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eupheme · 1 year

Text

— renegade

joel miller x f!reader

rated E - 3k words

tags - light angst, established situationship, nightmares, mutual yearning, lots of pretending, soft!dom Joel, restraints, face fucking, fingering, PiV

a/n - inspired by ‘renegade’ by big red machine

“Is this why you’re here?” Joel asks you, shifting his hips, pushing himself deeper into your fist. His voice rough with sleep, the sound making you squirm behind him.

It was easy to pretend it was.

That it was just physical. Fucking the nightmares from your head - that it could be anyone else burying themselves inside you, and the outcome would be the same.

You sleep better here. Anything is better than a night spent alone in the room that isn’t yours, and never will be. Nightmares find you there - seeking out your sorrow, draining you dry.

When it becomes too much, as it often does, you go to him. Going out into the night, slipping like a ghost into the shadows.

Finding the familiar way to inside - finally able to breathe again when the window slides shut with a click. When you’re curled in his bed, the blankets pulled over you like a shield.

It will get you shot, one day. Sneaking in like this. With anyone else you might have been already - but not with Joel.

You think he doesn’t really mind your nightly visits. The way he keeps the crates stacked just so, beneath the fire escape.

How he only locks one side of the window after you leave - the other just out of the reach of your knife, when you wiggle the latch open from the outside.

It smells like him - these faded, patterned sheets. Ones he’d never pick out for himself, in another life.

Before.

Ones that you can’t imagine him not having, because this is the only way you know him.

The familiarity soothes you, even though he’s not here. Exhaustion starting to weigh you down, starting at the tips of your limbs and curling around you like vines.

Eyelids growing heavy, listening to the rain that’s just begun to sprinkle down. Drowning out the stomping rows of boots outside - a white noise that lulls you to sleep.

This time - you don’t dream.

———

He almost missed that you’re here. The sound of your breathing, the little hitches of breath while you sleep, engulfed by the downpour.

Only seeing the lump in the blankets as he sheds his rain-stained coat, the canvas soaked-though at the shoulders.

A mark deepening between his brows as he glances at your form - the jacket and pants thrown over the broken radiator. Moving to the window, flipping the latch on the left side back into place.

You’re slippery. Squeezing through cracks. Worming your way into his room and under the hardened armor of his skin.

For anyone else, this layer you’ve peeled back and crawled beneath would be no more than surface-level. An acquaintance, perhaps.

But with Joel, it’s so much more. It makes his skin itch, as if it was flayed back - exposed and raw.

Uncomfortable. But not unwelcome.

He hadn’t seen you today - the silent check he does. Just needing a glance of your hair, your shape in the crowd. It’s enough, a second in the long minutes and hours that make up his day.

It’s a small relief, a fresh breath of air he didn’t know he needed.

Silently, he strips down. Clothes folded on a chair with chipped paint - someone old DIY gone wrong. Looking like The End had already hit, years before it did.

A hand running through his hair, pushing the damp strands back, padding over to the edge of the bed.

“Come on, honey.” His words hold a softness that doesn’t exist when the sun is shining - a moment he knows you won’t remember.

Gently easing you over, so he can fit himself in behind you. Curling into your warmth, the blankets tucked back around you both.

The frown easing from his face when you murmur - face burrowing into the pillow, fingers brushing against the arm that wraps around your ribs. The hand that flattens against your stomach.

His name, no more than sleepy murmur, as you get comfortable again.

“Joel.”

He wonders if you’re dreaming about him.

He wonders if he’ll dream about you.

———

He’s solid, strong back and broad-shouldered. Shifting in the night to face away from you, as he often did. For comfort or another attempt to keep others out - a literal barrier - you’ll never know. Your chest presses against his spine, an arm curling around his waist.

Your eyes crack open. It’s still dark out, the sky just starting to streak with grey. You hadn’t slept long but you had slept soundly - the best you’ve had in days.

The tip of your nose brushes against the cotton of his shirt. Shifting so you can move higher, so it can skim against the base of his neck, instead. Press into the soft hair that curls - smelling like rain and sweat and him.

Your fingers trace the cotton at his hip, skim across the elastic waistline of his boxers. It had been over two weeks since you had last caved - had last come here.

It had been a good run. But the nightmares had come back - flashes of your past that you can’t bear to relive.

He shields you from them. Waking easily at the first sound of your muttering - his hand curling around your shoulder, low voice pulling you back out.

You know he understands. How he talks in his sleep as well, how you do the same for him. An unspoken agreement.

He shifts, against you. Only the slightest change in his breathing - he can wake from a dead sleep in an instant.

A hand, warm and calloused, finding yours as it brushes the strip of bare skin where his shirt has ridden up.

Dragging your hand down, to where he strains against the fabric. The pressure of his fingers curling yours around his length as he groans.

His hand leaves yours to tug down the waistband, removing the barrier between your palm and his hot, bare skin. Pushing them down his thighs, kicking them off to twist in the blankets.

The tip of your thumb brushes over the head, smearing precum over the tip. Air hisses between clenched teeth as he inhales, as you press yourself closer, crushing yourself against him as your arm pumps.

“Is this why you’re here?” Joel asks you, shifting his hips, pushing himself deeper into your fist. His voice rough with sleep, the sound making you squirm behind him.

It was easy to pretend it was.

That he didn’t go to bed hard, like this - the only thing keeping him from waking you up was knowing how much you needed the sleep.

That it was just physical. Fucking the nightmares from your head - that it could be anyone else burying themselves inside you, and the outcome would be the same.

It’s a lie, though. You both know it.

He’s the only one you go to. You’re the only one he’s let in.

You hum your response, trying to peek over the bulk of his shoulder. To watch him fucking your hand, skin sliding against skin.

Lips press against his neck again and he shudders. Moving your hand from him, twisting in your grip until you’re trapped beneath the spread of thick thighs.

The heavy jut of his flushed cock swaying, as he adjusts himself on top of you. Leaving a damp patch smeared across your breast, as he takes himself in his hand again.

He hasn’t meant to end up quite like this.

Had just wanted you warm and soft beneath him. Moving up too high on your waist on accident - still hazy with sleep - ending up with your arms pinned against your sides.

Making to move, until he sees the way you’re focused on his hand, your lips parting. Showing off a pink flash of tongue. Fingers gripping on to his ankles - the only part of him you can reach - nails digging in.

“You want this?” He asks, stroking himself - his fist fitting in the valley between your breasts. His other hand cupping his sack, squeezing.

Leaving you to watch the flex of his forearm, the flushed tip appearing between thumb and forefinger. Nodding, your tongue peeking out to wet your lips.

“Ask me for it.” It’s not a request, his head tilting as your hands tighten around him.

As he angles his cock down, shifting until it’s hovering, just out of reach. Your chin lifts, mouth opening as your eyes fix on his.

Joel’s jaw grits. You can see the heave of his chest, the hand cupping himself dropping to the curve of your breast. Thumb rolling over the tight bud - the sensation dulled by your thin top, but it’s him and your body still sings.

You crack first.

“Wanna taste you.” Your eyes are still on him, can see the way he swallows hard, how he shifts over you.

“Fuck, baby.” He growls. The hand around his cock drops to curl around the back of your neck, twisting in your hair to angle you.

All while he moves forward, pressing himself against the flat of your tongue. Where you’re open and waiting for the weight of his cock, to taste the salt of his skin and the drop that still clings to the tip.

Wet and aching for him already - a dull thudding between your thighs, where they press and rub together.

You groan, as he inches inside. Lips wrapping around and sucking, causing him to hiss out a breath, his hips hitching.

Nudging him a little too deep, as you cough - tears springing to your eyes. He shifts back with soothing words, the hand on your breast moving to cup your jaw - thumb rubbing against your cheek.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” There’s a pinch to his brow, your head shaking minutely to tell him it’s fine. A second, as he thinks, “Tap my leg if it’s too much. You got that?”

He waits for you to listen, giving an experimental tap. Before he tries again - hips rocking, a slow and shallow press into your mouth.

You take him, relaxing into the cup of his hand. Eyes wandering across his stomach, chest - whatever you can see when he draws back. Closing, so you can listen to the groans that reverberate in his chest. Letting him use you, to fuck your mouth - trusting him, putting yourself in his hands.

A hand that flexes and twists in your hair. His thumb of the other sweeping against your cheekbone, the hollow under your eye - brushing away the tear that glistens against your skin.

So tender it makes your chest ache. Fingers curling against his leg, squeezing. He’s pulling himself from you, then - out of the warmth of your mouth, as you swallow.

Trying to protest that it wasn’t the signal, your lips glossy and shining. He’s shifting back, nudging your thighs wide to fit between them. Lowering himself down, his cock wet and thick and digging into your hip.

“I know.” He murmurs. Before his mouth presses to yours, the kiss sloppy. Tongue brushing where his cock had been, as he tugs at the waistband of your underwear.

Dragging them down to join his, fingers dipping between your thighs. Groaning into your mouth when he feels how wet you are from sucking him off, the tips pressing and circling against your clit.

You whine his name, the stubble on his cheek scraping against your skin. Breath hot in your ear as his weight pins you down. Thumb smearing your slick across your clit, so he can fit a finger inside.

You’re tight, molten hot. Gripping him already as you arch into him, as he slips in another. Curling them until they drag against a spot that makes you moan - strung tight beneath him.

He need to calm down, make you come, before he fucks you. A pressure swiftly building in his belly when he watched you, the trust in the way you took him.

The sound of his fingers is loud, the wet suck as he fits in a third. Stretching you out, each of your breaths harsh, your nails biting into his skin.

Already so needy, already near the edge. Each of your breaths coming shorter as his hips press against yours. Letting your fingers drift to feel the hard curve of his cock, hearing his grunt in your ear when you tug on him.

“Don’t worry about me.” He groans, voice rough before his lips press against the column of your neck.

As if you ever weren’t.

As if you didn’t always want him.

His words were unneeded, because you’re losing concentration quickly. Only focused on the tension in your belly - the pressure like a finger squeezing down the trigger, about to fire.

He’s relentless, fingers pounding, the wet flick of his thumb. Feeling your racing pulse beneath his lips, the sharp gasp of each breath, your muscles flexing.

Tightening around him until that tension snaps. Pleasure thrumming through you as you buck into his hand, your mind going blissfully blank and fuzzy - your moan strung out and pitched high.

Missing his words, feeling the brush of his other hand over your legs, smoothing over your hips. You can just make out the timbre, leaving you to imagine the rest.

Christ, just like that.

Good fucking girl.

Fingers slow as he pushes himself up, only removing them to tug at your shirt - pulling his own from his shoulders.

Folding himself between your limp, spread thighs, before hooking his elbows under your knees. Opening you up, where you’re soaked and the fluttering is still ebbing.

The twist of his wrist as he lines himself up - smearing his tip across your slit. The briefest tease, indulgence, before he slides in. Sinking inside of your tight heat in a long, fluid motion.

“Fuck, I missed you.” You breathe, brow pinched as he fills a chasm you didn’t realize you had.

His breath comes out ragged.

It’s not in the script. The words you both know. No, this had come from the soft pulp of your heart, a late night confession.

He doesn’t know how to take it. Mouth crushing against yours as he sinks deeper, swallowing your words to keep them safe.

Trying not to think about how his own answer had sprung to his lips, unbidden. It’s dangerous. To think like that, to have any sort of claim on anything, now.

It’s easier to pretend you just miss his cock.

That you just came here to forget.

That’s something he can do - drawing his hips back, snapping back in. Watching the way your tits bounce, everything softened and hazy with the thin grey light that creeps in.

Shifting, lifting a leg to brace on his shoulder, pushing him deeper as you gasp. The other pressing against his ribs, curling around his waist.

Freeing up his arms so he can taste your release on his fingertips. Licking you from him before he presses the calloused pads against your own mouth.

You take him, tongue curling around spit-slicked fingers. Tasting yourself on them, your sighs muffled when he presses down on your tongue.

Thumb dragging against your lower lip, before he pulls himself from the heat of your pretty mouth. Finding his way to where you take him, tracing slick fingers up your slit. Feeling where you’re stretched wide around him, puffy and slick.

Teasing at your clit - as your hands clench in the sheets, twisted up near your ears.

In a world where the right protection can mean life or death - where a bite can end everything - it’s a wonder how you bare yourself to him. His hand ghosting across soft skin, from breasts to hip. Fingertips indenting flesh, gripping, pulling, tugging.

Watching with greedy eyes how you gaze up at him, an ankle digging into his shoulder - trying to force him deeper. He leans forward, putting more force behind his thrusts, watching the way your lips part with a soft “ah!” with every breath.

Fingers pressing and swiping against the tight bud of your clit, the way he knows you like it.

He needed this too - to bury himself in you. Feel the way you wrap tight and warm around him. His own tongue loosened like this, his own release building again.

“Christ, look at you.” He grits out.

Admiring. It makes you preen, lips stretched wide in a grin, a bright flash of teeth in the dark. Eyes half-lidded and heavy, doing your own slow sweep.

Over a tight waist that your leg hooks around. Bare stomach and broad chest, dusted with dark hair, only the slightest hint of grey. Not like the strands at his temples, the ones that streak throughout the curls. Peppering his facial hair.

Ruining you again. It had been a long time since you wanted something, and you can’t get him out of your head. Always coming back, even though you’re sure it won’t end well.

Because nothing does, any more.

You won’t let your soft heart ruin tonight. Not when his thumb sweeps across your hip. His eyes dark and glittering as he watches your face, as he works you up again.

The sharp rut of his cock and swirl of his fingers so perfect, that the tears start to well up, again.

“Joel,” You say his name again, “F-fuck, I’m gonna come.”

You felt like heaven on his fingers - tight and hot and sopping wet for him. It doesn’t hold a candle to now, how you squirm beneath him, the slap of his skin against yours.

The snug fit of your cunt, as you clench around him.

“Want you to.” He rasps out, resisting the urge to fuck you harder, faster. Keeping the same pace, the same circle of his fingers, “Let me feel you, baby.”

Need you to.

You come with a cry. Back bowing against the mattress, limb wrapping around him. Turning his thrusts into a sloppy grind, your hands coming to grip at his forearms. The waves crashing over you stronger and longer than before, your vision turning dark and hazy.

“Fuck. Fuck-” He growls - as the tight pulse pulls him to the edge.

It’s too much.

It’s all he can think about, as he pulls himself from you. Fisting his cock, jerking himself until he spills across your mound, your slick pussy.

How he wishes he could have stay buried, throbbing inside you, coating your walls with his release. Marking you, only pulling out so he can watch it leak from you later.

The word echos in his ears, layered with the thudding of his heart.

Dangerous.

———

You’re gone, when he wakes up.

The hazy morning sun is just barely casting warm rays of light onto the worn wooden floorboards as he drags himself from bed - a hand passing over his face, pressing into his eyes.

Pushing himself up, making his way over to the window.

But there’s nothing - just puddles collecting in the broken ridges of the roads. The streets washed clean from the rain.

Fingers drift, tracing up the cool frame of the window, until it’s touching the chipped white paint of the latch. Lost in thought for a long moment - before his hand drops back down to the sill.

He leaves the right side unlocked.

thank you so much for reading! 💕

#no show spoilers! 💕#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine

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spacebarbarianweird · 6 months

Text

Things We Deserve

Summary: Astarion re-lives one of the traumatic episodes of his life, and considers himself unworthy of love.

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, f!tav, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of past abuse

TW: a mild description of forced prostitution

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Thanks @satanicspinosaurus for your help! I live for your commentaries on ethical issues.

It is on the same corner of the street in the Lower City. Again.

A young elf is looking for a “client”. It's not difficult — he has soft white curls, a gentle smile, the body sculptured by some elven god. A glance, two, some nice words — and there is a night of passion ahead.

A half-orc, almost twice as big as the elf, grabs his chin and studies his face as if Astarion is an inanimate object. Then orders to lift up his shirt. The client looks at him with the same expression as if he were buying a horse.

His hand gropes the elf’s crotch, causing him to moan.

"Works for me", the half-orc grabs a handful of silver curls with his stiff fingers. "Never fucked an elf".

Astarion obeys. This is what he is. A mere street whore.

No, go away, you don't need to do that anymore. You are free, don't let him touch you!

Astarion knows what will come next. Two half-orcs, who despise and hate elves to their guts will really enjoy having one for themselves for the whole night.

They’ll give him pain. Disgust. Burning touches.

"Entertain us, elf", the half-orc groans pressing the Astarion’s face into the pillow.

Here’s a joke: the elf wants to die. Sadly, he is already dead. And that's his life now. Forever.

Beatings. Non-consensual sex. Or consensual? Is this what he wants? He never says “no”, after all.

I want you all to burn down, Astarion thinks spreading his legs. I want you to suffer as much as I do!

The half-orcs never give him a chance to drag them to the Cazador’s mansion. They won't die. They won't suffer. They use Astarion and then leave. A small sack of silver breaks when it is thrown on the floor.

And Astarion will have to deal with his sore body and numb mind. Forcing himself to get someone else inside the brothel, knowing too well that he is already doomed for torture because he hasn’t returned on time. Even if he delivers the most innocent and beautiful virgin to Cazador, he will be punished anyway.

Flayed with a razor. What? He is a vampire. He will regenerate.

Astarion opens his eyes and finds himself on the floor.

Where is he?

It's not a brothel. More like an Inn?

Reality slips back into his mind, replacing the awful visions of the past.

It wasn't real. Of course, it wasn't.

He doesn't have to sell his body anymore. He doesn’t have to sleep with people he doesn't like and want. He won't be beaten for saying “no”. He even has the luxury to say “no” to Tav, the only person whose body he enjoys.

But two hundred years of memories are too vivid. Tortures. Humiliation. Misery. Forced prostitution. He had to do the most disgusting things on his master's whims, and Astarion is afraid nothing will ever wash it away.

The flood of darkness flushes his brain again. Astarion rises up on his knees as if in a desperate prayer.

Why him?

Why did it happen to him?

His life was stolen. His personality, his future, his past. All was brutally taken away along with his beating heart.

Leaving only pain and disgust.

Tears burn his skin. The scars hurt as if they are still fresh and bleeding.

He was stripped away of everything. Of freedom. Of dignity. Of his own self-respect.

The person he could have become. The future he could have embraced.

Why?

Why?!

He digs his nail deep into his skin as if trying to peel it off. He is a vampire. It will regenerate.

Touches. The smell of unwashed bodies. Movements inside him. The fake pleasure. Pain. Always — pain. Either physical or mental, but often both.

He clenches his fists and groans like a wounded animal.

"Astarion"

A gentle voice resonates with his broken thoughts.

“Astarion, are you with me?”

He looks up and sees Tav. She sits in front of him. Concerned face. Worried eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t try to touch him. Like he's a person.

Like he's worth something.

Like he's broken and she needs to be careful.

"Oh, hello, darling", the mask is on again. "I am sorry. I've been carried away a bit. Tell me how was your day in the sunlight."

Tav sighs. “Astarion, I returned an hour ago. And you’ve been like that all this time.”

"Darling, you could just call me over”, Astarion smiles.

"I have done it five times."

“Oh. Then … “

“Astarion, I know when your smile is sincere and when it’s not. Don’t force yourself.”

He stops and sits back.

“May I touch you?”, she asks.

He nods. The caress sends a shiver down his spine and Astarion flinches avoiding looking at Tav.

He remembers. Again, and again. Never-ending tortures disguised as pleasures. Things he would have never done voluntarily. The dirt on his skin. The poison on his tongue.

Astarion wants to hide. He wants to disappear. He wants to run away.

Tav crawls closer to him to hold him in her hands.

He shivers.

“Hush, I am here. Tell me what is plaguing you.”

He almost orders himself to relax. Tav is here. Tav loves him. Tav doesn’t judge. Whatever he tells her, she won’t get angry. She won’t hurt him. She won’t punish him. Tav won’t use him for sex and pleasure. It will never happen no matter what he does.

He can run away. He can say “no”. He can fight back.

"Just a memory of a certain night in the lower town. A night of... what I usually was supposed to do. I...” the words stuck in his throat. “I am tainting you, Tav. I am ruining you.”

"Stop", Tav puts her chin on his shoulder nuzzling his collarbone.

"I am a terrible person, Tav. I truly am. It all happened to me and I sometimes think what a terrible person I used to be if I inflicted it all upon myself.”

Instead of answering, Tav holds him tighter as if not to not allow him to drown in dark waters.

"Do you remember anything from your past life?"

"No"

"Then why do you think you were a bad person?”

“Because — … “

He doesn’t know the answer. A corrupt magistrate who would easily ruin people’s lives. An arrogant racist who hated everyone who didn’t belong to the pure fairy kin.

But was it true?

“Listen, Astarion. I won’t pretend I know what you were like back then. I won’t lie by saying I know why it happened to you. But everything you “know” about your past life comes from Cazador. What if it was just another of his tortures? He wanted you to believe you were a bad person. He wanted you to think you were guilty. I know that type. It’s a special pleasure for them to torture good people. He — “

“Made me a street whore.”

He spits the last word. Yes, that is what he was all these years. He can mask it all with fancy words. Conquests, lovers, seduction. When it was just abuse.

Words spill out of him.

"Sometimes I wasn’t even supposed to drag anyone to the mansion. It was more like retrieving information by doing the only thing I knew how to do well. Sometimes it was an order to pleasure someone - as a reward for them. Sometimes it was just pointless. Just one more thing to break me even more.”

"You say like you did it of your own free will", she says.

"I-"

"You did it because you were like a puppet. Because it was impossible to say “no”. The moment you set yourself free, you stopped doing that."

"And the first thing I did was seduce you!”

She cups his face and kisses his forehead. It causes another flow of tears.

“I have my own free will, too,” she says. “Do you think I would sleep with you if I didn’t want to? I am not the person who hooks up with men in brothels and I am not the person who would enjoy a sentient trophy to fuck. It’s not normal to find people on streets and treat them like objects.”

Tav cradles him in her arms. Astarion’s muscles are still tense. He can’t do anything about that. Maybe, if Tav leaves him for a moment, he will find a way to relax but the mere thought of staying alone scares him.

She kisses him. Saying all the sweet words she knows to soothe his worries.

"I have an idea," she finally says. “Could you lie on your stomach?"

“What for?”

Tav kisses his neck.

"Please?"

He is trying to lie on the floor but Tav stops him.

“On the bed.”

He hesitates but agrees. Astarion puts his hands under his cheek. His bare back is exposed and it causes him to clench his fists again.

“I will stop if you feel uncomfortable, love. Just tell me and I will stop”

He nods. Tav saddles him with her hips and presses hands on his ribs.

“Can I touch your scars?”

“Yes.”

Tav presses arms into his skin causing a pleasant pressure. The fingers massage his back but there is nothing sexual about it. It's not a premise, not a prelude. It will lead to nothing. He won’t have to pay back.

The hands massage his back, strongly and gently.

"You have beautiful hands”, Tav murmurs. “They can do so many things —”

Yes, he thinks darkly, bringing pleasure mostly.

“They can sew, embroider. Pick up lockers. Steal pretty things. I like watching you doing tricks with coins. Can’t take my eyes off. Speaking of which… ”

Tav touches his curls.

“You have incredible eyes. Crimson red – “

The color of blood.

“The color of wine”, Tav proceeds. “You are always vigilant, like a cat on a hunt. You notice small details and see things I don’t.”

Tav moves a bit to be able to press a kiss on the crown of his head.

“You are so smart. You know so many things.” She gently touches his right ear. “I love your ears and how they peek out of your hair. They are so adorable especially when they twitch a bit, reacting to sounds or to your jaw movements.”

She keeps talking to him, massaging his back. The words of reassurance, of love, sound like a prayer. The touches and kisses cover his skin like a healing ointment.

Astarion feels protected. Loved.

And then it’s just too much.

He bursts into tears. Desperate, painful. Tears rip his chest apart causing pain in the throat.

Tav stops and gets off him allowing him to lay on his back.

“Astarion… Did I hurt you?”

He wants to say something but he can’t. He cries like a child abandoned in the streets. Cries like he did many years ago when the first tortures were inflicted upon him. When he realized no one would save him. That the Gods were silent and merciless.

“Astarion…”

All the darkness he has in his heart is spilling through the tears. They wash away the pain and disgust like rain washes dirt in the Lower City.

With effort he pulls Tav to him pressing her to his chest. She wraps her hands around him.

“Thank you”, he mutters through tears.

They sit like that for an eternity. Astarion listens to Tav’s heartbeat and breathing. He remembers her first reaction to his stories – anger. Pure, livid anger. Anger to people who did this to him. Not only Cazador but everyone who treated him like an object. And sorrow – she mourned his past along with him.

She is his happiness. The happiness he has never considered worthy of. He has found it with her. And he will be forever grateful for her patience and care.

“Tav?”, he whispers but she doesn’t reply. He pulls away a bit and sees she is asleep.

Astarion chuckles and helps Tav to lie on the bed beside him. He tucks her into the blanket and makes sure she lies on the dry side of the pillow (not the section damp with his tears).

And then, he begins whispering words like a prayer.

Thank you. Thank you for existing.

Tag List

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @elora-the-slutty-songstress @veillsar @astarion-imagine-archive @micropoe10 @starlight-ipomoea @herstxrgirl @theearthsfinalconfession @ashrio20 @not-so-lost-after-all @vixstarria @wintersire @marcynomercy

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thecuriousquest · 5 months

Text

Princess (Daddy Loves You Part One)

Yan!Step Dad Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs @murderofravens

Warnings: Yandere themes, NSFW, spanking, guns mentioned, praise kink, Daddy kink, consensual vaginal sex, hair pulling, all characters are 18+

Master List

Part Two

My Ask Box is currently closed while I catch up on requests. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

—————————————————————————

Yan!Step Dad Toji who wears those tight black boxer briefs and an open robe while drinking coffee on the front porch.

Toji doesn’t get mad at you over much. He lets you dress how you want, doesn’t really care if you come home past curfew. Hell, he doesn’t even give a fuck if you’re dating.

Just as long as he can’t see you, his precious princess, with the guy, but that’s where you fucked up because why would you think there’s a problem? He never told you that you couldn’t bring boys over, never told you that you couldn’t date.

Why is this an issue? Because Daddy wants to make it an issue. Daddy’s been craving the perfect reason to punish his princess. He didn’t want to come off as a jerk and be the strictest father ever imaginable. Oh no. He wanted you to dote on him, he wanted to build a solid foundation and a great relationship with you before he showed off his darker nature.

He catches you on the couch watching tv with some guy in your class. A guy with no brawn and probably too much brain for his own good. He catches the dude with a hand on your knee, mindlessly thumbing the ripped fabric of your jeans.

Toji knows what he’s thinking about.

“Kid, get your hand off of her and get the fuck out.”

Both heads snap at Toji. Your eyes are like an owl. His mouth is parted slightly, forming the question “why”.

They weren’t doing anything wrong.

To Toji, you two were doing everything wrong. He can no longer live in his little fantasy about you being just his. He’s not sharing you. He’s not going to share his princess with anyone.

“I said-“ Toji starts as he puts the coffee down and removes his gun from the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Get your hand off of her-“ click goes the safety. Soon to follow, he cocks the weapon, “And get the fuck out. Or are ya heard of hearin’?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him run that fast in his life, and you’re about to run just as fast to your room when his arm shoots out and grabs you by the hair.

“Princess, Daddy’s real disappointed in ya. Gonna hafta punish ya real bad.”

You’re belly-down on the couch in an instant, your ass jiggling in those tight jeans with each spank from his large paw. You whine and writhe, but his knee on the middle of your back holds you still.

You can’t see the scar on his lip quirking up as he really lays into you, flaying your bottom a nice cherry red. He tugs your jeans down, giving you the real what-for a few more times on your bare ass just to really let the lesson sink in.

Toji flips you over on your back, pointing a finger in your face. “Never again, am I understood? I never wanna see ya with any fuckin’ creeps around here again. Ya got me?”

You blink up at him through bleary eyes, nodding to his stern command.

“You…you spanked me?” You can’t help but question. He’s never done anything like that before.

He drops his finger and stands up, jacked body on full display with his revealing robe.

“Yeah, and I’ll fuckin’ do it again if I see you disobeyin’ me or some shit.”

He sits down on the couch, man spreading, and pulls you in close to his side. You wriggle around, trying to get your jeans back over your hips. When you finally do, you rest comfortably against your step dad.

You honestly don’t know how to feel about him punishing you, but you can’t help squirming as you try to relive a tiny tingling feeling in your clit. Toji attempts to ignore you at first, but he finally breaks and puts you on his lap.

“Fuck,” he huffs, unable to bear it anymore.

You can feel his hard on poking your thigh as your hips wriggle.

“Ya really like gettin’ spanked that much? Like havin’ yer ass beat by a guy who’s stronger than ya?”

He chides and tsks, making that buzzing between your legs grow even further as he lets you break down right in front of him.

Adverting your eyes, you lean into the crook of his neck, mumbling against sensitive flesh, “Only when it’s you.”

You didn’t realize just how strong he actually is because he rips your jeans off of you. They’re tattered heaps of fabric by the time he’s done freeing you of your denim cage. He cups the fat of your swollen cheeks, fingers digging into beaten flesh as he spreads them.

You busy yourself with working his cock free from his boxer briefs while hovering over him, and your step father can’t help but laugh as he watches you struggle. But you’re determined, and somehow, with him sitting down and you trying straddle his lap, you get the damned thing off of him.

He plants you right on his fat mushroom tip, a little pearl of pre coating the head. You throw your head back, crying out for your daddy as he praises you for being so fucking tight.

“Knew ya were a good girl for Daddy. Always such a good fuckin’ girl.”

He really wants to see you bounce on his cock with your tits free, and Toji gets what he wants. You’re not surprised when he rips your shirt and bra completely from your body with one tug. It’s like an effortless motion for him. All nice and naked, he buries his face in your chest while squeezing the dough of your round bottom.

Up and down, up and down, your thighs soon grow tired as you learn of this man’s stamina.

Not liking you slowing your pace, he slaps your ass to get you moving. You yip, bucking your hips into him as you try and steady your breath. But as soon as you relax, your quaking thighs can’t help but start to seek out a more stress relieving position.

Toji, tired of how long this is taking, flips you on your slightly bruised rear. He fucks into you on the couch, thumping between your plush thighs.

“There’s an angel face. So fuckin’ pretty,” he compliments while brushing your locks back.

He slams his cock deep into you, making your pussy feel so cute and small. You end up gushing all over his cock like a sensitive little bunny, and Toji praises you for coming all over him.

“I really lucked out with you, huh?”

Soon after, Toji floods your pussy with his own. The show on the tv has changed to something else as he adjusts his boxer briefs and settles back down next to you.

“Clean all this up and change before your mom and Megumi get home.”

He smacks you on your ass to get you going, and you don’t want to refuse because you’re such a good girl.

“Yes, Daddy,” you tell him as you hurry to obey.

After this, Toji’s definitely going to have to start implementing more spankings into your life.

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infinitystoner · 8 months

Text

The Serpent of Sakaar

READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

Summary: A handsome stranger complicates your life.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Tags/Content: Flirting, Humor, Sexual Tension & Other Escapades on a Trash Planet, (Not Quite) Enemies to Lovers, Smuttish

Rating: Mature

The air is unbearably thick tonight. Potent. Sticky.

You slip through the crowd of chittering alien courtiers, concluding the only thing that will grant you reprieve from Sakaar’s never-ending bacchanalia is a nice, long bath.

Dodging a purring hologram of the celestial who rules this bizarre realm, you wonder if anyone else ever grows tired of it – too much of a good thing or whatever. The unexpected pivot lands you in the middle of the throne room, and your eyes traitorously fall on the charming newcomer standing at the edge of the Grandmaster’s dais.

The one they call Loki, although you doubt that’s his true name.

You’re well aware of the rumors, having started many of them yourself. Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with envy and everything to do with boredom. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as each exceedingly outlandish lie leaves your lips and falls upon greedy ears.

All you know for certain is that Loki is the bane of your existence after snaking his way into the high order’s inner circle and winning the favor of the Grandmaster within days – effectively disrupting the long con you’ve painstakingly exacted these past years and swiftly replacing it with one of his own.

And even though you hate that you recognize something familiar in him, you concede he is quite the gifted rogue. Executing each stratagem with ease. Imparting every countermove so effortlessly.

It’s maddening. He’s maddening.

His voice carries over the uproarious mix of music and chatter, regaling his audience with an undoubtedly embellished tale. And now he’s summoned your attentions, too. Dark curls rest gracefully atop pewter pauldrons, a garish blend of sapphire and citrine draping over his lean, leather-clad form. Cunning and handsome. The nerve of it all.

You glance at your own flamboyant attire. Beneath your bodice, an iridescent swirl of vermilion and silver flows to your ankles. You look like flayed salmon. But, if it pleases the Grandmaster…

Loki’s boisterous laugh shakes you from your thoughts and he turns on his heel, catching your unwary gaze. You ignore the stutter of your heart and the warm tingling in your core, instead focusing on how his regal brow furrows and his forced smile falls. But, as the facade quickly returns and he excuses himself from the revelry, his eyes – never breaking from your own – spark with intensity.

You have to get out of here. Now.

Ducking behind a group of faceless creatures, you shuffle along the gilded perimeter of the room, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The din of the party echoes off the walls, the unrelenting buzz pulsing in your temples and settling in the crevices of your mind. The discomfort results in a moment of hesitation, and you glance over your shoulder, but Loki vanishes into the crowd.

A portal to your left beckons with a soft, mechanical hum and you exhale, walking through the opening.

“Leaving so soon? I do hope I’m not the cause of your early departure.”

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the glaringly bright corridor, but there he is, just ahead, leaning against the hexagonal archway, a satisfied smirk on his infuriatingly gorgeous face.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you lie, squaring your shoulders and continuing your journey to the elevators.

“Things were getting a bit monotonous,” he offers, effortlessly falling in step beside you. “And I always find a nice, long bath invigorating after, well, after anything really.”

His words cause your feet to falter slightly – surely he can’t… but what if? Thoughts whirring, you frantically push the salacious image of Loki disrobing and stepping into a bath from your mind.

“I take it you agree,” he taunts, opening the control panel next to the elevator. “Which level?”

“71X-P.” What an ass.

Loki punches the code for the top-level suites, muttering something under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” you ask, stepping into the small space as the partition opens. The two of you ascend into the darkened sky – the jagged, glimmering expanse of the city on the other side of the glass shrinking beneath you.

“Oh,” he says. “I was unaware we reside in the same wing of this so-called palace. How fortuitous.”

“Indeed.” The word comes out more biting than intended.

Loki tuts. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me very much.”

You perch on the guardrail, refusing to give him more than a playful roll of your eyes before pretending to inspect your nails.

“But perhaps that’s just another of your machinations?” Loki hums, a mask of feigned contemplation crawling across his face as he stalks closer. Widening his stance, he cages you against the unyielding windowpane with his arms.

“Loki,” you warn, the warmth in your hips flaring back to life like embers reigniting beneath a thin layer of ash. Can he sense how wildly your heart is beating?

“Ah, so you do know my name. Although I must admit, darling, I’ve grown fond of the Serpent of Sakaar.”

He knows. He knows, and now what? Will he convince the Grandmaster to order a fight between you and his beloved champion? Or perhaps he’ll have you evicted from the palace? A life out there with the scrappers might be the only thing worse than a life in here under the thumb of a deranged celestial.

Everything is moving too fast, yet time stands still. Such is the way on Sakaar. Your stomach drops, settling somewhere beneath your feet as the lift reverses its trajectory, plummeting you towards a fate you aren’t prepared for. Yet a quick glance through the glass confirms you’re still steadily climbing up, up–

“You know, you’re quite…” Loki pauses, tracing the pattern of the silver cuff adorning your bicep with his forefinger. The rapid cadence of your breath cuts through the charged air, entwining with the weight of his gaze as it locks onto your parted lips.

When his eyes flit back to yours, the striking green of his irises is nearly eclipsed by his expanding pupils. “Clever.”

“I- I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Ah, but you do. And I must express my sincerest gratitude. Everyone here is so curious about my origins.” Loki raises an eyebrow, his fingertips ghosting a trail up your arm and across your collarbone. “And your crafty little rumors created the perfect illusion in which to hide. Even En Dwi Gast himself believes the stories to be true.”

“I find the best lies are the ones shrouded in truth,” you retort, regaining a modicum of composure when Loki’s jaw twitches at your subtle accusation.

“Such awful words from such sweet lips,” he says with an impish grin, brushing the back of his fingers along your jaw before tilting your face upwards — so close, too close, to his own.

“And do you think me wicked?” you say breathlessly, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“No more so than I consider myself,” he replies, the pad of his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. It’s a lie of omission, but as his cool breath fans over your heated skin, you realize you don’t care if his words hold truth or not.

Loki’s nose nudges yours, and any lingering apprehension fades away, an unfamiliar sensation enveloping you. It’s intoxicating and comforting and sets your skin aflame in each place his lips make contact – first the corner of your mouth, then just beneath your jaw, down the column of your throat, and back up again.

“You’re divine,” he murmurs, and you understand what it is you’re feeling. Intimacy.

His lips finally connect with yours and you melt into the kiss, curling your hands around the nape of Loki’s neck. Yet he hesitates to deepen it, pulling back each time your tongue runs across the seam of his lips. But, oh, the way he groans when you tug at his hair and take his bottom lip between your teeth makes you clench, your desire making itself evident between your thighs.

Through whatever alchemy is sparking between you, Loki senses it and slips his knee between your legs, causing you to moan in response.

“Oh, little fox,” he rasps, roughly bunching your skirts up in his fist before lifting your knee to his hip and slowly grinding into you. “Don’t tease me. I couldn’t bear it.”

If you had lovers before Loki, you can’t recall them – not now that he’s scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin below your ear and bringing you to the edge of ecstasy with each deliberate roll of his hips. He tilts his head, lips parting as his tongue finally slides over yours. It’s tender and warm and you ache for him.

“Level seventy-one X P. The Grandmaster welcomes you home,” a voice announces as the elevator door whooshes open.

Loki breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, puffing out a laugh. “So, fancy that bath?”

“Mm, sounds delightful,” you purr, grabbing his hand and leading him into the hall. His purposeful footsteps reverberate throughout the space, but you barely make it five steps before he pins you against a cobalt door.

“Stay with me,” Loki whispers earnestly, smiling when you softly kiss him in agreement.

You continue to kiss along his beautiful neck as he meddles with a beeping keypad just above your shoulder, drinking in the scent of him for the first time. He smells like earth and bergamot – with just a hint of something familiar you can’t quite place, yet it grounds you.

Allowing yourself another inhale, you gasp as it finally hits you: He smells of the ancient forests of Asgard.

Of home.

But that… that’s impossible.

“Just for tonight,” Loki says when he feels your body tense.

“Just for tonight,” you repeat as you follow him into his rooms.

You always were a liar.

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki #loki imagine #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki laufeyson

883 notes · View notes

myosotisa · 6 months

Text

Chasm - e.m.

Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

‖ summary: You're a researcher working at one of the fault lines throughout Hawkins, studying the closed and dormant gates to an alternate dimension. While you're alone on site, one of the gates wakes up again.

‖ tags: horror. i cannot stress this enough. this is unsettling and creepy and angsty with slight sexual tension. in line with the content in the show. post season 4, canon compliant. emetophobia warning. dubcon kissing. forced consumption (writing it made me gag just warning you. but im also kind of a baby so). no y/n, she/her pronouns used. flayed!eddie infects you. open ended ending. also steve is there sometimes. there's a ton of background lore that is only vaguely explained lol

‖ word count: 8.3k ‖ read on AO3 ‖ the song ‖

None of the rifts have shown any activity in over a year. Months and months of dead readings and no signals. Just waiting.

So what's a girl supposed to do when your EMF meter spikes alone on site? Sit around and wait for a crew to suit up and march their way over to the fault you were at? No fucking way. No chance.

You report in about the sudden spike in gamma radiation and tell them you're going to find the source. The project lead tells you to stay put and wait for assistance, as expected.

Your radiation gear was already halfway on. Oops, sorry boss, didn't hear you.

Handheld voltage meter in one hand, audio recorder in the other, and a pocket full of glow sticks, you push out past the plastic tarps and into the humid night air of Indiana summer.

The readings bring you west, toward the condemned trailer park and the "start" of your fault line. You crack a glow stick and drop it every few feet, marking your path. When the reading jumps up, you make a '+' sign with two at the spot before continuing forward. It was hard to say without exact measurements, but it seemed to be increasing at equal intervals. Like frozen waves on the surface of water.

"I'm approaching the Forest Hills sign," you say into the receiver, your own voice the only sound in the night air. "Current readings are…" You bring the meter up, using the light hanging from your neck to read the display. "Approaching 70 mv/m of high frequency radiation, roughly 31016 Hz. The next… 'Layer', for lack of a better term, will most likely breach Safe EMF levels, not considering the potential protection of the suit."

Lowering the meter again when it gives a beep of warning, you tuck it under your arm and crack another glow stick, leaving a '+' at the boundary to the trailer park. "I'll probably need treatment when I get back to base – as long as I grab a reading from the source and get out quickly, there won't be lasting damage. You hear that, Dr. Pierce?" You say through an over-confident huff, readjusting your arms to keep moving forward. "I'm well aware of the risks and take responsibility for my own actions."

The park itself looks like a bad dream at night – trailers abandoned hastily with doors still hung open and belongings scattered along the ground. Between the sudden fault opening and the bureau rushing in, the existing residents had been given very little time and grace to move into temporary housing across town. And it looked every bit like an entire community of people had just up and disappeared.

The suit you were in didn’t exactly help coordination, so you moved slowly and carefully over and around discarded objects along the dirt. Clothing, kitchen utensils, a quilt, a stack of newspapers, a child's toy. All left untouched for over a year.

Clearing the corner of one of the empty trailers, you catch sight of something strange.

“The fault itself has looked normal up to this point, no activity. But I can see the source now. It’s… It appears to be glowing red, fading in and out in a constant cycle.” Approaching even slower than before, you watch intently as the glow grows and then retreats again. Like waves on the shore.

The meter gives another shrill alarm – making you jump nearly out of your skin as you swat at it with the recorder. “Jesus Christ!” It quiets with a sinking pitch in your hand.

Before checking the reading, you quickly make another ‘+’ with glow sticks, digging them into the dirt a bit in an attempt to keep them from moving. Still down on one knee, you bring the meter up to your flashlight again.

“The meter is now reading 110 mv/m, same frequency. I’m roughly… 12 feet out from the source now. There’s a, uh, humming sound. Not sure if the recording is picking it up. And feeling pressure on my eardrums,” you explain into the device, eyes locked on the glow ahead. “I’ll continue to approach – see if I can get a closer reading. If it jumps above 150, I’ll fall back.”

Pushing to your feet again with a huff, you readjust your full load and press forward slowly. The closer you get to the source, you can see that the fault rapidly grows in size. The space between the edges looks large enough to fit a car as it rounds out at the end – a red pond in the ground.

“I can see the source clearer now. The glow is coming from within – there’s a…" You take a few steps closer, squinting to get a better look. "It appears to be an opaque membrane covering the space between. The glow is coming from behind it. Still cycling at an even rate, no change.”

The meter in your hand gives its shrillest warning yet, scaring you badly enough that it goes flying out of your hand; it hits the ground and flips closer to the edge. “Shit, fuck!”

You shuffle forward and drop down onto your shaky knees, grabbing for the meter as it continues to let out that grating alarm into the night air. Smacking it once more, the sound cuts off abruptly, giving you a chance to breathe.

Bringing it up to your flashlight, your eyes go wide as you lift the recorder again with your other trembling hand. “I’m nearly at the edge now, only a foot or so away – EMF reading 187 mv/m. Rapid increase from the last point.”

Movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention, your head snapping toward it.

“There’s… What the fuck?" You pause, tempted to rub your eyes to make sure you're really seeing what you're seeing.

"There’s movement below the membrane. It… It’s just a shadow, I can’t tell what it is, but the movement is rapid and the… The humming is getting louder.” Your heart is pounding now, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin beneath the suit.

“Going to retreat back to base,” you say, mostly attempting to reassure yourself as you slowly back away from the edge. “Final reading was 189 mv/m at 31016 Hz.”

There’s a crackle of static right before a thumb presses the pause button roughly, silencing the recorder in the center of the table.

“Is that all?” General Richard Highland asks, sounding impatient as he leans back in his conference chair. “That doesn’t tell us anything about what happened to her.”

“No, sir, there’s more.” Private Steve Harrington insists, inclining his head toward the dirty recorder he had delivered. He’s standing by the edge of the table at attention, hands clasped in front of him. “The recording keeps going.”

Dr. Pierce leans forward from his seat, giving the General a stiff look as he presses the play button again.

There’s a few more moments of static before the woman’s voice fades back in, layered beneath the hum of attempted interference.

“I’m definitely gonna need that rad treatment, Dr. Pierce. My badge is that warning color, even beneath the suit,” she continues with a shaky laugh, the sound of plastic shuffling behind it. “Hopefully I don’t lose my hair or something, but that’s… What?”

The table of scientists and military personnel sits in tense silence as her voice cuts out again. Half of them are on the edge of their seats, the others showing off a measured calm or disinterest. The general looks particularly annoyed and impatient, while Dr. Pierce looks almost like he wants to throw up.

“There’s… Something’s happening – I don’t–”

An abrasive crackle echoes out into the room, loud enough to send nearly everyone into a wince, before the recording cuts back in with the sound of screaming.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?! SHIT – I’ve gotta get–" A burst of interference sounds, followed by a metallic grating, like a ship groaning beneath the weight of the ocean.

Her panicked voice comes through, sounding further away than before. "FUCK! It – It’s got my ankle. Let go, you fucking piece of –! SHI–”

The recording cuts out to a buzzing hum.

No one moves for a few moments. Not until Private Harrington steps up to silence the recorder. “We found this recording, a lab issue EMF meter, and a broken flashlight at the edge of the fault." He explains, producing the other two items from the pack resting at his feet. "It was dormant when we got there – solid again.”

“So it just…” One of the other scientists starts, looking at Dr. Pierce uneasily.

“Dragged her through and went back to sleep.” Dr. Pierce confirms solemnly, his gaze locked on the dirty recorder.

“It’s never done this before?” A 2nd scientist, new to the project, asks. The others shake their heads. “So what do we do?”

All eyes turn to Dr. Pierce, who looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“We wait for it to wake up again.”

Wake up.

Come on, little lamb.

Wake up now.

Looks so peaceful.

But you’ve got to wake up.

…

WAKE UP.

There’s something wet on your face.

Feeling is slowly returning to your body, your eyes closed and too heavy to open. But there’s something dripping on your cheek – droplets running down toward your mouth. Sticking to your dry lips for a moment or two before falling off. You’re on the ground on your stomach, your cheek squished against something that feels like mud.

Your brain has yet to kick on fully as it tries to regain consciousness through a pounding ache, resonating with the throb of your left leg. It feels like you’re still wearing the rad suit, but the head piece is gone and it might be ripped in places – mud seeping in to touch your skin.

It’s almost like you’re sinking.

Eyelids fluttering open and you’re faced with a desaturated swamp. Like someone came through and sucked half the color out of it.

Lifting one arm is difficult, suctioned into the mud you’re laying in. Once you’ve freed it enough, you’re able to push off the sticky, wet sludge beneath you enough to roll over onto your back.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

You sit up with a start, your abdomen screaming in protest as your brain swims. Blinking through the blur in your eyes, you struggle to see anything at all in the dark – only momentarily granted sight by the flashes of red lightning overhead.

“Who’s there?” You call out into the dark, an attempt to sound brave, but your voice trembles as your eyes rapidly flit back and forth.

“Over here.”

The lightning flashes once more as you whip your head toward the voice – showing the silhouette of a man standing a few feet away. From what little you see, he’s tall and slender, head tilted to the side like he’s curious. There’s no chance you can see his face or anything else about him.

Until he’s in your face, crouched down right beside you – crossing the space and appearing in the span of a blink. It gives you a start, attempting to back up but getting caught up in the mud still suctioned to your lower half.

Your fear seems to bring a small smile to his face, plump lips tilting up at the corner. He looks so familiar… Long curly hair draped wetly over his shoulders, the sparse bangs across his forehead, and the soft turn of his nose. Curiosity gets the better of you as you lean in again slightly, squinting your eyes a bit more in the dark to see him better.

“I know you…” You insist softly, causing his eyebrows to raise slightly in surprise. “How do I know you?”

“No clue, because I’ve never met you in my life.” He replies, lips parting in a grin. “And I’m good with faces – ‘specially pretty ones.”

His response catches you off guard as your brain continues reeling and struggling to intake information, which is normally your forte. There’s a million questions on the tip of your tongue and you have no idea where to start.

“You’ll probably need to lose the suit if you want to get out of that shit,” he continues when you don’t respond, motioning to your stationary legs with a wave of his hand. And he’s probably right, with the way the mud beneath you is stuck tight to the shiny plastic. Your best hope is to try to use the suit as a stepping off point to get to stable ground.

“Where should I step once I pull out?” You ask, hoping he’ll understand your goal.

A blink and he’s gone again – another flash of red light placing his silhouette off to your left. “Think you can make it to here?” He responds, voice raised slightly and sounding like he’s teasing you or challenging you. It makes your competitive side flare up on instinct – a frustrated huff leaving your nose as you plan your escape.

Opening the front of the suit, you slip both arms out and let the upper half fall flat behind you. Pulling out both of your legs next, your butt sinks deeper into the ground, nearly sending you off balance as you quickly shift your weight forward onto your knees, using the suit as a stepping stone. It starts to sink, mud coming up over the edge and inching toward your knees, so you have to move fast.

Pushing to your feet makes it sink faster, wet sludge touching the side of your ankle just as you push off in a jump toward where the man was standing.

You land on the ankle that had been grasped by the tentacle, not realizing the throbbing meant it’d been twisted. It makes you cry out in pain and fall forward, directly into the man’s chest.

“Woah there!” He says in surprise, grasping onto your elbows to keep you sort of upright. Between the aching pain and the tears pressing at your eyes, you just barely manage to notice how cold and clammy he is – especially where his hands grip your bare biceps.

Rocketing back, you press your weight onto your good leg and put some distance between the two of you again, your dirty arms crossing over your tank top and smearing it with mud. “Sorry, my, uh, ankle…” You offer awkwardly, still not even sure who you’re talking to.

“Don’t worry about it, angel. You good?”

He actually sounds like he cares. Like he’s concerned for you. Who is he?

“I’ll be fine,” you insist stubbornly, swallowing down the lump of tears in your throat. Free from your precarious situation, at least partially, you struggle to figure out what to address first. “How are you doing that? Like… Teleporting? Or are you just moving really fast?”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “What–,” he disappears in a blink and then you feel a burst of air on the back of your neck, making your hair stand on end, “this?”

You lurch forward before turning around to level him a glare. “Yes, that – don’t do that.”

His hands tuck into the front pockets of the leather jacket he’s wearing as he shrugs, looking quite pleased with himself. “Sorry, angel, didn’t mean to spook you.”

Then silence falls, both of you eyeing each other – you suspiciously and him curiously. The extended pause makes you think you aren’t going to be told how anytime soon.

A breeze kicks up, rustling the branches of the trees in the surrounding swampland and sending a shiver down your spine. Suit lost, you’re down to a tank top, jeans, and a pair of no slip shoes (which were required for people working in the field for some reason). You were dressed for the humid interior of the field site tent in summer and it appears that you have landed yourself in a place where that is not enough.

Taking advantage of the silence, you try to remember everything you can about your studies into the ‘gates’ from when they were open. Very little was known beside second hand accounts and old data – some of which may not even be accurate anymore given the nature of the fault lines. If there was anywhere to start, it would be trying to find the gate you’d been dragged through.

With any luck, you could go right back to your dimension.

But that didn’t account for him. The pale, wet, unsettling-yet-somehow-charming guy that was still staring right at you.

“How long have you been here? Do you know?” You question cautiously, not wanting to upset him in any way.

“That depends, what year is it?”

Your heart drops into your stomach, completely at odds with the continued grin on his face. It looks almost manic now – like every time he sets you off balance brings him great joy. Deciding you’d actually rather not know how long he’s been in here, you move on.

“Have you been alone this whole time? Or are there other people here?”

His grin spreads, like he’s in on a joke you’re not aware of. “I haven’t been alone, no.”

This piques your curiosity again, adjusting your weight on your good leg. “Do you have a community here? How many of you are there?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” He suggests, taking a step or two away from you, his hands still tucked into his pockets.

The idea is tempting, if only to learn more about what is going on here, but there’s something nagging at the back of your mind. Something you should be remembering. Something you’re missing. Plus, for all you know, this man does not have your best interests at heart.

“I should probably try to find the gate that brought me here,” you say, slightly regretfully. “See if I can cross back over.”

“Oh, right,” he responds, tapping his forehead with his palm like it should’ve been obvious. “Yeah, I can show you the way.”

This surprises you again, slight concern causing you to stand up straighter. “You can?”

“Sure thing, the closest one isn’t far,” he motions behind him with a tilt of his chin, taking another step back. “Come on.”

So you follow the strange man into the dark, limping after him on your twisted ankle. The mud starts to dry on your skin, hair, and clothing – crusting over and hardening in places. You pick at pieces as you walk, letting the chunks and flakes fall to the ground behind you. From what little you can see, there are vines everywhere along the ground, weaving between tree trunks and layering over each other in place. The man seems to step over them – and you can’t tell if it’s on purpose or a coincidence – but you make a habit of not touching the vines just in case.

It’s unsettlingly quiet here. Every once in a while you’ll hear what sounds like an animal – a howl, a chittering, the thump of feet on the earth. But they are few and far between, leaving mostly just the rush of wind through the trees and a sort of muffled silence, pressure on your ears.

Your paranoia kicks up as the quiet continues, suspiciously eyeing the back of your escort as he leads you forward. For all you knew, he wasn’t leading you anywhere near the gate. You have no reason to trust him beyond the fact that he helped you get out of the sludge you woke up in. He was in this dimension after all, clearly familiar with it. That had to be a red flag if anything, given what little you actually knew about it.

So much was classified beyond your reach – the bureau was very specific with what you were allowed to read and know and what you weren’t. Given the dormant nature of the fault lines, it hadn’t been necessary for you to learn too much about the dimension on the other side. Most of what you studied and knew was about the gates themselves.

Even with the bureau being as paranoid and obsessive as it was – a lowly field researcher getting dragged to the other side and needing to survive hadn’t seemed to be on their radar.

The pessimistic part of you not-so-helpfully supplies that was probably just because they weren't very interested in your survival at all. They’d probably prefer it if you died here. If anything, your exposure to the other side made you more of a liability.

Maybe one they could experiment on, if you got lucky and survived.

This train of thinking isn’t helping anything. You could worry about what your life would become if you made it out.

Walking up to the lifeless and solid gate turns that into a very tentative if.

“Looks like the door’s shut tight,” Eddie offers vaguely, rocking back and forth on his heels as you circle the hole in the ground, like seeing a new angle will change something about it.

The opening looks largely the same as the other side, in the center of the abandoned trailer park with the forest surrounding. Your arms are covered in goosebumps as the breeze hits harder in the open field, no longer buffered by trees on all sides. On the bright side, it is slightly better lit here and you can see your companion a bit clearer now.

“Do you know how these things work? Like how and why it opens and shuts?” You ask desperately, looking at him from the other side of the crevice.

The corner of his mouth tilts up minutely, his shoulders shrugging. “Yes and no.”

The scowl returns to your face, frustration mounting as another shiver of cold racks your body. “Are you intentionally being unhelpful? Or are you just an idiot?”

His lips part in a surprised ‘o’, his eyebrows raising like he’s impressed. “That hurts, angel. I’m no idiot, and I think I’ve been plenty helpful. After all… I could’ve just left you to drown out there. Or maybe led you into a trap. Or left you for the dogs.” He taunts, returning to a toothy grin. The question of if he has your well being in mind gets more and more clear with a resounding no.

A fearful jolt runs down your spine as you stare him down, trying not to let your fear show. Grappling tightly to your anger, you taunt back, “Oh yeah? Then why didn’t you?”

A blink and he’s gone.

Your entire body goes on alert, tensing for attack as your heart starts to pound against your ribs. Eyes searching the immediate area in front of you come up empty. He’s either behind you or far enough you can’t see him in the low light. You never got an answer as to whether he’s moving quickly or teleporting or exactly how far he can get in the time you blinked.

He’s either long gone or… Trying to surprise you.

As soon as you have the thought, the hair on the back of your neck stands up – like some kind of unconscious sense of danger.

You turn in a quick 180 and he’s right there. Only a foot away from you with a sadistic sort of smile on his face. Your breath catches in your chest as it feels like a fist grabs tightly to your heart, suddenly much more terrified of the man in front of you.

That appears to be the way he prefers it.

“I think we can help each other.”

You blink at him, muscles pulled taut and ready to bolt as you try to figure out what the fuck he’s doing and what the fuck he wants. “What?” You question, your voice coming out a bit breathy and scared.

“I said, I think we can help each other,” he repeats calmly. “You help me, and I can help you get back home.”

“Why– What– H–how could I possibly help you?” You sputter, trying not to sound as terrified and confused as you feel.

His grin turns cheeky again, slightly less unsettling than it was a moment ago. “It won’t take much, angel, scout’s honor.” He says as he lays a hand over his chest. “You help me, then you’re free to crawl right back over to the other side and continue your life.”

Disbelief and uncertainty nags at you as you fidget in your spot, wanting desperately to put some more distance between the two of you but nervous to offend him. “So you can open the gate? You just want something in return?”

He shakes his head emphatically, appearing to be genuine in his denial. “I can’t but I know who can. They opened it before you were brought over.”

“And they would open it again? Just because you asked?” You question suspiciously, studying his facial expression for a sign that he’s pulling your leg again.

“Let’s just say that me and them have similar goals and leave it at that.”

There are 100 more questions on the tip of your tongue, but with the potential of getting back to your own dimension on the table, you’re reluctant to press too hard. He seems to recognize the battle you’re fighting with yourself as he laughs to himself. “You know what they say about curiosity, angel.”

An annoyed exhale punches out of your nose. “And I assume in this case that I’m the cat.”

“Bingo!” He says happily, tapping the end of his nose with his index finger. “So what do you say?”

There is so much you want to say. So many questions you want to ask. So much more info you need. But beggars can’t be choosers, you suppose.

“What would I need to do?”

His smile goes sharp again. “So glad you asked. I’d just need a kiss.”

A beat of silence. Then your expression drops in disbelief and disappointment. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” he insists, laying his hand on his chest again as he regards you intently. “And it’s gotta be real – gotta kiss me like you mean it. None of those little pecks you give on the cheek.”

A strange swirl of intrigue and revulsion mixes together in your gut as you continue waiting for the punchline. The ‘just kidding, your face was priceless’. But it doesn’t come.

“Is this some kind of sick joke? Been so lonely out here that you have to twist the arm of a desperate girl just to get some–”

“Hey.” He interrupts, his tone intense and cold. It shuts you up immediately, though you can’t say why. “Don’t be mean, angel. This isn’t just me trying to take advantage of you. It has a real purpose.”

The dubious look you give him makes him crack another small smile. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I’m telling you the truth.”

“And am I allowed to know what this purpose is?”

He shakes his head again, displacing the curls draped over his shoulders that still appear to have not dried at all. “I’ll tell you when it’s done, how about that?” He offers, using your curiosity against you to try to sweeten the deal.

Really, it’s a no brainer. Sure, he’s a strange person that lives in an alternate dimension that has some strange abilities. Sure, you know next to nothing about him despite that itch in the back of your head telling you that you know him somehow. And sure, this could be a huge mistake. But having to kiss this admittedly-attractive dude just to get out of this nightmare dimension and get back home? The choice is simple.

Which only makes you more certain there’s a catch you aren’t seeing.

“Fine. If you swear I’ll be able to go home, then I’ll do it.”

His expression brightens excitedly, a sort of childlike joy appearing on his face. It’s different from any of the expressions you’ve seen on him so far – like genuine surprise. “You will?”

“Yeah, sure.” You reply, trying to brush it off as nothing. “Not like I have a lot of other options here.”

His excitement fades slightly, though he still looks pleased with the outcome. “Glad you made the right decision.”

An unsettling silence falls as the two of you study each other once more, now much closer than the last time. Fear and anticipation builds steadily as you find yourself glancing down at his lips – realizing you’re about to know what they feel like on your own.

“Do we, uh,” you pause to clear your throat as you awkwardly break the silence. “Do we do it now? Or… What?”

He takes a step closer, entering your personal space. His voice is lower, stickier, and richer when he responds. “Do you wanna do it now, angel?”

You suddenly feel like a fly stuck in a honey trap – eyes widening as you struggle between wanting to further close the distance and to run away from him. “Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose?” Though you meant it to be nonchalant, it comes out as a nervous question.

The uncertainty in your voice only seems to make the man crack another amused smile. “I suppose so,” he replies softly, gently teasing you as he gets even just a little bit closer. You can feel your heart pounding in your neck, constantly flipping back and forth between fear, interest, nerves, and embarrassment. Looking at you through slightly lowered eyelids, he leans in toward you. Close enough you can feel the exhale of his breath on your face.

“Kiss me like you mean it, angel.” He reminds you quietly, the tip of his nose nudging against yours as your eyelids flutter closed instinctively. “Don’t forget.”

Then his lips are pressing to yours. You make a small noise of surprise, both in that you weren’t sure if he was actually going to do it and because he’s so cold. But his lips are plush and soft as he places your lower lip between his own. As promised, you kiss him back, trying not to think about how strange it feels that he’s cold and the situation you’re in – focusing on the gentle pressure of him as he steps even closer and brings his hand up to cradle your jaw.

It’s gentle and sweet as you find yourself starting to forget the reality of it all. Your hands find the edges of his leather jacket, tugging him closer as he hums happily. His other hand finds your waist – cold through the thin fabric of your tank top.

Teeth nip lightly at your lower lip and you make another small noise of surprise, a flash of heat through your chest at the pleasant feeling. It distracts you further – not even questioning the adventurous flick of his tongue against your mouth. You part your lips on instinct; his hand flexing happily against your jaw as he tests the waters to run his tongue along yours.

You return the gesture, encouraging the touch as you breathe heavily through your nose. You’re running low on air and will need to part to breathe soon. You’re surprised to find that you aren’t really sure that you want to stop to do so.

He seems to recognize the impending need too; his lips pressing against yours more insistently, like he’s getting what he can before it ends. His tongue ventures past your lips one more time, pressing further than he had before. Is… Is his tongue longer than normal?

In the same moment that he pulls away from you, the hand on your jaw claps over your mouth to keep it shut. And there’s something in your mouth.

There’s something moving in your mouth.

You make a high pitched noise of panic as your eyes double in size, looking at him in terror while he holds you tightly to his front and keeps his hand firmly over your mouth. “Ah, ah, angel. You gotta swallow it.” He coos, his palm clammy and cold against your slick lips.

You shake your head as well as you can with his grip, making noises of protest as you struggle to keep the smooth, wiggling object from sliding down your throat. Your hands grab at his wrist and forearm, trying to pull him off, but his grip is too strong. Begging him with your eyes, sharp and stuttered breaths coming out of your nose as you hyperventilate, he just gives you a sad smile. “It’s not that bad, I promise. Just gotta swallow and it’ll be over – don’t make me plug your nose.”

Painful tears poke out of your eyes and start to descend down your cheeks, nails digging into his skin to try and get him off. It seems not to affect him at all, his other hand giving your waist a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, baby. It’s gonna be okay. This is it – you won’t have to do anything else. Come on, angel. You can do it. Just swallow for me.”

His words of encouragement make your head spin in confusion, panic mounting as the outcome seems inevitable. More tears pour down your cheeks as you choke on a sob, inadvertently allowing the object to slide down your throat.

“There we go,” he sighs in relief, grip on your face loosening, “Good girl.”

Somehow he knew that you’d swallowed it because he releases you right as you start to cough roughly, stumbling away from him and bending forward. You can still feel the strange coating from the creature on your tongue and down your esophagus – thick and wrong as you cough and gag.

Get it out, get it out, get it out, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!!

“What was– How do I– I’ve gotta–” You stammer, stumbling over your words as you tremble wildly and gag, your body responding to your panic by wanting to reject the new contents of your stomach.

He appears right beside you again, gripping both of your wrists with his hands as he forces you upright. “Don’t throw it up.” His voice is a command, his expression intense. “If you throw it up, I’ll have to force feed you another one. And trust me, it’s way less fun the 2nd time.”

Tears continue to pour from your eyes as you rapidly shake your head. “What was– What is– Why are you doing this? What was that thing?”

“Calm down, angel, please calm down,” he begs, starting to look distressed himself. “It’s gonna be okay, I swear, it’s gonna be fine. You’re a part of something bigger now. It’s all going to be okay.”

You try to pull out of his grip on your wrists, alternating between yanking back and rushing forward to push him away. “What the fuck does that mean?! What have you done to me?!” You shout through your tears, white hot panic spreading through your body. “It’s not too late – I can still, I can still throw it up, I can…”

He drags you in, wrapping you up in a tight bear hug with your arms trapped between the two of you. He shushes you, standing steady against your weakening struggling against him. “Shhh, shh, it’s alright, angel. It’s okay. You’re gonna get to go home, okay? We’re gonna get to go home.”

“Sir, we’ve got activity.”

Dr. Pierce pushes out of his desk chair fast enough to make his head spin – lack of sleep and too much coffee weakening him beyond measure. He’s barely left the main building since you went missing.

Since you were dragged through.

There have been constant patrols of the fault line you disappeared into, hoping for any sign of it waking up again. It was on his order and against the wishes of General Highland. She’s a level 1 researcher. She knew the risks. It’s not worth the cost.

But you didn’t know the risks, not really. Pierce knows he didn’t do enough to prepare you, to warn you. He didn’t do enough to protect you.

This is his fault.

He’s not the only one buzzing with anticipation as he exits his darkened office; several other scientists and field agents are reacting to the news of activity with a rush. Not everyone will be allowed to go to the site, as it would be a madhouse, but several live cameras and other surveillance equipment have been set up in the area. At least a quarter of the bureau across the country will be intently watching whatever happens next.

Pierce says nothing as he makes his way for the garage and the people he passes know better than to approach him now. He can still feel their eyes – judgemental, curious, concerned. He’s felt their eyes for days.

There are several SUVs already prepared by the time he arrives, most already full of people who were approved to be on site in the case of reactivation. He recognizes the soldier standing by waiting for him as Private Steve Harrington, the same man who brought in the recorder originally. He’s one of the few people at the bureau with prior knowledge of the other dimension despite his low rank.

“Sir,” he greets with a respectful head dip, opening the backdoor of the SUV for Pierce as he approaches. Pierce returns the gesture before climbing into the backseat, sliding across the bench to the opposite side. Steve gets in after him, his bulky gear forcing him to sit far forward on the bucket seat as he slams the door closed behind him.

It only takes another minute or so before the caravan lurches and begins to move, following after the identical black SUV in front of it.

The walkie-talkie on Steve’s shoulder kicks to life quietly, a short and concise signal coming through that Pierce doesn’t understand. The exhausted scientist looks over curiously as Steve murmurs an, “Affirmative,” into the device before clicking it off.

“Any news from the fault?”

Steve glances over, surprised to be addressed, before he turns back to look out the front windshield. “Nothing yet, sir.”

Pierce keeps an eye on the soldier as they travel – watching with intrigue as the man continuously searches the vehicle’s surroundings, like he’s expecting an attack.

“You seem on edge, Steve.” He straightens in response, looking even more uncomfortable at being referred to by his first name. “Is it because the gate is active?”

A muscle in his jaw rolling with tension, Steve keeps his gaze firmly forward as he responds. “It doesn’t supply a good feeling, that’s for sure.”

“And yet you still volunteered for the theoretical strike team to go through?” Pierce wonders aloud, phrasing it like a question.

There’s a tense moment of silence before the private answers. “At least I already know what to expect on the other side.”

The two don’t interact again for the reminder of the drive.

The SUVs all pull into the vacant field beside the field tent in a line, the leader of the patrol team coming out to meet the first vehicle. Pierce watches General Highland step out of it and start to converse with the uniformed woman. By the time he makes it way over, he seems to be catching the tail end of the conversation.

“We have each unit spread out in even intervals along the fault; so far there has been no change since it first activated.”

“And they all have their protective equipment on, I presume?” Dr. Pierce cuts in, surprising the patrol leader and earning an annoyed look from General Highland.

“Yes sir,” she responds with a head nod. “I was just telling the general that they’re all outfitted with gear to protect them from the worst of the radiation, but it would still do good to regularly swap out the unit in the center, where the worst of it is.”

Pierce agrees with a stiff nod, not waiting to hear the general disagree before he turns to look back. As he expected, Private Harrington trailed him over, waiting a respectful distance away as to not eavesdrop. “Harrington.”

Steve turns at the call, jogging over to Pierce. “Sir.”

“Suit up. You’re coming with me to the source.”

“Yes sir.”

The pair of them push into the field tent, currently staffed with 15 more people than usual. There are researchers and scientists bent over displays and documenting readings, soldiers standing by with weapons, field agents watching over the researchers shoulders. Pierce walks past all of them, parting the way as he does, and starts to strip off his lab coat while pulling a radiation suit off the rack. Steve follows suit, removing a majority of his gear to reequip on top of the plastic suit.

The buzz of excited chatter is nearly grating on Pierce’s ears as he goes through the annoying process of putting on the PPE. But he misses it when it suddenly cuts off, directly after one of the researchers announces, “We’ve got a spike in activity!”

Pierce looks over at Steve, who is still clipping things to his belt again. “We’ve gotta move.”

“Yes sir,” Steve repeats once more, gathering the bare necessities in his arms to try to equip as they move. The pair of them push out the other side of the tent and set into a jog towards what used to be Forest Hills Trailer Park.

They pass a few pairs of outfitted people as they move – soldiers patrolling and scientists maintaining the monitoring equipment placed along the fault. None of them interact as the pair jogs past, heading for the end of the fault line. They can see a small group ahead – presumably gathered closer to where the spike in activity happened.

“Make some room!” Steve barks out as they approach, the gathered group moving further away from the fault line in response. Some look back to see who is coming while others keep their eyes locked on the glowing source beyond.

“Keep at least 10 feet back from the fault at all times,” Pierce orders the group as they pass. “Stay in pairs, don’t go off on your own. We have very little idea what we’re dealing with here, but we have reason to believe there are things that will try to drag you through the gate. If something comes out, fall back and call out. Don’t let your partner get grabbed.”

There is some murmuring in response, but no one openly disregards the order, starting to pair off as a few people move further back along the fault line. Pierce approaches a pair hunched over a meter near the source, keeping his eyes on the glowing red below. “What are we looking at?”

“It’s fluctuating slightly; was 116 mv/m at 31016 Hz at peak.” The researcher responds, keeping a close eye on the EMF before them. “Nothing close to the reported 189 mv/m. We might not be looking at full activation. Or maybe it’s building up, it’s hard to say.”

“Wait,” Steve cuts in, holding a hand out for the researcher to pause. “Do you hear that?”

They all fall silent, listening closely.

Then Pierce hears it – the hum from the recording. The one you were talking about hearing.

The scientist gives him a nod of agreement before looking back to the researcher. “Any sign of movement from the other side?”

“Not that we can tell from here,” the field agent answers for them. “We’ve been following the guidelines to stay back so it’s hard to catch anything from here.”

“Radio? Portable EMF?” Dr. Pierce asks, and the field agent presents both. He takes them and then looks back at Steve. “We’re moving up.”

Even behind the protection of the face shield, Pierce can see the tension in his expression. Regardless, the private still answers with a confident, “Yes sir.”

Keeping the meter within eyesight, the two push ahead, closer to the large opening at the source. Pierce watches it tick up with each step closer, crossing the 150 mark as they get within 5 feet of the edge. Looking out across the opening, the glowing membrane pulses and hums with energy, louder and louder as they approach.

There’s very little movement on the other side, but every once in a while Pierce catches a glimpse of a dark shadow moving beyond.

“Never gets any less unsettling to look at,” Steve murmurs beside him, shifting his weight between his feet as he keeps his eyes locked on the unbroken membrane.

“Dr. Pierce, we’ve got another spike!” The researcher calls from behind, voice sounding a bit concerned. “We’re edging 170 now.”

The humming increases steadily along with a slight vibration in the ground beneath their feet. Steve steps up beside Pierce, a hand out like he’s ready to drag him back from the edge, as Pierce stares into the membrane intensely.

Come on. Come on. Come back through. Just be alive. Come on. Please be alive.

A more defined shadow moves along the edge closest to the trailer and doesn’t pull back. “We’ve got movement!” Steve calls back, alerting the nearby units as Pierce’s hand flies out to hush him. They both watch with a certain level of horrified fascination as the shadow grows defined enough to make that section of the membrane appear black before it begins to tear.

A bare hand extends out of the membrane, blindly grasping for the nearby edge. Steve twitches forward, like he wants to go and help them, but Pierce holds him back wordlessly, leaving them both standing perfectly still as another hand appears and grabs onto the edge.

The person uses the grip on the edge to pull themselves through – a woman in a filthy tank top and jeans struggling to pull herself onto the flat ground. As soon as she is through, she quickly turns around on her knees and reaches back through the membrane.

You’re… You’re actually alive.

Several soldiers approach slowly with their rifles out, aiming at you as you take hold of someone else’s hand and start to pull them through. A pale man with long, messy hair appears from the other side, holding on tightly to you as you help him reorient to the change in perspective. “No way…” Steve whispers, standing frozen as he watches them start to sit up and look around.

“Dr. Pierce!” You call happily once you spot him, waving at him like you’re excited to see him. There’s a huge smile on your face, a stark contrast to your utterly disheveled appearance. “I made it! I’m back!”

The soldiers continue to keep their weapons trained on the newcomers, watching for some sign of aggression. You slowly get to your feet, offering your hand to your companion and helping him up too. Steve takes a few mindless steps towards them, Dr. Pierce no longer stopping him. “Eddie?” He calls uncertainly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Eddie, is that you?”

The man’s head perks up, looking in Steve’s direction. “Harrington?” He replies, sounding just as uncertain and confused. “Is that you in there?”

“Eddie, as in Eddie Munson?” Dr. Pierce asks Steve, still unmoving as he stares at you, seemingly unharmed.

“Yeah…” Steve breathes out, still looking stunned. “And he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day.”

You and Eddie start to walk over when a soldier barks at you to stay back, both of you nervously putting your hands up as you look between the armed soldiers, Steve, and Pierce.

“It’s me, Dr. Pierce. It’s really me.” You insist, looking at him pleadingly. “And this is Eddie, he helped me find my way back. He saved me.” You add, motioning to the man beside you. The two of you are close together; you stand slightly in front of Eddie, like you’re protecting him. Eddie just offers a sheepish smile and a shrug, like it was no big deal.

“Sir? What do we do?” One of the soldiers asks, glancing in Dr. Pierce’s direction.

The two of you look exhausted, dirty, hungry, but… Harmless. No worse for wear despite the time spent on the other side.

“Bring them in.” Pierce orders. “No excessive force. They’ve been through a lot.”

The soldiers nod, lowering their weapons and urging you both to come forward. You look particularly relieved, while Eddie appears mostly unphased by all of it.

“Thank god, I need a shower so badly.” You announce with a happy laugh, walking toward them as you shake your head and make a disgusted face. “No one smell me, I’m begging you.”

If anyone finds your behavior unsettling or strange, they don’t say so. Everyone mostly looks relieved it didn’t turn into some kind of fight. While there is something off about how you’re acting, Dr. Pierce can’t find it in himself to feel anything besides relief at your return.

Steve stands motionless and tense as Eddie approaches, looking every bit like he’s seen a ghost. There is no excitement, no relief, no… Trust. Like this is all a bad dream and he just wants to wake up.

Just before you and Eddie pass the two of them, you flash another excited smile. “And not a moment too soon – I’m so thirsty.” You look over at Eddie, who nods in agreement, before you continue walking toward the field tent in the distance, flanked on either side by armed soldiers.

Eddie stops by Steve, giving him a tilted smile. “Hey Harrington, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same to you,” Steve replies, his tone apprehensive and flat. If Eddie catches on, he doesn’t show it, just continuing to show that same smile – like he knows something you don’t.

“What can I say?” He offers with a shrug and a wink before he continues to trail after you and toward the growing crowd beyond. “It’s good to be back.”

thanks for reading, please let me know if you liked it!!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson oneshot #flayed!eddie munson #kas!eddie #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #posting a oneshot that barely explains an entire fic universe you've never told anyone about :)#myos ideas #myo4munson

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nocturnesmoon · 5 months

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And no room for error (1/2)

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Reader Word count: 5.6k Tags: Angst, Hurt/comfort, Happy ending, Established throuple, polyamory, military inaccuracies, Mental instability, Ambiguous reader CW: Kidnapping, Human trafficking, Torture, Panic Attacks, Anxiety, canon typical violence, Allusions to unhealthy habits A/N: Forever holding these two close in my heart. Can be read as a standalone but might do a part two i dont know yet (Part 2) (Read on Ao3) -They come home to an empty apartment-

Johnny feels sick.

As he stares at the open door at the end of the hallway, he feels sick. The one he spotted when he wasn't even fully up the stairs and made him sprint the last few steps only to stand frozen when it's in full view.

He feels the worry gnaw the insides of his stomach, all the excitement that was eating him alive only moments prior, now transformed into a wretched beast of anxiety. The clutch on his duffel bag tightens, the string underneath his palm cutting uncomfortably against his skin.

He doesn't even need to be all the way there to see that the door is halfway off its hinges, or the hole that's been punched through it. It’s all types of wrong, something that shouldn't ever be, not on their apartment, not with you in it.

It’s as if a part of him fully blacks out, no thoughts, no feelings, only one purpose. He walks the short distance like a man possessed, dropping the duffel just outside the broken entrance before marching through it.

He calls out your name and finds no answer. His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable as your name falls from his lips again, over and over again in a desperate prayer. He moves like a jittery animal through the apartment, he doesn't take notice of its state, he doesn't spend extra time investigating, seeing the damage, he doesn't have to.

He knows what it means, the horrible implications and the terrible outcomes. He flays open the door to the bathroom, nothing, he opens the door to the home office with his shoulder, nothing, he carefully opens the door to your shared bedroom, terrified at the emptiness. The lack of your presence was something he never wanted to feel, something in his heart reaching out to you and failing to find you.

He stops, standing in the middle of the room that's in shambles. He sees the dresser that has its contents flipped upside down, some of your favorite clothing pieces torn to shreds on the wooden flooring.

He sees the splintered wood on the bedframe, a place that they had spent so many orange mornings with you in, the sheets now ruffled and unkempt void of a morning glow. He sees the broken mirror, the same one you insisted on having when the three of you moved in, you said you'd use it, but you never really do.

He sees the damage; he sees the sign of struggle.

The evident feeling of what happened here makes his muscles stiffen, his joints feels like they're about to snap. His head blacks out, fills up with an angry fog, tears prickling at his eyes and cold shame bleeding through his back.

It's a horrible feeling that makes him want to puke up his emotions, a habit they coaxed you out of after extensive support. He wants to think better thoughts, that you are at your friend’s house, and this happened while you weren't here.

But as he feels the looming presence behind him and hears the duffel bag crash against the ground out of shock, he knows this is happening and it's the most terrified he's ever been.

Where were you? Who were you with? Are you hurt? Are you even still alive?

Questions of horror plague Simon's mind as he paces the living room of disarray. The place had been completely ransacked, not only were you gone, but everything they had of sentimental, or material value had been destroyed, not taken, destroyed.

A nightmare come true, no, something worse than. It made Simon's skin crawl, his stomach doing twists in hopes of finding a better feeling. He felt freezing cold, the apartment was frosty, the heater you loved to sit in front of on cold winter mornings hadn't been used in too long.

How long have you been gone? How long has it been since they took you?

He hadn't felt fear like this in a long time, something that came to compare with a certain unspoken Christmas. A fear that kept him from getting too attached to anyone, not until he met Johnny who tore down his defenses, or you who phased right through his walls of reinforced steel.

Now it creeped its way back into his senses, reminding him that they failed to conceal you, they failed to keep you out of view, they did not keep you safe, and you were suffering the consequences of it.

Simon called the cops as soon as he got out of his own shock, he called Price immediately after knowing which of the two would be faster. Price had always been fond of you since the day they introduced you to him. Various holidays spent with Price and his family since they didn't live far, and you clearly enjoyed his cooking just a tad more than Johnny's, even if you didn't want to admit it to their faces.

Simon was still holding the phone to his ear long after Price had hung up with the promise of being right there. The phone was still warm against his skin, making him want to not pull it away and feel the eerie chill that the apartment shouldn't have.

He looks towards Johnny who's sitting on the couch, even more eerie than the apartment itself. He's too quiet for any of this, Simon had halfheartedly expected him to go off the rails in this type of situation, but no. He's completely quiet, staring down at a pair of dog tags in his hands, clutched tightly like they might disintegrate if he lets them go.

It's the dog tags they gave you, the fake ones they got made with each of their names since you were so fixated on their actual ones. Despite how much they adored the look of you with nothing but their tags, they would still need them in the field when they went out. To remedy it, they got you your own, one with Simon’s name and one with Johnny's, a mark to claim you as theirs.

You never went anywhere without it after you first laid eyes on them. You'd always have them dangling around your neck if you went out, or if the outfit called for something else, you'd have them wrapped around your wrist, or safely tucked in your pocket.

It was your piece of them, something to hold close whenever they weren't home. A testament to the fact that they still had their own, that they were not gone forever and would come back to you. You weren't wearing them now; you didn't have them with you.

"Who do ye think it was?" Johnny's voice interrupts the cold dread silence that filled a living room that was supposed to be warm and safe.

Simon's head snaps up, the muscles in his arms finally relenting and letting him take the phone away from his ear. "What?" much like Johnny's, his voice had that constant tinge of fear ever since they entered the apartment.

"Ye know how many enemies we've made" Johnny sighs, his head bowing down to rest his forehead against his knuckles, "Which of the sick bastards do ye think took 'em." It makes Simon sick to even consider, but it’s becoming blaringly obvious that it was what happened to you.

Nothing else would make sense in their heads, this was no ordinary break in. If you were staying somewhere else, you'd answered their dozen calls, and their 50 messages. There was no reason for you leave, no reason for you to ghost them and leave the apartment like this.

"We must've been made a mistake somewhere, left a trail, led them right to here," Johnny continues, going down a spiral road that promises a fall to every turn. "Right to them" he tries to conceal the crack in his voice, biting down on his tongue to stop the rising panic in his chest.

It’s no use, there's no getting past Simons observant gaze, not a feeling to be hid when his eyes flickers over you and brings out every little thought you've ever had. "I called Price," Simon's voice becomes a tether between them, something to bind them together and hold the uncontrollable explosions in their chests at bay.

He pockets his phone and moves over to where his lover is sitting. Every step feels like his legs are full buckets of water, sludgy movement accompanied by a certain lightheadedness. He has to stay strong for the both of them, for you, wherever you are now.

He positions himself between Johnny's legs to take his attention away from your dog tags. His roughened hands gently glide over the stubble on Johnny's cheek, guiding his eyesight upwards and bringing him into an encompassing hug. One to keep him tugged away from the scene, away from the reality. A hug to compress them both together, to stop them from falling apart in your absence.

Simon doesn't view himself as a religious man, spiritual or anything of the sort, but right now he prays. He prays to any god that will hear him, any entity that will look upon his bloodied soul and carry pity for him. He prays for your return, your life, your being, that when they find you, and they will find you, that you won't be hurt, that you will still be you.

Price comes first, as expected, the police shortly after. When he first saw Simon's number pop up on his phone, he felt confused. There was no fear in him yet just confusion because Simon doesn't call ever, unless it's important.

When he found out the reason, he felt the claws of fear himself. A situation everyone in the 141 grapples with, when they have the knowledge of loved ones at home. Knowing it was you only made the fear worsen.

Though skeptical, he had been happy when the boys had introduced you to him, happy that they found something to care for and trust other than themselves. He had multiple times admitted to himself how well the three of you fit together, each of you completing something that the other would be missing.

The paternal or brotherly instinct in him that he held for his boys in the 141 quickly translated over to you as well. Much like for anyone else in his family or the 141, he'd go to great lengths for you. In fact, he's pretty sure he broke a traffic law or two to get here so fast.

He watches from afar by the staircase, Simon was talking to one of the police officers that came by his body rigid ever so tense. He knows that this is something that could destroy these two to a new level, a level Price would not have seen before.

He knew Simon better than Johnny, and while Simon prided himself in looking like he had it all together, he had seen the man in his worst times, and it was destructive. A place he could barely pull the man out of once he sunk down to it.

Johnny had placed himself on the staircase, unable to face the direction of what was once a home of warmth and safety. He was quietly talking to Kyle on the phone, informing him and of what they knew and what they didn't, in a sense helping each other calm down while preparing what needs to be done.

Kyle had offered to come over there asap, sounded practically halfway out the door but Johnny managed to talk him out of it. Price was already here, along with him and Simon and the police it was already a crowd that didn't need more attention than necessary.

Price had stopped listening a while ago, trusting any other finer details for Johnny to deliver. He was focused solely on Simon and the officers. They looked almost bored as they listened to Simon explain the needed details, their general lack of respect firing irritation into his veins.

He knew that he cared for them in a way no superior technically should, this wasn't just about keeping his soldiers in one piece so he could have use of their skills in the field, it was about the bond they shared, the traces of family between them all. It brought them together when needed, they could trust each other to see things through, and help when things seemed hopeless.

That trust extended to you too, a heart full of so much emotion you never failed to surprise Price with your range. He had met so many different people in his time, and rarely did he ever find someone like you, a personality of range so raw it repelled the wrong people and drew in the ones that could handle you.

He looks towards the door that creeks open, red fiery curls, that you had described one time over tea, poking out along with a set of curious eyes. A nosy neighbor you had particular disdain for, finally now looking to see what all the noise is about.

He gives them eyes sharp like daggers, promising blood, and vengeance if they didn't kindly close the door again. It often fell into topic during your teatime with him, petty gossip shared between the two of you. You had called them creepy, perverse, gross, eyes that stared too long at you when you passed in the hallway, and words drawn out as if you keep you close longer whenever you talked.

Price already had plenty of reason to distrust and dislike them, but even more so now because of their plain ignorance. Even if they didn't know how long ago the deed was done, the damage is noticeable, the noise it must have made when it was done isn't something you just miss.

No, your neighbors had deliberately ignored the obvious signs. Walked past it thinking someone else will call it in, someone else will help, but nobody ever did. The red curls disappeared again, most likely got bored with the lack of a scene to watch now that the police were searching the home.

"You think they will find anything?" Price's attention was promptly brought back to Johnny, who had seemingly finished his phone call. Now looking up to him with worry and fear, occasionally glancing back at the open door and wincing at the reminder.

He wants to assure him, to tell Johnny that yes, they will find everything they can, they'll build a case, your sweetheart will be safe and sound within the morning, but Price doesn't like to lie to them when it doesn't benefit them.

"No…" Price answers with a sigh, his arms coming to cross over his chest, "But we will find something."

He can already feel it in the way the officers halfheartedly take on the case, the disinterested stares, their overworked faces. They won't find anything, and they certainly won't find you. Even if they wanted to it's more likely that this is beyond them.

This isn't something simple, it’s something that could go way back. A deliberate hit on the two of them, revenge maybe, or a message. Time would reveal which one, only one thing was certain right now, you were their top priority.

The first few days back on base are like hell for Simon and Johnny. Having to go back to work with the knowledge of your absence makes both of them go a little mad. They know Price is doing everything he can to speed it along, to find out something about your whereabouts, but it takes time.

Meanwhile they're left with nothing to do except work and wait. They both know they can't return back to their apartment with the intent to live there anymore, but the task of looking for a new place is all too daunting. Not to mention it would feel wrong without your input, with your acceptance of their new flat, a big decision they didn't want to make without you.

They have different coping mechanisms in your absence. Johnny is a lot more withdrawn, in his own head all too much thinking about you and what state you could be in now. He draws but its barely an escape anymore, it doesn't help him unwind like it used to, so he goes to the gym, he works out, he punches the bag imagining it’s your captors face whatever they might look like.

Simon swamps himself with paperwork, taking on way more than he can handle, because if a single thought of you presses into his head, he might not be able to keep his composure. He's barely keeping afloat as is, holding Johnny close every night calming each other down the best they can.

Even so there is a definite distance between them, the lack of overlap in their activities and work putting them at bay from each other during the day. The constant separation in the morning and the sleepless nights take a toll on them both.

One that Simon only truly realizes when he opens the door to his room and sees Johnny broken down into a heave of sobs. He wasn't unfamiliar with panic attacks, having them himself on an annoying basis, but he knew they didn't plague Johnny as much as they did now.

Johnny felt sick ever since the apartment, he hadn't been eating properly because how could he when you might not have food, he hadn't been resting because how could he when you might not be rested, he couldn't do anything unless it was to further the task of finding you. Every time he tried, he was filled with an unbridled shame that bled into his bones, and made it infinitely harder to do.

Simon softly closes the door, making his presence known but still being quiet as to not startle him on either end. He walks over, watching his partners state of panic, kneeling to take him in his arms and hold him close.

"Breathe…" he whispers against Johnny's scalp; he's still crying and gasping for air but he melts against Simon like he's always meant to be there. Johnny shifts, pressing fully against him and burying his face into his chest.

"I need you to breathe love…"

Johnny tried gasping for air again, tried to focus on the steady heartbeat in Simon’s chest but it felt futile. "I..I can't…" his voice broke over midway "What…what if we never find them Si….what if they're not even ali-"

"Stop."

Simon pressed his partner even closer, halfway into his lap at this point in an attempt to soothe him. He knew how many times he must've gone there by now, entertaining the thought that there will be nothing to find anymore, that what they're looking for is no longer a thing. He doesn't want to go there, he refuses to believe it as a possibility, because Simon isn't sure what he is going to do with himself if that turns out to be the case.

He might crumble fully this time, fall with nothing to catch him. He desperately wants to be there for his partner no matter what, but losing either of you would destroy him, and he knows this as a fact.

"What if…what if they think we're not coming" Johnny tightens his hold against Simon’s shirt, "They know that right…they can't think we're abandoning them…they can't."

"We're going to find them Johnny," He promises him, "We're bringing them home" he promises him something he isn't sure if he can keep.

Slowly but surely, they get moved onto the bed, not bothering with removing any layer of clothing. As much as the skin on skin might help, Johnny would still be too out of it. Right now, he needs a steady hand, something to rest against as he cries himself dry.

Simon pulls him against his chest as they lay down, barely even separating at all. Their legs tangling, heartbeats together, Johnny begins to calm down. His sobs become quieter, but the pain in his heart is still at large.

Simon can feel it in his own, from Johnny's, all around them. He doesn't let it be known, nor does he do it loud, but a few tears escape from the corner of his eyes, falling down his cheeks. It makes him hug Johnny tighter, to keep the one thing he still has left close in his arms, because if he lets this go now, he will truly be lost.

Crack

Johnny winces as he hears another finger snap, watching it bend the wrong way and eliciting another broken scream from the guy in the chair.

They've been at it for an hour by now, the fifth guy they've managed to bring in this week alone. It didn't take long before they started finding potential leads of your whereabouts, bringing in blokes who might have even the tiniest clue.

Price was technically supposed to be here as well but had conveniently left them alone with the poor guy, for better or for worse. It was one thing Price knew he could do nothing about, if he didn't help the two bring them in, they'd do it on their own anyway and with a much higher chance at getting themselves killed before they even find you.

Another crack and pop.

Johnny lets out a sigh as he watches his partner interrogate the terrified fella. It almost looked intimate, with how close Simon was in the guy’s face, tapping his hands over the man's hands before snapping another finger. Fortunately, Johnny did know better than that, there was nothing intimate about this, the things said in low threatening voices were things whispered with pure malice, a promise of revenge against the people that took their love.

He was getting a bit dejected however, this guy’s wasn't the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. They hadn't found a single thing about your location; they had a slight idea of the people that took you, but it didn't add up with other evidence they had. Every new thing they learned was either a lie or well-orchestrated plan, something that put them back to square one.

"No no no! Not that anything but that!" The man screamed trying to squirm away from Simon. There had always been something terrifying about the way Simon did his work in here, it made Johnny incredibly grateful to be on the same side as him, to not be the guy in the chair on the receiving end of all that.

"Johnny, do you mind?"

"Not at all LT" There was a certain venom in both of their voices, a danger whispered into the chords. It made them move as one, the same thoughts flowing through two brains almost like telepathy, one goal in mind.

Johnny moved over to the steel table, moving a bloodied wrench out of the way. He pitied whoever was going to clean this up, because it likely wasn't going to be them. They were still counting that this guy had some sort of information. In truth he did give them all sorts of info that they will catalogue and report later, but nothing about you.

He picks up the jumper cables and moves it all closer, onto the tray with squeaky wheels that Price promised to get changed months ago. He looks at the skull mask that’s now faced towards him, he sees behind it, the brown eyes a little duller and not as full of life.

He knows that Simon could go all night if it meant that he would finally get your location, but he was tired, not just physically but mentally as well. They could both use a break, a long one, the type that could give their very souls the needed rest, but neither of them stopped, it wasn't an option.

Johnny rolled the small table over to Simon, letting him do his thing. He lets out a sigh as he listens to the pathetic pleading from the guy in the chair as Simon hovers the cables near his crotch. With a heavy sigh Johnny excuses himself, having had enough of the whining and moaning, and feeling a headache come on.

He closes the door behind him to the room just in time, the muffled screaming from inside combined with Simon's incessant yelling quickly drowned out. He feels the cold breeze on his face, letting the feeling of fresh air fall over him. The warm stench that always got into a room during the torture finally washing away from his nostrils.

It's cold out, he notices as he feels the goosebumps ride up his arms. If you were here, you'd be chewing him out about going outside without a jacket, telling him that he can't get a cold, because if he gets a cold then you'll get a cold, and you really don't want to be sick. He'd ruffle your hair, much to your annoyance, and tell you that he wouldn't get sick, but of course he would a few days later, and even then, you'd be taking care of him so sweetly, despite complaining before it.

But you aren't here.

He takes a few deep breaths and tries really hard to keep the panic looming in his body concealed. He had to stay tactical, calm, and in control, but they had hit too many dead ends. Their first thought was that they somehow had let you be known to their enemies, and that some had come to take you as leverage but the chilling realization that nobody they had tried knew anything about you became an uncomfortable itch.

Maybe that was what was the scariest thing about this situation, it having nothing to do with them and everything to do with you.

The moment they get a proper lead on a location is when things start to go fast. Not even 2 hours after the briefing are they on the plane and landing on a base that would be close by the revealed location. It doesn't take a lot of convincing to have Price agree to the mission, perhaps just as eager himself to finally put an end to the madness.

Was it logical? Not all the way, smart? Fuck no, but it was hope, and Price knew at this point that if he didn't find a way to make it happen fast, then Johnny and Simon would just steal a plane and go on their own, Gaz would likely join them too if they asked.

But the fact remained, someone had finally cracked, who it was, Simon barely even remembers. The past week or so he's been avoiding thinking about you like were you a vicious disease that spread whenever someone mentioned its name, but now you were the only thing that consumed his thoughts, along with a overwhelming brooding rage.

He's not even sure you're going to be there, a human trafficking ring, their supposed base of operations revealed to them. If it wasn't for the anger boiling in his veins, he'd feel sick upon learning the knowledge of all the kidnappings that had been happening in your area.

You hadn't ever said anything, but he didn't doubt that you knew, you just also knew that they would worry too much and wouldn't go do their jobs if they knew. He wants to scream at himself, yell at a mirror for being so stupid and careless, if he had just stayed up to date then maybe he could've prevented all of this.

You might still be at home, waiting for them to join you in bed, the three of you cuddling together in your favorite position. If only he could go back and change his mistake. He knows he can't, he knows he can't change what he did or didn't do, but he will correct it now, and get you back in their arms.

The place is massive, but he barely even registers it, nothing feels real as he pursues anything and everything that could lead his way to you. He's mauling people down with scary precision, unleashing his rage on them while somehow still keeping them covert. He can feel that Johnny is behind him, watching his back, but he never actually turns around to confirm.

They've passed several rooms, or cells more like with plenty of victims, but none of them had you among them. After securing the victims safety, they left it to the other soldiers behind them to get them out of there while they continue to comb through the building.

Johnny starts losing hope once they've nearly been everywhere, all enemies neutralized, and victims secured. Though they have a few rooms left, they've seen no sign of you or anything that might've belonged to you.

And of course, that's when it happens, when they turn the handle on the last door, the last of their hope almost extinguishing, only to spike in their throats from the scene revealed to them.

The room is bigger than expected, at first hand it seemed more or less like another one of the rooms they kept their poor victims holed up in, but there was only one person in there. A body in the corner, naked, bruised, dirty, with unmistakable features that they used to caress at night within the safety of their own bed.

Once again Johnny feels sick, almost bends forward to wretch everything up right then and there as well but he has to keep it together. He wants to scream and cry, rip the person who did this to shreds, but it's likely Simon already did that unknowingly out there.

His partner doesn't stand frozen beside him for long, but likely going through a similar round of emotional turmoil. They both sprint to your side, trying to check your state both for injuries and your awareness.

Cuts and scrapes litter your body like a fucked-up pattern, your naked skin covered in dirt, dust and perhaps even mud. Your eyes are barely open, void and tired, they can practically see the redness and the crust from your crying stained onto your face.

Johnny smoothes a hand over your thigh to check a wound but flinches away when he hears you whimper. They feel a crack in their hearts as they watch you spur a little to life, pathetically trying to inch away from them but having no more energy to do so.

"No no…Sweetheart it's okay…it's us" Johnny tries to be soothing, not forcing touch on you but still trying to guide your vision in his direction. He almost can't bear to look at what they've done to you, inhumane things and then just to leave you here in a room by yourself.

When your eyes finally meet his, he chokes back on a wretched noise, your terrified look is something he never wants to see directed at him or Simon. Not from you. He gently guides you hand up to his hair, in the moment he doesn't care about the blood or the dirt, all he wants to do is remind you. He helps your fingers tangle through like you've done so many times before, hoping to kickstart your memory.

At first, you're stiff, unwilling, but slowly your hands start squeezing at his hair out of your own volition. A little more clarity in your eyes as you choke out his name, and when he hears he nods rapidly. His hold on your hand tightening as he looks down at you with tears in his eyes.

He wants to hold you, crush you against him, but he knows he has to be careful. Along with your visible injuries, they have no idea if you have broken bones or worse going on inside. "Yes, love…it's me….we're here…we found you…" he nods and brings your weak hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

They have to move you, and get you out of here with the rest, but Simon is afraid to touch. Scared that one motion from him could make everything infinitely worse. He's been sitting paralyzed next to Johnny and you, watching as Johnny brings part of you back to reality instead of the mental prison you've no doubt locked yourself in.

He looks away from your hand and back to your face, almost horrified to see that you're now staring up at him. He missed you greatly, but right now, he almost can't bear to have you look at him. He reaches his own hand up, wincing when he sees the blood on it but continuing regardless to pull his mask off.

He sees the tears forming in your eyes as you see him again, his hand gently cupping your face and wiping away the falling tears. "It hurts…" you sob quietly, and all Simon can do is nod, because he knows, he knows all too well about the pain you're in.

"I know love…I know…" He lets out a shaky sigh, giving an affirming glance to Johnny before moving around. They need to get going, and they need to get you to safety. He gently hoists you up, tries to not think of your desperate whimpers of both fear and pain.

He holds you close to his chest, Johnny's hands tugging your matted hair away, so it didn't get stuck on any gear. Simon's grip on you is fierce, a grounding touch you've needed for so long, and with Johnny's warm voice softly assuring you, you start to settle away from your panic.

They keep you close the entire time, assuring you, holding you, keeping you tugged away from the gore and the defiling monsters that lay dead on the ground. They keep you close, closer than ever before, and they won't let you go, not again, not ever. They'll carry you through the recovery, they'll get you back on your own feet again, back to yourself again.

They will never let any of this happen again.

#noctmoon fics #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john price #ghoap #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #soap x ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x you #john soap mctavish x you #simon riley x you

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lilsocksiswriting · 6 months

Text

From Creepy Stalkero To Creep Gaurd Dog pt.1

Fandom: JJK

Paring: Choso X Reader

Summary: How Choso goes from your creep stalker to your creepy guard dog

Warming: NSFW, Darker Content, no beta, just word vomit, minors DNI

Tags: College AU, stalking, masturbation, Choso is a messy cummer,, Choso being a peeping tom, just all around creep behavior, mutual masturbation

Word Count: 2.1K

This got a littel long so part 2 will be coming soon!

Stalker!Choso who develops the biggest crush on you just by having you in the same gen ed class. And who would have a crush on you? You are just so cute, cool, confident, and always look so put together. He’s probably one of a hundred guys who are jealous that the most liked girl on campus already has a boyfriend, but he’s the only one who lets his crush develop into an obsession.

Stalker!Choso who usually sits in the back of the class. Who gets literal heart eyes when you get up to present. He loves to listen to your honeyed voice as you go through your PowerPoint. He notices how you’re always messing with your Apple Pen or twirling a strand of your hair as you present. You always give a small, light giggle when you mess up. You look so at ease in the spotlight, like this is where you always belong looking adorable to Choso in your outfits reading off notes from your iPad. You make public speaking look so easy.

Stalker!Choso who gets braver and eventually moves to sit behind you. He starts to get to class early. That way when you come in with your friends and sit down in front of him, he gets a whiff of your lavender and vanilla perfume you put on every morning. He grows to love this seat because he can see how perfectly your hair falls. If he leans against his desk, he can smell the sweet shampoo you use. He can hear the little jingle of the jewelry you wear as you jolt down notes in your neat handwriting. He can stare at the slope of your neck all class. He can count the number of little flay-away hairs that come loose for the silk bows you wear.

Stalker!Choso who seems to luck out one day when during break the whole class empties out of the classroom, including you, leaving your water bottle sitting right there on your desk for him. He can’t help himself! He reaches out for the water bottle and takes a long drink once he removes the cap. He moans when his lips touch the same stainless-steel rim that your lips touch. He can taste the faintness of the ChapStick you use. Strawberry. He sets it back in place and watches as you come back in and take your seat. His heart skips a beat you pause before taking a drink. Did it seem lighter? No, that’s silly, then take a long swig. Choso swallows thickly. His face goes beat red and he has to cross one leg over the other quickly before anyone else sees how hard he is.

Stalker!Choso who finds and bookmarks all your social media. He’s careful not to like any of your Instagram posts as he does his nightly scroll while palming the firm bulge in the sweats. When he finds the perfect picture he wants to get off to, this particle night being one of you in a cherry red bikini and a big floppy sun hat at the beach, he sets up on his knee and lays his phone between his spread thighs. As he fists his cock he’ll aim the angry bulbous head at his phone screen. He moans and chants your name “y/n, y/n, y/n, of fuuuuck y/n pleasepleaseplease,” before spurting his load across your digital face.

Stalker!Choso who notices that after class you walk home, alone. Tsk, what? your loving, great, funny boyfriend can’t even bother to walk you home or come pick you up? He can’t get the nerve to ask you if you want him to walk you back to your apartment, so instead, he just follows behind you at a safe distance. Your house is the opposite way of his own but that’s ok. As long as you get home safe, he doesn’t mind the longer walk back to his own house.

Stalker!Choso who begins to stay a little longer. Not just making sure you get inside but peeking through your window to make sure you’re all safe and tucked into bed. Franticly stroking his cock at the little sliver of smooth skin as you change into your slik pjay set or the fluffy ribe you step into your bedroom wearing fresh out of the shower.

Stalker!Choso who follows his usual routine of following you home, eager to get you home and make sure you are safely asleep in your bed. When you two get home your boyfriend��s there joking about how cold it is and how you should just go ahead and give him a key to your place. Choso is so beyond annoyed, borderline enraged when he sees that the only reason your boyfriend came over was because he wanted to have sex.

Stalker!Choso who imagines it’s him that’s striping you of your clothes. That’s his chopped lips kissing your soft lips. Damit he’s the one leaving sloppy marks over your skin. He would go further down that beautiful body he would make sure to praise every inch of skin and enjoy the taste of your sweet cunt before ruining it. He watches your boyfriend, that prick, lead you to fall back on your bed.

Stalker!Choso furiously fucking his fist from outside your bedroom window while imagining that he’s the one on top of you, grabbing your legs and warping them around his waist. It’s his hair you’re running your nails through, oh god, a shutter running through his body at the phantom feeling of your nails racking across his scalp.

Stalker!Choso who’s not at all surprised that he doesn’t last long but is prideful that he lasts longer than your boyfriend. He drops to his knees, the cold and wet soil soaking into his jeans. He can’t keep his desperate moans and whimpers to himself. Fuck, he wants that to be him, he wants to be the one inside you, funking into you, and making your bed creek. Fuuuuck, he wants you so bad. He wants to make you cum again and again and again- a cry is ripped from chops as his cum splatters against the side of your house.

Stalker!Choso who gets even more bolder and begins to leave you little notes here and there. you find them throughout your day tucked into the pocket of your jacket or your bookbag. They start out as little complainants like ‘You look nice today’, ‘You always smell amazing’ or ‘god you look so pretty in that skirt’. They honesty doesn’t creep you out at all, you actually really like them. Your own boyfriend barely ever says these things to you. Each little note you find brings a smile to your face. You keep them in a shoe box tucked away at the bottom of your closet. You start to dress up not for you or that pompous boyfriend of yours, but for your stalker.

Stalker!Choso who notices you starts to leave your curtains open a smidge more. It has to be for him. Choso can now see the glory of your naked body. You must know that he watches you nearly every night. Why else would you stop wearing that fluffily robe (it’s in the wash)? He takes pictures and videos of you going about your nightly routine. patting dry your skin, rubbing lotion on your arms, legs, between your thighs, and practically groping yourself as you do your breasts. His cock is achingly hard he keeps forgetting to swallow his drool as he films you.

Stalker!Choso who buys the same lotion and shampoo that you use. He uses it as lube to jerk off at his computer desk or in his shower. The scent makes me groan and sob. Rather he’s alone at night, hips arching off the bed and bedroom filled with a quick repetitive ‘fapfapfapfap’, or in the shower using his hand and the multiple shower head setting, it is never enough. Choso knows that once he splatters his load on his chest or watches his spilled cum be pulled down he will still be left wanting.

Stalker!Choso whose wanting leads to him to become more obsessive and drastic. Those little love notes start to become lewder.

‘That little outfit of yours today made me so hard.’

‘I use the same lotion as you to stroke myself every night.’

‘I need to stuff your cute cunt full of my cum, I hate wasting so much of it.’

‘Wanna worship every inch of your body baby.’

‘I daydream if sending our between the plush though feasting on your wetness.’

‘You pussy’s the only this I seem hungry for these days.’

‘I wanna fuck you raw until your cunt only made me me,’

Each time you read these notes your cheeks heat up and you squeeze your thighs together

Stalker!Choso who can’t stand the sight of your ruddy cheeks being stained by big fat tears. He already has your phone out calling you. You try to sober up as you accept the call. Choso doesn’t say hello he just asks if you wanna get off. If he can have the honor to make you cum. Makes you a promise, “I can help you feel good baby, please.”

Stalker!Choso who is surprised how you nod then say ok in a small voice. He instructs you to get comfy, and lay back on your bed, yes just like that. He tells you to start out slow. “Show me how you like your clit played with.” you follow all of your stalker's instructions. Rubbing yourself and teasing your hole till you dripping wet and hot. He then tells you to slowly start to fuck yourself with your middle finger, god your such a good girl. Then add your index. “Curl then now, yeah, that feels good doesn’t it? need to pay attention to what spots make you feel really good baby” By the time he has you plunging four fingers into your soaking cunt, Choso is right outside stroking his cock in tandem with you.

Stalker!Choso whose breath is becoming labored as you fill his ears with your sweet moans and squelching cunt. “Fuuuuck, baby, feel good?” and when you tell him yes, that he’s the one making you feel so wet and hot he has to grip the base of your cock so he doesn’t cum. He needs to cum with you. “N-now I need to rub that puffy little clit like you like- fuck yes.”

Stalker!Choso who is in heaven as he cums with you, watching the way your cunt tries to squeeze around your finger and the way you buck your hips. Then, you thank him and he’s so flustered that he hangs up. But your breathless “thank you” plays in repeat in his head and makes his whole week.

#jjk imagines #choso kamo #jjk smut #jjk #choso x reader #jjk choso #jjk x reader

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y-rhywbeth2 · 28 days

Text

Ketheric continues to be the member of the Chosen I struggle to get a grip on. Like the other three I can tell you the details of why (I think) they grew up to monsters:

Long post.

Let's start with Gortash: spent his childhood being told he was a selfish monster for his thoughts - apparently from birth - for the way he perceived the world, for *checks notes* wanting his parents attention as an undeveloped human being that relies on its parents to survive and thrive.

Then his parents send him to hell as part of a deal. Because that's where monsters go isn't it? They go to hell to suffer eternal damnation because they were monsters in life.

So you grow up in one of the literal cesspits of the universe, where the only people you meet are the literal scum of the universe, or those you're going to learn to see as weak fools who had to rely on others - and were ultimately willing to commit atrocities themselves - who were taken advantage of by the scum of the universe. You get to the Hells by committing atrocities, either because you want something so badly you'll fuck somebody over for it (out of greed, or because you couldn't fix it yourself (weak)) or because you did them of your own volition. And curiously, some of these people had their price tags wrapped in such subtle terms they don't even realise they did anything wrong! Lesson learned; anyone will willingly be a monster if you make the evil sound nice. Every single devil you meet has had the humanity flayed from their soul, and they got to where they are in their existences by fomenting (and committing) hate and rape and murder and everything evil under the sun as a regular Monday morning in the ultimate goal to make the universe an evil place. Devils are also 'self made men', everybody started from nothing as a lemure and clawed their way to where they are now. Every social interaction in the Hells is manipulation and abuse. Everyone there hurts everyone.

But you do have one example of a good person! There's Hope! Lovely lady, kind and sweet... Trapped in hell being abused forever going insane because of it because your ambitious sister fucked you over. That's where trust and love being a good person gets you.

And that was his entire social life. That was the people he had to look to for examples. All his early experiences were limited to a sample of the absolute worst it has to offer, and he has a very skewed view of the universe.

And the fact that he's apparently so damn good at sex a lady gave him a ring worth everything she owns after growing up around a pleasure devil whose role is harming and corrupting people with sex and has built in charm person at etc is not ringing alarm bells(!) I'm not side-eyeing the boudoir at all.

I wonder why having a child/teen spend their formative years in the evil factory literally designed to spit out monsters... spat out a monster? Kudos to Karlach, though: just how many layers of defence mechanisms has she got in her brain?

Gortash's thought processes are 50% through the lens of engineering and 50% through the lens of a devil's perspective to me. People will sell out others for their own gain, because they're too weak to do it themselves or because they're bastards. If you don't get with the programme you're the victim. You only get ahead by being ruthless. Everybody is untrustworthy, and relying on them will get you betrayed. The world is divided into the weak and the ruthlessly strong who take what they want. Yes, he's a monster. And so are his parents. And so is everyone. And then Bane saw this perfect example of his way of thinking and said 'that one.'

Orin: obviously we've got grooming. The fact that her formative memories include her mother trying to murder her, and the fact that she feels like the only person who has ever cared about her or supported her is her grandfather. Who is implied to have been raping her, or intending to. All she's permitted is to have her brain poisoned by her faith, which her life revolves around, and then her kin 'does it all wrong' and inherits everything she's been groomed to believe is hers. But no, 'they're not wrong,' says everybody around her 'you are!'

She's a Bhaalspawn, so her relationships with her kin are "kill or be killed," as Helena proved. You will please father by slaughtering your siblings, or you will die - or worse. You must be and stay favoured by Bhaal above all the others to be truly safe ("safe"), and Durge outranking her is a threat to her existence. Actually Durge existing is a threat to her well-being. She has no way to live a life outside the cult, never has and never will. Her life is insanely lonely and mostly consists of paranoia.

But the overlaying theme here is that she's a changeling. She's mirrorkin with no unique physical identity of her own, she can only reflect those of others. To be dnd canon accurate: she has no real facial features, no pigmentation. She's not permitted an identity of her own, and was punished for trying. She's a mirror born and raised to reflect the glory of Bhaal, the glory of her failed grandfather, the rise of Bhaal's favourite child. Never her own. Gee, I wonder why she literally wears people's skins.

Denied the ability to do anything but live according to what she's told, she does her best to live up to it because to fail is to become her parents and the countless aunts and uncles currently enjoying their damnation in the Throne of Blood. And then she's told she's doing it wrong. By everybody. She's a 'rabid dog'. She, despite having doctrine poured into her ears and probably carved into her flesh her entire life 'doesn't understand Bhaal.' And everybody is insanely patronising about it! You're never allowed to be anything but what we tell you to be, but you're still not good enough! Which is death. The Temple of Bhaal needs murder feminism.

The Dark Urge is my favourite little nightmare, and I've talked about them at length: much of Orin's trauma also applies to them, although where she's a mirror made to reflect the egos of others, Durge is only allowed one identity: Bhaal's. Where Orin can never seem to reach the standards forced on her, Durge is never allowed to fail to meet them, or else. Every outside connection they ever had was brutally sabotaged, and they've had 'you're a monster and only I (your abusive Father) can love you' drilled into their mind. They hate themself. We got the threat of sexual exploitation (assuming it didn't happen), there's a subtle undercurrent of incest to some interactions. The prayer for forgiveness kind of sums it all up: 'I'm sorry for forming an emotional connection that isn't blind love for you father, but don't fret, I'll destroy it with my own hands just like everything else and then finally get to kill myself just like I've always wanted.'

But Ketheric? Like villains don't need tragic backstories to be terrible people, but it does make them more interesting.

OK, so your bio family is fucked up and I definitely get the impression that they sucked (Malus is giving me vibes that say he'd have been a villain anyway, and might've been secretly Sharran to start with; Gerringothe seems to be drowning whatever her issues are in gold), and then the loving family you made for yourself broke: your wife died, and your daughter died, sure. But plenty of people on Toril probably have similar if not the same stories and didn't go evil overlord! Why are you doing this? What is informing these decisions? Why does your existence hinge so much on your dead daughter that your son is basically named after her and you seem to hate him for existing and not being her? Does Shar have something to do with it? Has Ketheric just carved out so much memory and emotion, so much of his own identity, that all that's left is the grief and the hunger for the pain to stop but, as per Shar's intent, it keeps coming back, with less and less positive memories to soften the pain. A wound that festers and never heals. Is the obsession with Isobel because she's the icon of everything that was good in his life, and her loss was the moment everything good was gone? Was he a rational man who turned to Shar to stop the pain in a moment of understandable grief and rage at her sister, and then was trapped in a cycle that destroyed everything that was good in that man until we get the General?

Just guess working my way through his entire backstory...

#I just want to rescue Orin; she breaks my heart #and I kind of hate that she didn't win on some levels #I just want to rescue her ToB style but without the bad ending that got added in post-game #babbling #edgelord hours #villainous nonsense #the family circle #/durge #/orin #/gortash #/ketheric

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wisteriaw0rld · 11 months

Note

hi there! i hope you’re having/had a wonderful day! i was wondering if i could please request a hashira x single mom! reader? where the kid is about 7-8 years old? its totally fine and i understand if you don’t want to or can’t. byeee have a wonderful day/nightt!!

-ˋˏ ༻hashira༺ ˎˊ- kny x reader

✰synopsis: the Hashira’s with a single mom s/o who already had a seven year old child.

✰additional tags: fem! reader, single mom! reader, headcanons + oneshot, not proof read

✰character order: Tomioka Giyuu, Kyojuro Rengoku, Tengen Uzui, Obanai Iguro, Shinazugawa Sanemi, Himejima Gyomei, Tokito Muichiro, Kocho Shinobu, Kanroji Mitsuri♡

“never was there ever a girl so pretty.” -Lana Del Rey

˚ʚtomioka giyuuɞ˚

❥he doesn’t at all mind that your a single mom. but for the life of him, he does not know how to handle kids.

♥he tries his best to get along with your kid but he really can’t match the energetic personality of children.

❥giyuu loves to see how you are with your kid and how kindly you treat them. Especially since you’re trying your best with only you there.

♥even though he’s not the best at it, he still tries to get along with you and sometimes mimics things you do to see if they work.

❥when your kid first met giyuu, they were terrified. He was stoic, had his arms crossed, and looked like he had the meanest glare to exist.

♥the young seven year old immediately ran to hide behind your legs and stared at giyuu like he was crazy.

❥the first meeting didn’t exactly go great, but sooner or later your child will open up to him. Even if they still thinks he’s a little scary.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

“why are they still hiding from me…?” giyuu asked the girl who had her child behind her. Like every other time, the seven year old child was hiding behind you, sending a small glare to the water pillar.

“it’s nothing, giyuu, don’t worry about it!” You responded quickly, flaying your arms around so your kid wouldn’t say anything rude like last time.

“mommy…I don’t like him.” They stated clearly, sending a now more harsh glare at Tomioka.

Your lover dead panned at the words, awkwardly staring at your kid. “But I’ve known you for one month already.”

“I don’t care!” Your kid yelled, sticking their tongue out at giyuu while crossing their arms.

It fell silent for a moment between the three of you. You thought of excusing your child to their room to play with their toys but giyuu finally spoke up.

“I bought you a gift though.” He stated, pulling a poorly wrapped gift from out of his pocket, offering it to the short seven year old.

“Woah, Really!? I love you then!” They yelled before snatching the gift from Giyuu’s hand and running off with it to their room.

You smiled at your child’s happy face before turning back to giyuu. “I hope it wasn’t anything expensive.”

“No, it was just something called chocolate. Whatever that is.” Giyuu shrugged as you nodded ok curiously at the name of the present.

˚ʚrengoku kyojuroɞ˚

❥this man is so good with kids. Do I even have to explain? And he doesn’t at all care that you already have one.

♥he will treat the young kid as his own, without a doubt.

❥kyojuro often tells you that he wishes he met you and your kid sooner. Nevertheless, he’s the definition of a great father figure.

♥not to mention your child adores him so much. And with that comes along the constant pestering of, “when’s dad coming home? mom, when are we moving in with dad? when is senjuro coming to visit?”

❥yes, your kid also loves being with senjuro. The two of them always have play dates. Whenever you and Kyojuro are hanging out, bringing them to hang out with each other is basically a must.

♥and yes, your kid already calls rengoku his father.

❥obviously, kyojuro doesn't mind it. He finds it amazing how easily your child grew to trust and care for him.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

“mom, when is dad coming to visit?” Your child asked, tugging at the apron you were wearing as you cut the tomatoes. Your mincing came to a stop the moment you heard the question leave the young boys mouth.

Was he talking about your past lover? You grimaced at the thought before continuing to cut the vegetables. “Dad?” You questioned, glancing down at your son.

“Yeah! Father Rengoku!” He yelled out excitedly, letting go of your apron to throw his hands up in the air out of enthusiasm.

Your face flushed and your actions or cutting the vegetables came to another stop. “Honey, we’re not even married!” You defended with a red face.

“Yet.” He corrected you before laughing cheekily and running back to his room. Your face turned even more red before you set the knife in the sink.

You heard your shoji door slide open, showing Rengoku who was still in his demon slayer uniform. Senjuro was behind him but quickly ran up to hug you before running to your sons room.

“Hello, Kyojuro.” You greeted happily before walking over and hugging him. He wasted no time hugging you back.

“Good evening love! What’s got your face all red?” He asked, glancing down at your flustered face.

“Dad!” Your son immediately ran up to rengoku and hugged him tightly.

“that.” You responded to your lovers question, glancing up and giggling at his pink cheeks.

˚ʚuzui tengenɞ˚

❥your child’s first thought of uzui is, “does he ever shut up.” With a bored expression as they listened to tengen rant.

♥it didn’t take long until she grew fond of him. Mostly because she loved testing his patience.

❥your kid understands how happy uzui makes you so even if she doesn’t like him in the beginning, she’ll either force herself to or she’ll actually start enjoying his company.

♥whichever one it is, she actually does start loving him more when he shows her how to do makeup. You scolded both of them for wasting all your makeup but at least the two got some bonding time in.

❥tengen doesn’t at all mind that you already have a kid. He even seems you ‘flamboyant’ for remaining such a good mom.

♥even when tengen and your kid finally get along really well, he still calls her a brat and she still calls him an ‘un-flamboyant’ weirdo.

❥despite the name calling, they still care for each other. And you love watching all their cute bonding moments.

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It was quiet in your small home. A little too quiet. Tengen had came over and decided to hang out with your daughter so you could finish up cooking.

The two of them as a duo was…well, chaotic. Now it was dead silent with a few whispers and giggles here and there. And they weren’t coming for your daughters room like it was supposed to.

It was coming from your room. You let out a sigh and walked over to the sound of the snickers.

You had a feeling you knew what they were doing. You peeled into to the room and you saw exactly what you expected to see. The two of them tampering with your makeup.

Although this time it wasn’t tengen doing your daughters makeup like usual.

It was Tengen sitting in your daughters tiny pink chair with an annoyed expression as the young girl very messily did his makeup.

You snickered. You couldn’t see his whole face but you could see a part of the poorly done eyeliner and blush.

Uzui moved his head to see where the new laugh came from. The moment you saw his whole face you began laughing loudly, grabbing the attention of your daughter as well.

You pointed at Uzui, laughing while slightly clutching your stomach. “Don’t even say anything!” Tengen yelled out to you the moment you opened your mouth.

˚ʚiguro obanaiɞ˚

❥this man hates children. But he loves you. So he’s in a little bit of a crisis. But he immediately chooses to deal with it and prays the kid is well behaved.

♥obanai knows what he wants. And that’s to be with you forever. But a kid? Why’s it gotta be a kid?

❥he can’t handle kids whether it’s because they disgust or annoy him, or both. But he puts up with it and tells you he doesn’t mind that you’re a single mom.

♥surprisingly, he handles meeting your child exceptionally well. Mainly because your child was too scared to approach him and stayed away from him while calling him scary.

❥but oh well, it’s a win for him. Until he realizes how much you try to get the two to bond without pushing anyone’s boundaries.

♥when he properly introduces himself, your child surprisingly becomes the first he likes.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

“c’mon, dear, give him a try.” You wheedled your child as you sat with her in her room, obanai waiting patiently while sitting on a zabuton while kaburamaru slithered around on the floor.

“but he’s scary… even the snake is less weird than him.” Your child huffed while crossing their arms.

“Please?” You pleaded while putting your two hands together, hoping they would agree. A long and over-dramatic sigh left your child’s lips before they reluctantly stood up.

You smiled happily, standing up and taking the seven year olds small hand. You could tell they were nervous. It made sense. Obanai didn’t always give off a comforting sort of aura.

Iguro saw the two of you coming and fixed his posture. You smiled and sat down with your child at your side, holding onto your arm.

“so are you like…a human snake?” They asked with a head tilt making obanai’s eyes widen at the silly question. “What’s your snake’s name?” They quickly changed the question, noticing the weirdness of the previous question.

“Kaburamaru.” He responded simply as the white snake made its way to your child, making her breath hitch.

“kabuakaru?” They repeated while looking confused at the unusual name.

“no,no. Kaburamaru.”

“That’s what I said. Kabuakaru.”

You heard Iguro let out a small chuckle at your child’s sassiness while they eyed the white snake.

˚ʚshinazugawa sanemiɞ˚

❥sanemi can handle kids to a certain extent. It doesn’t mean he always likes them. But he doesn’t care about you having a kid.

♥what he does hate, though, is how much your kid reminds him of his little brother, genya.

❥shy, caring, nice. Your child reminds him so much of when Genya was younger. He acts like he hates it but in general he loves the feeling it brings him every time he see’s your child.

♥your son, on the other hand, found sanemi intimidating. Yes your son enjoys hanging out with him on some occasions but on others…

❥he’s seen Sanemi’s temper and trust me, he knows not to mess around with the wind pillar.

♥honestly, you expected them to get along much worse. Oh, how wrong you were.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

Sanemi paced around angrily around you home, your son following him around. You had been out buying groceries for dinner and wouldn’t be back for a short while.

It was a bad time for you to be out. Sanemi stumbled upon such a stupid demon slayer and even though it was half an hour ago, he still couldn’t calm down.

Especially with how incompetent the slayer had been acting.

“And who did that idiot of a slayer think he was? Acting like he was better than me.” Sanemi grumbled while completely annoyed, now basically stomping around your house.

Your child snickered at Sanemi’s annoyance, copying his moves and stomping around as well.

Suddenly, the hashira stubbed his foot on the leg of your table. “FUCK!” He exclaimed, cringing at the painful feeling he felt.

“Fuck!” Your child exclaimed as Sanemi’s eyes widened.

“No, mini Genya don’t say that!”

“fuck…who’s genya?”

“that doesn’t matter! Don’t say that.”

˚ʚhimejima gyomeiɞ˚

❥gyomei is quick to feel sorry for you being a single mom but he doesn’t care about it himself, he’ll still want to stay with you and is even excited to meet your kid.

♥your child is quick to be intimidated by Gyomei. But is just as quick to love being around him.

❥your child especially loves receiving piggyback rides from Gyomei.

♥or simply being held or carried by him. But honestly, who wouldn’t enjoy it.

❥especially when you get to brag about being tall when in reality your just on someone’s back.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

You giggled, watching your daughter get lifted up and onto Gyomei’s shoulders. The three of you went to a nearby festival and she started telling you that her feet were hurting.

Now she was lifted up into the air, exclaiming at how she could see everything from up there.

Gyomei suddenly moved your daughter to his left shoulder before picking you up, earning a yelp from you.

Before you knew it, you were set on Gyomei’s right shoulder as he continued walking around with the two of you on his shoulders.

You smiled at the beautiful sight of all the dimly lit lights and the multiple people having fun or sitting and eating while chatting away.

˚ʚtokito muichiroɞ˚

❥ “but…I don’t remember having a kid with you?”

♥sometimes he forgets that the you’re a single mom. Which leads to him believing your seven year old daughter is his child.

❥it also quickly leads him to believing the two of you are married to each other.

♥other than that, he likes your child. Although she gets easily frustrated with Muichiro’s forgetfulness. But she does use it to her advantage sometimes.

❥“didn’t I already give you a piece of candy?”

♥“uhm…….no?”

❥another reason your daughter loves him is because of his hair. She loves playing around with it even if sometimes she accidentally knots it.

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“honey, I have to finish cleaning.”

“pleaseee?”

“…Fine.”

Your daughter let out an excited squeal as she grabbed onto your hand and led you over to her room where Muichiro was already waiting.

Muichiro noticed you and gave a small smile as your daughter made you sit right next to him.

“What are we doing again?” Muichiro asked, tilting his head as he watched your daughter gently brush through your nice hair.

“She’s making us play salon.” You laughed, watching as the young girl moved to Muichiro and did his hair in a messy braid after doing the exact same to yours.

Suddenly the girl ran out the room, explaining she’ll be right back.

“You look nice with your hair braided.” Muichiro told you before leaning in and planting a kiss on your right cheek. You smiled as he then kissed your left cheek.

˚ʚkocho shinobuɞ˚

❥she doesn’t at all mind that you already have a kid. She’s willing to commit even if it means you already have one.

♥shinobu immediately thinks your child is adorable. And your kid immediately starts loving shinobu’s calm company.

❥she’s surprisingly a big kid expert and knows how to handle them well.

♥and that’s probably why your kid loves being around her so much. Her calm and happy persona is something a lot of people can grow fond of.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

“Mom Kocho, can you play doctors with me?” Your kid asked while tugging her haori with pleading eyes as shinobu was cuddling close to you.

“how about you play with kiyo, Naho, and Sumi? I’m a little busy.” Shinobu replied, dozing off while holding you gently.

“alright!” Your child exclaimed before running off to explore the butterfly mansion.

You smiled, cuddling Shinobu back as your smile widened.

˚ʚkanroji mitsuriɞ˚

❥are you kidding? She’s literally so excited to meet your kid. And she admires that you’re such a good single mom!

♥she literally treats your kid so good!!

❥she spoils them so much, bringing things back from missions for both of you and bringing back candy for your kid!

♥mitsuri loves playing games with you and you’re kid, especially when it comes down to tag

❥she purposefully loses arm-wrestling games to your kid and loves seeing their happy face when they win.

♥your kid admires her so much for being able to eat such big portions of food.

❥and they’re always admiring how strong she is. Ya’ll are the definition of a small happy family.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ short oneshot ⇩

“an eating contest?” Mitsuri questioned happily at your suggestion while staring at all the food you prepared in the kitchen.

You nodded your head enthusiastically, matching her energy perfectly. “It was my idea!” Your seven year old cheered, already running over to sit at the table.

Mitsuri squealed, grabbing your hand and pulling you over to the table to follow her.

“3, 2, … 1!”

The three of you began eating the food quickly. Your child only lasted two bowls in, you managed to eat five bowls. And of course, Mitsuri ate everything else.

“I win!” Mitsuri cheered before letting out a sheepish laugh at the multiple empty bowls that covered the table.

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theonewiththefanfics · 7 months

Text

Dare to Hope, Dare to Dream (Part 1/?)

Synopsys: For three years now, Astarion and his love have been relegated to living in the shadows as he lost his ability to walk in the sun. But one day hope is reignited, and the vampire can't help but reminisce how he got where he is now.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: violence, abuse, talks of SA (if there is anything else that should be tagged, please do let me know)

Word count: 3240

A/N: I have not played Baldur's Gate 3 (I don't own a PS or a PC where to play it. all of this is based on the info gathered online and through Neil's own gameplay etc. Please be kind :) )

There had been a time in Astarion’s life when all he knew was pain. Physical. Emotional. Mental. Pain.

Two hundred years could be simply wrapped up with one word – abuse. What he wanted didn’t matter, what he thought meant nothing, all Astarion was reduced to was a piece of meat to lure victims for his master.

He was flayed for the most minor things, starved and entombed; he had his skin carved apart and then told to lay on his ruined back just to appease the vile tastes of the vampire he was sired to.

But now… now Astarion knew nothing but peace.

In a house which had been rebuilt from top to bottom, walls coloured cream and accented with gold to bring in as much light as he could, he got to live out his life in complete and utter bliss. He never expected to create a home for himself, never expected to live long enough to know what peace meant. Every second of his life had been shrouded by Cazador and his looming presence, like a dark cloud over the summer sky, but the vampire was long gone. Astarion no longer had to watch over his back whether a snap of a twig would be a boar or his old master.

Now the snaps of twigs meant a warm fire being lit in the hearth, a soft body curling against his as they enjoyed their time together.

That was another thing he never thought of having – someone who cared for him. Astarion was aware that years ago, there had been two loving elves, who’d cherished him, loved and worried for him. They called him Astarion for he was their “little star”. From time to time, he did wonder whatever happened to his parents, but then he thought of who he was now, what he was, and pushed those wandering thoughts away. Maybe one day he’d be strong enough to seek them out, but for now, he would enjoy the start of his new life with his love. His fearless leader. His Y/N.

As she lay against his chest, her back to him, he couldn’t help but be grateful for this crazy human to have entered his life. It was that damned tadpole that’d started to push the domino tower over, but it had been her that toppled the pieces that still threatened to stay standing. And despite all the horrors they’d had to go through, he would willingly put himself in the line of fire if it meant finding her once more.

Though as much peace as he had, not all of it was perfect to Astarion’s chagrin. He’d killed Cazador, slain him with his own hands, yes, but as Y/N had begged him to not ascend, pulling him away from the dark urge, the tadpole had been the only thing keeping him walking in the soon. And soon enough, it had to be eradicated as well, unless he wanted to turn into a mind flayer.

It hurt, that realisation as when he stood at the port and felt the sun kiss his skin, but where he’d come to relish in the warm feeling, it was now poison, turning him to ash, making him resign to live his life in the shadows of the night once more.

For two hundred years he’d been deprived of day, and the pain of losing that was even worse than the pain of the sun blistering his body. Tears had sprung out of their own volition and he dashed to hide, raising his cloak and trying to keep any of the rays at bay. As he ran for cover, quick steps followed behind, and when he curled in a ball behind some crates, body rocking back and forth, gentle arms had wrapped around him, a dark cloak pulled over their heads.

Astarion had already accepted to have to spend his life alone, he’d never make Y/N go with him to live like a spawn, but he wasn’t alone. Sure, they had created a bond he had hoped would last well after their adventures, but with the issue of walking in the sun back on the table, he knew it was too large of an ask. To give up one's life in the sun and forever live in greys and blacks – Astarion would never request Y/N such a thing.

Even as she adjusted the material over their heads, he stared up at her, trying to memorise each and every feature for the last time. He was prepared for the heartbreak. As painful as it would be to go on alone, the thought of Y/N happy and thriving would be enough to staunch his bleeding undead heart.

And yet, when he tried to say goodbye, tried to ask for one last kiss, she knocked him on the back of the head before pulling him in a bone-crushing hug.

“You stupid vampire,” Y/N muttered against the skin of his neck. “Where you go, I go. The sun doesn’t matter.”

Astarion wanted to argue, to tell her he didn’t deserve her giving up her life for him, but she silenced him with a gentle press of her lips.

“You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” came his sure reply, tears still rolling down his cheeks, and his hands clutching at her waist.

“Then please believe it when I say I love you. I want to spend my life, however long it may be with no one but you. Where doesn’t matter, as long as we are together.”

Once again, Astarion was ready to argue, but with a single shake of her head, Y/N silenced him. “You told me I cannot make decisions for you. But you can’t make decisions for me either. I want this.” She cupped his face between her loving palms. “I. Want. You.”

And that sort of settled the argument. The guilt still gnawed at Astarion from the inside out whenever he saw how tired Y/N got as she had to adjust to a new sleeping schedule, the couple of months while moving from a life of day to a life of night made his heart ache in sorrow. And the moments when he caught a glimpse of her on their balcony, the last rays of the day beaming down onto her body, making her glow like a deity seemed like a cruel reminder of what Astarion had conscripted Y/N to.

But she never complained. She never even mentioned how much she must miss the world when it wasn’t bathed in shadows. Instead, Y/N always turned to him with the brightest of smiles, one that could rival the burning star in the sky itself, and it made all his doubts vanish to some secluded corner of his mind.

At that moment though, Astarion rearranged himself in the settee, a large book in his hand as he studied embroidery patterns while Y/N ventured off only whoknowswhere.

It had been her idea he should look into tailoring not only as a pastime activity but as a profession. His eye for detail and fashion was unmistakable, and well, it gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind, and, potentially, once he gave into Y/N’s pestering, he could be persuaded into opening up a full-blown business. But for now, Astarion simply entertained the idea and turned to studying new patterns and fabrics.

For the better part of an hour, his darling had lounged with him, discussing what threads would suit best with what colours before disappearing between the rows of the library.

When the larger renovation of the house had been completed, and they at least had a bedroom and a bathroom, the two had taken on a project to present to the other. Astarion had taken it upon himself to convert the rooftop into a beautiful garden with blossoms that would bloom under the moonlight, having scoured the markets and paid ridiculous amounts of money for the bioluminescent flowers, while Y/N had decided to forego having a ballroom and turned it into a library for Astarion.

It’d been a gift unlike any other, and he’d cried the day she finally pushed open the large oak doors to reveal shelf after shelf, row after row of books. She knew how much he loved them, and how, especially now that he’d been robbed of experiencing the world to its fullest, books would take him on adventures across the universe, he couldn’t do so himself.

But what had brought him down on his knees was a large painting placed right above the entrance, and in the commission were the two of them, grinning at one another, Astarion’s lips pulled up in the widest smile, his vampire fangs on full display while Y/N had her arm wrapped around his waist, beautiful smile lines adorning her eyes and mouth.

For the first time in two centuries, Astarion had been able to see himself, and to have been depicted with such love and happiness gleaming on his face as he gazed at his lover was the only way he wished to be remembered in life as well.

With their painted twins watching over the little sanctuary, Astarion flipped a page, his scarlet eyes looking at the golden painting of the flowery embroidery pattern on a long white dress, and his chest constricted. It was something he so desperately wanted to see Y/N in one day if only he could step over his fears and propose when his sensitive ears picked up the sounds of creaking wood, small grunts and huffs, and then a loud thump from somewhere deep in the library.

“I’m okay!” Y/N’s voice echoed through the room, and Astarion sighed, closing the book.

“My darling, I would like for our lives together to be as long as possible.” He ventured deeper between the rows of shelves, finally coming up on Y/N who was scrambling from the floor. “But you and your incessant need to maim yourself seems to be quite the hindrance to my plans.”

How his clumsy human had been the one to become the leader of their rag-tag group while searching for a way to rid themselves of the mind-flayer tadpoles, was beyond Astarion, seeing as Y/N tripped and fell over every single pebble in her way. Even on thin air sometimes.

He extended a pale palm, and she took it with a soft smile. Just as she was ready to let it go and dust herself off, Astarion pulled her into his chest, pressing a gentle, but passion-filled kiss to her lips. “Please do refrain from doing things that might end up with you getting hurt. I rather like having you around.”

Y/N rolled her Y/E/C eyes at his dramatics, but nevertheless gave him a sweet peck. “I didn’t maim myself, I just took a little tumble.”

Instantly worry and guilt roiled through his stomach, no doubt showing on his face by the looks of her softening gaze. “Did I drink too much from you this morning?”

“No.” She cupped his cheeks, brushing a thumb over some unruly hairs of his brow. “My Star, you know you could never hurt me. You took what you needed, and you know I’d stop you if I felt it was too much.”

“I just…” he sighed, eyes cast to the ground.

“Star,” Y/N whispered, taking his chin between her fingers, and making him glance up at her. “I fell because my foot slipped. Not because I fell unwell after you fed from me. I am truly alright.”

Astarion took in a deep breath, eyes trailing along her neck where he could still see the faint marks of his fangs. Nothing like the brutal marks on his own left by Cazador who just wanted to inflict as much damage, to mark him as his spawn, but gentle pinpricks, not even her skin was raised.

“Okay.” He nodded. “I trust you.” And he sealed the promise with a kiss, Y/N humming in content against his cold lips. “But do tell me, what was so important you had to crawl all the way up there?” He surveyed the large bookshelf where on the very top row, he could see an empty spot.

“This.” Y/N untangled herself from Astarion’s hold, leaning down to pick up the book she’d fallen to the ground with, dusting off the cover with her hand. “I was looking for this one romance novel I remember getting ages ago, but when I was passing by these shelves, it almost seemed to be… I dunno… calling out? Whispering to me? There was this pull, and I just had to get it?”

Astarion sighed, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Have we learned nothing about strange things calling our names and not responding?”

“It’s why I have you.” Y/N’s smile was saccharine, eyes full of mischief. “You’re my impulse control.”

“Well, clearly I’m doing a shitty job of that.”

“Oh relax,” she waved him off. “What’s the worst a magical book could do?”

“Famous last words,” Astarion muttered under his breath, but clearly there wasn’t anything he could do to dissuade Y/N from seeing whatever it was through. “You could have at least asked for help, you know. You remind me of it all the time.”

She gave him the most ferocious glare she could muster, scowling over her shoulder and Astarion had to suppress a laugh behind tightly pinched lips. “Just because I am shorter than you, does not mean I am incapable of getting one damned book.”

“I never said you couldn’t. Just that you might be… vertically challenged… with some balance issues.”

Y/N pointedly ignored the comment and opened the book.

Astarion poked her cheek with his nose, but she didn’t budge, eyes spitefully trained on the pages she was flipping through. “A silence treatment, really, my dear?”

She just tilted her head and hummed.

“Fine,” the vampire condeced. “If that is how you wish to play this, I have no qualms about getting down and dirty.” And his fingers were instantly pressing against Y/N’s ribs.

A sharp intake of breath invaded his ears before she began twisting and turning away from him, uncontained laughter ripping through the silence of the house.

“Alright, alright, I give,” Y/N managed to get out through a fit of laughter. “You win!”

A self-satisfied smile bloomed on Astarion’s face as he twisted her to face him. “And what exactly is my prize?”

“No vinegar added to your wine.” She lightly jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

“You wound me, my darling,” Astarion put a hand against his chest, before resuming the position he was in before, pulling Y/N’s back to him in a tight embrace.

She just hummed, reopening the book he’d taken her attention away from. “That’s what you get for doling out backhanded insults.”

“My darling, I would never dare insult the love of my life, let alone backhandedly. If anything, I do it face to –,”

Y/N’s gasp of wonder interrupted Astarion mid-sentence. “Where did you get this?”

His white brows furrowed, as he glanced over her shoulder at the large tome in her hands where the picture she was gazing at seemed to be glowing. “I didn’t get this.”

“Oh, come on.” He could practically feel the eye roll. “You don’t have to lie to me. You and I both know our house has been paid. And not by our own money.”

“My darling, I would never deceive you about my looting ways.” Astarion chuckled. “Believe me, you would be the first person to know of my new… gains, but this – this isn’t something I found. And I do think I would remember if I did.”

The library might have been a gift from Y/N, but Astarion knew of every single book in it, he knew the row and the place where to find it. Not once in the three years since they had lived at their home, had he seen such a tome.

Y/N’s brows furrowed as she inspected it, on instinct, Astarion from where he’d perched his chin on her shoulder, pressed a gentle thumb between the worry lines, trying to smooth them out. He didn’t like it when she worried. She was supposed to be happy, content, smiling and laughing like in the painting of the two, though as inferior as it was in showcasing her true beauty. The time for worries was over.

“Maybe we should contact Gale?” Y/N mussed, closing the book and glancing over the cover before flipping it open again. “He could probably figure out what this is. If you didn’t put this here, and I for one, most definitely didn’t, it might be up his alley.”

Astarion groaned at the mention of the wizard. “My darling, you know better than anyone magical items and Gale,” he gagged on the name, “do not mix. He’d probably eat it before telling us anything useful about what’s in it or where it’s come from.”

“Get over it, will you?” She slapped his arm lightly, soft laughter escaping her lips. “It’s been years by now, and I’ve gotten you so many other pairs of boots.”

“The boots are the smallest of slights, darling.” Astarion pressed a kiss to the top of Y/N’s head and hid his nose in her hair. “I still remember how he tried to romance you, so I will be petty for as long as I wish to about anything I want to when it comes to that git. He tried to make you his.” His words were almost a whine of a petulant child. “When your heart was already mine. And I don’t share.

“Yes, my Star, I am very well aware of that.” Y/N chuckled, as he slowly swayed them to a song only he could hear, but both of them stopped as if frozen by a spell when her fingers turned the page.

There on the left side of the opening, a gorgeous image covered the paper by a peculiar image. On the top half of it was depicted the night sky, stars twinkling all around while the sun, not the moon, had been painted in gold so bright it almost seemed to glow and just underneath the sun a flower bloomed in full. On the bottom half was a flipped mirror image of the scene – the same flower only closed while the sky above it was that of a bright blue day and where the sun should have been, glowed a pale moon.

As his eyes scanned the drawings, they flitted to the right page as well. It wasn’t intricate, there weren’t any weaving designs around the edges, completely nothing else apart from twelve lines split apart in fours, written in a language Astarion couldn’t read, but there was something about the picture that made his chest squeeze and mind reel.

Hope. That was the feeling tightening around his heart. Hope of what the picture could mean – a flower of darkness blooming in the day and resting at night. A creature of night like him living a life in the sun.

“You know, you are always right, my love,” he mumbled as Y/N dragged a careful almost reverent finger along the paper, no doubt her mind coming to the same conclusion. “Maybe we should contact the wizard.”

When she turned around to face Astarion, his breath caught in his throat for such undeniable hope glimmered in her eyes. “I’ll write to him right now.”

Tags:

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger

A/N: So Tumblr is imposing text lenght now.... wtf... or is that just me? I was going to put this in a one-shot, but now I have to split it apart, so this is Part 1 or who knows. This man made of pixels on a screen is ruining my life. I want him now ! (with his consent, of course)

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owlespresso · 1 month

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the coring, the goring

alpha!blade/beta!reader/omega!luocha you are a beta courier. kafka asks of you a favor. tags: filth and spice below like you wouldn't believe, extremely dubious consent, luocha and blade are freaks but that's nothing new, prone bone pt 3 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. they've been extremely generous enough to beta read all three parts and give feedback. i could not have done this without them! part 1, part 2, collab masterlist

Kafka shows up at your apartment, one afternoon. After Blade stayed over, flayed you open, left your tender underbelly exposed to the pale moonlight. You still don’t know how you feel about him. You do, however, know how you feel about her.

You’ve never told her where you live, but it doesn’t surprise you that she knows. She lingers in the doorway, leaned up against the left side. Her coy smile is more subdued than usual.

“I need your help with something,” she says. At least she isn’t wasting time on the pleasantries, today. That’ll get her to leave quicker, and that’s pretty much all you’re concerned with. You still blanch, because she wants something from you. That’s always a dire sign. Something in your life is about to go awry.

“You can’t find someone else? I’m a bit busy today.” you narrow your eyes at her. Her smile tightens. Whatever she’s come here for, it must be urgent.

“Whatever your clients pay you, I’ll double it for the days you miss. Every single one. I’ll even throw in some of those honey candies you like to sweeten the deal.”

“Days?” you blink, already beginning to calculate the potential gains and losses in your head. Missing several shifts could lose you a few clients—could you wheedle her into paying you that difference until you find new ones?

“Yes, days,” Kafka twirls a lock of her hair absentmindedly. “You see, Bladie has a little problem that needs delicate taking care of—” she begins, voice pitching up, preparing to wind around the crux of the whole thing until you lose your mind.

You cut her off there. “Just give it to me straight.”

“Always so forward,” she pouts. Her voice winds up like she’s about to give you a scolding, but she flattens out, lips curling into a lazy smile. “I like that about you.”

“Bladie is in rut,” she continues. Slowly, like she’s explaining the concept to a child. “He has someone to take care of him—that merchant, the blonde one. The only problem is, well… their paths don’t make them entirely compatible.”

Your lips twitch into a frown. Destruction and Abundance, on opposite ends of the spectrum. If they were both normal people, it wouldn’t pose a problem… but you have no idea if Blade’s unique condition could cause complications. Regardless, you’re not sure why she’s telling you. This isn’t your problem.

“They’ll need a mediator—” she begins.

You’ve heard enough. “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, c’mon. These two have been barking up your tree for more than a month and you’re not curious?” she teases,

“No.”

She says your name. Your spine goes rigid. Something sweet and cloying pricks its claws into the soft flesh of your consciousness. This is suddenly no longer a negotiation.

“You don’t have to do anything. You just have to be… present, in case Blade’s mara rears its ugly head.”

“You could do that,” you point out.

Kafka shrugs. “I could, but that isn’t the only benefit of having an emanator of Harmony around. I can’t mediate like you can,” You hold your tongue only because you know she’s right. “I know it’s a hassle, but I’ll make it worth your while. And I’ll pay you triple of what you would have made this week.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if his rut doesn’t last a week?” Unease churns at the bottom of your gut. This isn’t your wheelhouse. To delve to the depths of intimacy when you haven’t even waded the shallows is unwise at the very best, life-endangering at the worst. You’re not attached to Luocha and Blade in the way they are attached to each other. And the moment you lower the drawbridge and weaken your walls, you anchor yourself even further to the Luofu.

“You’ll be paid the same, regardless.” Kafka says, as though it’s in any way comforting.

You loosen the tensed muscles of your jaw. It’s not as though you… dislike Blade. You think about him, early in the morning, when you’re too sleepy to get your thoughts straight. You remember keenly the press of his lips, the smell of him as he breached your personal space, permitted himself to your skin—

You shut your eyes. You feel too hot, all of the sudden, “Can I get that in writing?”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I can wire you the money right now—” Kafka slides her phone out of her pocket, nimble fingers clicking all over the screen. You still aren’t comforted.

“No, it’s fine,” you squeeze the bridge of your nose, already feeling the oncoming headache. You can’t believe you’re doing this. “When do I have to be there?”

—

The house looks the same as it always does. There’s nothing new on the breeze. Nothing beside the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds. You knock on the door. Luocha stands in the doorway, red robe hanging off his shoulder. Bruises bloom on his skin like blood in water, spots of bluish-purple that run up the left side of his neck. You blink, speechless. He’s greeted you dressed like this, before, but he’s never looked so ragged. So run-down. His lips are kiss-swollen, lit up an angry pink. Flaxen blond flows down his shoulders like a river stream, strands sent awry in several places—they look like they’ve been tugged at, manhandled in a way you never imagined he would allow.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” he chimes, and steps aside. He motions for you to come in. It’s a threshold you’ve crossed many times, but something about this feels permanent. There’s a heavy feeling in the air. The faint scent of something spiced and smoked lingers throughout the entryway and living room. Unease prickles up the back of your neck. The door clicks shut behind you. A hand lands on your shoulder. “No need to be so tense, my dear Courier. Nothing bad will happen to you here.”

“What exactly will happen here? Kafka gave me the rundown, but…”

“Well, that depends on you,” Luocha hums. The warm hand on your shoulder slides down to your bicep. He stands behind you, a solid stroke of heat along your back. “I know I speak for us both when I say we would very much like you to participate, but all you really have to do is… watch.” He breathes the word, breath soft and hot against your ear.

He slips away from your side. The space he occupied at your back feels cool and empty. You shiver.

“—And you’ll have to intervene should anything go awry. While I can sate his carnal urges, the same cannot be said for his mara,” Luocha continues, cracking open the bedroom door.

“You came,” Blade’s voice rumbles, raspy with sleep and something else. He’s laid across the bed like a lounging panther, appraising you with eyes half-open. The long stretch of his body is completely bare, all broad muscle and softness in certain places. He’s taken the bandages off his chest, you realize after a few moments of looking (staring) at him from the doorway. Free of clothes and free of scars, a perfect statue of a man.

Luocha, behind you, mistakes your shock for apprehension. He laughs by your ear.

“It’s only natural to be apprehensive. Come. Just watch for a bit.” His fingers squeeze your shoulders. You let him steer you over to an armchair with green cushions sat by the nightstand, up against the wall. Blade stares at you from the other side of the bed.

He doesn’t stop looking at you. Even when Luocha rests a knee on the bed, robe slipping off his arm, inch by inch of pale skin opened to the gaping maw of his gaze. His back—it’s as broad as you would expect from a man who lugs around a coffin on the daily. Not as big as Blade. There’s a sinuous grace to his figure, with narrow hips and—you don’t dare let your gaze lower. Because he’s looking at you looking at him over his shoulder with that coy little smile, just waiting for you to slip up.

And then he’s not looking at you, anymore. You’re entreated to a view of those long, luscious locks—sliding over the alabaster of his back as he approaches Blade on his knees.

“Well, Blade. I know you’re excited, but you’ll have to settle for me for just a little longer,” he says. You nearly open your mouth to remind him that you haven’t agreed to anything, but the breath is robbed from you as he mounts Blade’s thighs.

The alpha’s cock is long and thick enough to make you cringe as the tip nestles between Luocha’s cheeks. Twin groans fill the air. Blade’s voice is low and coarse, the vibrating thrum of an old engine.

Luocha luxuriates in the stretch. His back arches, head bowing back as he takes the other man inch-by-inch. The dim light which reaches in through the closed blinds casts him in perfect clarity, and you can see his thighs begin to shake as he seats himself fully on Blade’s lap. His fingers fist in the sheets on either side of him, glimmering silk bunched between long pianist’s fingers. Cock taken to the hilt.

“You’re putting on a show,” Blade accuses.

“And you’re watching.” Luocha replies, voice breathy and soft. He starts to say something else—but Blade’s hands fit over his hips, bulky fingers nestling into his v-lines. His voice devolves into a choked little sound as he’s lifted, until only the tip remains inside of him. The effortless gesture of strength makes you swallow and sink back in your seat. The air swells with unabated sweetness. And you—you react to it.

Your fingers tense briefly, gripping the hard cushion armrests as you watch Blade fuck into him with voracity bordering unhinged. Luocha’s soft moans reverberate through the room, each one goes straight to your wetting cunt. Your thighs squirm and shift, pressed tight together.

Blade grunts. His thrusts lose what little rhythm they possessed to begin with. You see every slide of his thick cock into Luocha’s loosened hole—slick-doused and swelling. You can see the muscles in Luocha’s back tense and stretch as he arches. The orgasm wracks him bone-deep. His toes curl. And Blade—Blade’s grip only tightens. Luocha’s thin waist is clutched entirely in his hands. His nails dig into the skin as he sheathes himself with a throaty snarl. The cum is so excessive that it drips and pools on the silken sheets, running down Luocha’s creamy thighs.

The room goes quiet. There’s only the steady sound of their mixed breathing, desperate huffs which level out over the next however long. You’re stuck there, still. The room smells of sex. A strange, hot feeling rolls down your spine. You feel like an exposed nerve. Like a trigger a hair away from being pulled.

Luocha, eventually, pulls himself off of Blade with another slick sound. Blade shuts his eyes and reaches out a shaky hand, wrapping it tight around Luocha’s shoulder. His nails bite into the pale skin, thick fingers right next to a ring of recent bitemarks.

“Mm,” Luocha pauses. He presses his lips to the scarred fingers which clutch him. At this distance—you can sense the sudden lurch of Destruction, spurred on by cloying mara and the natural, ingrained need to give chase. To empty the wellspring of Luocha’s Abundance like a man parched. You tense in your seat. Pushing your scrambled nerves aside, you reach for the Harmony—expel it and let it float through the chamber. “I'm not going anywhere, Blade. You know that.” Luocha says. Blade’s grip loosens. The wildfire in his eyes dims to a hearth. He settles.

Now free to be as obnoxious as he likes, Luocha turns fully to you.

“Ah,” his eyes twinkle as he licks his lips, looking at you now. “Did that do it for you?”

“N…No.” your voice feels thick in your throat. The most bold-faced lie you’ve ever told.

Luocha laughs a little. “It’s alright; you don’t have to say it. How about you come over here? Or do you want me to come over there?”

“I’m perfectly content to watch,” you insist. Your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would. But Luocha only smiles. He regards you with that same, infuriating knowingness that he always does.

He slides off the mattress, smooth as fine grain sand and assured in his nakedness. You feel the tips of your ears get hot as he approaches, crosses the breadth of the room with swaying hips.

He has you, and he knows it. Long fingers slide over your arms where they clutch the armrest. His thumbs rub over the back of your palms as he looms close.

“You can stop this,” he murmurs, voice close to a whisper. He pries your fingers off the armrest, urges your hands to go limp. “Any time you want,” he says, but you don’t feel like it. You feel pinned by the voracity in Blade’s eyes as he stares at you from his perch on the mattress.

Luocha slides to his knees like a swan takes to water. Slender fingers work the buttons of your trousers open, thumbs which slide beneath your waistband pull them down. You make a grab for the elastic, clutching it in your fist. The breath rushes in and out of your lungs, something in you suddenly awoke. The fear and an apprehension you should have felt from the start snap to life like a bolt of lightning.

But Luocha. Luocha gently pulls it again. More like an ask than a demand, and you let it go. You swallow as he slides them off. revealing the seat of your panties. Wet.

“Oh? All for us? That’s very flattering,” he says, like you’re a child who's earned the praise. You don't know what kind of face you make, but it must accurately convey your displeasure because his eyes crinkle, unmistakably fond. “Forgive me. I simply can’t resist teasing you… and I was under the impression that you hated me for the longest time.”

Your tongue feels too big for your mouth. Your throat feels full of something thick and unsweet.

Your underwear comes next. It's a simple black pair. He thankfully spares you the commentary as he delicately slides it down your thighs, your legs, so meticulously careful in his handling of you.

“Well, you still might,” he continues, once you're bare from the waist down. “But at the very least, I know you feel some base level of attraction.”

His tongue parts the wet folds of your pussy. You tilt your head back, fingers curling to clutch the armrests, unwilling to watch him make a mess of you. The air feels liquid around you, murky with their scents—which have taken on, somehow, a new intensity.

You don’t get to think about it, because Luocha brings your knee over his shoulder and puts his lips on your clit, tip of his tongue flirting with your entrance. He laps up your slick, drinks you in like a man starved. You jerk, a wheeze rattling out from between your ribs, but Luocha holds you fast.

Pleasure surges in you like a current, a clever twist of his tongue making you jerk—and moan, like the harlot you know you are not. It sinks in, then and only then, as you clench his flaxen locks in your fist, that this is happening.

But you don’t get to digest it. Something hot snaps in the core of you, toes curling as you gush wet and hot into his eager mouth.

His lips are shiny with your slick when he pulls away, lips curved into an unmistakably satisfied grin. Your chest rises and falls as you try and catch your breath. You feel—wrung out, hazy in the remnants of your climax.

“I hope I lived up to your expectations.”

You blink blearily at him. “I didn’t expect anything from you after all.”

There’s a small huff from behind him. A small smirk pulls at the corners of Blade’s lips.

“How charmingly candid,” Luocha says, unbothered. You’re still too witless to muster a witty retort. Or any sort of retort at all, because as soon as you try, he heaves you into his arms with an ease you hadn’t expected.

An undignified sound bleats from deep in your throat, words on the tip of your tongue mangled as you scramble for purchase. You dig your nails into the pale skin of his shoulders. The muscles there are broad and smooth. Exactly what you would expect from a man who carries a coffin around with him all day.

“Wait just a second—”

“You surely don’t think the chair will be a more comfortable place for this than the bed, do you?” he asks, hands big and warm on the backs of your thighs.

“Don’t just go picking someone up without warning,” you seethe, and it still feels like a concession.

“Ah,” Luocha’s smiling again. “My apologies—I forgot how easily you scare. I’ll be sure to give you due warning, next time.”

“I don’t scare easily.” you mutter. He hums. Then he gently deposits you onto the mattress. Blade lounges easily, passion only betrayed by his smoldering, half-lidded gaze. The long line of his body is caked in muscle. The kind of body you’d expect from someone who carries around a sword that heavy—whose hands have ended a number of lives and worlds beyond your reckoning.His chin rests idly on the palm of his hand. Your gaze drifts over the smooth ridges of his abdomen, the plush of his chest.

Luocha settles up against the headboard. His cock is out, you realize belatedly. It stands hard and proud against his stomach. And his thighs glisten with release—both his and Blade’s. Your cunt throbs.

A hand reaches over and fists in Luocha’s hair, dragging him downwards for an open-mouthed kiss. He tongues your release from Luocha’s mouth. Lewd, wet sounds fill the balmy air, rumbling groans and soft little whines. Even now, in this deep between them, you feel like a voyeur. Yet, you watch them with lips parted and eyes wide.

You shudder.

Eventually, they separate.Wordlessly, Blade sits up and disappears behind you. You try to crane your neck to follow where he goes, but Luocha’s nimble fingers yet again seize your jaw.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice delicate as it hovers in the air between you. “Blade’s not going anywhere, dear. Just focus on me for the time being, alright?”

But it’s so hard when you can feel the presence behind you, hovering like a dark cloud. You swallow, the noise impossibly loud in your own ears. Your cunt is wet and you’re sweating and your shirt is still on—but Luocha endeavors to fix that in the next moments. It’s difficult, in the haze of everything, to keep track of where his fingers go or when your button-up slides off your shoulders, to breathe when he unlatches the clasp of your bra like he’s done it a thousand times before.

How many people has he done this with, before? A bitter taste twinges at the back of your mouth. Unprovoked and without reason.

Blade’s big hands settle on your hips, thumbs rubbing the space above your waist.

“Handle her gently, Blade,” Luocha murmurs gently. His soft hands stroke down your bare arms. His verdant gaze drags down your torso, too slow to be anything but indecent.

Blade grunts. He squeezes, once, before he lifts you without warning. You splutter, hands snapping to perch on Luocha’s shoulders for some sense of balance as you’re moved with near pitiful ease. The show of strength sends a fresh wave of heat flush to your drooling cunt, and you try not to pant as you feel the tip of Luocha’s cock nestle against your folds.

Your fingers curl and your eyes shut.

“Just like that,” Luocha says, simple and light. Another pair of hands settles on your thighs—and he’s breached you. You choke.

The stretch hurts. You didn’t expect anything else, but your head still falls back, eyes clenching shut as your walls spasm and squeeze tight. Behind you, Blade pants like a dog, huffing into the crook of your neck, inhaling you by the lungful. There’s a tremble in his hips that you can feel.

It takes you a moment to realize that the whimpers filling the room are yours.

“Re—lax,” he breathes, sounding almost pained. Like he has the right to. Like he isn’t fucking you open, pushing deep in as your greedy cunt squeezes and struggles to take him. Your knees press hard into the mattress, instinct prompting your aching thighs to buck upwards and flee the intrusion, but Blade holds you fast, grinding his teeth into your aching skin.

“You’re doing so well for me, darling,” Luocha praises, cooing as your cunt clenches, “Oh,” he sighs, like he’s awed by it. His green eyes, unseeing, blown wide—your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as Blade lifts you again, up and up until only the head of his cock remains inside. “Gentle, Blade.” he bids, eyelids low—

And then Blade eases you down. It’s a slow drag. It hurts less, this time. Sparks of pleasure roll up your spine and send your cunt aflutter, your nails raking into his shoulders as they set the pace. He rolls his hips as Blade moves you—puppeteers you, his mouth tracking wet, open-mouthed kisses over your shoulders and up the sides of your neck. His teeth score into your yielding flesh.

“Stop—gnawing at me,” you snarl, reaching a hand back to swat him like an unruly animal. His lips find the meat of your palm, lips tenderly grazing the skin there as if in apology. He growls and inhales, again, and you marvel in fear and awe at just how stupid the chemicals in his brain have made him. Are all alphas like this, during their ruts?

Luocha says something else, but it’s all lost to the filth, to your moans and cries and other undignified noises as they further unravel you. Blade grips hard enough to bruise, his breath heavy against your skin, your ears. They work in tandem. Blade fucks you up and down on Luocha’s cock like a fleshlight, and Luocha rocks his hips into your fluttering, tight pussy in a quickly unraveling rhythm.

And Blade—you feel his cock press hot up against your back just as dexterous fingers glide over your clit, Luocha’s touch making you thrash. Your sweat-slicked skin grinds up against Blade’s front, and he snarls.

You come, orgasm a searing and unwieldy thing. You crash over the precipice, head tossed against Blade’s shoulder as your cunt spasms around Luocha’s cock. Milking him, shaking body trying to suck him in deep. Your entire body is one hot line of heat, pressed between them and oh fuck, Blade keeps fucking you onto Luocha’s cock. The blonde’s consistent and precise thrusts stuttering out of pace until he comes with an obscene groan. His fingers dig into your thighs as he fills you, rope after rope of his release hitting inside.

The room fades into a calm quiet. The air is dense with the smell of sex. Even through the exhaustion, the pheromones pry under your skin and keep you as hot as the bodies you’re wedged between. Blade lifts you from Luocha’s cock with pitiful ease, and the noise you let out at the separation is downright pathetic. Your mixed releases slide slick down your thighs and onto the sheets below, and your consciousness rouses just enough to feel a twinge of humiliation.

“Lovely little thing, you were even more incredible than I anticipated,” His fingers clumsily draw over your cheek, your neck, your side. Petting you, palms shaping around your breasts and stomach as you come down from the high. You all but collapse against Blade’s front, boneless.

The moment he releases you, you topple onto the bedding next to Luocha. It’s hard to breathe. The air feels thick. You fight to regain your bearings amongst the haze, covered in sweat and cum and sore spots all over your neck and shoulders.

Luocha coos. The pads of his fingers gently prod one such spot.

“You didn’t have to be so rough,” Luocha hums at Blade. His touches delicately circle every point of pain, “This is your first impression in bed. You may be in rut, but you have enough self-control to not chew on your caretakers. You aren’t an animal, are you?”

“No,”

“No,” Luocha repeats, airy and fond as he pulls away. “You’re a blade. I don’t know if that’s more or less of an excuse.” He says, but he doesn’t sound frustrated. His scolding is light-handed and more amused than anything.

“Will you two quiet down?.” you grouse, finally coherent enough to complain again.

“Our apologies. We really should be putting our mouths to better use,” Luocha says, rubbing your back again. You throw a hand back to try and swat him away, but he pushes you aside with frustrating ease. “As much as I would like to afford you the proper time to rest—”

He doesn’t get a word in before you’re being manhandled onto your back.

Big hands pin your hips to the mattress. Blade’s palms are hot and clammy, sweat rubbing into your exposed skin.

“I appreciate this,” he rumbles lowly. His candlewick irises threaten to swallow you whole as he ducks close, pressing your foreheads together. Blade’s keen gaze shifts from your eyes, rolls down your face and over your throat like a soft breeze.

You swallow, your breath stolen from you in a gasp as he turns you over yet again. He maneuvers you how he likes, front pressed right against the sheets from head to toe. His hand settles in the crook of your left knee, opening you for the hot press of his head. The slow press of him is a sweet agony. He’s too big, he’s so fucking big—your cunt struggles to accommodate him as he bullies his way inside. Short, aborted thrusts which grate against your velvet walls. Your entire body twitches, overworked nerves crying out in muted protest, but the pleasure is open and heady, your entire body made pliant by the pheromones and—oh and it’s so much easier to go prone, like this.

Blade’s eager mouth tooths a path along your shoulder, seeking the crook of your neck with single minded hunger.

It’s a slow, heavy push aided by previous climaxes, but he’s still much too big. You weren’t meant to take anything like this, you can’t help but think.

Luocha gives a sympathetic coo. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Is it? You try to answer, but all that comes out is a low, animal sound. Half pained but all pleasured. If Luocha filled you, Blade bursts you to the seams. Your fingers claw at the bedding as you struggle to take him, unable to stifle your voice. You’re not sure how long it takes for him to hilt. Minutes or hours. Time is lost to you, all of your focus centered on the tight space between your legs and how he swells in it.

A wet, warbling sound wanders out of your weary throat as you feel his thighs press to the back of yours. At last complete. The grip he has around the crook of your knee tightens, his breath sputtering onto the back of your neck as he pulls out.

The first plunge back in is no better than the initial fit. He pumps you full, over and over, pace breaking into something ravenous at the first sign of your acquiescence. You can’t think, you can hardly breathe as your velvet walls suck him in. Every thrust has his cockhead teasing your sweet spot. You try to arch your back, but you’re met by the solid wall of muscle that comprises him, flattening you to the bed, leaving you cored and flayed open for him to fuck, to fill, to stick his fingers and tongue inside. He scrapes his teeth over what feels like the marrow of you and makes your vision go hazy with tears. They roll down your cheeks, fat droplets soaking the bedding beneath you.

Your orgasm isn’t a steady trickle but a sudden burst, white hot pleasure erupting behind your clenched eyelids. He fucks you through it. His knees dig into the mattress on either side of your body, pelvis slapping your ass with each disjointed thrust. Whatever rhythm he might have had sputters into nothingness. He mindlessly pursues his own climax, lips fitting over your shoulders. He kisses your spin. His hot tongue laps at your sweat and your bruises, almost tender.

There’s an ask, there. A request for your forgiveness, or your acknowledgement. But you are too spent to speak.

He cums inside of you, his release splattering your walls and dripping onto the sheets below. It’s so vulgar it almost makes you nauseous. But your toes curl and your voice pitches into a watery whine because he’s still fucking you.

“Blade,” you find your voice, but do not recognize the ragged, ruined thing it has become. “Blade!” The pleasure has long tilted over the edge into pain. You claw at the sheets. You can’t tell if you’re trying to squirm away or arch closer, all that you know is the heat of his body and smell of sex and wetness of his cum running down your thighs.

“Blade,” a different voice says. You completely forgot Luocha was even there. You can’t see where he is, “Remember what we talked about? Don’t knot her. She’ll break.”

“The poor thing,” he says, voice soaked in sympathy. A slender hand curls beneath your cheek, wedged between it and the pillow. Your lips press against the palm as your face is forced up.

Luocha’s eyelids are low. His lips slightly parted, and his expression so impossibly benevolent as he observes you.

“Just a bit more,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against the swell of your bottom lip. You huff and squeal into his hand as Blade’s body tenses, readying itself for another orgasm. And as he spills within you a second time, Luocha steals the moan off your tongue with a deep, searching kiss.

—

Afternoon has shifted into late evening. The living room is cooler than the shaded bedroom. Somewhere after a third climax, you had been cleaned, a robe maneuvered onto your form by clinging, roughened hands. You’re not sure who did what. For the past hour, you think you’ve hovered dangerously close to unconsciousness, barely able to open your lips to sip on the glass of water someone held up for you. The rim was blissfully cold. You swallow the drink down with a voracity you’ve scarcely ever shown, let it soothe your sore throat and float some of the life back into you.

You’re endlessly grateful for this as you scarf down dinner. Some greasy takeout that fills your empty stomach, fried batter crunching nice between your teeth.

Exhausted, and sore, and something related to satisfied, you finally rest your weary eyes. Your fingers find Blade’s silken strands. His face is nestled into your lap, nose pressed into the inseam of your thigh. He all but flopped atop of you after you finished eating, content to doze half-under a red blanket.

Each breath taken is a warm puff you can feel through your robe. When did it go this far? How did it go this far? In a few hours, will he be just as voracious as he was when you walked in? You rummage through what remains of your cognizance in search of answers, but come up blank. All it amounts to is feeble frustration. Your fingers still comb through those long, luscious locks.

Footsteps pads in your direction from behind. You don’t bother to look up at Luocha until he nudges something into your hand. The stem of a wine glass is pressed into your shaking fingers.

When you look up at him, he only smiles, “For the nerves,” he says, and settles on the other sofa. “And the pain.”

You stare into the glass. The person reflected in the deep cherry looks sleepy and sated. A feeling of defeat churns in the depths of you. Your stomach sinks. You shut your eyes and let your head loll onto the back of the armchair. The plush upholstery cushions the back of your skull. The steady, building buzz of anxiety building behind your eyes amounts to a soft, yet still aching throb.

You lift the glass, and press your lips to the rim.

#luocha/reader #blade/reader #hsr/reader #hungering for hsr

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