded. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew something was wrong. After the briefing, he pulled Walker aside.

“Do you know where Hailey is?” He asked him. The man twitched at the sound of her name, causing Jay to look at him crossly.

“No clue,” Walker replied bluntly.

“Did something happen last night?” Jay questioned, anxiety building as he surveyed the man’s beaten face, his imagination beginning to run unhinged.

“Look, Halstead. I have no clue where she is, leave me alone,” he spat, pushing past him to end the conversation. Something was up, and every word that left the man’s mouth only made Jay more concerned. His gut told him her absence and his bruises weren’t mutually exclusive, the thought sent a hot anger through Jay’s body. Before Walker could get far, Jay grabbed at his arm, pulling him back around to face him.

“What the hell happened?” He hissed. Walker tried to yank his arm away, but Jay tightened his grip, preventing him from doing so.

“Back off, Halstead,” he bucked up, trying to get in his face.

Daisy noticed the scrap, rushing over and inserting herself between the two of them.

“Woah, okay what’s going on here?” she raised, pushing against each of their chests to separate them. Avoiding the question, Jay shook his head, moving towards his desk and snatching his jacket from the back of his chair.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll go find out myself. It better have nothing to do with you,” Jay threatened, pushing a finger into the man’s chest.

He turned to Daisy. “Tell Drake I had to take care of something. Also, don’t let him out of your sight,” he told her softly, nodding his head towards Walker. She nodded skeptically, and he turned to make his way towards the elevators.

His heart practically leapt out of his chest as he trudged through the rain on his way to Hailey’s apartment. In his rush out of headquarters, he left his umbrella, leaving cold rain pouring over him, soaking in his clothes down to his skin the entire walk over. Yet, it did nothing to cool down the fire that filled his body with rage. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but the twisted feeling in his abdomen went from bad to worse after his confrontation with Walker.

He reached her building, desperately punching the buzzer for her apartment. It took several minutes, but eventually, she answered.

“Yes?” her soft voice echoed through the speaker, causing him to lean a hand into the building in relief. The comfort of hearing her voice dwindled quickly when he realized the defeated tone she carried.

“Hail, it’s me. Let me up,” he said as calmly as possible, raising his voice slightly to be understood over the thrumming of rain around him. There was no response and there was no buzz. He repeated his words once again.

“Let me up, please. I need to see that you’re alright,” he begged, the rain continuing to seep into his suit and cling to his skin.

A few moments later, there was a buzz and the lobby door opened. He made his way through it, ignoring the slippery mess he was creating all the way into the building and rushing up the stairs to her apartment. When he made it to her door, he took a beat, preparing himself for whatever he was about to see on the other side. He knocked. The sound of light footsteps approached before the lock clicked and the door opened slowly.

His heart fell in his chest the second he caught sight of her. His eyes travelled up and down her body, taking in every heart-wrenching detail. She wore an exhausted, somber look on her face and her eyes hopelessly avoided his. Her curls were a tangled mess framing her face, her bottom lip was split, the low cut of her tank revealed bruises along her neck and collarbone, and despite the way the long sleeves of the open flannel she wore covered her hands, he made out defensive wounds along her nails and knuckles. Without thinking, he reached out his hand, trailing his fingers gently along the red and purple bruises lining her neck and chest. The cold rain dripped down from his sleeves and onto her skin, sending visible shudders through her body.

“Hailey…” he whispered. Something broke in him when he noticed the way her eyes slowly fluttered closed as she relaxed under his touch.

“I’m okay, Jay,” she muttered, continuing to avoid eye contact with him. “Let me get you a towel, you’re probably freezing,” she said, moving away as he became aware of the way his body was shivering, the rainwater dripping down into a small puddle in her doorway. He stood there frozen, his eyes taking in the room from her door, noticing the knocked-over lamp and shattered picture frame on the floor.

What the hell happened here? He thought to himself before she reappeared in front of him, holding out a towel for him to wrap into. He stood a statue, only his eyes moving from the room and back to her, tears blurring his vision as the image of her battered body tore him apart inside. When he didn’t take the towel, she moved toward him, rising on her tiptoes to wrap it around his shoulders. She stepped back out of the way, and he stepped inside, just enough for her to close the door.

“What did he do?” he questioned, trying to remain soft with her even though his ire toward Burrows was spilling over inside of him. She sighed a shaky breath before turning around, finding a spot on the arm of her couch, flinching in pain lightly when she crossed her arms. He remained in the entryway, waiting for her to speak as rain droplets from his hair left trails down his face. He watched as she bit down hard, clenching her jaw as she concentrated on her thoughts.

“We went out last night,” she began, Jay taking note of the way she avoided saying his name. “It was getting late, we had a lot to drink. He had way more than me, way more than usual, but I didn’t oppose when he offered to walk me home. When we got out front, he emptied his guts into the bushes and asked me if he could come up for some water. I agreed, and he came up to my apartment. I pulled a glass from the cupboard, and when I turned around he was pressing me against the counter,” she said, the shakiness in her voice building up as she continued. Jay felt like he was going to be sick himself.

“He was trying to kiss me, holding me against the counter with one hand… groping me with the other. I told him to stop, that he was drunk, that I wasn’t interested. I tried pushing him away, but I was drunk myself… weaker and clumsier than I usually am. His hands were still on me, pulling, squeezing…” her voice trailed off as tears rolled from her cheeks. Jay was fuming with anger, ready to go kill the man with his bare hands that second.

“The more I struggled to get away, the more he laid into me. Punching me, choking me, putting his entire weight into my body as he forced himself on me,” her breath shuddered and she groaned as tears escaped her eyes. Jay’s head was pounding from holding back tears and vexation. The more she said, the angrier he became.

“Did he?” He asked fearfully, unsure of whether or not he wanted the answer. He felt that same heart sinking feeling he had when he asked her the same question so many years ago when he found out what Booth did to her. The same way it did back then, his voice broke with the words. He only hoped she didn’t notice the way he was completely falling apart with her. She shook her head as her puffy eyes blinked closed, sending tears down her cheeks.

“I was yelling at him to stop. Telling him no and pushing with every part of my body to get him off. He was so drunk he wasn’t even registering my words, but I was able to get a hit in, leaving him vulnerable for a split second. Long enough to catch him off guard. I laid into him until his face was so swollen I didn’t even recognize him. He got up and stumbled towards the door, falling into that table. I was able to shove him out of the apartment… and I just... I’m okay. Really. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” she said, looking down into the floor. Her words stung deep because he knew it really wasn’t anything she hadn’t had to endure before.

She was quiet for a moment, swallowing hard almost like she was trying to stomach every emotion that had to be consuming her. She stifled a series of whimpers and despite her best attempts, she fell apart completely. She clutched at her body with her arms as deep sobs shook her entire being. He wasn’t sure if he should approach her, wasn’t sure if touching her would trigger her, wasn’t sure what she needed in that moment.

So, he slowly made his way towards her, close enough to touch her, to remind her he was there and she was safe, but holding back as sobs continued to escape her mouth. She reached an arm out, trying to steady herself as she attempted to catch her breath. That was the affirmation he needed, so he carefully grabbed her by the arms, wrapping her up in his body slowly. She nestled into him and despite the cold and soggy mess he was, she clung tightly to him. They dropped to the floor as she fell apart. He rested his chin against her head as his arms squeezed her as tightly as they could. The rain droplets fell down his face and blended with the tears that spilled out of his eyes.

“Shh. I’ve got you. You’re safe. He won’t hurt you again. I got you,” he said, repeating the last three words over and over again in whispers. He felt her fingers clench tightly around his back and they sat like that for a while, huddled together on the floor until she had come down from it all.

She pulled away from his hold, keeping her fingers gripped against his back as he cradled her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” her voice cracked with the words, and Jay responded instantly by shaking his head.

“No, don’t do that. You have nothing to be sorry for,” he whispered tenderly.

She reached a hand up, brushing a loose, wet curl from his forehead as he lost himself in her glossy blue eyes. Her eyes steadied him, casting out all of the rage that previously filled his body, and bringing him into an unexpected state of peace despite everything that just happened. She was all that mattered. Regardless of the trauma she had went through, in that moment, she was okay, she was safe, and she was in his arms. As she looked up at him, the pain and sadness that filled her eyes somehow coexisted with that familiar glimmer she only reserved for him, sending a fluttery feeling in his chest and a stroke of courage through his body.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words escaping his lips before his brain could even realize it. Her face fell with surprise, and tears refilled her eyes as he brought a hand to cup her cheek. His thumb swiped fragilely against her jaw as silence filled the room.

“I love you, Hailey” he said again, almost like he didn’t believe he said it the first time. Her mouth fell slightly agape as deep breaths sent her chest up and down steadily. Her watery eyes travelled from his eyes down to his lips, training themselves there for a moment as he took in every movement, every reaction to those words in the silence of her apartment.

In a flicker, she reached her head up and closed the space between them as her lips connected with his. She kissed him slow and steady. Her lips moved meticulously, delicately connecting and disconnecting from his as they each remained mindful of the wound on her bottom lip. It was a short kiss, but the feeling of her lips against his lingered long after she pulled away. She rested her forehead against his and stayed there as they each caught their breath. Silence surrounded them, and he felt like she could hear his heartbeat broadcasting loudly in the quiet.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she blurted out as her eyes remained closed and her forehead stayed pressed against his. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his as she pulled away ever so slightly. The interruption caught him by surprise, and he became nervous. He worried that it was all too much, that he had ruined things by confessing his feelings, that the kiss was just a reaction to her emotions, and that her next words would be to send him away.

“Would you lay with me?” She uttered. He breathed out a sigh of relief. In any other context, he would’ve teased her for the suggestive nature of the question, but in that moment he knew exactly what she meant. She needed rest, a moment to forget about everything that happened, and just as comforting as it was to have her in his arms, he realized the feeling went both ways.

“I don’t mean-“ she began before he interrupted.

“I know,” he told her, nodding his head softly.

“But my clothes…” he said, becoming suddenly aware of the way his damp suit was stuck to his skin. She stood, offering him a hand to stand with her. His heart stopped in his chest when she pulled the towel off of him and moved her hands to his shoulders, sliding her fingers under his blazer and dragging it down his arms. Her small hands moved to the buttons on his shirt. He nodded when she sent him a silent question of consent. His breath came out in nervous shudders when her fingers slid across his bare chest, peeling his wet shirt from his body and letting it fall onto the floor. She continued undressing him slowly. It wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t awkward, and to his surprise, he didn’t even blush when he was left standing before her in only his boxers. It was intimate, sweet even, and his breath remained unexpectedly stable through it all. She grabbed the towel from the ground with one hand and his hand with the other, leading him to her bedroom. She settled him at the end of her bed and she brought the towel to his head, gently drying the loose droplets from the ends of his short, unruly curls. His gaze remained on her eyes the entire time, trying to convince himself that what was happening was real. She climbed into her bed and he climbed in on the other side, feeling an unexpected sense of comfort despite it being their first time sharing a bed, in just his boxers no less. Under the covers, she curled her body into his side. He wrapped his arm protectively around her and her hand came to rest against his chest. He grasped it in his, noting how small it was, rubbing his thumb gently over her bruised fingers.

“Thank you for coming here... making sure I was okay,” she whispered into his chest.

“Thank you for being okay,” he muttered back. She looked up, bringing her lips to the side of his jaw briefly before settling her head back on his chest. They laid like that for a while, and eventually she succumbed to sleep.

He laid awake with her head against his bare chest, staring at the ceiling, in complete disbelief of everything that had happened. Part of him was still full of anger, ready to find Walker and put him in the ground for what he did. Another part of him wanted to lay there with her in that moment forever. Walker would get what was coming to him, but in that moment she needed him, so that’s where he’d stay. It didn’t go unnoticed that she didn’t say the words back, but he didn’t care. He finally told her how he felt. He confessed his love for her with nothing but emotion and sincerity, and he finally knew what it was like to be kissed by her, to be wrapped in her warm body, and consumed by everything she was. They certainly needed to talk, to figure out what everything that happened would mean for them, but for him, for that moment, being there with her was enough.

#upstead #jay x hailey #hailey x jay #jay halstead #hailey upton #chicago pd #upstead fic #justmypartner fics #collection of Em’s fics

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ao3feed-jily · 2 years

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Moony and Co.

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3HzdvA4

by belowthewillowwhomping

Lily doesn't know she'll come to be referred to as the brightest witch of her age. All she knows is that her sister hates her, her parents' marriage is growing increasingly unstable, and her best friend is behaving stranger and stranger by the day.

Sirius doesn't know he'll find some kind of odd little family at Hogwarts. All he knows is that his mother is perpetually disappointed in him, his brother doesn't know how to act around him, and he's most definitely NOT going to be sorted into Slytherin.

(Long haul Marauders fic, mainly from Sirius and Lily POV, eventual Wolfstar and Jily)

Words: 2092, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M

Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Marlene McKinnon, Mary Macdonald

Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Mary Macdonald/Marlene McKinnon, Remus Lupin & Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon & Lily Evans Potter & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black & James Potter

Additional Tags: Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Deserves Better, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, POV Sirius Black, POV Lily Evans Potter, Peter Pettigrew is a Little Shit, Lesbian Marlene McKinnon, Sirius Black Speaks French, Young Andromeda Black Tonks, Lily is a little unhinged, Slow Burn, 1970s

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3HzdvA4

#ao3feed #fanfic #Harry Potter #Jily #James Potter #Lily Evans #Lily Potter #Lily Evans Potter

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bunnywand · 3 years

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blacklisting on tumblr is like: i’ve got a few tw tags filtered so i don’t see potentially heavy/upsetting things without warning and also the tags for some media ppl i follow post but i’m not interested in 😌

but blacklisting on twitter is like: i’ve got an increasingly growing list of all the ~political buzzwords~ right wing dickheads throw around bcos if i don’t, twitter will Unrelentingly shove their unhinged rantings in my face 😞

#i miss when twitter trends were like.. actual hashtags ppl were using #instead of showing u Every Single Tweet w/ a specific word in 😫

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otonymous · 5 years

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Colours (MLQC Lucien - NSFW)

Description: Lucien has an obsession with photography. Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Very minor spoilers for the main plot only up to Chapter 5. Potential trigger warning: light bondage. Word Count: 1576 words (~8 mins of smut) AO3: read here Author’s Notes: The legendary Lucien thirst continues and is mighty hard to quench, so here’s another story from yours truly.

This particular piece was inspired by Lucien’s Archive karma card and its accompanying Moments post:

As like before, I’m currently stuck on Chapter 8, so apologies once again to the readers who have advanced further in the game if Lucien seems out of character. Happy reading!

Tagging: @kitsune-mana (because I know you feel the same way about our Shady Sweetheart™!)

All characters & Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex

“Lucien…”

Her moan echoed still in his ears, hauntingly dulcet even as the chemicals washed over the film — particles rearranging into an image of her in black and white, legs parted and draped over the side of his bed. Beckoning.

The professor’s practiced hand moved the tongs gently though the bath, liquid chemistry swirling like memories to gradually reveal more of the woman who had become his life, each picture adding another piece to the tantalizing puzzle:

Supple flesh spilling from delicate lace cups.

Fishnets encasing the thighs he loved to lick.

Brows raised in surprise when her panties tore with a single yank of his hand.

Holding each photo aloft, Lucien added to the collection hung with care throughout his darkroom like the stills of some classic Hollywood film — the same ones he sat through in the early morning hours at the cinema, patiently waiting for day to break. And on the night that Audrey Hepburn raced through the streets of Rome with a besotted Gregory Peck across the silver screen, he found her sleeping in the second seat three rows back, hair obscuring her face then much as it did in the photo in his hand: a memento of her ecstasy…and his obsession.

For Lucien was fascinated with her, with the way hesitation had mixed with desire in her eyes the day he examined her through the aperture of his camera. His thighs had straddled her hips as she lay writhing in anticipation beneath him. A butterfly pinned.

“Lucien, what are you—“

“Didn’t you say you were interested in seeing one of the world’s few remaining film cameras? I can think of no better subject to demonstrate the beauty of the photos it can take.”

One hand reached out to cradle her face as she relented in amused exasperation, and through the lens, Lucien saw her turn to nudge towards his caress, lips parting to suck his index finger deeply into her mouth.

“Face the camera and look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl as he pushed another digit past her lips.

She obeyed, eyes wide as she struggled and failed to contain the saliva that trickled down her chin as Lucien slid his fingers in and out of that pretty mouth.

Snap.

The click of the shutter brought her back to her senses, and her embarrassment grew along with the blush on her cheeks. Anticipating her protests, Lucien removed his hand to slowly drag a glistening trail of spit past the soft notch of her neck and between her collarbones, descending until the tips came to rest within the warmth of her cleavage.

And with one deft movement, the front clasp of her bra came undone, the tension in the straps giving way to allow black lace to part like curtains in a theatre, unblemished skin unveiled before the eyes of a hungry audience.

Snap.

Lowering his camera, Lucien bent over and pressed his nose to the exposed flesh. And as he inhaled deeply to savour the sweet smell, the buzzing at the back of his brain grew in intensity.

Was this what it was like to feel intoxicated?

She wove her hands into his hair, gently tugging the dark strands closer to her heaving chest as his tongue drew slow circles about her nipples. He then stopped, blew softly on the dampened skin, and admired the way they puckered beautifully before pulling away.

Snap.

“Now you’re just purposely teasing me.”

There was a sharp edge to her voice that drew his attention as well as his camera. He captured the frustration written on her face, admiring the way her shapely brows furrowed in irritation. While he lived for her contentment, the devil on his shoulder constantly sought to tease her into submission.

For Lucien wanted, needed, her completely — mind, body and soul.

He kissed her deeply in apology before stopping to wind his camera, saying,

“When it comes to you, my love, I am nothing but serious.”

Snap.

Bashfulness. Wonder. His words elicited such emotions in her eyes that Lucien was momentarily relieved to have been looking at her through the viewfinder of a camera. To meet that gaze directly would have been tantamount to relinquishing all control over the beast that raged within to claim her roughly, savagely. And the professor knew it was impossible to appease such an insatiable appetite, for even in her presence, Lucien hungered for her still.

So his camera continued to pan down her body, the shutter clicking away in succession as he tried to capture her in entirety: the dips and curves of her stomach and hips, the sheen of the garter straps that lay against her skin like a bow upon a gift, the silk that gathered the moisture between her legs to cling tellingly against her folds.

“Such a good girl. You wore the fishnet stockings like I asked. Now spread yourself for me.”

Kneeling by the side of the bed, he readied his camera, feeling himself twitch as he gazed upon her gingerly parting legs, reaching out a hand to softly bat hers away when she moved to cover up the middle. Then, adjusting his lens, Lucien focused on the fine mesh laying atop her thighs.

Snap.

The shot in hand, he bent to kiss them immediately, lips picking up a subtle increase in temperature as they moved towards their insides. And when the heat became too intense, he ran his tongue along their lengths in a bid to cool them down, the tip tracing along the geometry of her stockings.

“Oh god, Lucien…”

Her voice trailed off as she gripped the sheets until her knuckles turned white, the sensation maddeningly ticklish and arousing all at once. While she couldn’t be sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, the professor read her body loud and clear by the way her hips lifted off the bed.

Relenting, Lucien reached for his collar — one hand unbuttoning his shirt as the other continued to hold the camera. His mind worked continuously, contemplating how best to set up his next shot even as his clothing slipped from broad, muscular shoulders.

“Hold still, baby. We don’t want any blurred shots, now do we?”

He watched her lips tremble at the touch of his hand between her legs, the pads of his fingers becoming increasingly damp with each languid stroke along hot silk. Heard her gasp amidst the tearing of fabric as the remnants of her underwear fell away to leave her bare. Caught the intoxicating scent of her arousal when he brought the lens up close to capture the dew that clung to blushing petals.

And when he could stand it no longer, he allowed himself a taste of her nectar.

He ignored it, that voice in the back of his mind that warned him to stay away, to remain indifferent and objective. For he was already well past the point of no return, hopelessly addicted to her flavour on his tongue. And he became a man unhinged.

“Do you trust me?”

Lucien asked, barely able to keep his voice from trembling as he rose to full height, placing the camera beside her head as he busied himself with the buckle of his belt. He smiled to see her nod, not one ounce of trepidation in her eyes as she replied,

“I do.”

“That’s my girl.”

Smoothly sliding his leather belt from his trousers, he looped it around her wrists, binding them together as he fixed the other end to his headboard. Gaze never straying from her face, the professor shed the rest of his clothing, trying to maintain some semblance of control even as he felt it spiralling away to see her bite her lip in desire as his erection sprung free.

“Come to me, Lucien.”

Her voice was soft and inviting, and the irony of the situation didn’t escape him: bound though she was, he was the one under her full control.

One stockinged leg thrown over each shoulder, Lucien filled her over and over again, his hips relentless as they pounded into her flesh so hard the bed shook. He could see that she was becoming overwhelmed, her moans giving way long ago to breathless pants in a struggle to keep up with him. But there was nothing to be done about it now, for he was completely lost in chasing the tight wet heat of her pussy.

The dim red lamp in the darkroom flickered, bringing Lucien back to the present. He looks at the photo in his hand, smiling as he savours it like a fine wine: her face contorted in pleasure as she came undone around him.

“You almost made me drop the camera,” he says to no one in particular.

Then, he sets about developing the final photo, his pièce de résistance. The image starts to appear, angled due to the way she turned the camera back on themselves, excited to be taking a selfie on film. And despite his warnings that it may not turn out, he humours her in her post-coital giddiness, pressing close enough to get into the frame, his lips upon her cheek.

And he was right, most of the photo was a blur.

But her face was in sharp focus, and her smile was bright. And for Lucien, that was enough to turn black and white into a world of colour.

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Thanks for reading! Check out more of my work here! 📚

#mlqc #mr love: queen's choice #love and producer #mlqc lucien #mlqc fanfic #mlqc fic #mlqc smut #mr love queen's choice smut #love and producer smut #fanfiction #my writing #elex

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aranciafiamma · 5 years

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Kimetsu No Yaiba Fic Rec

So, I’ve seen a couple of underrated fics that I really think needs more love. Mostly genfic. I’m listing them down here with the links and non-spoilery reviews. Yosh!

Party Rock Is In The House Tonight (4483 words) by VillainIHaveDoneThyMother Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga), 鬼滅の刃 | Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (Anime) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Iguro Obanai/Kanroji Mitsuri, Kochou Shinobu & Rengoku Kyoujurou, Rengoku Kyoujurou & Uzui Tengen, Pillars Friendship Characters: Uzui Tengen, Rengoku Kyoujurou, Kochou Shinobu, Kanroji Mitsuri, Iguro Obanai, Shinazugawa Sanemi, Himejima Gyoumei, Tomioka Giyuu Additional Tags: Shinobu Makes Horrifying Wine, Pillar Party, Teetotaler Rengoku, Sad Drunk Tomioka, Muichirou is Asleep Under A Table, (He Tried The Wine), Iguro Chapter for Iguro's Birthday Summary:

Legally it qualifies as a frat party. Luckily they’re in Taisho Japan so no one knows what that is.

Rengoku is the Party Chad. He is also the Party Chaperone. He is the Party Chaderone.

This fic is amazing. The comedy is on point. Everyone is drunk and they’re alive and they’re celebrating, but mostly, they are very very drunk. You just get the feel good vibe that these people really know each other and give each other a lot of shit for it. You know, like a family. Give love to @villainihavedonethymotheronao3

Fall of the House of Butterfly (2212 words) by HerenorThereNearnorFar Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Kochou Shinobu & Kanae Kochou Characters: Kochou Shinobu, Kochou Kanae, Tsuyuri Kanao, Kanzaki Aoi (Kimetsu no Yaiba) Additional Tags: Hot Takes From The Butterfly Villagers, 'She's Got A Sword So Clearly Something Is Very Wrong or Very Right', POV Outsider, Period Appropriate Light Misogyny, Spoilers for the Latest Arc Summary:

The Kocho sisters invite speculation, concern, and at least one exorcism.

This is written from an outsider’s perspective which is a favorite of mine. But really, I think what makes this fic shine is the historical detail. You can tell the writer did their best to make this accurate and I enjoy how this gives the Kimetsu no Yaiba world more dimension. It’s not just some fictional fantasy realm. This was Japan, in the Taisho-era (1910s), before WW1. Also, some love for the Butterfly Sisters. It plays with how canonically, the Demon Slayer Corps doesn’t exist in the public eye. Send love to @herenortherenearnorfar

Squaresville (2739 words) by Esselle Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 鬼滅の刃 | Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (Anime), 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Agatsuma Zenitsu & Hashibira Inosuke & Kamado Tanjirou & Kamado Nezuko Characters: Kamado Tanjirou, Kamado Nezuko, Agatsuma Zenitsu, Hashibira Inosuke, Kaigaku (Kimetsu no Yaiba), Tomioka Giyuu, Sabito (Kimetsu no Yaiba), Urokodaki Sakonji, Makomo (Kimetsu no Yaiba), Kochou Shinobu Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Friendship, Fluff, 1950s Slang, Diners, Bullying, Motorcycles, Kimetsu no Yaiba Manga Spoilers Summary:

A familiar, insane cackle reaches Tanjiro's ears. The engine sounds get louder, and then suddenly Kaigaku's boys are yelling, scrambling out of the way, forgetting about Nezuko entirely as a grey Harley Davidson hog blazes through their ranks to scatter them.

"Nyahahaha! Boss Inosuke is here!" The rider wears a white tank top stained with grease and motor oil, and a helmet with a boar painted on it. Tanjiro can see his crazed green eyes under the brim. His grin is similarly unhinged as he points at the gang of stunned hooligans. "You wanna rattle, snakes?"

All Tanjiro wanted was a milkshake at the local malt shop.

This writer is pretty prolific. And their other KnY fic is loads popular. That I’m a little surprised this doesn’t get more love. This is a fun, period-set fic in the 50s that still keeps the characters very much in character despite the different lingos and setting. Also, I’m a sucker for Zenitsu and Kaigaku, and their little messed up dynamic is in the fic. I’m that easy. Also, like overall, there was like a whole vibe of the “Outsiders” novel that I got from this. I mean that in the most complimentary possible because I really liked the Outsiders. Send love to @esselley

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Alright. Now that’s it for the genfics. This is where I go to sea. Time to ship off!

Bloodstruck (7896 words) by GrowingAHead Chapters: 2/? Fandom: 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Agatsuma Zenitsu/Kaigaku Characters: Agatsuma Zenitsu, Kaigaku (Kimetsu no Yaiba), Kamado Tanjirou, Kamado Nezuko, Hashibira Inosuke Additional Tags: Female Zenitsu, Fem!Zenitsu, Genderbending, Gender Change, Kaigaku is a jerk with a heart of a JERK, Kaigaku progressively getting protective and possessive of his single food source, Slice of Life, More lighthearted than canon, Kimetsu no Yaiba Manga Spoilers Summary:

An AU where Kaigaku turns into a demon a little early. Turns out, he has a rare constitution. He can only consume the blood of the first person he feasted on.

That person happens to be his hated colleague.

And the Demon Slayer Corps ends up taking TWO teams of demon-hunter pair under their wings.

Okay, it is the the King of Trash and his Cowardly Lionheart. Zenitsu is a girl in this one. It works here mostly to put Kaigaku in increasingly stressed out situations. He just wants to live his life conscience and crybaby free. But it looks like he’s getting both in the form of Zenitsu. I’m recommending this purely on how well they get Zenitsu’s voice right. The writer has a fundamental understanding of what drives Zenitsu and that’s her desire to have a family. Which in this case means, she wants to keep her grandfather safe - from Kaigaku and from disappointment (at learning Kaigaku turned into a demon). The disappointment, really, is deadlier than the demon, in this case.

Also, it’s really fun to watch Kaigaku (Mr. Everyone Else is the Dirt I Walk On) be held hostage by the pinnacle of dirt itself. This is like the demon equivalent of the “Get Along” shirt. And it is beautiful.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba

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thewhiterabbit42 · 5 years

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Behind Closed Doors

Part 1 of 3

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Sneaking a kitten into the bunker might be the best decision you’d ever made for reasons you could never have anticipated.

Word Count: 1960

Series Tags/Warnings: fluff, mutual pining, men being cute with animals

This fic is a commission.

“You got a hot date or something?” Dean asked, glancing sideways at you from the driver’s seat. Curiosity melded with mild amusement, making green sparkle in ways that should have had your heart fluttering, but you were too preoccupied to even notice.

You couldn’t blame him for asking. You hadn't been able to sit still the entire way back, fingers drumming along the interior, leg bouncing, obsessively checking your phone as the day dragged on. It was out of character for you, but in your defense, he had told you it wouldn’t take more than a day or two tops.

“It’s a simple salt and burn, you said. We’ll be back in no time, you said.” You tried to keep it light, but the anxiety buzzing through your veins bled into your words.

He mistook it for irritation, a hard dent appearing between his brows. “Since when is any case ever set in stone?”

Well, he had you there, but it didn’t make you any less antsy.

“Sometimes, a girl just has things she needs to do,” you said vaguely, hoping he would let it drop.

His eyes slid to you again, his lips pressed together in a way that almost resembled a pout. You’d been repeatedly reminded, however, that Dean Winchester most certainly, under no circumstances, did such things, so you were clearly mistaken.

This was the point where, at any other time, you would call him on it, but your mind was still going in too many directions for you to feel up for the ensuing banter.

Silence filled the car once again, neither tense nor comfortable, skirting the borders of both as you each retreated into your head.

It didn't last long.

“If you were seeing someone, you know you could tell me, right?”

It was the unusual demand within his tone rather than the words themselves that caught you off guard.

You couldn't help a soft snort from escaping at the thought of anyone being dumb enough to want to date you. “Yeah, sure.”

Everything about him was tense, guarded, almost as if he expected the two of you to do battle rather than have a friendly chat.

Though the look he returned suggested you were the one acting strange. “What? We’re friends. Friends talk about those things.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you undid your seatbelt, the smooth sound of denim sliding across leather overtaking the quiet. You sidled up to him, as close as you could get without touching, and you were reminded of how large and warm he was as the heat of his frame spilled over onto yours.

You did your best to stay focused, sliding your hand up through the back of his hair.

“Uhhh, what are you doing?”

You waited another several seconds to respond, eyes riveted to his skull as you gently probed along it

“Checking for head injuries. You did get whacked pretty hard.”

His confusion melted, and he rolled his eyes so hard he was liable to pull something. “Real funny, chuckles."

There was little humor beneath his nickname for you. If you didn't know better, you would say he was in a mood, but you could always tell when one of those was coming as they tended not to appear out of nowhere.

You waited for him to bat your hand away, but the way he cracked his neck suggested he wasn’t as irritated as he let on. His head canted sideways, almost as if he was offering up a spot behind his ear for you to scratch. You might have, just to tease him, but the movement made you recall the the reason you were even having this conversation.

Your dropped your hand behind the seat, glancing out the back of the car to find the sun setting behind you. It could have been romantic, the two of you on the open road, vivid oranges and pinks spilling into the vehicle and making it glow. You were so close to Dean you could still smell hints of his aftershave, and you knew if you if you laid your head on his shoulder at that moment, he would let you get away with it.

All you were able to do was let out a long, impatient breath. “Could you step on the gas a little more?”

Baby immediately hummed a little louder, and his head shifted as he tried to sneak a glance at you.

“Really, what gives?”

You didn’t need to look at him to know the eye he was giving you. It was the one that belonged to Dean Winchester, bloodhound on the scent. His determination was palpable, making the small space between you vibrate with tension.

“Maybe I just want my own bed, with my own space, where I can be left to my own devices.”

It took him all of a second to read between the lines, and the moment he did, it was like that time you accidentally started undressing in front of him because you didn’t realize he was still in the room.

His body went rigid, eyes eager to be anywhere else but on you as he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. We, uh, all have needs.”

You had a knack for getting him to blush, not that you had any idea how. Yet, here he was, his cheeks turning another lovely, light shade of pink, tongue darting nervously across his lips as he sucked in a slow breath.

Then again, you were well aware of how he had you neatly filed away as little sister material, so you imagined it might be a touch awkward hearing about those things when it came to you.

“But if you were seeing someone, you would tell me, right?” There was an intensity beneath his words that ratcheted up the tension, and things suddenly started to feel weird. Weirder than that time you all got drunk, combined Truth or Dare with Poker, and Sam dared you to sit in his brother’s lap every time you lost a round.

“Uh, yeah. Who do you think I’d want looking for me if I never came home after?”

You knew that remark would please him. Pride tugged at the corner of his lips, though it wasn’t for the reason you thought. “You really consider the bunker your home?”

You turned your head and gave him the most incredulous look. “Of course I do, D. You guys are my family. I don’t know what I’d do without you… Except maybe get hit on more often.” Despite the dryness in your tone, you were only partially kidding, and you noticed a brief side-eye as he somehow picked up on it. “I swear, you’re like the overbearing older brother I never asked for.”

You flicked the side of his ear, the gesture far more satisfying than you could have guessed. Increasingly so when he decided to make a big show of swatting you away this time.

You grinned, sliding back across the seat out of his reach.

“Yeah, well someone has to look out for you,” he muttered.

You both knew that was a lie. You’d been looking after yourself for years, though the thought of him wanting to protect you did put a smile on your face the rest of the ride back.

***

Dean barely had the chance to get Baby in her spot before you had the door open, and it was all you could do not to break out into a run as you moved through the garage into the bunker. You bypassed all your usual stops, bathroom included, calling out a greeting to Sam as you nearly bowled him over on his way to the kitchen.

It wasn’t subtle by any means, but your nerves were thrumming so loudly you might psych yourself out of existence at any moment. Sure, the fate of others had technically rested in your hands before, but not like this. You’d never had this level of responsibility, and the thought of failing so spectacularly within the first week (and what that might mean) had you flying down the hallways toward your room.

You finally made it, key out of your pocket well in advance so you could jam it in the lock. As usual, it sticks halfway, and you slam your palm into it, ignoring the sting as something started to poke out from beneath the door.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered, hitting it a few more times.

“You need any help?” Dean’s voice carried down the hall, and you nearly leapt out of your skin. He should’ve been in the kitchen foraging for a sandwich and some beer, or in the laundry room stripping out of his clothes before he hit the shower, not hovering where the hallway split in two different directions with clearly no intention of heading to his room.

You angled yourself in front of your door, feet blocking the gap at the bottom. “It’s cool, D. I got it.”

“You sure?” He took a step toward you, and your palm began to turn numb as you frantically slam that damn piece of metal until it finally gives and slides in all the way.

“Yup! Thanks!” Your smile was tight, perhaps a touch unhinged, as you quickly twisted the lock and pushed your way inside. You were in such a rush you left the key, opting for the deadbolt instead after slamming the door closed behind you.

Yeah. That wasn’t suspicious at all.

Any worry over how strange you were acting dissipated as you were greeted with the most pathetic noise in existence. It was followed by a visceral jolt of panic, despite the fact that the sound proof warding was in place, so even if Dean was lurking out there, as you expected, he wouldn't hear a thing.

You sent a silent thanks to Rowena, wherever she was, for helping you, because there was no mistaking what you were trying to hide as a chorus of squeaky mewls rose up from your feet.

You reached down, scooping up the manic little creature trying to fuse itself to your boot.

“You poor thing,” you crooned, tucking the kitten close to your chest. You couldn't tell if he was starving or terrified. Probably both after being left in a strange place alone for seven days when you were only supposed to be gone for a few.

The guilt you’d been carrying welled up within your chest, and you walked into your private bathroom to assess how badly you’d messed up. The moment you turned on the light, you were surprised by what you found. There was still plenty of water left in the dispenser, and enough food to easily get him through another few days.

"And D says I prepare too much for everything," you mused, fingers stroking behind black, velvety ears. The little body in your hand began to vibrate, a loud purr overtaking its previous protests as he stretched up and rubbed himself beneath your chin.

You walked back into the other room, noting all the toys sprawled out across the floor along with the little pockets pressed into the comforter, mostly surrounding your pillow.

“You look like you made out ok,” you breathed in relief. Other than the cat box needing a change, it seemed the only real issue was that you had been gone.

“Is that what all that sass was?” You asked, raising him up in front of you and giving his chin a good scratch. “You just missed me?”

He paced back and forth within your hands, running himself from head to tail along the side of your face.

The unconditional affection warmed you in ways you’d forgotten were possible, and you smiled. “Missed you too, little Meowmers.”

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