#Is he going to lose some softness for self-preservation? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghouljams · 9 months

Note

not to be a slut but what if price tapped witch?

"Why don't we just wipe her and try again?" Gaz asks, already on his feet and moving towards you with an efficiency you haven't seen in years. You try not to be intimidated by the threat. Price wouldn't let anything happen to you, at least you don’t think he would. You trust him, and he must trust Gaz or he wouldn't have brought him. So you’re doing your best to trust Gaz as well.

"Not a good-" Price's words are cut short by Gaz's fingers pressing against your forehead with a soft tap before you can even think to swat his hand away. Price shoots to his feet almost as quickly as you feel the pierce of wild magic sliding through your brain. A jagged knife pushing home between the hemispheres of your brain, snapping synapses and tearing tissue. Your eyes go wide as agony sweeps over you.

"Price?" You don't know what you mean to say after that, or even what your intentions with it were in the first place. The sharp block of fae magic sits menacingly between your thoughts, pushing out everything else with increasingly painful precision. When you look at Price for help you taste blood, feel tears spill down your cheeks. Price's face contorts into something akin to panic as he reaches for you.

The two fae are snapped from your home, your wards identifying and expelling the threats as you stumble to your feet. You can't make your eyes focus on anything but the bright crimson blood that coats your fingertips as you draw them away from your lips. Your nose is bleeding.

Price pounds on the door, yelling for you. You do your best to ignore it and drag yourself to your kitchen, hands shaking and breaths shallow as you open your apothecary cabinet. You grab- no you- you can't remember what you're supposed to grab in this situation. The pain is starting to make it hard to think, and your vision won't clear enough to read the scrawled labels on the bottles in front of you.

"Let me in Sweetheart," Price calls through your door, "please let me in," his voice sounds as desperate as the bang of his fist against the wood, "I can fix this, please."

You can fix this too. You're sure you know how to fix this. You just cant- you can't recall it. You grip your head with a whine, dig your fingers against your hairline as pain shoots against the back of your eye. You need a proxy. You need something to take this pain so you can think about how to get the twisting knife out of your skull.

You try to open the large drawer in the middle of the cabinet and find it stuck. You jiggle the handle to try and coax it open, tugging blindly at the drawer. There’s poppets in there, raw materials, you’re sure- you’re sure if- fuck you’re not-

You press your shaking hands to your eyes, clawing at your head to try and release some of the pressure. It feels like your skull is about to explode. You try not to scream in pained frustration. Everything is too much. Too bright and searing. You’re losing parts of your brain as quickly as you can remember them. You feel like a cup being poured out, the profound loss of yourself a threatening undercurrent to the pain.

You need this -whatever it is- out of you. You try to remember your spells, your magic, the things your mother and grandmother have drilled into you since you were small. You don’t have time to think (couldn’t hope to anyway) you can only rely on the instinct that’s been nurtured in you.

You are raw unfiltered magic, built on generations of magical blood. It courses through your veins like a guiding compass and forces you forward, self preservation and adrenaline carrying you when your feet don't want to. The pounding. The pounding on the door. It's like a never ending drum beat, tattooing itself over your eardrums. There's someone very insistent at your door. A proxy, your ancestors whisper to you.

You rip the door open, grab the face of the man banging on it, and press. Press all the pain out of your body and into him, push the knife out of your skull and drive it as deep as you can into him until it doesn't hurt anymore, until you don't feel anything anymore. And he lets you. Whoever he is, he lets you pour the invading magic into him, his hand tight around your wrist as you do, holding you steady. He catches you around your waist when the adrenaline leaves you in a rush, and your legs can't support you anymore, holds you tight to his chest and murmurs soft kindnesses to you. You're not sure why when you've surely given him every painful reason to spit and curse at you.

"It's alright Sugar, it's- Christ what took you so long, I thought-" He presses his lips to your forehead, wiping away the last of whatever invading force was putting you through hell.

“Price I-” There’s another person here, you flinch away from his voice.

“Save it, you didn’t know.” Price, that’s a familiar name, cuts him off. Price crouches, adjusts his hold on you and slips an arm under your knees to lift you. “Witches are a rare breed,” He grunts, bouncing you a little in his hold to coax you to hang on, “and even if we didn’t mix like oil and water this one’s warded to hell and back.”

“Generational,” You mumble, trying to deepen your breathing, eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight.

“You comin’ back to me already, Sweetheart?” Price murmurs, there’s something rumbly and comforting in his chest. It makes you feel safe and held. You hum, not sure what he’s talking about. He smells good, cool like the winter breeze, after the horrible burning it’s a nice change. Price is mumbling something to himself, the rumbling starting to peter off as he does. That’s alright, it’s done its job leading you towards sleep. You’re jostled back to wakefulness with a few purposeful bounces. “You want me to put you to bed?” He asks softly, you think that’s a funny question considering he’s already trying to put you to sleep.

“Please.”

“Atta girl,” You feel when he passes through the threshold into your home. The wards raised and poised to attack the magic that had threatened their owner. You wish they wouldn’t bother you when you’re so worn out. That seems to work well enough for them to settle, humming in annoyance as Price carries you through the little archway separating the bedrooms from the main room of the house.

You’re set on a soft surface, your bed you think, and Price’s hands leave you to let you cuddle into your pillows. You open your eyes as he pulls the curtains over your window. The dim light makes you feel soft and selfish, reaching a hand toward him as he turns. He catches your fingers with his own, crouching to meet your eyes. He kisses the tips of your fingers, your knuckles, he looks… regretful. His brows are drawn and his smile doesn’t reach the soft look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” You wonder how many people have heard him say that, something soft and warm settles between your ribs. You pull at his grip, push your cheek against his rough palm. He lets out a pained noise and draws back, “I can’t, Gaz and I-”

“S’okay,” You sigh and close your eyes again, pulling a pillow under your aching head, you’re starting to feel a little more yourself, “I’ll be here.”

“I know,” His fingers brush your hair from your face, “I’ll be back.”

You smile when his fingers don’t leave, tracing your features lightly, reverently, “I know.”

#1fae1 #oc: Witch #fae!Price #fae!Gaz #captain john price #john price #john price x reader #john price x oc #x oc #cod x oc #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x oc #oh sorry did we forget that this is a horror #tw memory loss #tw head trauma #Gaz you are unfamiliar magic and wild magic already doesn't mix well with human magic #Price and Witch's magic has sort of reached an understanding #they're gentle with each other

629 notes · View notes

cvlutos · 1 year

Text

“No Nut November” Pt.2

| Repost: 01.09.23 | 1.3K | Mature |

NRC 2nd Years X GN!Reader

♡ RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS ♡

LOSER #ONE

He honestly doesn’t know about NNN, until he heard Ace and Deuce talking about it and so he asks Trey. Who simply laughs out loud and sorta explains it. Riddle literally goes red in the face and wants to collar anyone who speaks about something that is so embarrassing. Until you casually mention it and think it’s funny. He’s sorta like that’s dumb. He’s totally not doing NNN, not even for you. But he thinks about it, various times throughout the day. I honestly believe that Riddle isn’t a very horny person, so he rarely gets hard till the most random of times. He sorta just plainly ignores it as he does homework in his bedroom. Absentmindedly chewing on his pen, think about you and how’d you touch—

He'll win, simply because he can’t bring himself to jack off. Though most likely had the most intense wet dream known to man. He woke up shaking and shuddering, sweating as if he fucked fr. He swears that would never happen. He would never put his dick in you—can’t make eye contact with you for weeks without becoming red in the face.

“Off with anyone’s head who participates in something so disgusting—No, I’m not red in the place!”

♡ RUGGIE BUCCHI ♡

LOSER #TWO

Loud and proud with “winning”. Knows all about NNN and he and his friends probably keep track to make sure each other doesn’t fail. So at the same time, he’s tryna preserve his NNN streak, he’s tryna ruin it for everyone else. He’s taking the most outta pocket pictures and will just casually show everyone, like one where you slip in a puddle, another why are you biting your lip. Leona is his biggest victim. He thinks he’s untouchable until you go outta your way to get him a gift. The only gifts Ruggie ever receives are the rare gifts from friends and family from the Afterglow Savannah, or the various things Leona “gives” him. So a gift from his crush.

He’s crashing and burning. Fumbling over his words as he darts off to his room. Tripping over himself as he struggles to unbuckle this belt, kicking his door close with a slam. He’s almost shaking from excitement, like a dog in front of a fresh meal. Leaning against his dorm and bucking wildly into his hand. Will act like he never came to the thought of you, though several say some heard him whimper your name.

“No, I didn’t lose… no, I don’t whimper.”

♡ AZUL ASHENGROTTO ♡

ULTIMATE LOSER.

I’m sorry but when it comes to you and trying to not masturbate. He’s failing. Losing before he even knew about NNN. Like, he’s so embarrassed when Floyd and Jade talk about as they walk to class, his face is pink before he’s coughing it off and calling NNN a children’s game. He’ll not participate in something so silly. Like bsfr.

As if he hadn’t his face shoved into a pillow and his blankets shoved between his legs. Hair, disheveled, and face red as he grinds into the multiple blankets, at exactly November 1st, 4:13AM. Like the sun isn’t even out.

“That is a childish game—No! I didn’t ‘jizz’—Don’t say such brash things! Especially in public, Floyd!”

♡ JADE LEECH ♡

WINNER #ONE

He wins simply because he wants to win. He has no carnal desire to ‘fuck his hand’ nor ‘ruin his bedsheets’, both kindly phrased by Floyd. Don’t be mistaken, he has before, seeing as he’s extremely interested in the human body. But he already knows what he likes and what makes him tick, of sorts. But you. What makes you hot and bothered? Are you into biting? Maybe blood? Maybe you like it rough, or maybe you like it soft. Which one is it?

This NNN isn’t going to be for him to have self-control. It’s going to be for you. He simply loves the embarrassed look you have when he gives you shy touches or whispers in your ear. He loves to see the way humans react. His goal isn’t to just make you lose NNN by cumming, he wants to be there and be the one that makes you cum.

“Please do tell, what is it you’re into? Shall we explore together?”

♡ FLOYD LEECH ♡

LOSER #FOUR

Loud and proud, this time with losing. Zero shame in talking to you about it. All in your ear, whispering about how hard you made him and how he came to you. Not even in a private place, probably during passing period when the halls were all crowded. Now don’t be mistaken, he “tried” for a good 60 minutes till you were minding your own business. Probably you yawned in his vicinity. He blames you for losing.

Floyd is such a flip-floppy person. Like he’s mad, he’s lost one moment, cause if you didn’t just walk around all alluring, then he wouldn’t have fucked his hand. But he’s also happy, cause he gets this type of reaction outta you. Plans to fuck you at the end of the month. One way or another.

“Don’t be like that Shrimpy~ I was just tryna have some funn hallway chit chat~”

♡ KALIM AL-ASIM ♡

LOSER #FIVE

Don’t feel bad for him. Everybody and their momma knew Kalim wasn’t winning. Everybody in that dorm knew that the moment he said he was doing NNN, he was going to lose. Like he’s the only one shocked when he’s having difficulty winning like he isn’t a huge simp. Like you say ‘jump’, Kalim is like ‘How high?’ He’d jump off a cliff into the ocean if you asked him to.

Lasts a day. A day. Longer than Jamil thought, who gave him 5 hours max. Others betting 20 minutes. So he shocks everyone, but at the same time is it a flex if everyone can hear you getting down and dirty in your room and everyone in a 10-mile radius can hear the person who has a crush on name being moaned. Kalim acts normally the next day, but Jamil looks so ashamed.

“Yeah, I lost, but it’s just a game. And I don’t mind losing [Name] is just so irresistible!”

♡ JAMIL VIPER ♡

UNDECIDED.

Truly can’t decide whether he would win or not. He’s only participating because of Kalim, who begged. So he’s playing. Which he’s proudly like, ‘I got this, no way I’m losing.’ Until you pull up, and around a lot more and he’s genuinely enjoying spending time with you, to the point you showing up in his dreams. One day in class he blanked out and had written your name with his last name. Suddenly he’s avoiding you like the bubonic plague. Like he sees you in the hall, he’s spinning around, dragging Kalim the other way.

I’ve changed my mind. He’s losing. He probably got a huge boner from spending time with you in his dorm room and thought that he could ease the pain and annoyance of his boner without cumming. For someone who’s in the dorm of mindfulness, why did he think that work, as he stares at his homework that’s now painted in his mess.

“I’m not avoiding them… I’m just taking a shortcut.”

♡ SILVER ♡

WINNER #TWO

He can barely stay awake to do homework. He sure ain’t staying awake to jerk off. Though he knows about NNN, because of his very loud dormmate, known as Sebek Zigvolt. Who challenges him. Silver, half awake and tired, agrees. Definitely forgets, and his only saving grace is him falling asleep mid-masturbation. Kid, you not. Has woken to his limp dick in hand on multiple occasions. Though I do believe that Silver stays very alert even in his sleep, so no one has caught him with his dick out. He’s been close.

“I won… oh okay…”

3K notes · View notes

st-juliet · 1 year

Note

Prompt because your work is aMAZing: when it’s before Sherlock and y/n’s wedding day, and he’s being an insufferable gentleman but she bats her eyes going “do you not want me” and he absolutely loses it 😏😏

Your Only Warning

Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: Alone in the library with his betrothed, the Reader, Sherlock fights to remain a gentleman…with limited success.

Content: 18+ for incredibly filthy language, explicit description of future sexual intimacy, dominant, angsty “I AM A GENTLEMAN” Sherlock, with a side of mild “look what you’ve made me do” rhetoric from our dear detective, but for the benefit of the very eagerly consenting Reader who absolutely intended to make him do precisely what he’s done.

Notes: Thank you so much for the prompt; I loved it, and hope you like the story, Anon!

It is a rare occasion that your future husband allows you to be alone with him.

Ever the gentleman, ever possessed by the fine arts of propriety, justice, compassion, and self-discipline…all the qualities for which you find yourself more deeply in love by the day…Sherlock has become increasingly distracted, sometimes even dismissive, of your endeavors to cultivate closeness, as the day of your wedding draws near. You do not know what precisely has caused his detachment; never once has he expressed any regret for his proposal, nor suggested he does not wish to proceed with the marriage, but something has changed.

You cannot recall the last time he was tender—if ever he truly was. No soft words, nothing of your beauty, certainly, rise to your memory, even as you entertain the recollections of shared laughter, discussions of books or music, your eager interest in his cases and his equal enthusiasm to share his work with you. Meanwhile, you long to pour out your heart on the subject of his handsome face, his gorgeous eyes, how much you long for his touch, his kiss, his…

Well.

Sherlock’s true feelings for you are a mystery that only he could solve, and finding the time alone to ask him to unravel his secrets has been nigh impossible. But tonight, at another interminable dinner party for your family and his, a challenge from Enola to discover the secret passages of the Holmes estate has led you to the library, opening a hidden door behind a bookshelf to your delight…and the surprise of Sherlock, whom you discover pensively staring out the wide window behind his desk. He looks back over his shoulder, slightly startled, but smiles when he recognizes your familiar form emerging from the shadows.

“Very well done, Miss —,” he praises you, and your heart flutters happily at the accolade. “My sister will be most pleased to have such a companion as yourself with whom to roam these halls. When we can coax her back home, that is.”

“I hope you will find me a fine companion, too,” you offer, stepping out from the passageway and into the library proper. You look about you: no one else is there. Good.

“Naturally,” he replies, leaving the sanctuary of his desk, but still keeping a polite distance. “It will be entirely pleasant to share a home with you, here or in London. I have too long breakfasted alone, beginning the day in sullen silence, only to let supper grow cold, too, for want of more companionable nourishment.”

“Yes, I quite look forward to that, too,” you reply politely, a few tears of disappointment pooling in the corners of your eyes. His once ardent interest truly does seem to have waned into a wish for company over meals. Still, your hope preservers; perhaps this is only a gentlemanly demurring from more intimate matters? You have had some success in delving into his captivating mind. What line of inquiry might unlock his heart?

“And you must never hesitate to make use of this library.”

“Thank you. But…Mr. Holmes…”

“Yes?”

“I mean…certainly we shall share other…other rooms, too?”

“Of course. You must be honest with me in the correction of my bachelor habits.”

“Yes, and you must similarly address the conventions of my customary solitude.”

These mirrored platitudes are maddening. You steel your courage and make a bolder proposition.

“But is it not true that, as is only proper, to my understanding, that when we marry, we will be…as one?”

At this, he meets your eyes for a brief, flickering moment, then turns away from you entirely, and begins to meticulously examine the books on the shelves, uttering a monosyllabic: “Ah.”

You wait.

And wait.

At long last, he clears his throat slightly and says, “I hope that if you should have any concerns of that nature, you might seek out the counsel of a recently married woman of your own age—Mrs. Watson, for example, is a lady of faultless virtue and excellent education, and might allay your fears—“

“I have no fears!” you exclaim. “I have…great anticipation. Longing, for a closeness I thought you equally desired. Sherlock, please I long to know and be known as a wife, to share with you every facet of my life, including—my…our—“

“Please, Miss —“

“But of late you scarcely look at me—“

“Dear girl,” he interrupts again. “I beg you to cease this line of inquiry!”

Your frustration bubbles over. Determinedly, you cross the room to where he stands, and slip around his hulking frame, insinuating yourself betwixt him and the bookcase, demanding his attention whether he will or no.

“What is it, Sherlock?” you ask, gazing up at him through your eyelashes, feeling your pulse quicken at his nearness. “Do you not want me?”

“Do I,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Not want you?”

In an instant, he has you restrained against the bookshelves, one hand pinned above your head and the other left to grasp frantically at his lapel, feeling the hard muscle and pounding heart beneath his fine coat, like an ember burning beneath your fingertips.

“Every moment I am plagued with wanting you! Do you not understand why I have withdrawn from you, why I must keep my distance from the woman I love?”

Sherlock lays his palm against your cheek, then slides his fingers down your neck, across your collarbones, coming to rest against the heaving swell of your breast over your gown.

“This is why. To prevent this.”

Hands over hearts, you are more closely entwined than you have ever been, and you can see with perfect clarity that his eyes burn with deep, profound emotion as well as increasingly unbridled yearning. Pinioned there by his full weight and bulk, you are completely helpless to his whims, and nothing has ever felt so freeing in your entire life. Finally, finally, finally, you exalt in your mind, and you sigh his name, unable to suppress a slight moan, which only seems to afflict him further.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“I am a gentleman of unimpeachable conduct, but you would turn me into a brute. The more time I spend in your presence, the closer the day draws near when you will be mine, the more I find my resolve tested,” he despairs, drawing in a deep breath, and shuddering as the scent of your hair, your skin, permeates his senses. “Look at us, look what you have done! All this time I have resisted, but you undo it in a mere minute…”

His lips are practically touching yours, his grip on your wrist grown tighter, the press of his unmistakable hardness against you firm and unyielding.

“This,” he explains, his voice gone ragged and low. “Is your only warning, my dear sweet bride. If you speak another word of wanting before I may lawfully, licitly show you every way a man may possess his wife, if you touch me—or, or, you perfect minx, my gorgeous tormentor, if you with all your whiles force my hand…if you insist I kiss your glove in public, or ask for my arm to cross the street…I will make you pay for it the minute we are wed. I will turn you over my knee and spank your backside bruised. I will have you in every room of the house; damn who might see us. I will hunt you down across the estate and take you in the fields or the forest like an animal, for so you make me, darling. I will bind your hands to my bed and make you come for me over and over again until you have not a single thought left in this brilliant little mind, and then I will fuck your pretty weeping cunt until I’m sated and you are dripping with my seed. And that for a start.”

Sherlock, eyes glittering with his barely leashed lust, presses a light, chaste kiss to your cheek.

“Are we understood, Miss —?”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, and, with the final indulgence of skimming the pad of his thumb across your trembling bottom lip, he very gently, courteously releases you, and then promptly flees to the opposite side of the room to pour himself a substantial drink. He downs it in one gulp, then takes several very deep breaths, and though he keeps his back to you, you can tell, with a secret thrill down your spine, that he is adjusting his clothes in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal.

“You were best return to the drawing room at once,” he instructs, almost bashful at his body’s insistence against his mind’s prudence. It is incredibly endearing. “I must compose myself.”

“Of course. Forgive me, sir, that I have discomposed you so.”

“No, no, it is I who must apologize. Can you forgive me, dearest girl, that I have not made clear to you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen? I was never a man of sentiment until now, and feared that to linger too long on the object of my desire, might make me lose all control. But I will tell you every day, ten times a day—from now until the end of my life, that your loveliness of body and soul is to me as vital as the air I breathe.”

“Are you becoming a poet, Sherlock?” you tease, melting all the more at his rush of tenderness, so looked for and longed for.

“Only for you,” he sighs, and you almost faint away as his hand drops to palm the outline of his cock through his trousers. Realizing the nature of his reflexive gesture, he gives a frustrated groan and points at you accusingly. “Only a romantic fool, and only a devious, seducing scoundrel, because of you.”

You laugh together, and, sneaking one last fervent look over your shoulder as he sinks into his chair and begins to unfasten his trousers, you close the door behind you depart, practically skipping through the halls of the home that will soon be yours, too, to rejoin both sides of the family in the parlor.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock rejoins the party, too, and no one seems to suspect anything untoward, clearly a relief to you both as your eyes meet across the table with a shared, secret glow. Once all parting pleasantries are exchanged, Sherlock follows you and your family out to the carriage, keeping a painfully respectful distance all the while. He offers only a formal bow and a stern, “Good evening” by means of farewell, but you have other designs.

“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Holmes,” you reply with a cheerful smile, and then, in front of the whole company, you elegantly present your hand to your fiancé to be kissed…

I am so, so honored by all your kind replies and reblogs! Thanks to those who commented on my other prompt fic, Pulse Point:

@fluffycutecevans @madeanaccounttoreadfanfics @nana1000night @writing-for-marvel @raccoon-eyed-rebel @sarcastic-coffeedrinker-reads @holmesbunny @peachyvulpixie @sillyrabbit81 @mayloma @inlovewithhisblueeyes @kingjuli3n 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰

#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #henry cavill sherlock #henry!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #enola holmes fanfic

2K notes · View notes

whitedarkmoonflower · 9 months

Text

Freedom

Sihtric x you

Authors note: I really hope that my dark and heavy period has come to an end with this fic and, hey, I managed to write a happy ending to it 😊.

Thank you so much to everybody who liked my first modern!Sihtric fic. I have several modern!Sihtric requests in my inbox now and even some very fluffy ones. I accept them all and I will write them all. Just please be patient as my maximum capacity is around one fic per week, but I am so enormously happy to receive the requests, so go ahead and give me some more.

Summary: reader is a childhood friend of Sihtric, whom he liberates from the slavery after the fall of Dunholm. The life has not been easy on her since Sihtric left to the point that she does not even recall him at first.

Warnings: mention of violence, blood, slavery and sexual abuse, deep depression, attempted suicide, and to overweight this all – Sihtric being incredibly sweet and caring 😊

Word Count: 3,565

Sihtric immediately recognized you the moment the men swung open the heavy oak doors of the slave pit in the depths of Dunholm. The pit emptied in an instant as everyone hurriedly fled the smelly and filthy room, almost knocking Sihtric off his feet. He had to sidestep to avoid the rush, momentarily losing sight of you. Concern furrowed his brow as he feared he might have missed you, but then his gaze found you. You were still there. Sihtric's initial assumption was that you had stayed because you had spotted him, and a gentle smile began to tug at the corners of his lips. Taking a step toward you, his heart stilled, his gaze darkening, confronted with the sight that now lay bare before him as he could clearly survey you.

You resembled a feral, abandoned kitten. Vigilant, watchful eyes taking in every motion around, your body taut, spine arching in an innate urge of self-preservation, ready to leap at any perceived threat. Your clothes mere tatters, scarcely covering your delicate, emaciated frame; your hair unkempt, dirty and tangled like a dishevelled bird’s nest, some leaves and twigs entwined within, a few strands falling over your eyes. Your eyes, once two unbelievably blue radiant pools of warm kindness and mirth, had transformed into bleak and desolate orbs, an endless, vast expanse of fear and anxiety. Sihtric advanced another step, and you hissed at him, retreating further into the corner. His countenance fell, the joy and delight in his eyes giving way to a tempest of anxiety and concern, prompting him to turn and storm out of the basement abruptly.

“Don’t approach her and don’t touch her,” he directed sternly to the men clustered near the doorway, eliciting baffled glances. He reappeared moments later, clutching a fresh loaf of bread. Sihtric approached you with care, lowering himself into a crouch, extending his hand slowly and gingerly, palm upturned, the bread perched upon it. You refrained from reaching for it, yet he waited. His hand extended, breath shallow, unwavering gaze fixed on you. No grin, no words, no hasty gestures. At length, you summoned the courage to snatch the bread from his palm and quickly retreated back into the corner. Seating himself on the floor, legs crossed, Sihtric observed as you hungrily swallowed the offered loaf. Some other men entered the room, wanting to speak to him, but Sihtric merely shook his head and remained seated in his place.

“Do you remember me?” he finally uttered, his voice soft and almost trembling, a stark contrast to his intimidating exterior smeared with blood on his face, armor, and hands. Not a sound escaped your lips. His gaze remained fixed on you.

“Do you understand me? I will not hurt you, and I will not let anybody else harm you. Would you come with me?” He extended his hand again, palm upturned, the other hand raised in the air with an open palm facing you, a gesture meant to reassure that he held nothing concealed within it. Remember? What did it mean to remember? You had long learned to live just for the current day, leaving everything behind. There was nothing to remember in your life. Your eyes roved around the room, occasionally resting on the warrior before you. Your head tilted to the side, your gaze vigilant, yet avoiding direct contact with his. To lock eyes was to issue a challenge, and challenge equated to pain. This you retained. What did the stranger want from you? It seemed that he was not an imminent threat, and your tense muscles eased marginally.

There was just a small, almost imperceptible shift in the startled eyes of the wild kitten, a sparkle of comprehension, a trace of uncertainty overlaying the sheer angst that had radiated from them before. Sihtric noticed the over tensed muscles slowly slacken in the small quivering body. An almost irresistible urge welled within Sihtric, a wish to wrap his arms around the trembling creature and cradle it carefully against his chest, yet he recognised that this would only scare you off.

“Follow me,” Sihtric ordered with a firm voice, rising from the floor and turning toward the door. This was a language you understood. A command, an order. You obeyed, ascending from the floor and trailing behind. Your gaze remained affixed to your newfound master's back. The air reeked of battle and blood, and you did not want to see all the dead bodies spread on the ground. Your footing faltered and you almost fell, a bare foot sliding on something repulsively warm, squishy, and greasy. Two strong arms encircled your waist, steadying you back on your feet before releasing you in an instant.

--------------------------------

Freedom. Can one truly bestow freedom upon another? Especially someone who has never known what a freedom is? Someone unfamiliar with the concept of choice. Is it really a freedom then? Or rather another cage, just a bit more spacious, draped with cosy furs and tapestries concealing the bars and razor wire? Could it be that freedom hurts even more than the despised chain around your neck? Hated yet familiar unlike the invisible rope of unknown freedom that constricts you when you least anticipate it.

You don’t count time, but something has changed. You are not a blank, unwritten page when you awaken anymore. You remember. You remember the imposing doors of the big, overcrowded basement chamber swing open, and unfamiliar faces commanding all of you to get out, declaring you were free now. Free to do what? You still have no answer to that. You sense the light sipping through your closed eyelids, announcing another new day rising, but your reluctance to open them prevails. Do you have a freedom of choice? None. You remember the pain, the voices. All memories blurred, but live and present. It scares you.

The dark-haired warrior with oddly and somehow distantly familiar mismatched eyes, has taken you in. You don’t understand him. He’s your new master, at least that much is clear for you. He hasn’t claimed you. He hasn’t hurt you either. At least not yet. What does he want from you? Your days trickle past in a torturing fog of daze and stupor, mostly spent nestled in a corner of your small room, your gaze fixated on the ceiling, admiring the intricate lines of the wood. There is nothing to clutch, to navigate the passage of time. He does not tell you to do anything. Sometimes you even wonder whether you are still alive. It’s hard to tell. You remember, how the lingering sting of bruises left on your skin by the rough hands of your masters, or the deep pain of the open wounds etched in your flesh by the whip, served as reminders that there was still an awareness hidden within the shell of your body, capable of sensation. But now? No pain, no hunger, nothing.

You hear him sneaking into your room at night. You feel his breath caressing your skin as he leans over you, lightly grazing your hair with his lips. At times, he refrains from approaching, standing in the threshold and observing your sleep. He doesn’t know that your senses capture his presence each time. You wait. Wait for the real him to appear. Wait for him to grab your hair and pull you out of the bed to your knees to face his manhood, breeches half down. To slap you, push your mouth open, his hand squeezing your jaw, rough fingers painfully digging into your cheeks, and to force his hard, dripping cock within. His other hand would hold you in place firmly by your hair, while he would keep thrusting deep and merciless into your mouth, grunting in satisfaction a lustful grin on his lips. This is what you remember. Isn’t this the reason for your presence here? It’s something you would understand. You’d obey and endure. You would know you have no choice. That would make it all so easy. So, what is he waiting for?

--------------------------------

Sihtric lingered in the doorway, watching his wild kitten sleep. Slowly you had grown accustomed to his presence, no longer flinching, or snapping your head at him whenever he entered the room. He maintained a respectful distance, never encroaching too closely, refraining from any touch. He wanted you to feel safe in his presence before progressing further. His attempts to speak with you had been met with silence. So, he turned to the other women who had journeyed with Uhtred and his men from Dunholm to Cochem, inquiring about you. Nobody knew much about you. Only that you had been born in the fortress and that your mother had died, when you were still a kid. Until he finally found an elderly woman, who had more detailed memories.

“Poor soul,” she had told Sihtric, shaking her head sadly, “She was so tender when her mother passed, a mere six or seven summers old, no more. There was an older slave boy and his mother – they did their best to care for her. He acted as her older brother, protecting her and ensuring she had something to eat. Then he was sent away, and he never returned. That’s when it all began. Her liveliness dwindled with each passing day. To her biggest misfortune, she was pretty. Men started to notice her. After a while there wasn’t a single warrior in the fortress that hadn’t humped her. She closed herself completely down and even ceased to speak. Sometimes they were taking turns on her, betting who will be the one to make her cry. It’s no wonder she got completely mad at some point.”

Sihtric’s eyes darkened as he listened to the woman, his visage taut and his jaw subtly twitching from the pressure of clenched teeth. Before she could utter another word, he pivoted and stormed away, swiping at the tears that welled at the corners of his eyes with his fists. He had come too late. The realization gripped him like a vice, his chest heavy with the weight of ballast stones, pressing down, dragging him into the abyss of self-reproach. He had failed his promise. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to fill his aching lungs with fresh air. Though he had reached his house he found himself unable to ascend the few steps leading to the door. Instead, he turned the corner and leaned against the wall, trying to regain his breath. Gradually, Sihtric sank down until he was sitting on the ground, knees bent, head resting against the wall, eyes shut. Above, birds chattered amid the canopy of trees surrounding his small riverside housing. Their cheerful twitter brought up sweet memories of him sitting beneath an old oak tree, marvelling at the playful dance of water as it meandered through the rocky bed of the stream flanking Dunholm. He’d share pilfered morning bred from the kitchens with strikingly blue-eyed girl. The birds were chattering with the same unburdened intensity as they did now, and suddenly the girl sprang to her feet, fetching a bucket to be filled with water, playfully splashing a handful onto Sihtric. Her sound laughter sparkled and purled as the stream itself. It was the last time he had seen you, before Tekil had summoned him to gather his belongings and join him on the mission to locate Uhtred.

Sihtric shook his head as though trying to dispel the vivid memory, but it did not let go of him. It felt so tangible, as if he could merely extend his hand to tuck that stray lock of the girl's soft, velvety hair behind her ear – the hair that perpetually cascaded into her eyes. Those same eyes that now gazed at him each morning void of recognition. Empty and wild.

"No, no, no! You won't fail her again," Sihtric murmured, the sound of his own voice grounding him in the present. He was convinced that deep within those untamed eyes, concealed beneath layers of protective madness, there still lingered a dormant soul, waiting to be brought back to surface. And he would do anything to bring the light back to those eyes. An idea took hold of him, and Sihtric sprang to his feet.

“Come with me,” Sihtric beckoned, extending his hand as he entered the room. There you were, nestled in your favoured corner, your gaze fixated on the ceiling as always. He had long understood the futility of posing questions to you; there would be no response. The only way to elicit an action from you was through direct orders, leaving no space for choice or contemplation.

You rose to your feet and trailed after him. This time, Sihtric clasped your palm in his own, a rush of elation engulfing him as he noted your lack of resistance – no snatching away, no hissing defiance. Instead, your eyes met his with a sense of anticipation. It was still an early morning, the air carrying a gentle, invigorating chill, that foretold the warmth to come. The sun unfurled its fingers across the horizon, casting a tender, golden glow that gently roused the world from slumber. The birds, perched upon branches, continued their cheerful singing just as the moment before when it had evoked Sihtric’s memories.

Guiding you to the riverside, Sihtric led you to a modest plank jutting into the water. Seated there, your bare feet dangled, almost grazing the surface as the river flowed beneath.

Taking his place beside you, he softly implored, "Listen. Can you hear the birds?" His voice was hushed, carrying an air of reminiscence. "Do you recall the stream behind Dunholm? The one from which you fetched water each morning?" Sihtric reached into his pouch and retrieved a fresh loaf of bread, he had fetched moments earlier in the kitchen. It was still warm, and its mouth-watering aroma instantly hit your nose. Breaking the loaf in half, he extended one piece to you.

The river at this point ran deep, its current strong as it flowed over rocky terrain, a lullabying yet vivid sound emanating from the water as it lapped against the shore. Almost unconsciously, you extended your arm, your fingers closing around the offered bread. Slowly, you brought it to your nose, inhaling deeply, its aroma.

The morning sun cast a luminous glow through your tousled hair. Captivated by the look of it Sihtric’s hand extended instinctively, gracefully tucking a stray strand that obscured your gaze behind your ear – a gesture he had executed countless times before when you both were in Dunholm. You stiffened, the tension palpable, prompting Sihtric to hastily withdraw his hand. Yet in that fleeting moment, it was as though a dam within you had ruptured, unleashing a torrent of distant memories. These memories surged like crushing waves, demolishing the barriers painstakingly constructed around your consciousness, mercilessly tearing down the fortress that shielded your mind. Tearfully, you looked at the man beside you, the gleam of recognition flickering within your gaze. This was the first time you had truly met Sihtric’s eyes and he held his breath locking his gaze with yours.

"Do you remember me?" he murmured, his voice a tender whisper. Silence hung in the air, your gaze drifting from the loaf of bread in your trembling palms to the river beneath your feet. The only evidence that something had changed within you were the tears that trickled down your cheeks, tracing glimmering paths as they fell.

Time seemed to have lost its meaning as you both sat there, enveloped in the moment until distant voices called Sihtric's name and brought you back to reality. He clasped your hand and led you back indoors, where you crouched in your familiar corner. Your arms enveloped your knees, and your head nestled upon them. You looked so peaceful to Sihtric, not noticing the storm of feelings that swept through you.

It was a late evening when Sihtric finally returned home after a long day patrolling along the roads surrounding Cochem. A faint smile played at his lips, his thoughts tracing back to the morning's events. He had been right, there still was a chance to rouse you from your stupor. You had remembered him, he was certain of it. It was only a matter of time and his devoted care, and he would get you back to this world.

Entering the house, he unfastened his armour and carefully set his weapons upon the table. He hoped you were already asleep as he carefully approached your room, casting a cautious glance within as he lingered in the doorway. His eyes widened in horror as he understood that the room was empty. You were not there. Panic seizing him, Sihtric searched the house frantically, every corner and crevice, but there was no trace of you. His steps led him outside, and driven by instinct, he followed the path that led to the riverside, silently cursing himself. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew he had acted too hastily; you were not prepared yet. His eagerness to prove himself right, to ascertain himself that you were not completely lost to your madness had been unconsidered and premature. Amid the gathering shadows, he spotted your silhouette upon the plank from a distance. Your fragile form trembled in the evening breeze, your back turned to the shore. Sihtric's heart raced as he sprinted toward you, arriving at the beginning of the plank and urgently calling your name. Uncertain if the sound would evoke any response, he watched as your gaze fixed upon him, sharp and concentrated. In the next heartbeat, your attention shifted, and with an abrupt motion, you leapt into the cold, enveloping darkness of the water.

Fear widened Sihtric's eyes. A cry of despair burst from his lips as he reached the end of the plank and propelled himself into the water after you.

The river swallowed you, encircling you, embracing you soothingly. This was it. The end of your suffering. The promised freedom. Freedom of choice you had sought and finally found. But your body had not yet surrendered to the decision your mind had made. The agony in your lungs cried for air and involuntary you breathed in the water, convulsing you into coughs and thrashes. Writhing with your arms you desperately tried to reach the surface once more, to catch the last saving breath. In the moment you thought you had lost the struggle, two strong arms seized you, wrenching you back to the surface and after a few moments you found yourself sprawled on the sandy shore, enveloped between Sihtric’s legs, coughing, and expelling water. His arms clung to you, holding you tight against his chest in an almost suffocating embrace.

“Let go of me!” you cried, wriggling madly in his grasp, striving to break free from his clutches.

“Never!” came a firm answer and the hold of his arms only tightened.

“Why did you come back? Why did you make me remember?” your voice echoed in a shout, the anguish and frustration ripping through the air. "Don't you see? I didn't want to remember. It hurts too much! I don’t want to endure this existence any longer. I can’t!” you shouted, raging against his grip, tears tracing down your cheeks, your words slowly turning into incomprehensible cries of despair.

"I'm here, and I won't let go. Never," Sihtric’s words sounded with an unbreakable determination. “Do you hear me – never! I am here for you, as you were for me. Do you remember? I know you do. The day my mother died. I wanted to die with her, but you refused to let me. You wrapped your arms around me, clinging to me with all your strength. You begged me to stay with you. You kept holding me through that night. You never gave up on me and I will never give up on you,” Sihtric's voice was a tender murmur, his lips close to your ear. “And now I am begging you to stay with me. Please, forgive me, that it took me so long to find you.” His lips brushed against your wet hair, your dampened cheeks, and your forehead in a sequence of gentle kisses that sent shivers down your spine from the softness of the touch. Your rage slowly faded, your strength waning, and your cries dwindling into muffled sobs as you surrendered to Sihtric's unyielding embrace.

Lifting your near-weightless form, Sihtric carried you back home. He settled you onto the bed and nestled beside you, his arms never loosening their hold. Throughout the night, he held you close, tenderly caressing your hair and telling you his story – how he found his place in Uhtred's service and how he never stopped hoping to find you.

“I’m glad I remembered you,” were the only words you managed to bring over your lips, looking up into Sihtric’s eyes as the sky began to be painted with the first brushstrokes of dawn's light. Sihtric's heart skipped a beat at those simple words. He knew there was still a long way to go, but the mere fact that you had recalled him and that he now held you securely in his arms made him almost dizzy from the happiness. Leaning in, he brushed a kiss upon your hair, drawing you closer against his chest, your shared warmth enveloping you both as sleep finally overcame you.

#sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric x reader #sihtric fic #the last kingdom #tlk #tlk fic #sihtric fanfic #sihtric x you

126 notes · View notes

kiwisbell · 8 months

Text

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 3 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 3 summary: Losing himself in the temptation of you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: references to masturbation, sexual fantasies, arranged marriage (that is not between reader & dave), angst, more daddy issues, slightly more touching (!!!), sexual tension, mutual enabling of bad habits, protective dave york, the emergence of obsessive dave york, pining/yearning, bonding, reader's tramp stamp makes its first appearance

word count: ~ 4.7k

chapter 3: a buried and a burning flame

MAY

You're in a Neiman Marcus with Dave when you break the news.

You’ve been trying on dresses for hours now under the guise that you’re in need of some retail therapy. But if Dave doesn't know your tells by now, the way your hands tremble as you smooth them over fabrics, you have no idea how you're going to breach the subject.

“How's this?” you ask, pulling back the curtain and striking a pose.

Dave’s problem is very different from yours. The skintight dress barely brushes the floor, one of your arms exposed while the other is wrapped in black spandex. Your neck glitters with a diamond necklace. Watching you try on dresses all day is fun, certainly, but he's going to have to excuse himself soon to fuck his hand in the bathroom.

He did it last night. And the one before that. And the last seven or so before that, once he finally let himself give in. In the shower, he turned the water to scalding and braced his hand on the wall as he closed his eyes, picturing your knees folded neatly under you. Your mouth around his cock, tongue swirling over the head. Hands on his thighs. Squeezing. Desperate. Sticky, warm, wet. Fuck—you’d be so wet. You’d blink water and tears from your eyes under the stream and he’d burn up hot, telling you how fucking good you are, taking his big dick. He fisted himself, perhaps a bit too hard near the end, coaxing the cum out of his tip so he could grunt his way through an orgasm and finally fucking focus.

Dave stands slowly from the cushy sofa, his hands clasped in front of the slight tent in his pants, and almost keels over from the whiff of perfume he smells. It's a toxin. It makes him dizzy. “It's nice,” he says, gently pinching the hem of your sleeve.

“What about the colour?” you press.

“It’s… black.” He’s not fond of this game you’re playing.

“And the fit?” You turn around and give him a fleeting view of your ass. Dave’s vision briefly blurs.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice strained. “You know you are. Everyone knows you are.”

You beam up at him. “I just wanted to goad you into saying it.”

“You don't have to.” You're the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

“You know…” Your smile goes sly, your hands lifting to straighten his tie even though it's rarely askew. “In this light, you're not so bad yourself.”

Dave inhales hard, his nostrils flaring. You smell so fucking good. “We’re getting the dress.”

You run your hands down the lapels of his jacket. “Yeah, we are. But I'll need your help to unzip.”

Christ.

Because he's powerless to resist anything you say, Dave follows you into the fitting room and shucks the curtain closed. Guarding your body with his from anyone who may walk inside, he eyes you in the mirror. Your skin is smooth and soft under the rough pads of his fingers, your warmth so stark against the cool fabric of his suit. The grace of you rubs up against his jagged edges. A needle pricking skin.

His hands feel heavy as he lifts them to the small zipper at the back of the dress. His breath shifts the hair at the nape of your neck. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders.

“Your hands are cold,” you whisper. He can see only your profile when you turn your head slightly, and he doesn't think he could take any more than that.

Dave begins to drag the zipper downward, listening hard to every catch in the metal grooves as if they're claps of thunder. Gauging the time between the next strike of lightning. His skin is prickling with the knowledge of being so close to you. “You can look if you want,” you tell him. He’s inches away from the tattoo on your lower back.

His eyes close for a moment, rolling over the sound of your velvet voice in his head. When he opens them, the zipper is down, and he's watching the way your skin and muscles ripple behind the soft black fabric. He doesn't need to be this close anymore, and he's beginning to wander toward the shoulder of your dress, beginning to think he should just yank it down and—

Cloying. Thick. Heavy and wet and relentless. Ruination.

“I know,” he says. His voice makes you shiver. It's a cold, quiet rasp that wraps its fingers around the back of your neck. You feel a gentle pressure behind your ear and close your eyes as Dave’s nose nudges one of your diamond earrings, inhaling your perfume like he wants to inject it into his blood.

With that, he steps away and leaves you to undress alone. You don't think about the way his hands lingered too long by your zipper, nor the way his eyes found you in the mirror, ravenous. You pull on your own dress and take your new one to the counter. Dave pays without looking at the price.

In the backseat of his car, you close the privacy screen. “Dave. I need to tell you something. And you're not allowed to get scary.”

Dave lifts his brows. “I’m never scary.”

“But you're so funny.” You tug affectionately on his tie. “My father called me this morning. He said he wants to put things to bed. For good. And he wants to meet.”

You’re already there to loosen his angry, involuntarily grip around his cell phone. “Dave.”

He’s looking at his lap, his jaw feathering. He knew all along that he couldn’t protect you from your father forever—truthfully, in the beginning, he had been hoping the opposite. But you have a way of sticking to his ribs. A decadent dessert that you can never forget once you eat. The taste you crave so badly you’ll go out of your way to return.

“Why now?” he grits. “It’s been months. Why now?”

“I don't know, honey, but if he wants to bury the hatchet, then maybe we should give him a chance.”

Dave’s head shoots up. “We?”

“What, you think I'm going to go alone? You're coming with me whether you like it or not, Mr. York.” Your elbow bumps him gently. “You’re my security detail.”

Something inside his chest feels ready to split its seams and burst. Something roars to be let out.

Victoire is a two-star family restaurant managed by Victoria Brock, current matriarch to a long line of Brocks. Among these is a man named Victor Brock, Senator of Chicago, who is currently sitting next to your father in a pressed three-piece suit.

They're seated in the VIP section, closed off by a curtain. The restaurant smells like old money with a touch of modern extravagance. Crystals chandeliers dangle from the ceiling and toss golden light onto your skin. From behind you, Dave is allowed to stare as much as he wants; so he milks it. The planes of your back shift in the dim light, the brightness of your smile blinds, and your eyes glitter like a sky of stars. So charming. So in your element.

Dave stays behind you, the way it should be, observing his surroundings for threats. Of course, it's a restaurant, so he mostly ends up observing furniture. The booths are a deep bottle green, the oak wood tables polished so smoothly they look like hardened honey. This is the sort of place that welcomes a person like you: comforting and soft, illuminated by diamonds.

You walk into the VIP room before Dave, who’s dressed in a handsome suit with a handkerchief that matches the red bottoms of your shoes. No one can see this unless they look hard. And you know your father will not.

But your father does notice Dave. The glare is purposeful and fleeting, but it does the job. Dave knows he isn't wanted here. It doesn't do a good enough job to deter him. Not many things can when it comes to you.

“Look at you,” says your father, standing up to shake your hand. Dave holds his tongue at the sight. From the looks of it, you're also trying not to laugh. “You look gorgeous. Come, sit.”

He elects not to acknowledge Dave, who eyes your father with a half-muster glare. “Senator Brock,” you say brightly, the princess taking her spotlight, “what a pleasure. I didn't know you were coming.”

Brock stands up and takes your hand, an action Dave watches carefully. Brock is a handsome, single senator, and Dave York has a schmoozer radar like no other. “The pleasure’s mine. You look stunning.”

You give him a polite smile and brush your hand up against Dave’s sleeve. “This is Dave York. He's my security.”

“I thought you were coming alone,” says your father.

You slide gracefully onto the bench seat. Dave sits beside you, adjusting his jacket. “I’m sure you know my disappearance made an impression on the media. Security became a necessity.”

Dave tries not to puff up at that. You think he's a necessity. “Want to explain why there's a senator at your table, Mark?”

Your father licks his teeth before speaking, slow and measured. “Senator Brock is here, Mr. York, because he has a proposition.”

Dave doesn't like this. The room feels a touch too warm now, your arm rubbing up against his and the chandelier twinkling its warm lights above. Your fingers softly brush the fabric of his pants underneath the table. It's a purely comforting gesture—for the both of you, it seems, for your face is schooled into politely-disguised panic.

“A proposition?” Your eyes slip toward the senator, who says your name like it's a consolation. Dave’s hand finds your back, his thumb tracing one of your vertebrae. It feels like animal instinct: the hairs on the back of your neck rise, the scent of your perfume deepens in his nose as if spiked with terror, and all he knows is Calm her. Make her feel safe.

“We’ve both spent a lot of time in the public eye,” says Brock, diplomatic as ever. “And neither of us have once been seen with a… significant other.”

No.

Nononono.

Your hand curls into a fist under the table and your body sways slightly. “Oh. So that's what this is about.”

“Honey…” begins your father.

“Don't call me that.”

“Honey, just listen to—”

“To a marriage proposal?” The tips of your ears are burning. “I didn't come here to get engaged.”

“Then what did you come here for?” your father demands, leaning back with his brows high, sipping his Chardonnay like he knows he's won.

“I came because I thought you wanted to end this ridiculous feud between you and Dave.”

“I can afford to lose a little money from your toy,” your father says dismissively. “What I can’t afford to lose is my reputation.”

Dave’s palm is a heavy weight on your lower back. “Your reputation is yours to protect, Mark. Not hers.”

“This doesn't concern you,” he spits.

“It absolutely fucking does if you think you're going to marry her off.”

“I don't want to marry someone I don't love,” you say. As if it needs explanation at all. “No offence, Senator.”

Senator Brock just shakes his head. “I don't intend to get in the way of any family matters. This is strictly about public appearances.”

“Think about it,” implores your father. “You haven't shown your face in public for months, much less with a man on your arm.”

Dave has never seen you so incensed.

“Sorry I haven't been around for people to photograph, what with a kidnapping and all.” At that, Dave looks down into his lap, but you squeeze his thigh and he knows that you don't hold it against him. He’ll just never understand it. “Do you realise how demeaning this is? I’m not a prized cow.”

“I understand,” says Brock in a voice that can only fit a senator; gentle and somewhat condescending. Dave wants to vault himself over the table and give him a nice, ripe black eye. “But I expect nothing from you intimately.”

I should fucking hope not, Dave thinks, his jaw feathering as he sucks on his teeth to refrain from speaking. Or getting violent.

“People need reason to like you more,” says your father, and Dave does not take kindly to that.

“People like her just fine,” he growls.

Brock intervenes again, ever the politician. “I only expect a relatively public wedding and attending events when necessary. Other than that, we can occupy separate wings of my home, and our families will benefit from the union.”

“Oh, my God.” You plant your face in your hands, the veneer of shiny politeness gone. “This is humiliating. This is so fucking humiliating…”

“This is over,” says Dave, standing up abruptly. “We’re done here. You can take your proposal and stick it up your ass, Senator.”

“Don't think you can get out of this just because your guard dog says so.” Your father stands, too, straightening his own tie. “You're getting married, and you should be grateful that's all I’m having you do.”

Grateful? Oh, Dave is going to get violent. He’s very fucking excited to get violent. No one will ever know where the bodies—

“That's rich.” You pour two fingers’ worth of red for yourself and down it in one continuous gulp. “Have a nice evening, Senator. Dad, you can marry yourself off if you want to keep your business that badly.”

You thread your fingers through Dave’s and lead him out of the restaurant. His driver—tonight, it’s Ari—brings you both back to the York household. The wine couldn't get you anywhere near tipsy; you're too riled-up with an unsettled energy that has Dave’s hand glued to your back. He traces imaginary shapes over the spot where your tattoo lies and tries to picture it in his head.

“I can’t believe him,” you murmur, hugging yourself as Dave walks you to the front door. “Okay. That's a lie. I can't believe I let myself believe he wanted to make things better.”

Dave’s lips brush your temple, the only indulgence he allows himself. “This is not on you,” he says softly. “I should kill both of them for pulling that shit.”

“You can't kill a senator, Dave.” You give him a fond smile though your eyes betray any show of joy. You're riddled with unease and a faint tremor of fear visibly burdens the straightness of your spine.

Dave holds open the door for you and triple-checks it behind him as always. “And what about your father?”

You chew on your bottom lip as you ponder it. “I’ll get back to you.”

He’ll take it. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up.”

“How did you know I was cold?”

He pins you with an affectionate glare. “You’re shivering, baby.”

“I’m angry,” you say weakly, your bare arm covered in goosebumps nonetheless.

He offers his hand to you, and you slip your palm into his. Something between you begins to pull taut. It isn't a distinguishable moment from any other, but it glows and pulsates, twin stars circling two bodies. It's not kind, but it's not cruel. It’s a connection that merely is, or has always been.

Neither of you care to figure it out. You just hold his hand and let him take you upstairs.

The ensuite in Dave’s bathroom is kept spotless. It's just as drab and modern as the rest of his home. You’ve been scattering little pops of colour around downstairs—if he cares, he doesn't mention it. But of course he notices. He’s the most observant man you've ever met.

You haven't stepped foot inside his bedroom since you arrived here. You linger in the doorway for a moment, scanning your surroundings. His bed sheets are crisp white, his comforter grey, the walls sparse with decoration. Not a houseplant in sight. It's functional but not lived in.

Dave leans against the wall next to you and watches your eyes flicker about. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“You have so much money,” you say, “and you can't afford an interior decorator?”

Dave chuckles. “What's your going rate?”

“If you start paying me for anything, Mr. York, this relationship will begin to feel disingenuous.”

Still amused, he squeezes your hand. “We wouldn't want that. Come with me.”

His bathroom is spacious and clean, the giant claw-footed bathtub emitting a siren song to your cold, tense body. Dave, knowing you better than most, turns on the faucet.

“I can leave,” he offers, his body so close behind you that his breath shifts your hair.

You answer him by taking his hand and placing it against the zipper of your dress. “It’s been long enough,” you whisper. “I know you're curious to see it.”

Dave’s breath hitches. Blood goes soaring to his dick as he tugs the zipper down, his free hand trailing down your bare arm at the same time. He delights in the shivers that erupt across your skin and feels you lean into him slightly. You trust him. He's done everything wrong and you trust him not to hurt you. You trust your body in his hands and Jesus, he's not going to fuck this up.

He's touching sacred space. He will wrap the sensation of your softness and warmth tight around his brain and let the feel of it saturate everything. He wants his soul stained with you.

He continues to bring the zipper down, and you sigh. “I don't know what to do, Dave.”

“I know,” he says. Not a comfort or a solution. Just acknowledgement.

“I always know what to do. I always know what to say. I couldn't even get out of a marriage tonight.”

“He blindsided you.” Dave is doing very well at remaining calm. Having you so close to him is helping. “He blindsided us both. But we're getting you out of this.”

“Yeah.” You let your head fall back against his shoulder, closing your eyes for a moment. “We can talk about it later.”

He leans into you a fraction and gives your ear a nudge with his nose. “Are you asking me to take off your dress?”

Your eyes flutter when you inhale his cologne. The last time you were wandering the nearby drugstore, you spent a moment too long in the scent aisle, holding a bottle of the Tom Ford he wears. In your trancelike state, you put it in your cart before you realised you did not, in fact, need to buy a bottle of cologne. You weren't his secretary. Sheepishly, you returned the bottle, but not before taking a sample stick.

You've been more pathetic.

Dave York smells like pine, cologne, and when he gets into trouble, the faint tang of iron. There isn't a trace of blood on him tonight. You turn your head to meet his eyes. Your pupils enlarge, nearly eclipsing the irises. “Do you want to undress me?”

His lips part slightly, and a puff of air leaves him. “You know the answer to that.”

You're both speaking so quietly that the running bath nearly drowns both of your voices. “I want to hear you say it.”

His eyes shutter. “I want to undress you,” he says, his nose sliding across your temple, “and a whole lot more.”

Your hand guides his fingers to the hem of your dress. “I want you to see me, Dave. You're the only one who does.”

Dave swallows hard, his palm warming your arm as it idly trails up and down. This is the permission that frightens him the most. The first tremendous leap. There is no turning back from this. He doesn't want to.

He wants to learn to pace himself, to revel in the briefest brilliance that is knowing you.

“Am I?” he muses, sliding the shoulder of your dress down. He's transfixed by the slow shudder he receives from you, the way he can see your lashes flutter on your cheeks, as he exposes your breasts to the cool air.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Don't be coy. It’s not your style.”

“No, it isn't.” The dress, tailor-made to the delicious curves of your shape, slips down your back to the floor as his fingers urge the rest of it away. It pools in a pitch-black heap at your feet, and Dave York takes in the sight of you.

All of you.

“Jesus,” he rasps, eyes dipping to your tits, nipples hard as the air conditioning cools your skin, around your waist, down your back. Every knob of your spine speaks for your life, your learnings. He traces his fingers lightly over each one, taking his time as he teaches himself.

“What's the verdict?” you tease, your voice going soft, close to vulnerable.

You do, indeed, have a tramp stamp. Dave follows the shape of the small bleeding wings, the paper-thin lines of the sun in between.

“It's Icarus,” he says, “isn't it?”

“A reminder,” you confirm, “to never sacrifice any part of my life to some selfish ambition.”

Dave’s thumb gently circles over the black ink. “What do you want, instead?”

You hum in thought, and he can feel the trepidation in his own throat. “To live, I guess. Just live.”

He hums in kind. There's no oxygen left for him in this room. Steam from the bath curls like silvery breath into the air, the feeling of your skin is grounding him, and there's nothing but you. Your body and your sharp mind and the heart that thrills him.

“What is my style?” he asks.

You exhale, and it sounds a little like laughter. “I don't know. You're unpredictable. Usually, that would scare me.”

“But?”

“But I like you.” A hand covers his own, bringing it around your waist, resting it between your breasts. Like this, he can feel your heartbeat against your sternum. “I like what you do to me. I like your kindness and your cruelty. I like the way you work and talk and think.”

Dave closes his eyes, stepping closer to you, dipping his head to bring his lips along your jaw in a ghost of a kiss. “How do I think, baby?” he mutters against your skin. “Tell me.”

“Like a killer,” you sigh.

“Mmm. You’d let a killer touch you like this?” His hand falls, deliberate and slow down the path of your stomach, your hipbone to your thigh. “You must not want to live that badly.”

You don't need to tell him that he's the one bringing you to life. He can feel it in the throbbing of your heart, the shallow touch to your breathing, the way your body subtly pushes into his hands.

“Dave.”

He says your name in kind.

“I don't want to marry him.”

The small break in your voice puts a hole in his heart. Dave guides you to face him and cups your face in his hands. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “You're not going to marry him. No asshole senator is going to put a ring on your finger.”

“Are we going to stop it?”

He nods once. Unyielding. “We're gonna stop it.”

You rest your forehead against his and let yourself smile at last. “Okay. Now let me get in the bathtub.”

The water eases the knots in your muscles as he helps you lower yourself inside. You close your eyes, resting your head on the lip, while Dave makes some calls.

You asked him once if he ever wanted to use his skills for good.

This is how he does it.

“Tell me about your family.”

The silence fizzles, the crack of an ember flying haphazardly away from the fire. Sitting on a stool by your side, Dave holds your hand—well, more like your wrist—and, with his thumb, strokes the veins that beat with life. He found he wasn't fond of the idea of parting with you quite yet. So he didn't.

This is his job now. And it's the only one he's ever had that brings him any sense of clarity.

“You've had more than enough mouthfuls of mine,” you elaborate. “So tell me about yours.”

“Mom and Dad passed a few years back,” says Dave. “They were good people. Grew up in a small town with my sister, who hightailed it to New York the first chance she could. My parents worked real estate together. They made friends with their clients, and they were good to us. We were never poor, never rich.” Dave’s lips find your knuckles. “Joined up when I was out of college. Mom cried for days. I almost succumbed to the guilt, but moms are good at that, I guess.”

Water sloshes around you as you turn onto your side, resting your chin on the edge of the tub and looking up at Dave. “Ari says you were a good soldier.”

Dave huffs. “Yeah, I’ll bet he does. Wants a goddamn raise.”

“My mom was good, too,” you tell him. “I don't remember much of her, but I remember her smiling and laughing. It’s like I knew so much about her and nothing at all. But I miss her all the same.”

Dave opens up your palm to him, his mouth tracing the lines on your skin. “Anyone who's good to you is good to me. My mom used to say that whenever my sister would bring a new girlfriend or boyfriend home.”

“And you?” Your voice takes a teasing edge. “How many women did Dave York bring home before he decided he liked his latest hostage best?”

He still winces at your wording all these months later but laughs nonetheless. “Fewer than I think you’re imagining. Life got busy quick.”

“Those pesky C.I.A. jobs.”

“The same. They tossed me all around the world until I decided to start my own company. The VA never did shit for me, and with my injury, I couldn't keep flying.”

You grin. “Entrepreneurship looks very good on you.” It takes a strong pull on his willpower not to stare at your tits, barely submerged in the warm water. “Do you still feel it sometimes?” you ask, your gooey eyes making him want to form dust into gold for you.

“Comes and goes,” he says. The last thing he wants to do in this world is be the cause of your worry. “But I’m old. Our backs act up all the time anyway.”

“Dave.” You pin him with a stern stare. “You shouldn't be sitting like that with a back injury. Why have I been letting you stay there for the past hour?”

“I’m fine,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “I don’t feel any pain.”

You chew on your lip. “Help me out of the bath?”

Dave’s back pinches as he stands up and you, of course, don't miss his wince. He averts his gaze when he sees you giving him precisely the same look as before. You have an uncanny ability to make him feel scolded.

You wrap yourself in a soft towel when you climb out of the tub. You smell fresh as crisp linen and your skin is dewy, smooth, so soft he wants to lick you all over. “Looks like we both need to relax,” you say, your hand brushing his lower back. He feels the light touch as if it's a lightning strike. “We never ate dinner.”

“Barry’s gone home,” he says, a little dazed by how close you are. Your body emanates warmth, and it makes him feel sleepy.

“There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge,” you say. “Your guys were hungry last night.”

You take his hand and lead him downstairs. The droplets of water on your skin glisten in the shifting light. His nerves have become a map of you. He doesn't know what he would do if he lost this sacred knowledge. He doesn't think there's a part of him that could stay quiet.

#kiwisbell's fics #dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york smut #dave york x female reader #equalizer 2 #dave york #pedro pascal fic #dave york x reader

124 notes · View notes

ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 8 months

Text

Title board created by the wonderful @mochie85!

Lesson Twenty

Loki languishes in the hospital, accepting your impending fate as he awaits news about your condition.

**MASTERLIST HERE** Pairing: Soft!Dom!Loki x F!Reader Content Warnings: smut, extensive mentions of death, euthanasia, and death-related philosophy, some dark content (though the characters won't be), exile, moodiness, smut, kinks of various flavors (look for specific chapter warnings), trauma and mental illness, reader is a captive, reader has a body count

It was all Loki could do to scoop your limp body into his arms, holding it fast to his chest as he rocked back and forth, nearly biting his lip clean off to hold back from openly weeping in front of Brunnhilde and The Flock.

Maria leapt into Jonah-Bjorn’s arms as he began to sob. The King snarled in anger.

“Shut UP! Neither of you deserves this,” she growled, taking her dagger and throwing it at the couple, landing in the wall just behind Jonah-Bjorn’s left side. “Get out and get an ambulance, damn you!”

The pair froze, looking as if every emotion conceivable was passing through their brains at one moment.

“It’s too late,” Loki muttered almost inaudibly, as if admitting it any louder would make it more devastating. He was breaking. “She isn’t stirring.”

“Look, you pair of ingrates: this woman just died for you! The least you could do is get help,” Brunnhilde demanded, her rage close to boiling over.

For the sake of self-preservation, Jonah-Bjorn helped Maria to her feet. “L…let’s just do as she says,” he stuttered. Maria quickly scooped the crying baby into her arms, and the pair evacuated the room to go seek authorities. “And while you’re at it, tell your Flock friends that it’s all over!” called the King after them.

She turned around after chasing them away to find that Loki hadn’t been able to hold back silent tears, only now concealed because he had buried his face in your neck to stifle the cries, and to get one last whiff of the scent of your hair.

“If I never agreed to teach her--”

“--she’d been dead eleven months ago,” mumbled the King, kneeling down beside Loki as he continued to cradle you in his lap. “She chose to do this. I would’ve preferred we fight, but--”

“--but hy did she have to do this? I never meant for this to happen,” Loki sighed, looking down at your face, brushing a tuft of hair away from your brow. He bent down to press his forehead to yours. “You stupid, beautiful, amazing woman…” he whispered before cutting himself off.

Something was different. Off. You weren’t turning cold or stiff.

Loki laid the back of his hand against your cheek. Still soft and warm, if not a little hot.

His lip trembled in nervous hope. “Brunnhilde…get a piece of glass,” he said quickly.

“What?” she asked.

“From anywhere! A small piece of glass!”

She scowled and grunted at being ordered, but the occasion didn;t call for petty squabbles, so she got up and left the room. A moment later, there was the sound of breaking glass, and a moment later, she returned, hanging Loki a shard of mirror.

He held it underneath your nose, and let out an “oh!” as he saw the faint puff of exhalation briefly paint the glass before rolling away.

“She’s alive! Brunnhilde, go make sure they bring help in a hurry!” Loki began breathing quickly as the King’s mouth fell open.

“She’s breathing?”

“Barely,” Loki replied. “We could still lose her! Please, go! Hurry!”

As the King bolted from the room again, Loki bent over and whispered into your ear. “Hold on, Y/N…”

Hours later, Loki sat at your bedside, where you were hooked up to tubes, monitors, and drips, unconscious but stable in the hospital. Your heart rate was disturbingly low, but it was beating, and it was getting the job done. You were still as stone.

Brunnhilde was leaning against the window, legs crossed and arms folded as usual, as the doctor explained to the best of his ability what had happened to you.

He was a youthful, blonde man with tortoiseshell glasses and buck teeth. “It’s as if all of the energy her body needs to function was sucked out of her, save for just enough to keep her brain working the bare minimum, to keep her heart beating the weakest it can while still pumping. She is unconscious because she doesn’t have the strength left to open her eyes.”

“Will she live?” asked Loki, gritting his teeth impatiently.

“Yes,” the doctor replied, looking more than a little intimidated by the god’s presence. “But it may take a very long time for her body to recuperate its strength, even with the feeding tube we’ve given her.”

Loki sniffed. “How long, exactly?”

“There’s no way to tell, sir,” the doctor continued. “It may be as long as a week before she has enough strength to open her eyes. Perhaps two before she can speak and sit up. However, I wouldn’t expect her to walk again without aid before Christmas.”

The King gave Loki a concerned glance, and the two of them knew that they shared the same worry: the test. You would need every ounce of your physical ability to pass, and here you were nearly dead, with your best hope being at the point where you’d be waking with a cane by the time S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived.

It appears, unless they relent, we’re both dead now, my love, Loki thought. There was no way you could even submit yourself to an exam. The game was lost. December 31st was all but certainly his and your execution date now.

He refused to leave your side, even as the King returned to New Asgard to celebrations and gratitude from the people that lasted days. He read to you, sang lullabies from his childhood on Asgard, and talked to you as if you could hear him, hoping it would spark something in you to awaken.

Four days later, you could hear him for the first time, though you were still trapped inside a paralyzed, unconscious body. The soothing baritone was endless and warming. For twelve hours after, you lay and listen as he further cared for you.

Then, just before dawn on the fifth day, your eyes fluttered open, and you made the faintest cooing sound. You sensed Loki was asleep, his head in his arms on the end of the bed, leaning over from the chair he otherwise occupied.

He instantly awakened, and let out a huge sigh of relief as he grabbed your hand, kissing your fingers, blinking frantically to hold back tears,.

“Y/N! Love, you’re back!”

Your lips could move, and your voice was a little faint yet, so Loki insisted you continue to silently reserve your limited energy, and he took time to explain to you what had transpired in the days since you’d confronted The Flock.

“They’ve given their vow, on risk of war, to leave New Asgard in peace, and to stay in Oslo,” he informed you. “They won’t ever speak your name, of course, but they have a silent gratitude for you.”

Weeks passed, December arrived, and your strength slowly returned. For a few days, Loki had to do essentially everything for you, from keeping you entertained, to relaying messages to Brunnhilde for you, to even the most basic things like feeding you and adjusting your pillows. He did it all with humility and love, something that made you feel both wonderful and sorrowful when it reminded you of what you both had to look forward to.

“I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but I don’t see how we can get ourselves out of this one,” he said, putting away the last of your supper one night during the first week of December. You were feeding yourself now, but sometimes Loki was insistent on at least partially aiding you with eating, as your grip was still weak. Your hands still shook when they tried to hold silverware.

“We can run away,” you mumbled. “Brunnhilde will cover us.”

Loki shook his head as he brushed an affectionate hand over your cheek, lighting kissing you. “They’d interrogate her, as well as Thor. They’d have him comb the universe for us. We could never come back to Midgard.”

“So we’re just supposed to bow our heads? I may not be strong, but I will try until the very end for you, Loki,” you promised. “I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

He smiled and took your hand. “You amaze me.”

You smiled. “Now, if you don't mind, I’m starting to lose my energy…:

“...of course, darling,” Loki replied, going to move your bed from an upright position to a supine one. “When did the doctor say you were going to be discharged?”

“If I can get onto my feet by next week, he said he will release me on the 17th.”

Loki twisted his lip and chickled. “That’s my birthday.”

“Well, you get me for a present I guess,” you said, half-jokingly, half-apologizing.

“I cannot think of anything better,” he said warmly. Once your bed was flat, he kissed you again before dimming the light. “Will it be a chapter from Jane Eyre, or a lullaby tonight, dearest?”

“Sing to me, please,” you asked softly.

He smiled. “As you wish.”

It took only moments for you to fall back into the darkness. Only this time, it was comforting and welcome.

Loki will always take care of his student…his love…

Somehow accepting what was likely going to be had given you and Loki an odd sense of peace. You chose to spend whatever time you had left with one another as close to each other as you could be, both emotionally and physically. Not only did you allow Loki to gently and slowly make love to you (although you could have done without his insisting you stop for breaks if it got to be too much), but you began to feel comforted by the fact that, if you were going to fail on a count of your weakness, you both would face the consequences together.

That wasn’t to say you, Loki, and Brunnhilde didn’t try to pull out every stop, every appeal necessary, to delay your test by a month. On the day you’d left the hospital, with two weeks left in your year in New Asgard, you could ambulate with a walker and a supporting Asgardian nearby. By the time the 31st rolled around, you would barely be able to stand on your own for more than a few moments.

Loki reached out to Thor and Fury, neither of them yielded a reprieve, although Thor tried to reason on your behalf with S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing. The 31st was going to be the day that you met your fate, no matter what.

To your surprise, however, Thor came around on Christmas Day, when a beautiful, silent snowstorm dusted the village in several inches of fluffy, pure white snow.

“Don’t let the others know, but with what may be coming and all…I had to, brother,” he said, his voice deep and rich with sentimentality. Loki accepted his heavy, strong embrace, but it still knocked the wind out of him, making you giggle from your wheelchair.

You spent the day with the brothers, as well as Brunnhilde and Katja, drinking spiked cocoa and hot mulled wine until your vision blurred, telling stories of days long past on Asgard, and toasting to the year. Despite your still weakened state, you were able to cook a modest Yule feast for the gathered (with help from Loki and Brunnhilde). The day was subtle, but cozy, and absolutely wonderful.

“If only we both could stay here,” you said to Loki. “We could do this every year. It would be like having a family to be close to, which seems to be something we both have lacked thus far in our lives.”

Loki looked at you, deciding not to reply with words, but instead with a tender kiss.

Sadly, Thor only stayed the day. “They will notice if I’m missing much longer,” he said sadly at dusk on Christmas night. “And they won’t allow me to come along for the final test.”

“If they happen to deem one or both of us unworthy, would they immediately pass sentence?” you asked apprehensively, causing Loki to throw his arm around your shoulder, drawing you close.

“I should hope not, but once Fury’s mind is made up, they may as well carry it out immediately,” he said quietly, solemnly.

Loki cleared his throat. “Thank you for the lovely parting thoughts, brother.”

Thor smiled, trying his best to comfort the two of you as he set out to return to New York, the storm passing and giving way to a crisp, clear night sky.

“The sun will shine on us again,” he answered, choosing those words to be his last to you as he boarded the quinjet and flew off into the night.

On the night of December 30th, you and Loki tried to delude yourselves into thinking either one of you would be able to sleep, only to come to your senses hours into the evening. You both chose to bundle up and trek through the snow up the hill one more time, spreading out on the snow and looking up at the thousands of stars dotting the sky above you, your hands never untangling for one another. Your breaths combined with one another and created a single cloud above your heads.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, love,” Loki began, “I will be your loyal guardian until the end.”

“And I yours,” you answered. “I can protect you now!”

Loki smirked. “I’m afraid you’re still a bit weak, my dear.”

It was true that you still got winded after going up a single set of steps, and your muscles ached after taking an hour each night to put supper together in the kitchen. The only reason Loki didn’t insist on taking it easy was your argument that it was very possible that this was your last fortnight alive, and you wanted to behave as normally as you could.

“I would die for you,” you said insistently.

“And I would lay my life down for you if you asked me to on a whim,” Loki replied.

You sighed and smacked your lips playfully. “My, my, have we come a long way from the dominant professor from last January!”

“Oh, but he hasn’t gone far, love,” Loki purred, rolling onto his side to throw an arm over you, pinning you under him. “In fact, a good dominant always puts his little pet first.”

You smiled and sighed as Loki slowly lowered himself on top of you, laying his head on your breast and settling his hips between your splitting legs. You let him lay there, letting your breaths sync their tempos, combing his long, loose hair with your fingers carelessly.

“If we do make it to January 1st,” you said, “What happens?”

Loki sighed and raised his head to meet your eye. “I will stay here with you, naturally.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, “Not naturally, Loki. We both know you want to explore the galaxy, and that after the first of the year, you will be able to.”

“But what good would that be without you beside me?”

“Better than me keeping you shackled here! You won’t have any obligation to me anymore. I will be okay. Hell, I even have a job lined up! “ you said cheerfully.

“I can’t leave you here,” Loki said. “Why are you pushing me away? My Norns, don’t I owe you my very life?””

“But I’m not pushing, perhaps I’m holding you back,” you suggested meekly, sitting up, forcing Loki to roll off of you and into the snow.

“You could never hold me back, or make me regret loving you, princess,” Loki whispered, kissing you deeply, pushing you back into the snow with his passionate lips.

“Mmmhmm, Loki,” you nudged him off of you again. “I have an idea, then.”

He smiled. “Yes?”

“I propose another year,” you said.

“I don’t follow?” Loki asked inquisitively.

You elaborated. “We’ve been in close proximity for an entire year. Let’s spend one year apart. You can journey about the universe. I can start working with Brunnhilde on building up her defense team. If, on this night next year, you still love me and want to stay here with me forever, come here to this hilltop before midnight. If you aren’t in my arms by the last stroke of twelve on December 31st, I will know you’ve found better things out there, and I will move on with my own life.”

Loki shrugged. “I still think it’s ridiculous that you would think--”

“--stop saying that. Please do this for me, and please do it with an open mind. There could be other worlds out there, other peoples who need you. Other lands to explore, parties to see…I want you to have every experience you’ve been denied your entire life. Don't half-ass it, okay? Promise me?”

Loki caressed your cheek and nodded. “I make this solemn vow, that if I survive tomorrow’s test, I will explore every delight and adventure this galaxy has to offer me over the next year, and should I decide to return to my love at the end of it, she will take me…all of me…as I am, forever and ever. And it will be here that we dwell, on New Asgard,” he promised. Your smile radiated relief in the moonlight, and you settled back onto the soft snow, Loki’s arm around you, where the two of you found yourselves drifting off, sleeping until nearly dawn the following morning.

At noon the following day, the quinjet arrived, followed by three other small aircraft. Brunnhilde instructed the villagers to stay in their homes. She only gave you a quick farewell, admitting she was never much good at “the whole sentimentality thing.”

Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Steve Rogers, and ten other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents disembarked and immediately took you and Loki into custody, bringing you into separate jets with them and flying off to an unknown testing location. As you got on board, you caught Loki’s eye one final time. You took the opportunity to say, “I love you.”

He smiled and nodded warmly. “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, my heart.”

You were then escorted onto the separate planes. After two hours, they landed, and you were escorted inside and taken into a large, white room, where an agent told you to sit in your handcuffs and await orders.

An hour went by in total silence and loneliness, and you felt as if you couldn’t hold your brave face for much longer. Thankfully, Steve Rogers finally came for you.

“Look, Y/N, I’m supposed to be impartial, but if I’m going to be honest with you…this is unfair. I don’t personally think you’re a threat to anyone.”

You sighed. “Then save us,” you said quietly. “Look at me! I need you to stabilize my gait!”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do something for you. We’re out of time, anyway.”

As the timer officially hit ‘zero’ on your year’s reprieve, you were escorted down a sterile, while hallway, where he took you through several pairs of swinging doors, finally taking you up a set of metal stairs and holding a thick glass door open for you.

“The test will be taken inside,” Steve began to recite like a good soldier. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that while this room itself is not magic-proof, the outer walls and enforcements ARE resistant. Ten guards will always be surrounding the perimeter. Escape will be impossible. Once you are secured safely inside the pod, you will be given further instructions, and the test will commence.”

You gulped, your nerves suddenly hitting you like a swarm of killer bees. “What happens if I fail?”

Steve hesitated before looking down and saying quietly, “I would really advise you not to fail.”

That was all you needed to hear. You nodded courteously at Steve, avoiding every urge you had in that moment to wrap your hands around his neck, and held out your wrists. He removed the cuffs and saw you inside, closing the door behind you.

The bright white pod was a circular room, about twenty feet across (so a tight fit). Nothing was inside, save for Loki, who was kneeling on the floor, looking bewildered.

“Loki?” you asked, falling into his waiting arms. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be together for--”

“--alright, listen up, you two. It’s time for your final exam.”

It was Fury’s voice coming over a speaker. You and Loki stilled everything but your breaths.

“Here’s the game, and it’s a simple one: a death match. Any magic and weaponry you have on you is permitted, but you have six hours to make your choice.”

Your skin went cold. This didn’t sound good.

“What choice?” Loki asked, his voice cold and hard.

“Only one of you can get out of this tank alive, kids,” said Fury. “Sorry, but whoever wins will have better control of themselves, Makes sense, right?”

“THIS IS HORSE SHIT!” Loki barked, jumping to his feet so quickly you fell off of him. “THIS IS NOT THE TEST!”

“Sorry, Laufeyson, but it is. By midnight tonight, you must choose which one of you survives and which one dies, either by combat or diplomacy. I don't really give a hell how you do it.”

“And if we refuse?” you asked defiantly as Loki helped you to your feet.

“If you are both alive at the sound of the buzzer, then a gas will fill the chamber and destroy you both. I would HIGHLY advise you not to let this timer run out."

A red digital clock appeared as a projection on the wall, set to six hours exactly.

"Now, if there are no further questions, let the test begin.”

He hung up the speaker before any further protestation could be made, leaving you and Loki to your great and terrible decision as the clock began ticking.

One more chapter and an epilogue to go! Sorry this one was longer, I had to properly set up for the finale! Please reblog and comment if you like!

@kats72 @violethaze @cheekyscamp @javagirl328 @yelkmelk @mischief2sarawr @buttercupcookies-blog @lokidokieokie @fictive-sl0th @jaidenhawke @caothicshit @holdmytesseract @anukulee @joyful-enchantress @simplyholl @meowmeow-motherfucker @huntress-artemiss @lokisgoodgirl @loz-3 @mjsthrillernp @alexakeyloveloki @linaax @noideakitten @evelyn-rathmore @lovingchoices14 @itzcomplctd7 @praq123 @the-fantasy-loving-angel @alexakeyloveloki @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @admiralatthebowofnails @vanilla-daydreaming @technicallysassyfox @ozymdias @fall-myriad @sititran @lokisdeadcat @blog-the-lilly @satrkovaza @wolfcyanide

74 notes · View notes

midnight-talescape · 7 months

Text

𝒲��𝓇𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 (𝒜𝓇𝒸𝑒𝓊𝓈 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇)

Kinktober Day 1: Macro/Micro

Guess who’s back? It's me, your favorite nut job! I’m your favorite I don’t care I don’t take objections So yep day 1 and I’m back to Poképhillia *sigh So yeah we're fucking god now, go big or go home I guess. There is a prequel for this smut, the question is will it happen? There's a plan to have it written on a different blog, if it happens I will stick a link somewhere.

Warning: Poképhillia, size differences, probably a lot of pain, also uh he called you child a few times because he’s like a god and all I’m not sure if I should put that in the warning but here it is, I have regrets, etc, etc you get the point not for kid

Genre: filthy filthy smut

Word Count: 1821

｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡

You walked up the mountain and toward the temple of Sinnoh carrying a basket of berries in your hand.

A few months ago you met Arceus when you were lost in the forest.

Does that make any logical sense?

Absolutely not, but so does many things in this world. Also, the fact that after seeing the almighty god instead of running away, or idk try to catch him you choose to stay and have an in-depth discussion with him about why humanity kinda sucks, probably isn’t normal either.

But doesn’t matter after some offering and lack of self-preservation skills, you like to think of yourself as a friend of god. After all, he seems to be quite fond of you as well.

As you reached the top of the temple, you played the azure flute to summon him. After a few moments, a crack appeared in the air, as Arceus walked out greeting you with a nod.

“Hello, my child. How have you been?”

You hold the basket in front of you to show it to him before saying,

“I'm doing great! I brought you some berries I grew!”

Arceus let out a small laugh as he lowered his head towards you,

“I’m glad, and thank you for your offering. There's no need to do that for me.”

You put the berry basket on the ground, before gently holding Arceus's head in your arm and placing a kiss on his head.

Who would have known god was touch-starved? At least you certainly didn’t until you noticed how Arceus seemed to lean into your touch.

His whole body shuddered involuntarily and his eyes flashed red momentarily, as he felt you place a kiss on his head.

Noticing his strange reaction to your kiss, you ask worriedly,

“Are you okay, my lord?” he had never had such a strong reaction to your touch before,

Arceus looked at you a blush on his face as he unconsciously leaned into you more,

“Y-yes, your touch was merely a little…unexpected…”

You looked into his eyes which seemed to be flashing between red and green, before backing away slightly.

“I’m sorry, are you sure you’re okay, my lord? Your eyes are…different”

Arceus seeing you back away looked up almost frantically,

“Don’t… don’t apologize… don’t leave… come closer, my dear…”

Hesitantly you nodded before hugging Arceus's head in your arm.

“Is this better?”

Arceus groaned into your hug seemingly fighting an internal battle with himself. Struggling he pulled himself out of your arm before backing away, despite his heart telling him to never let go of you and demand/beg for more kisses.

“L-leave child, before-before I do something I regret and hurt you” Arceus panted out seemingly losing the battle,

You being a stubborn person, refused.

“I'm not leaving, my lord you’re not acting normally, is there anything I can do?”

Hearing your word Arceus's eyes went fully red, losing to the desire inside him. Tremblingly he walked toward you pushing his head in your arms again.

“I-I need to feel your touch, my dear. Your soft lip and your warm embrace. Pl-please, child. For the love of the god that you worship, please kiss me. I need you, (y/n)”

Hesitantly you hugged back. Placing several small kisses on his head as Arceus continued to tremble in your arm.

“I-i will do something unforgivable, my sweet child, I am not worthy of your praise or your love…” Arceus cried out as tears began to form in his eyes,

You kiss away his tears trying to comfort him as you get increasingly worried.

“Hey, it’s okay. Nothing you do can be unforgivable, please don’t cry.”

With a shudder Arceus pulled you into his chest(?) with his foreleg, don’t ask me how I don’t know the most powerful being in the universe having lost all control of himself because of you.

“My dear…my love…you are my angel. Please don’t forsake me, I need you. I need your touch, your kiss, and your everything. Please give me your heart and your soul. Let me be your god, let me be your love. Love me as much as I love you, my dear angel…”

Your eyes widen at his words, before giggling and standing on your tip-toe to place a kiss on his face (?) I don’t think he has a mouth? Trust me I have tried googling

“Then as you wish, my lord.”

You had no idea what you just agreed to…

Arceus pushed his leg in between your leg, grinding it against your clit. Gently poking it and pushing you down onto the ground.

You let out a loud whine as you felt the force pushing down at your sensitive fold. Your eyes teary and your face flushed as you let out a little moan. The pleasure was unlike anything you have felt before. You can feel your panties getting soaked as he grinds against your cunt with his foreleg. The cold metal on his leg grows warmer from your body heat.

Seeing your reaction Arceus let out a satisfied purr, glad that he can bring you this pleasure.

As you get closer to your release you can’t help but beg,

“F-faster…haaa… please, m-my lord… s-so close…”

Arceus was happy to comply, and within minutes you were brought to your first climax.

As your fluid splattered onto his foreleg, Arceus's eyes began to fill with an animalistic need and lust.

You panted on the ground, your eyes dazed and your mind blank from the high. Arceus ripped off your clothing and flipped you around to push you down on all fours.

I had to do some math and googling but yeah, someone's gonna be in a world of pain. And no I’m not proud of my search history right now

“W-wait, pause! Backtrack, backtrack!” you yelled hoarsely as you tried to back away once you saw his cock that's beginning to harden, it look about 2 feet long and it's getting bigger,

Arceus dragged you back forcefully, any emotion other than lust disappeared completely in his eyes, transforming him into a completely different Pokemon. One that is controlled by his animalistic desire.

“I will destroy you, my angel.”

Arceus said with a sinister tone, as he held you onto the ground.

You let out a scream as he begins to push inside you, your body shaking violently as it is forced to accommodate something it’s not supposed to take in.

With a snarl, he pushed your face into the ground as he forced himself into you, inch by painful inch.

“I-i will die! Please, f-fuck! Haaa…” you cried out your mind blank from the pain,

Hearing your cry of pain seems to bring back some clarity to his mind. Lowering his head and placing what will be the equivalent of a kiss on your back, Arceus begins to use his power to transform your body so it will be easier to accommodate his size. Or at least enough so that you don’t die in the process.

“You won't die, my angel. You belong to me and only me.”

With another growl he slammed his cock into your tiny body, shoving another half a foot of it into you. You let out a wail as your stomach bulges out, the head of his member can be seen through your stomach.

With each thrust, his member seems to grow larger inside you. You can no longer tell how much your body has taken in. Your mind is daze with pain and pleasure, as your body is pushed to the limit and then some more.

Every time you thought you had reached your limit and will surely die if he shoved more of his cock into your body, your body will stretch to accommodate it, because of his power.

You shake your head begging him to stop,

“N-no more! Full, so full!”

Ignoring your cry Arceus continues to thrust inside you roughly.

“You will be mine, angel. Just me and no one else!”

He was almost entirely inside you, was it 5 or 6 feet by this point? You honestly don’t know. Your visions are blurry and you can’t feel your legs anymore, how will you ever recover from this?

The pain and pleasure were overwhelming, every thrust seemed to bring you to another climax as well as another round of pain.

After who knows how long Arceus's thrust got sloppier and rougher as he began to reach his release. By this point, you couldn’t fight back or cry, your mind long past broken. You let out a silent scream and tears fell from your eyes. Arceus let out a roar before shooting his cum inside you, painting your wall white and filling you to the brim.

Your stomach is bloated and you whimper as you felt yourself being filled. After a while Arceus's cock soften and he finally pulled out with a pop, as an ocean of creamy white liquid came rushing out of you.

The red in Arceus's eyes faded and his eyes returned to his usual forest green. As Arceus returns to normal, he looks down at your battered and abused body with horror, finally realizing what he had done to you.

Shakily Arceus cradles your trembling body inside his arms.

“What have I done… my love… my sweet angel… please tell me you're alright…” Arceus pleaded as he began to use his power to heal you up,

After a few minutes, you finally gain back some of your consciousness and with a pained groan you look up at him.

“Y-you just shoved something that's basically bigger than me if you are taller than 6ft just ignore that, also please donate some of your height to me inside of me, I will say I’m a little broken…”

Arceus lowered his head to nuzzle your body to try and comfort you.

“I'm sorry, I’m so sorry… please forgive me, my love… I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

You wrap your arm around his head as you ask with a hoarse voice,

“At least you remember to change my body so I don’t die in the process… what came over you? That wasn’t normal…”

Arceus froze before hesitating and answering quietly,

“There's… there's a part of me… a different part of me that's more ruthless, more aggressive, and less caring… I try to repress it, but I can't and I lost control of you… I’m sorry, I will never let it happen again…”

You nodded your head before leaning on his head,

“That's good to know, I’m not sure how much more time can I take off this…”

You let out a yawn as your eyes get droopy, your body tired from the event that happened prior.

Arceus nodded and sensing your tiredness he wrapped himself around you protectively,

“Sleep, my dear angel. You have been through enough…”

With a nod, you slowly drifted off to sleep in the arms of god…

#kinktober #x reader #no i don’t have problems #reader insert #reader smut #pokephillia #pokemon x reader #arceus x reader #kinktober 2023

94 notes · View notes

stevesbipanic · 1 year

Text

Steve hadn't even remembered the letter.

After everything had happened, after Steve had to leave Eddie's body, had to sit at the bedside of a girl that might not wake up, had to bury an empty box and hold his kids as they were told they were losing Max all over again, the letter was furthest from his mind.

Max's body was too damaged, her mind too post despite El's best efforts. The weight of responsibility and the energy it took every time El tried to bring Max back was killing El too. After the fifth time Max had coded, Hopper had to tell her to not being her back again if it happened.

Three months after they buried Eddie, they buried Max too. The ghost of her was felt in everything they did. When Suzie visited Hawkins for the first time, Max was missed in the party's introductions. When Lucas became captain of the basketball team in junior year, Max was missed in their group hug. When they party graduated, Max was missed in the chair left empty between Darcy Lunce and Paul Meston.

As the kids left one by one to college, following the footsteps of Nancy and Robin years before, Max was missing from their goodbyes.

Steve hadn't been able to leave until he knew the kids were safe and grownup and out of Hawkins. He'd thought about leaving with Robin when she first left, he'd had a panic attack when he started packing. Now the kids were gone he could leave too, the protector could finally rest.

He was moving to Chicago, Nancy and Robin already had his room ready for him. They had understood why he'd had to stay. Most of his items were packed up and loaded into a moving van that the girls had driven back to their apartment. All the was left was Steve's car. He was selling it, he didn't need it in the city and some extra cash would tie him over while he looked for a new job.

He was cleaning it out ready for the buyer when he found it. Dropped between his chair and the gearbox. Perfectly preserved from the day Max handed it to him. At the time he refused to believe he'd ever need to read it, refused to believe he'd lose one of the kids before dying himself first. Yet here he was, alive, and the author of the note was gone.

He tucked the letter into his jacket and finished with the car. Once it had been picked up he still had an hour before the taxi came to take him to the airport. He made his way to the cemetery, it was only fair he say a proper goodbye to her before leaving her to watch over their town. When he arrived at the plot he took a moment to admire the bright flowers the kids had planted years ago, the beautiful mural Will had painted on the back of the headstone.

Here lies Maxine "Mad Max" Mayfield

1972-1986

He took a deep breath and sat down facing her grave, eerily mirroring the girl years before. He took out the letter, carefully opening it and began to read.

Dear Steve,

First off yes of course I'm going to write you a letter, I don't want to hear any self deprecating nonsense when I hand this to you, you're my brother as much as Dustin is and as much as Billy was. People care about you and love you and shut up yes they do.

Second of all if I somehow don't die you better have burned this I don't want you having anything soft and gooey to hold over me if I'm still kicking. If I find out you've still got this I get to drive your car ok?

I should really get to the point of this letter, I'm writing yours while putting off Lucas', I don't know what I'm going to say to him yet, I wish I could ask you to help me but I need to write these myself, he deserves that and so do you. These might be my last words to you and I need you to know a few things and you've got to believe them because if you're reading them it means I'm gone and you have to honour the dead asshole.

It's not your fault.

Listen to me Steve, if this is the last thing I do, if tomorrow everything goes wrong and I can't be berating you for getting hit in the head and you're crying somewhere alone I need you to know it's not your fault.

If I'm dead, if any of us are dead, it's not your fault. We're old enough to make our own choices. If I'm lucky in a couple years I'll be the age you fought a demogorgan for the first time. If I'm dead it's because whatever is down there took me but that's not on you. If I've made myself bait, or run off or done something stupid or brave or sacrificial or we just got unlucky, it's not your fault Steve.

It's not your fault.

If I hear you thinking it's your fault I'm coming back to haunt you.

Love, Max (your favourite)

Steve has to catch a later flight, he doesn't cry until later. Max's words rattle through his brain, years of guilt that he had pushed down slowly bubbled to the surface until he was in Chicago and could sob in his best friend's arms. Whenever he needed to he would reread Max's letter just to remind himself.

It's not your fault.

#whoops sad again #angst #stranger things #steve harrington #max mayfield #major character death #ficlet #st4 #stranger things s4 #stranger things season 4 #mad max #sad #im still on the angst train

299 notes · View notes

chronicowboy · 1 year

Text

one Buck richer | 3.8k

Eddie doesn't remember how they ended up here.

He's not a dramatic person, but he's sure that he must have done something truly horrific in a past life to deserve this.

All he remembers of this life, is the overwhelming, all-consuming terror that had curled like a vice around his heart when Buck had offhandedly mentioned going to Italy for a week or two.

Now, they're... Here, and Eddie cannot work out why, for the life of him, he ever thought this would be a good idea because it is quite possibly the worst, most terrible, poorly-informed, life-changingly destructive idea he's ever had.

Who knows? Maybe he'd never even fooled himself into thinking it was anything approaching a good idea.

Maybe this was just another knee-jerk reaction in the face of his own fear.

It wouldn't exactly be out of character for him, as much as he'd like to think that he's grown out of those bad habits completely.

So, there might be a pattern emerging.

Eddie gets shot, doubles down with the woman he was just going through the motions with to ignore everything that came with a bullet to the shoulder, crashes and burns a couple of months later.

Buck dies, comes back to life, talks about Abby-ing his way to Italy, Eddie suggests going to a fancy casino with the man he's pretty sure he's head over heels in love with, crashes and burns the moment he sees him in a deep red suit.

He really, really didn't think this one through.

And he's seriously considering locking himself in Buck's bathroom to call Frank. In fact the only thing stopping him is the knowledge that its after business hours which means Frank can be unprofessional and laugh at Eddie's sad little life—he'd discovered that the hard way.

Fuck it, might as well call 911 because there's no way he's surviving tonight if Buck is just going to walk around a casino with a level of confidence that decidedly does not match up to his skill level which will undoubtedly lead to pouting and the deep red of his blazer really brings out the blue of his eyes and makes his soft pink birthmark stand out against his pale skin and—

Oh, yeah. This is definitely the worst idea he's ever had in his whole, fucked up life.

Maybe he needs to revisit the whole self-preservation—or lack of—conversation with Frank because, right now, Eddie feels like he's staring down at his hand on a big red button labelled 'SELF-DESTRUCT' with horrified eyes.

"Eddie?" Buck waves a big, gentle hand in his face, and Eddie uses every ounce of carefully practiced self-control to pull himself out of his head before he starts thinking about Buck's hands—but seriously, how can hands be attractive?

"Yeah, yep, yes. Hi, hello." Eddie cringes at himself, hopes the heat crawling from his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears is just a phantom sensation.

"Okay, weirdo," Buck chuckles. Fuck, even his fucking laugh is attractive. Its times like these when Eddie's certain God is real and he truly does hate gay people because this cannot just be Eddie's lot in life. Maybe he just personally offended the big man upstairs at some point and his punishment is being deeply, irrevocably in love with his best friend.

"Says you," Eddie retorts weakly. "Who says yes to a night of poker when he can't even beat his sister playing with M&Ms for currency?"

"Somebody who performs better under pressure," Buck chides, collecting his wallet and keys from the side table. "There are no stakes to M&M poker, that's why I lose."

"Sure, that's why." Eddie nods, silently congratulating himself for falling back into their easy banter instead of focusing on the fact that Buck's shirt is so tight that, if it weren't for his sinful blazer, his nipples would probably be visible through the fabric. And back to square one. "Hey, remind me, which would win: a full house or four of a kind?"

Buck blinks, his face scrunching up into an expression Eddie recognises from Christopher doing math homework at the kitchen table. Oh, dear God. He's definitely not making it out of the casino alive.

(continue reading on ao3)

#sami rambles #okay so the jimpam casino night but its buddie basically #thats all you need to know #911 show #911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #buck x eddie #911 spec #911 spec fic #911 fic #911 fanfic #buddie fic #buddie fanfic #buck x eddie fic #buck x eddie fanfic

130 notes · View notes

pinkandpurple360 · 3 months

Note

if I can 'devil's advocate' (heh) for ParanoidDJ for a sec, I just wanna put the song in context

so it originally dropped shortly after s1e6 came out, & you can probably still see some of that by the comments where fans joke that he 'saw the future' or 'was ahead of the curve' because a good number of fans didn't think Stolas had any romantic feelings for Blitzo at all before ep7 & that it was just lust (in hindsight that was another soft retcon that Stolas was suddenly in love w/Blitzo - that 'development' really ought to have been onscreen and then the audience might have bought into his sudden change of heart).

he mentions in the description that Stolas 'realizes his own actions have caused the problem' and I think that's what PDJ was trying to do - his songs tend to try and flesh out characters or fill in bits the canon hadn't yet. I can definitely see why people say it seems like Stolas apologia but it did come out back when the show was in s1 and it hadn't started playing the Stolas Did Nothing Wrong card as hard as it did in s2 (plus Loo Loo Land Stolas at least seemed aware that the divorce was affecting Via, even if he totally failed to articulate what was going on with him when she was upset), so it feels more like an attempt at a potential direction Stolas could have gone with the setup ep1-6 had provided.

I can't say for sure of course, but I think PDJ was aware that Stolas is the problem (or at least part of the problem, idk if he's ever spoken about stol/tz publically) and was just following what arc the show seemed to be setting up with him (and then it promptly didn't in s2, since nothing is ever Stolas' fault now apparently)

it's why it's so annoying to see the lyrics changed - PDJ's Stolas actually gave a darn about Via and seemed to realize at least part of what he'd done wrong, while keeping him mostly in character by preserving his classist attitudes that he needs to work through (the repeat of the impish plaything line)

official video Stolas is whitewashed and whiny. personally I think it's a small miracle Viv even kept the line 'I will try to make amends/for making you means to an end' since it directly refers to what actually happened - Stolas used Blitzo for sex.

but I assume Viv left that line in because she wants it to mean 'Blitzo seduced Stolas so Stolas used him right back' instead of what actually happened: 'Stolas used the threat of losing his job and the pressure of being shot at to coerce Blitzo into monthly sex'

this is all how I remember it from back when the song came out, though - I could be totally wrong, but as far as I know Paranoid has never said he likes stol/tz or thinks it's 'mututally toxic' or anything like what stans usually say

Oof I guess I was too hard on him. I do appreciate you typing this out and adding some context. But then again before episode seven…stolas was an absolute monster towards Blitzø and the rest of imp. He was only kind to Octavia, the same species as him. But to everyone else he was and honestly still is, just purely awful.

I definitely feel like him and all of us, if we are honest, saw a lot more kindness and good traits in stolas than are actually there. I still hold that stolas at the end of ep 6 and the stolas at the start of episode 7 are not the same character at all. Plus, having us see Blitz be enslaved by him, and then tongue kiss him after, all that said to me was that he’s allowing himself to be sexually objectified because he thinks it’s all he deserves. I was actually really shocked that he kissed him, it was such a bizarre contradiction to the intimidation, abuse, and a mutual hatred, we had just seen. Then he asked for a reward…? So strange.

And season 2 stolas is yet again another character. When he wears his hat he’s his usual gross self then the hat comes off and he’s a wimp. If what I’ve heard is true he gets even more soft and pathetic and sopping wet cat-like. I just have no idea what he adds to the story other than taking us on a self pitying emotional detour we didn’t ask for. With none of the introspection paranoid DJ thought he would show. I’m sorry but Stella was kindve right, it is annoying.

Taking out the Octavia lyrics is unbelievable!!! It makes him look so so bad but this is supposed to be his woobie arc, so what gives?

Also I wont stop reiterating that stolas led Blitzø to his bedroom by force and locked him in there. Blitzø thought he was going to kill him, he was scared, creeped out, and actually did try to negotiate out of it but was told not to bother with excuses. I honestly don’t care that he tried to survive by faking seduction. Don’t forget he said “ew” at the idea, and then “alright fine” which is just so gross…

This is all speculation because I’ve heard nothing about what happens in Full Moon—but-I don’t really believe he’ll try and make “amends” the next episode is going to be stolas emotionally manipulating him into “choosing” the book (him, having free sex and a fan to praise and coddle him) or the crystal (a life on his own) it’s going to be really hard to watch. And Viv despite what she’s written of him being creeped out terrified and grossed out by stolas will try sell us that the sex with stolas was great. Even though everything he says and does points to the opposite.

I mean it is pretty clearly a pro stolitz song and that’s what it was used for

#helluva boss critical #stolitz critical

18 notes · View notes

wheretheharekissesthefox · 6 months

Text

Baby, don't run, you're breaking my heart

After spending the winter months with Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, and Tav, Halsin gets cold feet and runs off.

(Trigger warning (18+): graphic description of sex, smut, angst, fluff, the feels, character study)

Notes:

This is a direct continuation of 'Tav's sex parade'. You don't need to read the latter to get this story, but it would help the deeper meaning and understanding of it.

To avoid confusion: In one of my other fanfics, Halsin and Tav had named the owlbear cup Naïlo, which means 'night breeze' in the Elven language.

Another fic is mentioned.

Halsin had run off.

He'd spent a wonderful winter season with his lovers. Four months of good food, the best company, and shameless, hot sex. And then, pure fear had gripped him and he'd fled head over heels.

Now, the former archdruid sat in a shabby tavern, surrounded by drunkards, in bumfuck nowhere and contemplated to drown his guilt in alcohol once more. He'd sworn never to drink again, but today he was tempted for the first time in over eighty years.

With a deep sigh, Halsin hid his face in his hands and groaned. He was angry.

Why am I such a coward? he asked himself. Why do I disappoint the ones I love and care about over and over again? Why can't I be a better man?

"Are you going to order something soon, or will you keep wallowing in self-pity?" asked the tavern keeper slightly annoyed. "You're occupying a precious seat for more business-friendly customers."

"Apologies," Halsin muttered and stood up. "I'm giving the seat to someone else."

The tavern keeper grunted with a nod. The wood elf walked towards the door, but was stopped by a pretty woman.

"Hey, handsome, would you like to join me tonight? I'd love to be held down by all these muscles."

The addressed forced a polite smile onto his face.

"Thank you for the offer, I'm flattered, but I need to go somewhere."

"Oh, I see." The woman looked disappointed. "Enjoy your night then."

"You too. I'm truly sorry for declining."

Halsin rushed out of the door, his heart ached. The woman didn't have broad shoulders and freckles like Tav, nor long silver hair and a scar across her nose like Shadowheart.

Two days after leaving Gale's tower house in Waterdeep, the druid had slept with a stranger – and he hadn't found any joy in it. Three days later, when he'd gotten propositioned again, he hadn't even been able to get it up. Thus, he couldn't forget his self-loathing through alcohol nor sex. Not anymore. Not like back then.

Halsin had reached the woods and lay down in his makeshift tent, which was more like a taut tarpaulin than anything else, and closed his eyes as they filled with tears.

He was a coward. Afraid of losing people and afraid of disappointing them. Some called it commitment issues, but that wasn't it. He feared he was not enough for his partners, especially for Tav, and he couldn't contribute equal parts to their relationship. He was scared of screwing everything up eventually. He always did.

Oak Father, preserve me. Please, give me strength and courage. I have to make this right. What I have, what I found... I can't give it up. Don't want to. Please, Oak Father, I beg you; let me have a place again where I belong. I want to belong again.

Halsin rolled into a ball, making himself as small as possible, as he cried himself to sleep.

Tav was angry – no, furious, but also sad, hurt, and slightly disappointed. She'd never thought Halsin would just leave them – her – without an explanation or farewell.

"Come on, dear, drink your lavender tea," encouraged Morena, Gale's mother, and slid the sandwich tray closer to the bard.

The latter sighed unhappily, rubbed her forehead, and took a sip from her teacup. For her quasi mother-in-law's sake, she grabbed a small sandwich and took a bite. It was topped with ham, soft Waterdhavian cheese and fresh cress. Gale loved to prepare sandwiches for their afternoon tea break.

"There, there," hummed Morena, looking pleased. "With a filled tummy, the world looks less grim."

"You're right about that, Miss Dekarios," purred Tara, her little mouth smeared with cream cheese.

Tav sighed again, a bit too theatrical, and glared at the sandwich in her hand. Morena gave her a look.

"Oh, please. Don't exaggerate about this. Halsin's gone for two months already. And it's not like you have no lovers left."

"You don't understand, Morena, I love him. I love them all! Equally. Whole-heartedly. It's out of character for Halsin to just leave wordlessly. I have no idea why he left. Was it something I did? Something I didn't do? Is it a personal issue? I don't understand why he didn't talk to me. I'm seriously worried about him."

"I understand very well what you mean," the addressed replied calmly. "But your bad mood and worries don't solve the issue, do they? There are exactly two things you can do: search for him, or let him go. The choice is yours, Tav, but don't forget what's right in front of you. Chasing things you can't reach, never ends well. My son's a prime example for this – and you know it."

The bard grimaced but nodded.

"Still, I'm worried about Halsin," she muttered, rotating the teacup in her hands.

"He broke your heart," the sorceress stated pragmatically, "and you want an answer to the question why."

Tav nodded again and took another sip of tea. The lavender tried its damn best to calm her emotional turmoil, but it just wasn't working enough. The bard set her jaw, explaining: "I can't simply leave it like this. I want to find Halsin and talk to him. I need to know why he left."

"Ran away, more like," Morena muttered into her teacup, and Tara nodded in agreement.

Tav glared at them.

"That wasn't normal behaviour for him. The Halsin I know would have never done this!"

"And yet he did, dear. People are unpredictable – and selfish. Sometimes, you just have to accept your fate."

"Never!" Tav squeezed out between clenched teeth.

Morena sighed deeply.

"Incorrigible, these romantics."

Unbothered, she took another sip from her cup, while Tav was about to explode. She stood up, slamming her palm onto the tabletop, and hissed: "I'll find him – no matter if you, or anyone else, approves of it! He's worth it!"

Fuming, Tav stomped out of the kitchen.

"Don't forget our meeting tomorrow morning, dear!" Morena sing-songed amused. "The Sorcerous Sundries in Baldur's Gate has finally reopened after you killed the previous owner!"

"He was a prick!" shouted Gale from his study, making his mother chuckle and Tav snort a laugh.

"Don't worry, I'll be ready at nine," sighed the latter then, smiling slightly.

Tav had to give it to Morena; she'd been right about her prediction about spending a lovely day together. They'd portalled to Baldur's Gate with Gale and Shadowheart and browsed through the assortment of the reopened magic shop. Afterwards, they'd lunch at the Blushing Mermaid before portalling back to Waterdeep. It had been a nice distraction from the misery Tav felt since Halsin had left, but it wasn't gone, obviously. Also, she hadn't found what she'd been looking for at the Sorcerous Sundries.

"Do you have something that keeps me from burning in the sun?" she'd asked. "My skin's rather delicate."

"Unfortunately, we don't have anything like this in our gigantic assortment," had the wizard’s magical projection replied. "But you may be interested in sunburn reliever."

Tav had declined politely. She wasn't looking for something for herself actually, but for a certain someone.

Patience, she told herself. Maybe, I'll find what I'm searching for one day. – I hope I will.

Halsin lay on the mossy forest floor with his eyes closed and his palms against the ground. He felt Mother Nature's energy flow up through the soil into his body and back down. The druid breathed slowly and deeply, focusing on releasing everything that didn't serve him or was too much. Nature could use his excess energy to create something beautiful. Meanwhile, the new energy Halsin drew from her, cleansed and rejuvenated him. His thoughts drifted away after a while and he pondered about his next move. What should he do? How could he fix what he'd broken? The wood elf sighed and opened his eyes, gazing at the green canopy above him.

Oak Father, speak to me, he pleaded. I don't know what to do.

Two squirrels chased each other through the trees until they stopped and started to mate. Halsin looked away to give them some privacy.

That's not the sign I need, Silvanus, he thought, huffing a bitter laugh.

The druid sighed again. He felt tired, heavy, burnt out. He wanted to move, but couldn't get himself to do it.

I must pull myself together, he scolded himself. I won't feel any better if I keep lying here.

A fox dashed across the clearing, light-footed. Bypassing tripping hazards and elegantly jumping over the small creek. Halsin observed it.

Agile and clever like a fox. Fast and fearless like a squirrel. Thank you, Oak Father.

Tav couldn't sleep and she felt guilty. Astarion, Gale and Shadowheart tried their best to cheer her up and emotionally support her to overcome her heartbreak. Shadowheart didn't let it show on her face, but she was hurting too. Sometimes, Tav caught her staring at the honey pot in the kitchen teary-eyed.

Now, the bard was sandwiched between the cleric and the wizard who were sleeping soundly. Carefully, she wiggled her way out of their embraces, hoping not to wake them, and pattered to the kitchen. On the way, she checked on Scratch, Naïlo, and Tara who slept on the carpet and pillows in front of the fireplace, tightly entangled. The tressym purred in her sleep, enthroned on top of the owlbear's fluffy, feathery flank, who hooted lowly with every exhale, and the dog's paws twitched while he was dreaming of chasing something (probably a pigeon in the park), while snuggled up against Naïlo's belly. Tav smiled and left them alone. She walked downstairs to Astarion's basement room, but the vampire was still on his nightly stroll through the city. Sighing, the bard moved to the kitchen to brew tea. She studied the one dozen tea caddies.

For sleep and to soothe the nerves, hmm... Chamomile, lavender, and valerian. Morena would be proud that I remember her herbology lessons.

Just as she grabbed the caddy with lavender, she heard the low hum of the magic barrier of the front door. Gale had enchanted it to inform them when someone was at the door, who wasn't knocking. Furrowing her brows, Tav walked to the entrance hallway, curious who it could be. It wasn't Astarion, that's for sure, he had a key. The bard stopped before the door, staring at it. It was still humming lowly. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Halsin sat on the doorstep, staring at her wide-eyed, surprised and shocked in equal measure. Tav blinked at him dumbly.

"Halsin?"

"Uhm, hello, Tav. I uh - It's the middle of the night and I didn't want to wake anyone. Also, I- I don't know what to say."

The druid looked embarrassed and sheepish, squeezing his hands together.

"I definitely need that lavender tea now," the bard stated, still overwhelmed.

Halsin looked up at her, those hazel eyes big and pleading.

"Tea?"

His breath left a puff of air in the cold spring night. His hair was dripping wet from the rain. Tav opened the door wider.

"Come in. It would be a shame if you'd freeze to death or catch pneumonia due to the rain. My parents would be mortified to know I've turned into such an unfriendly, heartless host."

Hastily, the druid scrambled onto his feet and lifted up his luggage. Hesitantly, he entered Gale's tower house, dripping water onto the doormat.

"Stay here, I'll grab a towel," Tav told him. "And don't you dare leave before we've exchanged a single word."

Embarrassed, Halsin lowered his head. He did feel the urge to flee, but he didn't move a millimetre. He had to put it right again. Tav returned quickly with a towel and some clothes. The druid thanked her and got dry and dressed.

"Come on. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," mumbled the addressed, the tips of his ears blushing in embarrassment.

You can't even feed yourself properly, you idiot, scolded the mean voice in his head, and Halsin shook himself to clear his mind.

He tentatively entered the kitchen, sat down at the table, and observed how Tav grabbed a tray of sandwiches from the pantry which was glowing purple.

"Gale enchanted the cupboard so that the food doesn't go bad," Tav explained. As always, she had interpreted his facial expression and body language correctly. She was particularly talented at that. Halsin wondered if it had something to do with her profession.

The bard put the plate down in front of him and brew the tea. The faint smell of lavender wafted through the kitchen and Halsin inhaled deeply, hoping it would calm his nerves. Tav filled two cups with tea and sat down opposite him. Her green-brown eyes studied him, her brows were slightly furrowed in concentration. It was unnerving and Halsin fidgeted around on the chair. Tav took a sip from her cup, then, she took a deep breath, and asked, way too calmly: "Why?"

The druid stared into his tea, working his clenched jaw. 'Why?'. Such a simple question, and he had no idea how to answer it. How to explain his action. Himself.

"I -," he began, voice cracking miserably. "I don't know. I mean, I do know, but I don't know how to explain it. I - I'm so sorry, my heart."

Tav inhaled sharply.

"Don't call me that," she whispered. "Don't call me that if you don't mean it. Don't play with me, Halsin."

"I mean it," the druid replied, feeling ice-cold dread filling his veins. He grabbed her hand on the table. His was clammy, hers warm. "I mean it. I- I screwed it up."

Angrily, Tav stood up, her eyes aflame.

"Yes, you did! Spectacularly! Why, Halsin? Don't you trust me? I thought you'd tell me if something's wrong."

"Of course, I trust you! That's the problem," Halsin replied, getting up himself. "I entrust you with my life – and it scares the shit out of me!"

Tav shook her head. Anger, hurt, and sadness showed on her face. She was so easy to read, like an open book. What if she would send him away now? What if she couldn't forgive him? Halsin swallowed, trembled. His fear had him in a chokehold. But, instead of moving away, Tav stepped closer.

"Kiss me. Please," she whispered, looking up at him.

A shiver ran down Halsin's spine as he took a step forward, bent down, and kissed her like a starving man. He held onto her, with one hand around her biceps and the other on her neck. Tasting her, smelling her. It was so much better than in his memories. He traced the bite mark at the nape of her neck with his fingers, remembering how he'd left it there and how she'd let him mark her so willingly. Halsin broke the kiss when he tasted saltwater.

"No, please. Don't stop," pleaded Tav with tears streaming down her face. "Please, Halsin, don't run away again. It broke my heart."

The addressed swallowed, staring at her. He'd never seen Tav cry before.

No matter what had happened and what awful things they'd gone through, she'd been solid like a rock. She'd been there for Astarion after he'd killed Cazador. Had held him tight and consoled him. She'd had enough faith and trust in him to let him drink from her every night since basically day one. She'd encouraged Shadowheart to free herself from Shar and the pain that the goddess had inflicted on her. Had hugged her and had mumbled soothingly. She'd promised Karlach to get her and Wyll out of Avernus. Had comfort her with words since she hadn't been able to touch the tiefling. She'd convinced Gale to not comply to Mystra's wishes to blow himself up. Instead, she'd helped him get the Crown of Karsus from the Netherbrain so that he could hand it to the Goddess of Magic and got freed from the Orb in his chest. She'd help him lift the Shadow Curse. Had welcomed him into her found family. Tav had helped them all. She had made them whole again, had helped them heal. To start anew. And he had screwed it up. He had made her cry.

"I'm deeply sorry, Tav. My heart," said Halsin. "I never intended to hurt you."

He kissed her again and she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him. The druid sighed. Finally, he felt her strong body against his again, saw the rosy, freckled skin again, those green-brown eyes, and that awful, short haircut. He'd missed her and he loved her – so much.

When they parted, they leaned their foreheads together, and Halsin said: "What we have, no, what you gave me, is too precious to give up. It's worth fighting for. I was a coward. Fear overwhelmed me and I didn't know how to deal with it. It's true; I trust you more than anyone else, but it scares me. For the first time in decades, I'm in love with someone, opened my heart for you, and I'm scared I'll screw it up, you'll leave me, or I'm not good enough for you. I haven't committed to a relationship in such a long time, because every time I did, it came back to bite me in the arse, or something terrible happened. I can't go through this again. I can't have my heart broken for the dozens time. But by fearing for my own heart's safety, I broke yours, and I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me."

"Yes," nodded Tav, holding him close. "Always."

Halsin felt like crying and kissed her again, desperately. They held each other close and cried freely. It felt good to let it out.

"I missed you so much," sniffed Tav. "Don't you ever do that again! I know you're a free spirit and you can't be hold down. That's why I let you go, why I'm not jealous, and why I'm happy with our arrangement. I have multiple lovers and so do you. 'Let our hearts roam freely', you once said and I agree. But please, talk to me before you run away because it's too much to bear for you. Whatever you want, whatever bothers you, I'll understand and I'll let you go, but please, come back to me and don't leave me without a word again."

"I promise," whispered Halsin, squeezing his eyes shut. "I promise, my heart. I'll never cause you heartache again."

"Good."

Tav took his hand and led him towards the kitchen counter. There, she discharged her nightgown and started fumbling with his trousers. Suddenly in a frenzy, Halsin pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion and stepped out of the trousers. They kissed again before the bard hopped up onto the counter. Halsin already panted in anticipation, excited to feel her body against his again and taste her skin. He slid his hands under her buttocks and kissed her as he thrust into her. Tav moaned, wrapping her legs and arms around him. Halsin kissed her neck and started a steady pace. For a while, they kissed and panted against each other's necks. Then, Tav let go of him, placed her arms behind her and leaned back. The druid groaned and kissed her sternum. Moaning, Tav lolled her head back.

"You're beautiful as always, my heart," Halsin told her. "And it fills me with immeasurable joy to know that you wear my bite mark with such pride. I love you, more than you can imaging."

"I love you too, Halsin," Tav panted.

She pulled him closer with one arm to kiss him again. He happily complied and started to rub her pubic mound with his talented fingers. The bard mewled, clenching around him and making him groan. He spilled into her while moaning into her mouth. She followed him over the edge noisily and tightened her powerful legs around him. Halsin loved it and would have happily died between those muscular thighs, Oak Father, preserve him.

"Get a room, you filthy animals, Gods!" Astarion grinned, leaning against the doorframe while watching them shamelessly as they were basking in the afterglow of their orgasm.

The addressed snickered, slightly embarrassed that they were caught in the act. The vampire spawn's smirk turned into a soft smile when he said: "So, our druid has returned and the issues are resolved, I hope?"

"Yes," Tav answered and Halsin nodded against her shoulder.

"Wonderful," sighed Astarion. "Now, we can only hope that our darling bard won't sulk anymore."

"I wasn't sulking, I was dealing with heartbreak."

"Same thing, darling, same thing. Goodnight, sweet dreams," lilted Astarion and twirled around. "Oh, and druid? Don't think you can get away without an explanation. Shadowheart cried her eyes out as well, but presented herself strongly for Tav's sake."

With a shit-earing grin on his face and a nonchalant wave, the vampire spawn made his way to the living room. Halsin groaned conscience-smitten.

"I'm sorry I caused such a ruckus. I guess I can't avoid explaining myself. The others will eat me alive."

"They love you," Tav replied, stroking his hair. "They'll only eat you in the bedroom."

At that, Halsin chuckled and warmth bloomed in his chest. He and Tav freshened up in the bathroom and then, walked to the bedchamber. The cleric and the wizard had moved in their sleep, basically resting in each other's arms. Carefully, Halsin climbed into the bed and spooned up behind Shadowheart, wrapping an arm around her middle and pulling her close, while Tav snuggled up against his back.

"I love you," she mumbled, kissing his shoulder.

The druid smiled sleepily.

"I love you too."

Shortly after, Astarion joined them too. He slipped in behind Gale and rested his head against his back. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of lavender soap, and smiled.

"Halsin? Please, use your elf brain next time and not your bear brain," Astarion told the other man. "Let’s not cause any more heartache and misery."

"Yes," the druid agreed. "I'm sorry."

"I know," remarked the vampire spawn. "Let’s just make our lovers happy, shall we? And in the process, we'll make ourselves happy too."

Halsin hummed, smiling.

"You belong here, you know? You're family. So, don't just run off. – I never thought I have to tell you this, but here we are; we love you, Halsin."

Swallowing thickly, the druid nodded.

"I love you too," he croaked out, close to tears again.

"Rest now, druid. It's good you're home."

"Thank you, little vampire. I'm happy to be back."

Astarion hummed, snuggling up closer to Gale who sighed happily in his sleep. Halsin closed his eyes again, willing his body into relaxation. He felt warm and comfortable with Shadowheart in his arms and Tav at his back. Astarion was right; it was good to be home.

17 notes · View notes

corrodedcoughin · 1 year

Note

oh, i just realized i love steve so much because he gets beat up so much. let me elaborate.

he’s someone that chooses to be good.

and life fucks him over. he loses his status. he loses his girlfriend. he loses his money, presumably cut off by his parents. he gets harassed by his former best friend. he lives in a house where the pool is very possibly a grave. he’s saddled with headstrong kids with non-existent self-preservation instincts. he does not find new love, he does not heal from his first heartbreak. his parents, or his dad at very least, consider him to be a disappointment. they’re not there for him. he’s haunted by his past, his highschool nickname and the subsequent assumptions people make about him. he gets beat up, he gets tortured, his life is in danger way too many times. all the trauma.

he continues to be good anyway. he doesn’t stop to think about what his heroics gain. he crawls forward.

he’s content with what he’s got. robin. the kids. people to fight back-to-back with. it’s what matters to him. and he’s right.

(oh, this is also what makes eddie’s praise very cathartic to me. people shouldn’t expect a reward for being good. but it’s still very nice to be told that you’re doing good.)

Anon stop you are going to make me Steve spiral and that isn’t going to be good for ANYONE!

He’s been through so much and yeah he can be bitchy but that’s him! That’s part of who he is! He bitched and moans but he STILL does EVERYTHING he can for his people because he can’t help himself.

I love that he doesn’t lose that part of himself, he doesn’t just become some placeholder that loses his spark. He is multifaceted and he won’t let anyone forget that, yes he’s a soft heart but only to those who deserve it in his eyes

#I love Steve he is so much and so easily projected on and I can’t help myself #Steve you are all of us and I adore you #anon this is so so true thabk you for sending me this #ask #anon

127 notes · View notes

atsadi-shenanigans · 4 months

Text

Feeding Alligators 20 - The American Red Cross Association

You're a blood donor!

Rated M for language, violence, and now vampire shenanigans.

On AO3.

There’s no donation chair, obviously. No medical gurney. Your choices are dirt, or your bedroll placed on the dirt. At least the bedroll is close to the fire (and the others, should your atrophied sense of self-preservation decide to wake up).

Astarion tags after you. Waits as you sit and reach for your pack. Shifts almost awkwardly, and keeps glancing from your hands, along your arms, to stare at your neck before, you assume, catching himself and starting that process over. Now that he’s illuminated—and you’re not so groggy—you spot the changes in his body movement. How still he is, except for a barely discernible shiver now and then. He swallows a couple of times, and at first you think it’s nerves, until you catch a flicker of pink tongue between his lips and realize he’s trying to hide how badly he’s salivating.

That’s…you have to turn away from that. Your body has a very weird and off-putting reaction, all flushed terror and all.

“Here we are,” you say. You found the bandits’ food store after the party slaughtered all of them. Most of it went to the camp rations, but each of you got an iced bun. Gale already ate his with no ill effects, but you saved yours to go with breakfast. Your waterskin is maybe half full—you frown at that—and set it next to your bedroll.

“Something wrong?” Astarion says.

“I get all demon thirsty when I donate blood,” you say and uncork the thing to down several gulps. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and look up. Find the man absolutely bewildered.

“It’s for medical purposes,” you say. “People volunteer their blood, and it gets cleaned up and stored in hospitals and stuff. That way, if someone needs a transfusion—did that translate right? If someone loses too much blood, they can give them some of the donated stuff so they don’t, you know, die.”

“Oh. That sounds…altruistic.” You’d never known someone could make that word sound like a negative. “And you’re one of those…volunteers? Why? What do you get out of it?”

You’ve got your stuff staged and within arm’s reach. Satisfied, you turn back to him.

“Cause I got plenty and my body makes more. They also give you cookies afterward. So how do we do this? I got a good vein in my left arm, in the elbow that they always really like?”

He looks at your offered arm. Resettles himself and motions for you to lie down. Which you do. He takes a knee next to you and you try hard not to think about how vulnerable you are. Some vampire elf man kneeling over you, flat on your damn back.

One of the charcoaled logs collapses into the bed of embers. A soft flash washes over the two of you. In that light, his eyelids lower and he goes all smug and smarmy.

“I think the classic method might be best,” he says.

And that takes you longer than it should. Because you’re used to the cold swab of alcohol in the crook of your elbow. The tight band wrapped around your bicep. Looking away as the tech slides in the needle.

He’s a vampire. They, classically, bite necks. Which yeah, not fun to think about. But it’s the mouth part that trips your pulse and makes it stumble over itself. Somehow, you did not consider that part. To make you bleed, he will bite you. With his teeth. In his fucking mouth. Which means his mouth is going to be at your fucking neck.

“Oh,” you say and want to kick your own ass at how small that comes out. Especially when that fucking goblin grin ticks up on one side of his lips. His lips that will be on your neck. You clear your throat. “I mean, if that’s the best way. Uh. Go for it.”

He dips his head in a bow and his left hand comes to rest just above your right shoulder. Which means he’s reaching across you (flat on your damn back, belly exposed). He leans across you and he is all up in your personal space and you are suddenly, viscerally aware of that. People don’t get close to you (except for Uncle Randy and Sasha and her boyfriend). You don’t get close to people. You’re the one that stands back and waves when Debbie or Jeff leave the office for retirement or transfer, when they all hug each other goodbye. You haven’t held so much as a squirming baby in over a decade.

And his face is going to touch you. His fucking hand comes up, under your chin to tilt your head to your left, looking away from the fire, leaving your neck bare and so horribly exposed to teeth but also his goddamn lips.

You didn’t think this part through, is what you didn’t do. Look at you, getting necked before you’ve ever been kissed. That has to be some kind of achievement, right?

“Easy, darling,” Astarion murmurs and he’s so goddamn close to you you can actually feel his voice.

Your heartbeat ratchets up. Blood pressure probably on the verge of splitting an artery somewhere. You flex your fingers (and toes) and nod.

“Sorry,” you say.

“It’s alright. Are you this nervous when you donate your blood to others?”

Again with that sneer. He’s got you turned away; all you see above his chest is the poof of his hair out of the corner of your eye, “They don’t take it out with their mouth.”

He leans in. You expect to feel a wash of heat, but there is none. Undead. He’s ambient room temperature. But there’s still a presence there. Something solid moving over you, a strange charge in the air you’ve never felt before.

He hums and that soft exhale tickles your ear because he’s right there. “So it’s my mouth that has you shivering, is it?”

For fuck’s—

“Just fucking bite me,” you say.

You’re pretty sure he smiles. Smug bastard.

Then he lunges. It reminds you of a snake strike. Utter calm to piercing pain and you gasp despite yourself. You’ve known pain, before. Gut cramps, menstrual cramps, switch welts. None of them are teeth in your flesh.

It shocks you. Your body seizes up as a sharp, freezing pain stabs the side of your neck. Almost as quick, it fades to throbbing, and then into a gentle numbness.

Analgesic spit, you think. Neat.

The bite itself distracts you for a long minute. You try not to think of fangs in your flesh. Hard teeth digging through skin and muscle and vein. Then Astarion shifts and through the numb, something moves against your skin. Something…wet? Strong, but not hard—

His tongue. The man is licking your goddamn neck.

Just as that registers, Astarion outright groans against you. Your cheeks light themselves on fire. The sound shivers against your skin and his voice vibrates up your throat. The hand not holding him up slips behind your head—fingers gliding along your scalp and lifting goosebumps in a sweep from crown to toes—to cradle the back of your skull and hold you to him.

You bite back the squeak. Hold as still as you can.

His lips are cool and soft. Slurping echoes loud in your ear, mixed with small noises he makes and his cool breath ruffles the short hairs on the nape of your neck.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a blood donation. Just a procedure. You’ve done this many times before. Except this one has a grown man humming and…sweet jesus, he’s moaning. Not audible, exactly. You feel more than hear it.

So far, he’s been lapping at you. His own throat bobs as he swallows (holy fuck he’s close enough for you to notice that and you don’t even have any space because he’s taking it all and his chest brushes yours where the fuck are his legs). But then his voice changes pitch. Then he sucks.

That hurts. Sharp, burning pain lights up the side of your face. You can’t stop your own whimper, or the way you grab a handful—with just your fingertips because more means touching him more—of his shirt.

But that only seems to egg him on. He sucks again. His weight drops onto you holy fucking shit, and the hand supporting him wraps around your shoulders in some fucked up hug. All of it to pull you close. Every alarm left in your brain goes off all at once. Your deep, deep primate brain has memories to recognize a predator securing its prey.

“Astarion,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

“Astarion, that’s enough.”

Still no answer.

Your head’s going foggy. You never noticed any ill effects during any previous donation—all that comes when people sit up or stand or try to walk over to the cookies table. But you are, and you’re lying down. You know that is a very, very bad sign.

Your arm is heavy when you lift it. You push through—limb shaking—to tap his shoulder. Probably harder than you mean to. But it’s enough to jolt him. His lips break their seal and hot liquid dribbles down the back of your shoulder.

“Mmm?” he says. Then he takes a sharp breath. “Oh. Of course.”

He lifts up immediately. The action only partially soothes you. The majority of your emotional system is still screaming at your vulnerability, at how shaky and light-headed you are, at how goddamn close he still is to you.

You do your best to show none of this as he rolls back and to his feet. It’s a smooth motion, lighter than you’ve seen from him. He’s grinning, a trickle of your blood running down the side of his chin. He touches it with his fingertips, brings them up to suck them clean.

“That…that was amazing,” he says. Dude’s panting like he was the one who got drained half to death.

You don’t dare sit up. You roll to your side to grab your provisions, uncork the waterskin, and slam down as much as you can before your lungs start to protest. You wish it was juice. Your stomach trembles, all queasy.

Astarion’s entire posture is different. He holds himself taller, frame wider somehow. His eyes are even brighter. “My mind feels clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

The next part seems to baffle him. You rip off a piece of the iced bun and slip that into your mouth. You chew slow and careful to make sure your stomach will take it. You’re ripping off another piece before you even swallow.

“I feel happy,” Astarion says. And maybe it’s your imagination, but the last word there sounds tinged in what you might almost call wonder. Even his grin has changed—showing off those fangs you honestly should have noticed sooner.

“You get enough?” you say. He’d better say yes, because you don’t got no more to give for a while. Half the roll is gone, and your stomach seems content to hold it. The thirst taps your shoulder and then screams into your ear. You down more water.

“Quite enough, darling. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He dips into a fancy bow. “You’ve been invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

“Gonna find you a nice, big deer?”

“Indeed. You know, you’re taking this all rather better than I expected.”

The last thing you saw with a vampire in it was that show where they were all sad and hilarious roommates. You’re operating on an entirely different cultural level with zero context towards how him or vampires should exist in this world. Hell, there’s a lot of people of all genders on Earth who’d be down on their knees for him right now.

You don’t tell him that, obviously. You’re not giving him any more ammunition against your ignorance on this matter.

“Just hope it helps you for tomorrow,” you say.

His grin pulls itself back down into the one you’re more familiar with. The one you’re pretty sure now is his version of the “sexy bad man vampire” he’s so keen to wear.

“Well,” he says. “I will aim to please, should we encounter anyone in need of a killing. Sleep well, darling.”

He saunters off towards the trees. A ghost in white disappearing into the dark. On the very edge of your vision, damn near swallowed by the gloom, he pauses. Looks back. His voice is soft and low. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Then he’s gone. Off to hunt something he can actually drain like a capri-sun.

You roll back over and your neck twinges. Fuck. Forgot about cleanup—no phlebotomist with a teeny square of gauze and a stretchy wrap bandage. You don’t have any sterile bandages at all. Damnit. You really fucked this up.

You pull out one of the bloodstained shirts from your pack. One of the less stained ones. Manage to rip off an unbloodied sleeve and press that to the wound. You’re drinking a healing potion first thing. And then keeping an eye on that shit. First sign of infection, and you’re talking to Shadowheart (got hurt during one of the fights; didn’t notice until later and didn’t want to bother you, so sorry, very silly of me).

You tentatively feel the puncture wounds through the cloth. They’re larger than you expected. And very quickly, you feel wet heat soaking through.

Fucker is still bleeding like a stuck pig. You refold the gross, makeshift bandage, press down harder.

Anticoagulant spit, probably. Makes sense; mosquitoes and leeches have that.

You take a swig of water and pop another piece of iced bun into your mouth. It’d be easier to put pressure on that wound if you were lying down. But then your head is swimming and you’re really very tired. Your bedroll is comfortable. Rolling onto your side (so the wound is elevated; you aren’t a total moron!) and you sigh and it all feels so nice, so gentle, you should probably swallow that food in your mouth, should….

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #fanfic #astarion #astarion x tav #it's a goddamn isekai #i'm not sorry #no betas we die like men #feeding alligators fic #tavstarion #slow burn #vampire shenanigans #biting

13 notes · View notes

vodika-vibes · 10 months

Text

Post Order 66 part 9

It’s finally time for the crew of the Starsinger to move on, but they’re kind of at a loss as to where to go from where they are. Wolffe and Dusk have a conversation. Marral has a vision.

tagging: @starrrgazingbunny and @thestarwarslesbian

Dusk leaned back in the pilot’s seat, his gaze locked on the stars outside his view port. It had been less than a week since they left the Outpost, leaving it in the very capable hands of Rex, Gregor, Fives, and Ahsoka. He didn’t doubt that the next time that they came by, the outpost would be a thriving community of Clones and Jedi.

Cody had been disappointed that Rex elected not to join them. But they all had their places in this Rebellion, and Rex’s place wasn’t on the Starsinger.

He had added Wolffe to the crew. Well. Less added, and more Wolffe got on the Starsinger and refused to leave. Still, if he was able to work alongside Fox to force Kanna to rest then he was more than welcome.

He winced when he thought about Kanna. True to her word, she had come up with a gene therapy that reversed the enhanced aging. It took her less than a week, which was two weeks less than she predicted. Dusk had been impressed. He knew that she was talented, but had been unaware just how talented she was until that moment.

Dusk being impressed lasted as long as it took Fox and Wolffe to corner him and inform him that, in order to come up with the therapy as quickly as she did, she only slept about 3 hours a night, and was surviving on a diet of rations bars and caf. And they were not impressed.

Which. Fair. But he wasn’t sure why they decided to yell at him about it.

But, that had been over a week ago.

And now he and his brothers were going to age like nat-borns. And he was going to be able to watch his kids become adults.

...Fuck. He owed Kanna, like, an entire planet didn’t he? Maybe he’d just buy her some nice new bedding the next time they were on Alderaan. Or a bigger bed. His gaze slid to the side, where Wolffe was playing navigator. Maybe both, he conceded to himself.

“What?” Wolffe asked, flicking his gaze over to Dusk, and then back to the computer.

“Just thinking, I should probably buy Kanna a bigger bed.” Dusk said lightly.

Wolffe tensed, but he relaxed a moment later, “She needs more pillows,” He grumbled, “She generally ends up losing hers.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Dusk replied dryly. He lightly tapped the steering column, trying to gather his thoughts, “So...I know why Fox is sharing Kanna’s room. He’s always had a soft spot for her. But why are you-”

Wolffe turned fully to glare at Dusk. It was, honestly, intimidating. “Are you really asking that?” he asked.

“...yeah, I am.” Okay, maybe Dusk needed to check his self-preservation instincts, because that sounded very accusatory, and he was pretty sure that Wolffe was going to kill him, but. Well. In for a credit, or so they say. “I’ve known Kanna for years now. She’ll give and give and give until there’s nothing left. Someone has to look out for her.”

And the people who used to look out for her aren’t here. Thire is gone. Thorn is gone. Stone and Hound, gone. And Fox was here but he wasn’t in a good place to stand up for Kanna if she needed it. But he was-

Dusk exhaled slowly, “So yes, Wolffe. I need to know.”

Wolffe’s glare lessened slightly, and he regarded Dusk thoughtfully, “Huh.” He leaned back, and the glare had completely faded, “You know, I volunteered for this,” he gestured to the navigation system, “Because I was going to accuse you of taking advantage of Kanna’s kindness.”

Dusk jerked, “I would never-”

“I believe you. Well. Now I do.” Wolffe shifted and focused his attention back to the nav system, honestly they weren’t even going anywhere, but Dusk looked so offended, he needed to look elsewhere or he was going to laugh. “If you really want to know, she was more than happy to give me a place in her room. We had a whole conversation about it.”

Dusk shot him a doubtful look.

“We did. Fox insisted on it. He would have kicked me out himself if he thought that I was overstepping. He’s pretty good at reading her.”

“Yeah, well. She was ours.” Dusk admitted, “You and Cody had your generals...and we had Kanna.”

Wolffe let out a hum of understanding. He knew that, naturally, but it was good to hear it anyway. “Where are we going, anyway?” He finally asked. “There’s no locations flagged in the computer.”

“...um...”

“You’re shitting me. You have no idea, do you?”

Dusk blushed, “Normally, when I don’t know what to do, I take a bounty.” He said under his breath.

“So take a fucking bounty.” Wolffe replied in a tone that suggested that he thought that Dusk had cotton for brains.

“Fine! I’ll try to find a bounty that isn’t for a jedi!” Dusk said, throwing his hands up dramatically, before he snatched his datapad from where it was sitting in a pocket attached to his chair. “Oh, look. There’s a bounty for Obi-Wan Kenobi! And here’s another one for another Jedi!”

“No wonder you got along so well with Fox, you’re just as irritating as he is,” Wolffe said with a roll of his eyes. “And twice as dramatic.”

Dusk scowled at him. He wasn’t dramatic!

He opened his mouth to say something, when the door to the cockpit slid open, “Buir?” Marral poked his head in, looking troubled.

“What’s up, ad?” Dusk asked, immediately dropping the conversation with Wolffe to focus on his child, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“No. Um, yes? I was meditating because I couldn’t sleep and-” Marral hesitated, “I think we’re needed somewhere.”

“Okay. Do you know where?” Dusk asked.

“Not...really? I can tell you what I saw?”

“Alright, go ahead.”

“I saw ships. Lots and lots of ships, all different sorts.” Marral said quickly.

“Like a port?” Wolffe asked, frowning slightly, “Or a space station?”

Marral shook his head, “Uh...some of the ships were broken? Or were being broken?”

“It could be a salvage yard,” Wolffe hazarded, “Plenty of those popped up after the war.”

Dusk slowly nodded, “Can you work with Cody and Obi-Wan about the specific place you’re looking for?”

Marral nodded, and then he hesitated, “Can I ask Kanna?”

Dusk and Wolffe didn’t even look at each other as they answered in unison, “No.”

********

“So,” Cody squinted at the miserable looking planet, “What, exactly, are we looking for?”

“No idea,” Obi-Wan, recently shaved and wearing glasses to semi hide his identity, replied. “Marral insists that this is the right planet, and that we’re needed here, immediately. So-”

“And what does the force tell you?”

Obi-wan was silent for a moment, “That we need to be here. That someone needs our help.”

Cody made a face, but he looked back out at the planet. Bracca was a shit planet. But it had been a Republic planet once upon a time. Actually-

“Obi-Wan, wasn’t there a cruiser stationed over Bracca for a time?” Cody asked, frowning thoughtfully. “The 13th Battalion, I think.”

“...yes. So far as I understand, after the order was given, the entire battalion was killed when the ship crashed. Alongside Master Tapal and his padawan.” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully.

“...You survived an attack that should have killed you. As did Kanna.” Cody pointed out.

“You are correct, of course. It’s possible that Master Tapal survived. Or perhaps the padawan.” Obi-Wan thought a moment, “Hm...if I recall correctly, Jaro’s padawan would be the same age as Marral,” He said thoughtfully.

“Right. So we’re looking for a kid. Definitely traumatized. Maybe injured.” Cody summarized. “A kid who was almost killed by clones,”

“Possibly. Possibly looking for a traumatized kid,” Obi-Wan corrected.

Cody shot him a disbelieving look, “You’re being difficult for the sake of being difficult.” He shook his head as Obi-Wan grinned at him, unrepentantly. “Come on, Dusk managed to get permission to dock by claiming technical issues. So we only have a few hours.”

****

At 14 years old, Marral Cadera was old enough to go on missions. He was clever, and he knew how to use his lightsaber and a pistol. And Cody had been teaching him some hand to hand combat.

But still his Buir wasn’t allowing him to go on missions!

It wasn’t fair!

And, okay, maybe he couldn’t have gone on the mission with Kanna and Obi-Wan and Soka, but that didn’t count because that was Kanna’s mission, and he would have gotten in the way.

And he couldn’t have gone on Tatooing because Yin would have thrown a fit, and she would have gotten sick on the desert planet.

But this! This was his mission! The Force vision came to him! Not Obi-Wan! And still his buir said not yet!

He...understood. He did. Kanna had been very careful to explain trauma responses and why Dusk acted the way he did when it came to his safety, and the safety of his siblings. He understood. But he wasn’t a child anymore.

So...so-

With that thought in mind. And knowing that the only other jedi on board was Kanna, and that she was probably still recovering from helping the Clones, so she wouldn’t be paying attention...he snuck off the ship. Trailing a safe distance after Obi-Wan and Cody.

They would notice him eventually. Because they were both very good. But maybe they wouldn’t send him back to the ship immediately. Especially since Master Kenobi seems to think that the person calling for help was Cal.

Marral thought that Cal was dead. Really and truly. When he thought of the sunny redhead he used to be in the creche with, he thought about a boy prone to tears, and unable to control his psychometry. But he also thought about late nights telling scary stories, and sneaking out of the creche to watch the lightning bugs in the gardens.

If Cal was alive. He could have that again.

He really wanted it to be true. He missed Cal.

He yelped when a strong hand grabbed his collar, “Busted.” He looked up into the disappointed face of Cody and his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t even managed 30 minutes without getting caught.

“You have to let me help!” Marral said, reaching up and lightly gripping Cody’s wrist, “Please? Cal is my friend!”

“Does Dusk know you left the ship?” Obi-Wan asked, as he approached.

“Um...he doesn’t not know?” Marral said sheepishly.

“So that’s a no, then.” Cody said dryly, knowing Marral well enough at this point to know exactly what he meant by that. “We should take him back to the ship-”

“Wait.” Obi-Wan was staring hard at Marral, “I was younger than him the first time I was left alone on a mission.” He said slowly.

“You’re not seriously suggesting-”

“I’m not saying we let him run off, half-cocked, on his own.” Obi-Wan said, “But you said yourself, we’re on a time crunch.” He crouched so that he was eye level with Marral, “You will stay within eye range at all times. And you will listen if either one of us gives you direction. Or this will be the only mission you’re allowed on until until you reach the age of majority. Am I clear?”

“Yes! Yes. I understand. Thank you! Thank you so much!” Marral said immediately.

“Good.” Obi-Wan stood again, “Now, the force is suggesting that we go up. Shall we?”

True to his word, Marral was careful to stay close to Cody. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself forbidden from taking missions every again. Plus, it meant that he got to see Cody and Obi-Wan in action! Which was awesome!

The near constant flirting was less so, but he was getting pretty good at ignoring adult flirting. Though it was still gross. Old people shouldn’t flirt in his professional opinion, on account of the fact that they’re old.

He made a face as Obi-Wan shot Cody an adoring look, after Cody made a comment that Marral didn’t hear. Didn’t want to hear, honestly.

They were so Gross.

He paused when he heard a strange noise. He thought...well, it sounded like Rhawl when he was at his most upset but wasn’t trying to draw attention to it. Like a whimper. Marral looked around, rapidly.

But when he didn’t see anything, he went to trail after Obi-Wan and Cody again, the two men having paused their walking to see why Marral wasn’t following them anymore. But then he heard the noise again. This time he spun on his heel, and really examined the surrounding area.

He inched towards a small opening in the ship, too small for an adult, but the perfect size for a small child. And he heard the noise a third time. And this time it was clearly recognizable as a whimper.

“Hello?”

There was a quiet gasp, and the nearly silent sound of cloth being pressed over a mouth, “I know you’re in there.” Marral said to the opening, “Are you hurt? Or-or stuck?”

There was silence, and for a moment Marral worried that he had imagined the whole thing, and then, quietly, “S-stuck. Can’t move my leg. S-so maybe hurt too.”

Cody lightly nudged Marral to the side and pulled a flashlight out of one of his many pockets, and shone the light down the small opening. Reveling a pale faced redhead, with stark bruises on his face. He flinched when the light hit him, and tried to shrink back.

Marral leaned over Cody’s shoulder, leaning all of his weight on the man he trusted as much as his own buir, “Cal?”

Frightened green eyes snapped up towards Marral, and a look of astonishment crossed his bruised, and half starved face, “Mar?” Cal twisted, trying even harder to break free from his prison, but he only managed to let out a cry of pain.

“Easy there, ad.” Cody said, “We’ll get you out, and then get you off this planet. You don’t belong here.” He glanced over his shoulder, “You have any ideas, riddur?” He asked.

Obi-Wan shot him a sardonic look, and then moved next to him, peering down the cramped space thoughtfully, “Hello Cal. I don’t know if you remember me-”

Cal stared at him, wide eyed, “Master Kenobi,” His voice was barely a whisper, could barely be heard over the sound of the ships around them. He sounded so hopeful, and slowly, carefully, he slumped into a much more relaxed position.

“There we go, Cal. No need to panic. You’re going to be just fine.” Obi-Wan reassured, and then he touched Cody’s shoulder, “We need to be careful, he’s really wedged in there.”

“Understood.”

*********

Whatever plans Cal Kestis ever had for his life, died the day his Master did. He was convinced that he would work on Bracca for the rest of his life, and would die on Bracca. From falling off a ship, or getting killed by one of the men he worked with.

This was his life now.

He had accepted it.

He had.

If he still cried himself to sleep some nights...well, he was only 14. And he was far from the only person who cried themselves to sleep.

He hadn’t actually meant to get stuck. His rations for the day had been stolen by an absolute brute of a twi’lek, and when Cal tried to take them back, the man threatened to break his legs.

It wasn’t an empty threat, either. This particular man had killed two other people on the crew in the last three months. So Cal did the only thing he could. He ran. And he ran to the one place that no one could follow him.

Hence his current predicament.

Dying inside a ship hadn’t been part of his new life plans. But, well, plans changed. But it was starting to hurt. Really bad.

The last thing he expected was for Marral to suddenly be there.

Well. That wasn’t true. The very last thing he expected to see would be his Master returned from the grave. But Mar was a close second. Mar’s eyes were wide, and he looked worried...but he looked healthy.

Which was great, since Cal had been convinced that his friend had died violently somewhere in the galaxy.

And he was somehow with Master Kenobi?

Okay, yes. The Force provided, but Cal was beginning to think that this was just a hallucination. Brought on by hunger, maybe? Or lack of sleep? Or maybe he had a fever! All of those things were more likely than there being two other Jedi on Bracca.

“Cal?” Mar was starting to sound very far away. That made sense, he was a hallucination, “Cal, can you say something?” No. No he really couldn’t, that sounded hard. “Ma-uh...Ben! Something’s wrong!”

Cal opened his mouth to say that he didn’t know a Ben, but there was nothing to say, as the world around him went gray...and then there was nothing.

******

Cal woke to the sensation of a little hand on his face.

And then a deep male voice, “I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to be in here, Luke.”

Cal opened his eyes, and blinked into the face of a blonde haired two year old, who beamed at him. “Uh...hi?” The baby was removed from his chest, and carefully settled on the hip of a man who was-

Cal’s brain went blank with sheer panic. A Clone. There was a Clone.

The man looked calm, and completely at ease with the child on his hip. Cal wondered if he should try to save the kid. Wondered if he could save the kid.

He turned his head slightly, “You’re patient’s awake, Kanna.”

“Yes, yes. I could feel his panic all the way from the sitting room,” A red headed woman rushed into the room, and Cal couldn’t help but blink. He knew her. “Thank you for watching him, now shoo please. You’re panicking him.”

The man, Fox, made a face, but left the room with the child on his hip.

“Hello Cal, how are you feeling?” Cal’s gaze snapped to Kanna’s, and, to his horror, he felt a lump in his throat and tears started burning behind his eyes. He immediately snapped his gaze to the ceiling, to try and stem the tears, but he failed when he felt a gentle hand against his cheek, "Oh, little one. You’ve had such a hard time, haven’t you?”

There was so much care, so much compassion in her gentle touch, that Cal just shattered with one sob. She wrapped her arms around him, and Cal just buried himself against her. “It’s been so, so hard,” He sobbed. “I want to go home!”

Her arms tightened around him, “I know, baby. I know. I wish I could take you there. But you’re not alone. Not anymore. We’re going to take care of you. I promise.”

“Thought you were dead, Kan.” He choked out, “Thought-”

“Shhh. No more of that now. I’m here, and we’re safe. Safe from the Empire. Safe from Palpatine.”

“C-Clones...”

“I give you my word, Cal. There is no one on this ship who will harm you. I swear to you.”

Kanna had never lied to him before. So slowly, he relaxed his grip, and he allowed her gentle force suggestion to lull him to sleep.

****

Kanna gently untangled his fingers from her shirt, and she stepped into the hallway, quirking a single brow at Marral, who was nervously wringing his hands.

“Can I sit with him? Please?” He flushed as Kanna examined him, though he released a deep breath when she nodded, just once. “Thank you.”

“If you wake him,” her voice was soft, “I will have you doing inventory of all of my medication and equipment, Marral Cadera.”

“Yes ma’am!” Marral blurted, before he silently rushed into the med-bay. Kanna watched as Marral carefully took one of Cal’s heavily bandaged hands in his own, and laid his head on the bed next to Cal.

What was one more traumatized child to her already heavy workload? Not that she was suggesting that they toss Cal out to the wolves, of course not. But she did need more help than Beesix could offer. Perhaps Dusk could be persuaded into asking the Organa’s for additional help.

Hm. Yes, and if that meant he had to have a conversation with the couple who was trying, so hard, to court him. All the better.

#Post Order 66 #Star Wars #Clone OC #Captain Dusk #Jedi OC #Kanna Rae #Kanna: overworked and underpaid #Kanna: I want a raise #Dusk: You're not paid.#Kanna: That's the fucking point #Dusk: Uh...how about a bedroom makeover?

12 notes · View notes