#RAZOR SHARP DAGGERS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

on-my-vigilante-sht · 5 months

Text

Follow Me

Luke Castellan x daughterofares!Reader

Summary: Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Warning: Major spoilers if you haven't finished the first book(/season depending on when you read this), canon-level violence, weapons, injuries, angst

Word Count: 5.5K

Masterlist

A/N I haven't watched the show because I don't have Disney+ so I'm working from (memory of) the books. No characters are specifically book or show so descriptions are left vague. Imagine whatever you want.

I stumbled my way up Half-Blood Hill, determined to get to Thalia’s tree. This was my last year being a summer camper. After I graduated high school I’d decided to become a year round camper seeing as the real world was getting more and more dangerous for me. And I'd be damned if I let myself be killed right before I was in the safety of camp for good.

I was in so much pain, there was blood pouring out of my abdomen caused by the crocotta’s razor sharp claws slicing at me. My short break gave it enough time to catch up to me so rather than continuing to flee, I was forced to turn and face it. I pulled out my father’s gift to me, a sword made of celestial bronze that grew from a steel knife that could harm mortals. When he claimed and gifted it to me I found the steel useless. Why would I ever need to harm a mortal? The reasoning behind the dual blade still eluded me. The only reason I could think of was just that Ares had a penchant for violence.

As the crocotta bounded closer to me, all I could do was stand and wait for it to get within range. But upon reaching me, it just swiped the sword from my grasp, pouncing on me. I felt a tear slip down my face as I realized I’d failed to reach safety one final time. As it growled in my face and opened its jaw, I sent a silent prayer to my father and a goodbye to Luke. But before it’s jaws could clamp down on me, the weight lifted and a shimmery cloud of ichor rained down on me.

As the golden dust settled, I could see my boyfriend’s face above mine, standing over me, clutching his dagger. “Luke,” I practically sobbed in relief.

“Oh my gods,” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to me. His hands went to my stomach, pressing against the open wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Can you walk?” he asked, fear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I nodded, letting him take my hand as he stood. Truthfully I probably couldn’t really walk but it was either walk 10 feet to the tree or lie here waiting for someone else to help Luke carry me in and potentially getting attacked by another monster.

I let out a groan as Luke slung my arm over his shoulder, pulling me up from the ground. “C’mon,” he urged, “just get to the tree and then we’ll get some more people to help you.” I nodded, not bothering with a verbal agreement as I let my boyfriend practically carry me just past Thalia’s tree. “There we go,” he said gently as he eased me to the ground.

“Go. Go get Lee or Michael,” I urged him as he kneeled by my side again.

“No,” Luke immediately shot down. “I’m not leaving you like this and so close to the edge of the barrier.” I glanced to my left. We were about three feet from the edge of the camp’s protective barrier. “Help!” I heard him yell towards camp.

“What? Do you think I'm accidentally gonna roll down the hill?” I tried to joke. But my chuckle made my wounds hurt even more.

Seeing my pain made Luke even more unamused. Soon enough a few other campers ran up to us, having heard Luke’s call.

“Y/N, oh my god.”

“What happened?”

“Another one?!”

I heard the various reactions from other campers. Another one? What did they mean another one? But I didn’t dwell on my questions for long because Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew were running towards me. A few of my siblings followed them carrying a stretcher. As the Apollo boys started to try to stop the bleeding, I was moved onto the stretcher. But the pain of being lifted was so bad I blacked out.

When I came to in the sickroom of the Big House all I could feel was pain. I let out a soft groan, snapping Luke to attention. He was slumped over on my bedside, seemingly sleeping. He immediately grabbed a piece of ambrosia off the nightstand next to the cot, bringing it to my lips. I immediately rejected it, not feeling like eating anything.

“C’mon, it’s ambrosia. It’ll make you feel better,” Luke pleaded. Reluctantly I let him coax the food into my mouth and ate it. The comforting taste of my mother’s chocolate cake filled my mouth. Despite the fact that it tasted good, it felt heavy in my stomach and I pushed the food away. “You gotta eat more than that,” he tried again.

“Let’s start with water or nectar,” I suggested, my throat sore.

Luke looked at the floor angrily. He sighed. “We’re out of nectar for a while. Ambrosia is all we have.”

“What?” I asked in shock, sitting up in surprise. Luke was quick to coax me back down.

“Grover and the kid he was helping got attacked by the Minotaur on their way here. Just like the crocotta attacked you.”

“Oh my god,” I murmured. “Is that why someone said ‘Another one?’ as they were bringing me here?”

He nodded once again. “His name was Percy. He showed up the night before you did.” He suddenly stopped talking. Like he had something more to say. I urged him to continue and he did so reluctantly. “Poseidon claimed him the second night he was awake… and now he’s on a quest.”

I looked at him sympathetically. I knew all about Luke’s anger about going unclaimed for so long. And then when he finally was claimed and had trained to be a great hero, all Hermes could give him to do was steal some golden apples. But after countless rants about this I knew he wouldn’t want sympathy. “You said he’s on a quest already? How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. Chiron and Lee kicked me out for a while.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, we already need new practice dummies for combat training,” he admitted sheepishly. I laughed and fortunately Luke did too.

By now, Chiron had sensed I was awake and entering the sickroom. As he ducked his way through the door he shrunk down back into his wheelchair so as to not overwhelm me. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare for a few days,” he smiled.

“So I've heard.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my guts were ripped out by a crocotta,” I answered.

“Well the ambrosia should help the pain and scarring. Lee stopped the bleeding and stitched you up but he said you’d be out for a few days.”

“Can you get her some nectar?” Luke interrupted. “She’s not exactly in a place to be eating solid foods.”

“Mr. D is trying to get into contact with Apollo. Apparently he’s concerned that Dionysus is overindulging.”

“That’s crap!” Luke suddenly burst out.

“Luke!” Chiron immediately cut him off. “I know you’re concerned for Ms. L/N, here but the food of the gods is in of itself a privilege.” He then turned his attention back to me. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well but ambrosia will have to do until we’re able to get more nectar.”

“Thanks, Chiron,” I tried to dismiss him, giving him a tight lipped smile. Sensing my disappointment he took his leave, wheeling out of the room.

Luke was back by my bedside with more pieces of ambrosia that I reluctantly took.

Thanks to the godly food I was up and walking within two days much to cabin 5’s relief. So many of my younger siblings were saying that Clarisse had been a terror in my absence. Something about a bathroom exploding and then she apparently tried to electrocute the new camper. I made a note to talk to her later but for now I was focused on getting my cabin back in order. They responded best to authority and a routine so I quickly had them out in training, telling them that I wouldn’t tolerate us losing capture the flag again.

We made our way down to the arena for sword fighting lessons. Luke and I were both instructors seeing as we were the oldest two campers and the best with blades. Our childhood competitiveness had eventually grown into love but for a while, we hated each other. We used to spend hours trying to get the upper hand over one another.

But now that we were dating, the younger campers always tried to goad us into sparring with one another. We always said that we’d save our sparring match for our own training or a reward for the others doing well but usually a few teasing comments had our swords pointed at one another.

I was correcting a Hermes camper’s form when he asked me to try fighting Luke. “Not today,” I laughed.

“Why? Is it because you’re scared?” he asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No,” I corrected him. “It’s because once we fight, none of you will care about what we teach you.”

“Sound like you’re scared,” the boy just repeated.

I just rolled my eyes, prepared to dismiss him when Luke’s voice interrupted. “Yeah, Y/N. It sounds like you’re scared.” I rolled my eyes again as he approached. “I wouldn’t want to fight the capture the flag champion either.”

“You only won because I was recovering from being chased across the country by a monster. Just wait until the next game, I’ll show you how Cabin 5 does it.” That elicited a few cries of encouragement from my cabin, eager to win their flag back.

“You need a bit more time to train, I get it,” he mockingly offered. A few of his siblings joined in on the taunting with their exaggerated reactions.

“I don’t need time. I’d just rather not cut you up this early into the summer,” I smiled. A few ‘ooh’s came from our audience.

Luke bristled a little at that. “C’mon,” he gestured to the arena, “let’s settle this once and for all.”

I picked up one of the practice swords that resembled the size and weight of my real sword, stepping into the middle of the arena. “You say that every time.” Luke smiled, taking his spot in front of me with his practice sword as the other campers backed up.

I barely gave him a chance to settle before I was moving. I had the advantage of my father’s knack for fighting and aggression but I wasn’t as strong as Luke. Unfortunately, he knew all my moves and tricks so he was able to block me. But that also meant I knew all of his moves and tricks because I could anticipate his subsequent moves.

We continued on, trying to outmaneuver each other. He kept forcing me out of range, protecting his body, whilst I tried to find an opening to get close to him. The other campers had been within the walls of the arena but we moved around so much they were forced to jump out.

The only reason we stopped was because our little “lesson” had gone on too long and Chiron was wondering where his students were. Neither of us noticed him until he yelled our names. “Y/N L/N! Luke Castellan! What are you doing?” We both immediately stopped, facing the centaur like guilty children.

“We were just introducing them to technique,” Luke offered. I could tell Chiron saw right through his excuse but it was good enough reasoning.

“You both know you’re supposed to hold off on sparring one another. Children,” he turned to the other campers, “what did your instructors teach you?”

“Stance!”

“What to do if your opponent has a longer sword!”

Those were the answers our siblings offered but one Aphrodite camper’s answer ruined the whole thing. “How to waste time.” Luke and I both sent her stares.

Fortunately Chiron didn’t take it too seriously. “Save the sparring for your own sessions,” he warned us. “Everyone move on to your next activities. I’m sure your instructors are waiting.”

As everyone else filed off, Luke and I looked at each other. “You’re disgusting,” I laughed, observing his sweaty shirt.

He looked baffled at that. “Wow. I was gonna ask if you’re okay but clearly you don’t value me that much,” he answered in mocking offense.

“No, no, no,” I corrected through laughs, going to him. But as soon as he tried to hug me, I pulled away with a wrinkled nose. Seeing my disgust, he forcefully hugged me, drowning me in his B.O. When I finally wrestled my way out of his arms I was disgusting. “Ugh we both need showers.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he promised. He stepped closer to me, kissing me quickly before heading off towards the showers. I watched him leave for a moment before heading to my cabin.

Later that night at dinner, I was talking to my cabin-mates when Luke came over, crouching by me. “Hey,” he smiled up at me as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” I laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Being a good boyfriend. I’m just giving you a heads up that our spar from earlier isn’t over yet.”

“What?”

Chiron stood up and so did Luke. “Gotta go, bye,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple before scurrying off.

Bewildered, I looked up at Chiron. “We have a special activity tonight per the request of the reigning capture the flag champions. We’ll be playing again tonight seeing as some claimed our last games were unfair due to a missing counselor.” Cabin 5 erupted into cheers, eager to win the flag back. “Luke Castellan and Y/N L/N are captains. Same rules as the prior games.”

Not willing to let my cabin lose again, I jumped into action. “Cabin 5, armor on, get to the creek in 5!” They all quickly scrambled off. Our allies for this game, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Demeter, and Hephaestus followed their lead.

I followed after them to get my armor as well and soon enough I was stood by the creek, discussing strategy with my teammates. Once our discussion time drew to a close, I faced my opposing captain. “You’re going down, feather feet,” I sneered.

“We’ll see, hot head,” Luke taunted.

I laughed. “Oh yeah, one more thing,” I told my teammates. “Bring me Luke’s sword and helmet.”

“In your dreams,” he taunted back. He looked at his team. “Bring me Y/N.”

“Okay,” Chiron interrupted us. “Before we begin I think we need a reminder that killing is not permitted. Are we clear?” A few unenthusiastic agreements came from the crowd. Nodding, Chiron blew into the horn, signaling that the games had begun. Some of my campers who hadn’t already been stationed bolted into the trees, doubling back so they could hopefully sneak through Hermes’ cabin’s defenses. The others stayed with me to defend the most obvious point.

One Hermes kid immediately jumped at me but I slashed him in the chest, (his armor protected him so he just got the wind knocked out of him) knocking him back into the water.

He got back up, running at one of my campers but he was immediately disarmed and taken prisoner. By the time I looked back, the other campers and Luke were gone. I realized with a frustrated scream that this kid was a distraction. “Find them!” I yelled at the others.

“Their territory or ours?” I observed the 5 campers in front of me. “You three, stay on our side. Fan across the creek, look for signs they crossed into our territory. The rest of you, we’re gonna either hunt them down in their territory or take their flag.”

My group leapt over the creek, running into the forest.

As we searched, we picked up a few of our own teammates, running through the woods and strangely finding no opposing campers. We continued on nonetheless until Athena and Apollo campers all of a sudden started darting through the trees.

Eventually they stopped moving enough for us to have a proper fight. I faced Malcom Pace, easily disarming him. But suddenly his older brothers were on me. As I was busy fighting twins, Leo and Cato, another one of the boys found an opening. Quinn wrapped his arms around me, a dagger at my throat. “Drop the sword,” they told me.

Seeing as I wasn’t getting out of this but my teammates were gone while many of the Athena and Apollo campers were still here, I dropped the sword. Most of my campers got away and were likely hunting down the flag.

Before they could decide where to stash their prisoner, the horn blew again, signaling the end of the games. But as I tried to leave, the others stopped me. “Woah, Luke said he wanted you so we’re taking you.”

I rolled my eyes, letting them lead me to the creek. “Yeah, well when my cabin gives me his stuff and the flag, you can apologize to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn dismissed. “You’re just mad I beat you.”

“You only ‘beat me’ because there were three of you. And you guys still lost the rest of my team.”

“We still got you!” Leo taunted in a sing-songy voice. By now we had reached the creek and I saw Clarisse holding the flag, a helmet, and a sword. Luke was kneeled beside her looking humiliated, clearly a captive.

Both sides let us go and I went to Clarisse. “Your spoils,” she presented me the flag, helmet, and sword. I smiled, wrapping the flag around her shoulders and taking Luke’s stuff.

“Thank you!” I said emphatically, pointing a look of victory at Luke.

He just shook his head, standing up. As he approached me I figured he was grabbing his belongings but instead he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss. When he pulled away he explained. “You’re my spoil.”

Camp life continued on as normal for a while. I finally met the newest hero who had returned Zeus’ masterbolt— he did not like my father. He seemed surprised that Luke and I were dating and I learned that Luke had become a sort of mentor to Percy over the days that I had been asleep. That also surprised me, given how resentful Luke had seemed towards him when I first woke up. Regardless, everything seemed normal as we continued our routines throughout the summer until I was woken up one night.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, shaking me. “Y/N.” I reluctantly opened my eyes, finding one of my younger brothers, Aiden, shaking me. “Luke’s asking for you.”

“What?” I asked, sitting up.

“Luke wants to talk to you. He gave me a coke if I woke you up.” The boy excitedly held up a shiny red can as if to persuade me to go.

I rubbed his messy hair as I sat up. “Don’t let Clarisse see that,” I advised, throwing on a hoodie. He nodded, going back to his bunk as I headed outside. “Luke!” I whispered into the night upon exiting the cabin. I didn’t notice him sneaking up towards me until his hands were around my waist. “Luke!” I exclaimed in surprise.

He quickly hushed me. “Do you want the harpies to find us?”

“Well we wouldn’t have to worry about that if you weren’t trying to talk to me in the middle of the night. What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing it’d be serious. He let his playful facade drop as he urged me to follow him, taking my hand. I went with him, silently trusting him until I realized we were heading to the woods. I stopped, letting my hand fall out of his grasp. “What? Are you gonna kill me in there?” I laughed shallowly, trying to lighten the mood and quell the alarms in my brain.

Luke returned my shallow laugh, clearly nervous. “Of course not. Look, I have to talk to you. It’s serious.” I could see the genuineness in his expression so I let him retake my hand. “I’d never hurt you,” he promised. So I followed him further into the woods until he deemed us far enough. “The nymphs may hear us but it’s kind of impossible to avoid them,” he chuckled.

“Hear what?” I asked.

He took a breath, seemingly composing himself. “You know how I went on that quest? For my dad?”

“Yeah. What? You want to go out into the world again?” I asked, a little relieved.

“Sort of,” he offered. “But on that ‘quest,’” he mocked the word, “I realized something: the gods are useless.”

“Luke!” I immediately reprimanded him.

“No,” he cut me off. “You don’t have to pretend like not fawning over the gods is a crime. We shouldn’t be blindly worshipping them. Y/N,” his hands were clasping my shoulders as if begging me to believe him, “your father waited for the last day of summer your first year to claim you. Why? Just to mess with you? Because he just couldn’t be bothered to do it until he remembered at the last second? That’s messed up. The gods aren’t fit to rule. The West is going to hades. My quest? To repeat Heracles’ quest? All the gods know how to do is repeat the past. Their glory days.”

“Luke, you’re scaring me.” I was practically begging him to stop talking so we could go back to the way it was. This was the first year I’d be staying year round. We were supposed to be celebrating Christmas together for the first time in a few months. Yet here he was, spouting off heresy.

“Open your eyes,” he insisted. “The gods are poisoning the world and they’ve been using us as pawns to do it. The only way to fix it is to destroy it and start over with something more honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been having dreams sent by the Titan Lord.”

A shiver ran down my spine and I stepped out of his grasp. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Luke, he’s using you. You remember what Chiron taught us. We are not better off, no one was better off when the Titans ruled. We didn’t even have fire. He will kill all the humans. He’ll kill us.”

“Not if we join him willingly,” Luke promised, trying to take my hand again but I pulled away. “He said when I bring down the gods he’ll reward me. He’ll make me immortal. He promised you’d become like me too.” He quickly grasped my wrist tight enough so I couldn’t escape, pulling me closer. “We can rule together, forever.” He was pleading with me to take his offer, his hands finding a stray lock of hair to tuck behind my ear.

“Luke… this isn’t- you can’t…” I was at a loss for words.

“Please, Y/N,” his voice was cracking.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. This isn’t right. This is dangerous, can’t you see that?”

“This isn’t me just trying to get back at my dad. I’ve thought about this.” He stiffened, still tightly grasping my wrist. “Y/N, I need you with me.”

“Then don’t go,” I begged him. “I won’t even tell anyone. We can just go back to how things were.”

“No, we can’t,” he shook his head. “Because you’re gonna try to help me by telling Chiron and he’s gonna turn me in.”

“No he won’t! Luke, he trained you. He’ll want to help you.”

“Camp isn’t safe for us anymore. We have to go.”

This was the first time I actually started fearing for my safety. I tried to pull out of his grasp but he held firm. “Go where?”

“Our Titan Lord got us a ship. We’ll be safe there until I get my next orders. The monsters on it won’t harm us.”

“What?!” With a hard wrench I pulled my wrist out of his grasp. I immediately started running, hoping a nymph would find me before a monster did but Luke was on me in seconds. He knocked me to the ground and after a little struggling he had me pinned. “Luke, please don’t do this,” I begged as I saw him reach into his pocket. When I saw the milk of the poppy I began to thrash underneath him but I couldn’t manage to throw him off of me. He forced my mouth open, dropping the liquid onto my tongue and forcing me to swallow. Before I blacked out, I could vaguely hear him speak.

“You’ll be okay in a few days and then we can talk.” A few days???

The next morning Luke was woken by frantic cries of his girlfriend’s name heard throughout camp. He immediately rushed out of bed, putting on a concerned boyfriend facade. Finding one of his brothers, he asked what was going on. “What? Did you just wake up?” Luke nodded frantically. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Uh, Y/N wasn’t in bed this morning. No one can find her. One of her little brothers said you asked to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah to talk about potentially allying for capture the flag but she went right back in,” he insisted frantically. He ran a hand through his hair, acting stressed. He kind of whished he’d be gone by now but he needed to get rid of Percy before he could go.

He ran out of the cabin, immediately going up to Cabin 5. Clarisse spotted him, her expression becoming sour. “What’d you do Castellan? Aiden said you wanted to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah, we were talking about capture the flag but she went right back in 10 minutes later. You sleep 20 feet from her, where’s my girlfriend?” he challenged. Clarisse sent him a scowl but otherwise stormed off, the other Cabin 5 campers following her with similar expressions.

“Luke, I'm so sorry,” a young voice called. He turned, finding Annabeth running towards him. As she hugged him, Luke couldn’t help but think about how much he’d miss her. She was too smart for her own good but he still couldn’t help but think of the seven year old he had found hiding from monsters. “She could just be out somewhere?” she offered, trying to console him.

“I hope so,” he smiled down at her. He then spotted Mr. D and ran over to him. “Mr. D, can you find where she is?”

The god gave him a tired expression. “I’m not omniscient in this state. All I know is she’s not in camp.”

“Well can’t you get a god who is? Surely her father wants to know where she is,” he insisted. But Ares had plenty of demigod children and most of them went missing in action or died tragic deaths. Y/N would be just another hero child that fought in his name.

“Lord Ares has other concerns,” Mr. D at least tried to soften the blow. “If she hasn’t returned by the end of the summer then we must assume she is dead. Even if she left of her own volition.”

“But summer is ends tomorrow. You can’t do this. She could still be out there. She could need our help. Let me go out and search,” he pleaded. By now, Chiron, Clarisse, and a few others had joined them.

“No one is leaving,” Chiron declared. “I’m not letting anyone else go missing. Luke, I understand your concern but her blade was found in Cabin 5. If she’s not in camp she is likely already dead.”

“No,” Luke insisted, putting on the performance of a lifetime, “you’re wrong.”

After nearly two whole days of searching camp and the closest borders, (that was the furthest Chiron would let anyone go) Y/N L/N was declared dead. Her siblings reluctantly built a funeral pyre, decorating it with some of her things. Luke did his best to look devastated and it seemed to be working because no one looked at him twice other than to offer their sympathies. That at least made it easy to lure Percy off into the woods just before he left.

When I woke up I was in a strange room. It looked like a hotel room except for the fact that the floor to ceiling windows showed that I was on the ocean. That triggered all the memories of Luke. A sense of hopelessness came over me and I was immediately breaking down in sobs. I didn’t want to believe that he had joined Kronos and turned his back on everything he knew or that he was determined to drag me with him.

Once I finally managed to compose myself I went to the door, hoping to find a radio so someone could get me. Or maybe even find Luke so I could talk him into letting me go. But once I opened the door I was met with the massive jaws of a hellhound. I immediately shut the door and locked it.

Still feeling unsafe I went to grab the dresser to block the door but either it was too heavy or bolted down. I tried the desk next resulting in nothing. I was running out of time as the monster was probably just trying to process what it saw. Soon it’d smell me and start trying to break down the door. So I resorted to the chair, dragging it across the floor and jamming it under the door handle. I then went to the massive windows, realizing there was a hidden door. I wrenched it open, stepping out into the fresh air. I looked around, seeing no land I’d be able to swim to. But just as I was considering my chances, I noticed the body of a massive whale-like creature. I was willing to bet that whales weren’t just swimming around a cruise ship, this was a cetus.

Seeing as I had nowhere else to go, I went back into the room. I went to the attached bathroom, searching for something to defend myself. There wasn’t really anything in there except bar soap and toilet paper. Luke must have removed everything, even the towels, so I couldn’t hurt him or anyone else. Frustrated, I went to the closet, finding it completely empty. Not even a hangar to pull apart and stab someone with. So I reluctantly grabbed the soap seeing as it was literally the only thing remotely resembling a weapon, and sat on the bed, watching the door.

I don’t know how long I sat there but eventually I heard the door shake, like something was trying to get in. As I was preparing to clobber the monster with my bar of soap, a voice I recognized called through the door. “C’mon, Y/N! Open the door,” Luke said. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to see him. “Open the door or I break it down!” he demanded.

It was either open the door or have absolutely no protection from the monsters so I reluctantly got up. “Okay, okay!” I answered. “Just give me a second.” I climbed off the bed, removing the chair. I only twisted the handle, letting the door open slightly before going back to the bed to put some distance between us.

As Luke was locking the door again, I took my chance. Jumping, I tried to bring the bar of soap down on him but he turned, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, you had to have known that wouldn’t work,” he smiled.

I only gave him a burning stare. “It was worth a shot,” I said, trying to pull my hand away. But his grip held fast, not letting me pull away.

“So I guess you still hate me?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “You kidnapped me and are now holding me hostage on a monster infested ship.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he dismissed, once again brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Then we’ll be together forever.”

Masterlist

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #pjo x reader #the lightning thief #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #ares #daughter of ares #x reader

741 notes · View notes

yutaholic · 6 months

Text

smells like teen spirit (M)

PAIRING: Jeno (NCT) + reader (female)

SUMMARY: Jeno keeps getting on your last nerve, but you still end up in his arms with your tongue down his throat.

WARNINGS: strong language; some drug use; explicit sexual content

NOTES: 8.6k words; this is part two of a rose and her thorns, but can be read as a standalone one-shot

Chicago, 1991

A tale as old as time. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

That was our life that summer. Some of us in different doses than the others.

You sat on the bed with your legs bent, resting the notebook against your thighs as you scribbled out another page of the band’s escapades.

Though there was a connection with Mark, we agreed to keep things simple for the rest of the summer. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the band. God forbid we earned a reputation like Fleetwood Mac’s.

Unfortunately, this agreement caused some awkwardness and I handled that the way I always did - with distance. If Mark couldn’t help but complicate things, then I would do him a favor and give both of us the space we needed.

It felt like shit, but I was used to being the villain.

Turning the page, you kept writing in the eerie quiet of the van. Haechan was bouncing his leg up-and-down at a mile a minute, thoroughly annoyed by Jeno’s delay. Mark was dozing in his seat, trying not to fantasize about you and the fucking heaven between your thighs, but he couldn’t help but watch you jotting down your feelings, your grievances, your hopes and your dreams.

He prayed that he was part of the latter.

The silence broke when the van door opened loudly, followed by a disheveled Jeno stumbling inside. “Goddamn, I am getting so much pussy on this trip,” he huffed, running a hand through his overgrown and severely damaged blond hair.

“Jeno, I swear to god,” you barked, scratching out the compliment you had given him at the top of the page. “If you give me an STD this summer, I will set your drums on fire.”

“You would destroy my child?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Jeno grumbled something under his breath about how you always rained on his parade of pussy and shut the doors. “Let’s get on the road,” he said irritably, shooing Haechan out of the driver’s seat and jerking the van in gear.

“We’ve been waiting for you, dumbass,” Haechan sniped. He’d been getting so annoyed and impatient he threatened to leave the bastard drummer behind and never look back. That bitch can walk, he’d declared moments before.

Mark stayed quiet in the passenger seat, sluggish with sleep. He looked to you again, watching you write in your journal and wondering what you were saying about him.

About all of them.

Jeno drove fast, but not a soul complained. The gig in Chicago was the most highly-anticipated of the trip.

The van hurtled down the highway, not stopping for several hours until you begged for a bathroom. After a quick gas station run, you put some fresh snacks into the cabinet and wrangled your hair into a bun on your head.

Jeno came in with a bag in hand and said, “I bought more condoms.”

“Good for you,” you deadpanned, wrinkling your nose.

“Although I heard Mark didn’t have to wear one,” Jeno added, tsking his tongue. “One of the few perks of being innocent and pure, I guess.”

Your voice was razor sharp. “Careful, Jeno.”

Both pleased and annoyed by your tone, Jeno asked roughly, “Did you at least remember to get your birth control?”

You wanted to shoot daggers into his face with your eyes, but refusing to afford him any looks was better. “Yeah. I got my Depo shot two days before we left.”

“How long does it last?”

“Three months.”

Jeno smiled wryly. “Well, isn’t that convenient.”

“That’s the whole point,” you mumbled. He was trying to get a reaction out of you, prodding at your buttons, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

There was a pause. “I’m ready when you are,” Jeno flirted, wiggling his brows at you.

“Who said I even wanna screw you?”

“You did. Many, many times.”

True, but no longer relevant. All things considered. You returned to your notebook and said, “That was before you became a penis petri dish of death and disease.”

“Ouch.”

My relationship with Jeno could best be described as rivalry. He never gave an inch and neither did I. It was my job to keep him humble.

And damn, what a full-time thankless job that was.

Jeno had been going out of his way to rile you up after your night with Mark. He couldn’t stand seeing you sulky. Mark’s pouting was beyond remedy, but yours could be managed with well-placed jabs.

He had you down to a science. Lighting a fire under your ass was all Jeno knew how to do. The more he prodded at you, the more flames escaped. And when you were angry, you couldn’t be sad.

Because there was nothing Jeno hated more than seeing you cry.

“Can you try to stay on beat this time?” Jeno chided, spinning a drumstick nimbly between his fingers.

Having been testing the microphone, you whipped around and snapped, “Fuck you, Jeno.”

An argument swiftly ensued, petty and heated. No surprises there. Mark and Haechan stood with their guitars and watched the back and forth with no end in sight, even as people poured into the club.

“Those two are going to kill each other,” Mark said under his breath.

Haechan scoffed. “Or make a ton of babies.”

Mark almost choked on the lump that shot into his throat.

You stomped over to Haechan, pointed at Jeno and said, “I can’t deal with this douche canoe anymore!”

To which Jeno shot back, “Just shut up and sing, ice crotch!”

Your eyes went wide with rage and you spun in Jeno’s direction, ready and willing to claw out his eyes. Haechan grabbed you by the arm and steered you back over to the microphone, officially sapped of all patience.

“In ten seconds, me and Mark are going to start playing,” he said hurriedly. “And both of you are going to look like losers if you’re not ready.”

You huffed a swear or two under your breath and gripped the microphone as Mark and Haechan got into position. Then you heard the tapping of drumsticks behind you followed by the roar of Mark’s electric guitar.

By the time the show was over, you were utterly exhausted. Between Haechan and Mark, your arms draped across their shoulders, the three of you sang tiredly along to one of your songs as the boys essentially dragged you down the hall toward the back door for some well-earned sleep.

Turning the corner, you saw Jeno with two beautiful blondes. You bristled with annoyance. They were giggling at every little thing he said like they were getting dick after, which you quickly realized was the case.

Not on my watch.

“Let it go,” Haechan said, but he knew it would make no difference.

Jeno did not deserve pussy after how badly he stressed you out. You wriggled out of Haechan and Mark’s arms and made a beeline for the drummer.

“Oh my god,” you said in a loud, obnoxious voice, greeting the girls as you cuddled up to Jeno and patted his chest. “You guys look so cute! But unfortunately, Jeno is only halfway through his chlamydia treatment.”

Wide-eyed, the girls looked at you in horror before sending vengeful expressions at Jeno, who set his jaw and bristled with anger.

You held your hand beside your mouth, pretending to whisper a secret, “Very contagious through bodily fluids.”

The pair of blondes scurried off. One of them gave Jeno the finger.

“I hate and despise you,” Jeno hissed, trudging down the corridor.

You were hot on his heels, ready to resume the argument from earlier. A moniker like Ice Crotch was not going to be forgotten. “Haven’t you had enough threesomes?”

“There’s no such thing as too many threesomes,” Jeno replied, heated. “And I’ve only had four.”

Haechan asked curiously, “You keep track?”

Jeno snorted. “Don’t you?”

“One is easy to remember. I wasn’t into it.”

Mark fell in line beside them and said, more so to himself, “I have questions.”

“I don’t,” you spoke up, backhanding Jeno’s burly arm to get his attention. “Jeno, you’ve got pussy brain and you fucked up the tempo.”

Jeno went quiet, which was the last thing you expected.

Everyone was tired and raw. We were a well-oiled machine, steaming ahead like a freight train, but with time, gears start to grind. When gears grind, they tear through flesh and bone.

I know my boys. It sounds cliche, and I agree, but I know them. We’ve been friends for so long and crossed hundreds of lines of intimacy reserved for soulmates. They can’t hide anything from me.

Especially the things they intentionally try to hide from me.

You knew you had struck a nerve, but you weren’t sure which one. You dug your heels in regardless, but you were miffed when Jeno said nothing and made for the door.

“Did he just storm off?” Mark questioned, equally bemused.

“He never does that,” Haechan said softly, turning to you.

You didn’t hesitate to stomp after him, and Mark and Haechan didn’t follow this time. When fire fought with fire, it was best to keep a distance to avoid getting burned.

The cold of Chicago’s night was bitter on your cheeks when you stepped outside and you pulled your jacket tightly round you. Jeno hadn’t jumped into the van yet. He was lingering in the lot, scraping his shoes across the asphalt as he puffed on a cigarette.

Closing the distance, you called, “The hell is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he replied, avoiding your eyes and blowing out smoke.

“You’re out of sync and you’re acting weird.”

Jeno narrowed his eyes at you. “We were all out of sync tonight. Why am I the only one getting called out on it?”

As usual, no matter how angry he made you, your first instinct when things were too tense was to smooth his feathers. His surface was rough, but at his core, Jeno was tender. You brushed your hand down his arm and said sweetly, “Because you’re the rock…”

"We’re all built on," was going to be the end of that sentence. Unfortunately, I never got to say it.

Jeno cut you off. “I don’t want to be your rock,” he lashed out, hissing your name. “Don’t you feel pathetic leaning on me all the time?”

You recoiled like you’d been slapped and that was when you noticed his eyes. They didn’t belong to the Jeno you knew, but to the monster that stole his mind and would eventually give him back by morning.

Wrapping your arms around yourself in comfort, suddenly much colder than before, your breath pillared into the night like the smoke from his mouth when you whispered, “I didn’t. Until you said that.”

Jeno blinked, realizing too late that he’d hurt you.

That was the thing about me and Jeno. We both thought the other to be fearless and unbreakable, but also knew who we were at each other’s cores. I was his mirror image and he was mine. The broken kids; the kids that just wanted to be loved. The pair everyone knew to be demons, but never stopped to think how we became them.

The fallen angels.

Anger faded from his face in an instant. “I didn’t mean it,” Jeno started, flicking away the cigarette and reaching for you.

You stepped back, not wanting to be touched. “You’re at your most honest when you’re high, baby,” you said sternly, fixing him with a look that rooted Jeno in place. “Don’t lie to me now.”

Jeno swallowed the lump in his throat. How could you always see right through him?

You wiped the tear that spilled down your cheek and escaped into the van, your safe place, your little haven. Jeno ran a hand down his face and cursed, “Fuck,” for hitting you where it hurt.

The rest of the night was tense and awkward, only slacking when sleep took hold. Everyone was painfully exhausted. Chicago had exceeded expectations and pushed all limits. The show was insane. The energy was incredible. I would remember that performance for the rest of my life.

Me and the boys may have been a little out of sync, but each of us gave it our all. We left nothing on the floor and held nothing back.

Haechan curled around you in the bed, keeping you warm. You claimed the bed together more often than not. Mark slept like a vampire, on his back on the floor with his arms at his sides. It was the weirdest thing you’d ever seen, but it worked for him somehow. He slept like a baby, the whistle of his snores filling the van.

Jeno sat in the driver’s seat, looking up at the stars, exhaling the smoke from a joint. He was wide awake, couldn’t sleep. An unfortunate side-effect of the shit he took to get high. The marijuana wasn’t simmering him down as hoped. He’d probably stay up all night and sleep the day away.

Glancing over his shoulder, seeing your pretty face made him smile. You looked even cuter when you slept, but it was frustrating as hell.

No one else noticed he was high but you. Did you really know him that well?

Of course she does, Jeno thought. You were his better half. That’s how it worked. He could never escape you. There was a point of no return when it came to intimacy. Not so long ago, you and Jeno soared past that point. Two reckless teenagers, young and wild, that found all their highs and lows with each other.

Jeno propped his legs up on the dash and closed his eyes, watching the memories like a movie in his head. Mark shredded the electric as if his life was on the line; probably to vent his sexual frustration. Haechan was a whirlwind of energy despite playing that boring ass bass. And you, beautiful you… Mark wasn’t kidding when he said you were a god on stage.

Chicago delivered on the show, but not the after-party. Instead of drinking and fucking the night away, Jeno was in the stuffy van watching the stars go by when he wasn’t stealing glances of you. He wanted to be in your arms, needed you to kiss him and tell him everything would be okay.

You were the fix he craved most of all.

In the time it took him to blink, dawn broke. The sun shone across Jeno’s face. He lifted a hand, shielding his eyes. He grumbled a little and turned in the seat to get comfortable, cursing at the awkward angle his back was in.

Your hand touched his shoulder gently and Jeno lurched in surprise, peering up at you. He’d never looked so weary and drained, but you could see the animal was gone from his eyes. “You’ve been up all night?” Your voice rang with compassion, and Jeno felt utterly undeserving.

He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed, unable to keep them open any longer.

You tugged at him, getting Jeno to his feet and ushering him to the bed, where he basically collapsed onto the mattress. Mark and Haechan were up, crawling around in search of coffee like a pair of zombies. Meanwhile, you let Jeno situate and draped the blanket over him, tucking him in, and brushed some of his hair back from his face.

Jeno took your hand and laced his fingers through yours. “Tell me you love me,” he said in barely a whisper.

“I love you,” you replied without hesitation, bringing his hand to your lips and kissing his knuckles. You stayed propped over him, wanting to be close so you could be sure he finally drifted off. You left a chaste kiss on his brow and coaxed, “Go to sleep, baby.”

Mark turned away. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, just longing. Seeing you so gentle with someone you were viciously fighting with the night before made him want you more. No matter what was said and done, there was too much love in this cramped little van.

When Jeno’s breathing leveled out and his hand went slack in yours, you finally relaxed. You’d be damned if he went days without sleep. There wasn’t much you could do, but the boys had their limits and you did your best to make sure they weren’t crossed.

Without another word, you clambered into the driver’s seat and turned the key, driving out of the club parking lot and onto the main road. You found a shopping center where Mark and Haechan could run errands while Jeno was out, and you pulled in.

Jeno slept well into the afternoon, stirring when the smell of hot food filled the van. Haechan used some of the gig money to splurge on delicious Chinese takeout.

You pulled out a foldable table from behind the cabinet and stood it up on the floor. The four of you sat around it and ate in silence, stuffing your faces until your bellies were full. You and Haechan gabbed a little, but not much. Mark and Jeno didn’t mutter a single word, both of them stuck in their feelings.

A far cry from how they would be that night.

One last show in Chicago. You were back on the same stage as before. It was the first time the band would perform an additional night at a club.

Jeno and Mark were squabbling, which was a rare enough sight to see. The two generally didn’t like to fuck with each other. It always resulted in fists flying and both were surprisingly really good at scrapping.

You looked to Haechan and rolled your eyes. Your best friend was smiling, on the verge of a laugh.

“We’re doing the third set,” Jeno said firmly.

“She can’t,” Mark replied, anger rising. “Her voice is fried from last night. The third set could knock it out for weeks and we’ll have no singer.”

Jeno shrugged. “She can take it.”

You were thoroughly annoyed. “She’s standing right here,” you spoke up, folding your arms. The audacity they had. It made you bristle, because you knew it had nothing to do with your voice and had everything to do with your body.

“What do you want to do?” Mark asked, softening his voice for you.

Jeno cut in, “Don’t ask her. You have to push her.”

You shot him a nasty scowl. “Stop pushing me.”

“Or what?” He smirked.

You shivered with irritation crossing dangerously toward rage.

“I don’t think you can do the third set,” Jeno said, challenging you, his smirk deepening. “Prove me wrong.”

“I’m not falling for that reverse psychology bullshit.”

“Coward.”

A smug look washed over your face as you hissed, “Don’t you feel pathetic leaning on me?”

The smile fell off Jeno’s lips. “I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t care,” you snapped, but you definitely cared. The wound was still fresh and stung.

Haechan tilted his head when you looked at him. He was always your anchor in the rough seas of Mark and the violent winds of Jeno. “I’m with you, whatever you choose,” he said.

If I ever walked off that stage, my boys would follow. No questions asked. They would follow me into hell and back. Though the four of us would probably just live there indefinitely.

You straightened your shoulders and your tone left no room for argument. “We’re doing the third set.”

Jeno beamed victoriously. Haechan nodded. Mark gave a look mixed between concern and awestruck.

You sang until you were spent; brutally, wholly, and everything in between. Your legs felt like jelly when you walked off stage and your chest ached, lungs taut. The adrenaline, like a performance-enhancing drug, had run its course and you were officially on empty.

It wasn’t unlike you to push yourself to the absolute limit. You loved the stage. You worshiped the power that surged from your voice when you sang into the mic. Pipes for days, Haechan always said.

The dressing room was a sight for sore eyes. You dropped heavily onto one of the sofas and let your head fall back, closing your eyes. Your throat felt like you’d swallowed razors.

“Try not to talk,” Haechan said, holding up his hand when you shot him an irritated look. “I’m not telling you to be quiet. I’m suggesting you let your voice rest.”

You nodded and sunk back into the sofa again.

Mark was vibrating, the energy of the show still pulsing through him. Brimming with energy (the excess turning into courage), he walked over to you and bent down, pressing a lingering kiss to your brow.

You smiled, knowing it was Mark without opening your eyes.

Jeno finally deigned to grace the rest of you with his presence, bursting into the dressing room and exclaiming, “Holy shit, you killed it!”

“And this is where you take all the credit,” you rasped, wincing at the sound of your own voice.

“I’ll wait till you go to bed and then I’ll take all the credit.”

You lifted your head and narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t you have some ass to chase?”

Jeno licked his lips. “Nah. I only got eyes for you right now.”

“Pluck them out for all I care.”

“You wanna fuck me so bad you look stupid.”

You waved him away, settling down and closing your eyes again, and wheezed, “Have fun with your hand.”

Haechan sat beside you, picking up your legs and draping them over his lap. “I’ve never seen you so mad at him.”

“He just doesn’t stop,” you huffed. “You know when to leave me alone. Mark never pushes my buttons. Jeno just keeps fucking digging.”

Haechan chuckled. “That’s all he knows how to do.”

“Whatever.” You shrugged, feigning indifference.

Mark suddenly asked, “Do you love him?”

You sighed. “I love all three of you. He’s definitely my least favorite though.”

Mark gleamed proudly at Jeno, who scowled back.

“So, if we were drowning, who would you save first?” Haechan asked mischievously.

“Mark. Obviously.”

Mark’s grin widened, while Haechan gasped and put a hand over his heart like it was the ultimate betrayal.

“You can swim,” you said, patting Haechan’s arm over your legs. You opened your eyes and gave Jeno a vicious sneer. “Jeno’s the only one drowning.”

Jeno’s lips squared into a frown.

“What’s that mean?” Mark asked curiously, but Haechan stayed silent. He knew.

“Leave it,” Jeno warned, darker than ever.

The three of you did. Unlike Jeno, you knew when to quit.

Some people did drugs. Others did rock music. A few did both.

The boys dispersed momentarily. You were relieved when the dressing room was empty, leaving you to your thoughts and the searing pain in your vocal chords. Rubbing at your eyes, smearing your makeup, you didn’t hear someone come back in as you muttered to yourself, “God, my throat fucking hurts.”

“It’s probably raw as shit,” Jeno said, making you jolt. And roll your eyes. He cleared his throat and switched his tone to add, “Speaking of raw…”

“No.”

“You let Mark in raw,” he whined loudly.

You cut him a glare. “I wouldn’t let you raw me if you were the last man on earth.”

Jeno pouted. “Ow.”

With a scoff, you decided to turn the tables on him. “Why are you so hard for me the past few days? I can’t even brush my teeth without you humping the air around me.”

There was no shame to be found in Jeno. “I haven’t had you in weeks,” he groaned.

Your lips parted in surprise. “You’ve had every other girl in the country.”

“It’s not the same.”

You stood and crept close to him, close enough to ghost your lips over his mouth. Jeno went boneless, every inch of him fixated to you and what you would do next. He wanted you so bad he couldn’t see straight. So, you decided to yank the metaphorical rug out from under him, sniping, “You’re pathetic.”

“Are you really going to hold that against me forever?” Jeno asked, tensing.

No. It was just easier to be mad at him. That was the only way I could have some defense against the power he had over me.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, sliding your hands over his shoulders and winding your fingers into his hair. “Answer one question for me and I’ll forgive you.”

Jeno was one more breath away from kissing you. He knew it was a trap. You were luring him in and he was happy to swallow the bait. “Fine,” he replied in a husky voice, eyes on your lips. “Ask your damn question.”

“What are you taking?”

“What do you mean?”

You hardened your gaze on him and tugged on his hair. “Don’t play that with me. I know better.”

Jeno studied you a moment. You would keep yanking this thread until it unraveled. He pushed, you pulled. The two of you could play tug-of-war with each other’s heartstrings forever. Jeno decided it was better to rip the bandage off and get it over with it.

He reached to the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a bag, and handed it out to you.

You took a split-second look at the bag and your jaw dropped, your arms falling as you snatched it quickly. “Cocaine? Are you fucking kidding me, Jeno?”

Jeno stole the bag back in the time it took you to blink, returning it to the safety of his pocket. “We’re supposed to do drugs,” he defended, rather unconvincingly. “We’re rockstars.”

“We’re teenagers that just graduated high school with barely enough cash for fuel and chips!”

“How I spend my cut of the money is my business,” Jeno shot back.

“This isn’t about the money.” You folded your arms, scolding him like a mother would a child; oscillating between angry and worried. “You know how dangerous that shit is.”

Jeno shifted his approach too, ever your mirror. “It’s the only way I can perform, babe. If I don’t have it, I can’t focus and I get too nervous.”

You softened even more, like Jeno knew you would. “We can get you something else,” you said gently. “Something better. Safer.”

He scoffed. “With our gas and chips money?”

You sighed, accepting a temporary defeat, but you pressed, “You’re doing it to get high. Not to concentrate.”

Jeno went slack, equally defeated, and reached for your waist. “I’m just trying to have a good time. We know this won’t last. We’re going nowhere.”

You lowered your head. “I know.”

The summer was half over and we hadn’t been scouted. Hope was replaced with disappointment and eventually, disappointment would flip to resentment. We never put it into words, but it was like a cloud following us, day and night.

Jeno took your face in his hands and tipped your chin up until you met his eyes. “Let me have this summer,” he whispered sadly. “Mark got you. I got this.”

Something inside you broke a little.

Yes, when the summer was over, you were Mark’s.

But the summer wasn’t over.

Jeno smiled in surprise when he felt the warmth of your lips on his, but he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you and deepen the kiss. Feeling the heat of your body against his was what he’d been craving, wanting you to burn him alive.

My first instinct always was to comfort him. I would chip away at myself and give him every piece if it meant he could use them to stitch his wounds.

Believe it or not, Jeno was my first love, but a first love at fifteen means nothing in the grand scheme of things. He was my first everything, but we just didn’t work. No matter how hard we tried. There was a mad and intense connection between us, inseverable, but in the confines of a relationship, we were wild animals forced together in a cage.

I know few will understand us. Hell, even I don’t understand how I could have so much passion and fire for someone that stretched me thin and forever kept me at the brink of insanity.

But I was beyond questioning it.

Jeno slipped his tongue in your mouth and you grabbed his hips, pulling him flush against you. His kisses were surpassing hungry and landing somewhere near ravenous. The intensity must have scared him, because Jeno suddenly parted from you and took a step back.

You rubbed your lips bashfully, not realizing you were panting until it was the only sound in the quiet dressing room. And Jeno was breathing just as heavily.

“What’s wrong?”

Jeno shook his head. “I want you so bad.”

You snickered. Here you were on a silver platter and he was the one that put distance between you.

Though you opened your mouth to say something snarky, Jeno spoke up, “But you’re going to leave me.”

Your heart sank. It dawned on you; this summer was the end to a lot of things. Youth was ending. The band was ending and with it, all of your dreams.

And the tie between me and Jeno would have to finally be severed so my life with Mark could start.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. You didn’t want to think about Jeno and his broken heart. Or that the drugs you scolded him over were what he used to fill the void you left behind.

Jeno respected the hell out of you for having the strength to leave him. He never could walk away from you even though he knew it was for the best. You would spend your whole life trying to fix him while he would always use you as a crutch.

It wasn’t fair to either you or him.

“Mark is good for you,” Jeno said in barely a whisper, his eyes glistening.

You shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about Mark.”

Jeno swallowed the lump in his throat. Seeing his pain reflected back at him on your face was too much. “Get high with me.”

Your eyes went wide. “Why?”

“You’re my person,” he said, vulnerable. “The only one I’ve ever wanted to do it with.”

This was what you struggled to put into words - the hold this boy had on you. He was bottomless ocean depths.

“It’s always you and me. We do everything together,” Jeno continued, reaching for your hand and leaving a kiss on your knuckles.

You let him pull you back into his arms and asked, “What if I die?”

“I’ll bring you back,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your brow that completely melted you.

“What if you die?”

“Let me go.”

Your eyes suddenly shone with the threat of tears. “Never.”

Jeno leaned into you, stealing a kiss from your lips. “Just this once, babe.”

You paused, thinking it over. Everything inside you screamed, “Yes!” Jeno never failed to bring this side out of you - the reckless, starved one that didn’t give a damn about consequences. You always feared if that was the real you, the true you. “Just this once,” you said quietly, closing your eyes as Jeno sealed his lips to yours again.

The idea of getting high reached out to you with gentle, caressing fingertips, promising to banish the pain and numb the hurt.

Tearing himself away from you once more, Jeno walked over to the door and locked it.

Yet another first time with Jeno to add to my list.

You were caught off-guard at how fast the high kicked in and never before had you noticed how tense your body was until it wasn’t anymore. Your mind was even lighter. There was no more torment. You could feel that it was there, but it didn’t ache any longer.

The sensation was indescribable. You were whole, perfect, immortal and invincible all at once.

And that was how you found yourself on the couch with Jeno, pawing at each other like animals in heat.

“Jeno?”

“I know.”

You sucked in a breath as he nipped at your neck and asked weakly, “Am I going crazy?”

“Babe,” he said, meeting your eyes with a smirk. “You been crazy.”

You laughed and the sound was music to Jeno’s ears, making his smile widen.

Time blurred together. It could have been the next day or the next year for all you cared. All you knew was this moment with Jeno and how it lasted a lifetime.

You sank deeper into the sofa beneath Jeno’s weight. Your thighs were hooked on his hips, hands roaming his taut, muscly back. Both your shirt and his tee were somewhere on the floor, along with your bra.

Jeno kept grinding into you, each movement rougher than the last. “Fuck,” he swore, lips brushing your ear. “I just know you’re getting so fucking wet right now.”

He wasn’t wrong.

A wanton noise of pleasure escaped you and Jeno ate it up. You were burning by a thousand degrees, it was almost painful. You had never craved someone’s body on such a primal level before.

With Mark, it was love, but this? This was lust running wild with abandon.

The doorknob wiggled. You didn’t hear it over the loud thumping in your ears and neither did Jeno, who was far too busy bruising your neck whilst he kneaded your breasts, pinching your nipples to make you squirm. Haechan didn’t need to try the knob again to know what was going on. He turned to Mark, who was coming down the hall, and led him away.

“They’re working out their issues. Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said hurriedly. Mark hesitated, but didn’t argue. He was none the wiser. With the way you and Jeno had been at each other’s throats, it never crossed his mind that you would fuck him.

Meanwhile, you were discovering new uncharted levels of arousal, undulating beneath Jeno, trying to match his movements, which were getting faster and harder. The drugs in your system made everything feel more intense, all-consuming. There was no tension, no insecurity, just instinct and pleasure.

Jeno was definitely waiting for you to give him the green light, and you were enjoying keeping it from him, but the throbbing between your legs was unbearable.

You planted your hands on his thick chest and pushed, making Jeno prop over you and look into your face. “Wanna fuck now?” you asked sheepishly.

His pupils dilated. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You whined when Jeno clambered off of you, standing next to the sofa and unfastening his pants. Before he drew them down his thighs, he pulled condoms from his pocket and dropped them on your lap.

“Two?” You snorted. “My lucky day.”

“One for each girl. You know, the ones you chased away from me.”

Licking your lips as his hard cock sprang into view, you grabbed him by the hips and purred, “I called first dibs on that dick years ago.”

Jeno chuckled, but his expression changed on a dime when you leaned in. He watched you drag your lips over his abs, kissing and nibbling along his happy trail. His breaths stuttered as he said, “Whenever you want it, it’s all yours.”

You peeked up at him hotly. “I want it now.”

While Jeno fitted himself with a condom, you shimmied out of your pants and underwear, and the moment they were on the floor, you turned onto your knees, braced yourself on the arm of the sofa, and arched your back, sticking your ass in the air.

He wouldn’t be able to resist it for a second.

“Fuck you,” Jeno hissed, getting into position behind you and raking his cock between your folds, gathering your slick from tip to base.

You wiggled your hips. Your brain was clouded with lust and drugs, and something purely hungry for Jeno. Like he was your favorite meal. “Gimme it,” you huffed, glancing over your shoulder. “What the fuck is taking so long?”

Jeno gave your ass a smack, making you squeak. “You need to calm down,” he chided with a grin, still sliding his length between your slit. He was so riled up his hips jerked against you involuntarily.

You reached between your legs, getting a hand around his dick and steering it into your aching pussy. Jeno let you, biting his lip and smirking at how goddamn horny you were for him.

The head of his cock pressed into your entrance and you grasped the arm of the sofa with both hands as Jeno began thrusting forward, working himself inside until he impaled you on every last inch of his girthy cock. You buried your face in the couch, biting down on the stressed leather.

Jeno gripped your waist tight and drew you to him until he was balls deep in your tight heat, feeling your walls stretch and flutter around his length. The drugs amplified everything about you; your warmth, your scent, your sounds. He barely noticed the condom at all.

When he drew back and shoved his cock back into your cunt, you lifted your head and cried, “Fuck!”

“You’re so wet,” Jeno growled, sinking in and out to hear your slick pussy welcoming him back.

You whimpered. “Fuck you and that big dick,” you mumbled, but you didn’t mean a word of it. You weren’t sure how much you could blame the drugs anymore. You wanted him to plow the living shit out of you until there was nothing left.

Jeno took that personally. As a challenge more than anything. He squeezed your waist in his hands and smacked his hips into your ass, driving his cock into your core and giving you something to really whine about.

It was all you could do not to scream as he took you for all you were worth. You fisted the couch in your hands until your knuckles ached and you threw yourself back to meet his strokes, a noise escaping on your hoarse throat with every rushed breath. Sex was a drug all its own. It just felt too damn good.

Jeno kept his hard pace, making sure he landed flush against your heat every time, and brushed his hands up your body to wrap them around your throat and tip your head back. “Yeah, that’s my good slut,” he taunted, the smack of his body colliding with yours getting louder. “She’s taking all that dick, huh?”

The sounds you made were humiliating, but they only made Jeno harder. His grip on your neck had you slack-jawed, your eyes winched closed. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him!

It wasn’t fair that he had that kind of power over my body. With him, I felt desired and powerful, and between that - untainted. Unbroken. Jeno never saw me for the damaged goods that I was. To him, I was always perfect. He completed me. No matter how unhealthy it was, I wanted it.

I didn’t need drugs. Jeno’s love was my high.

“Don’t stop,” you choked out, his hands heavy on your strained vocal chords. “Don’t ever stop...”

Loving me. Though the words wouldn’t come, Jeno knew them.

“Never, baby,” Jeno said, releasing your throat in favor of your waist, draping himself over you and burying his face in your neck. His hands wandered your breasts as he plunged in as far as he could go and stopped, leaving a few scattered, reassuring kisses across your shoulders.

Your body trembled when he bottomed out, aching with need and overstimulation. You swallowed to wet your throat, panting for air, and asked, “Why are you…?”

“You’re so fucking high, baby,” Jeno crooned, touching you gently and affectionately. “Just trust me.”

He was right. You were high on drugs and his body. You were a nerve laid bare, every brush of his hands enough to make you shiver. Your body pulsated, like you were being dangled over the edge, the pressure becoming too much to bear.

You held yourself up on hands and knees, tortured by the fact he was no longer moving inside you, but his hands playing with your breasts and his lips on your neck had your attention. The stimulation was sending more shudders across your skin, making you lean into his touch as your core throbbed for him.

“Part of you will always be mine,” Jeno whispered into your neck. “I know you’ll pick him over me, but part of you will always miss me.”

You tensed with unshed tears and cried, “I know.”

“I need you to know it’s okay,” Jeno said, turning your head and kissing you with so much pain and pleasure it knocked the wind out of you.

You kissed him back, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. It was a cruel curse - to love someone so deeply that was bad for you.

Jeno broke the kiss and rocked gently into you, staying in deep and lilting his cock inside your walls, the head of him kissing your cervix. Normally, you would have pushed at his hips for some mercy, but the high made you impervious to pain.

Suddenly, he thrust in hard but slow, arching his hips. You staggered out a moan and reached out to steady yourself, almost knocked off balance by his strength.

He did it again and again.

Tears pricked at your eyes. Jeno was hitting you with those drawn-out, domineering strokes, making you feel every inch of him slam against your sweet spot. He may have agreed to never hold you choosing Mark over him against you, but he was going to give you one final reminder of how absolute his control of your body was.

“I’m coming,” you warned, his name a mantra on your tongue as you took all he had to give. You were grateful for the roar of music coming from the other side of the wall, drowning out your cries and Jeno’s moans.

Jeno fisted a hand in your hair while the other still tugged and rolled your nipples. He kept his pace, hips slapping into your ass at a perfect rhythm, knowing you were on the edge of orgasm with the way your walls clamped down on his cock.

“Fuck!” Another brutal thrust sent you into ecstasy. You shook and swore, trying to crawl away from him, but Jeno was on you, shoving you into the couch and riding out your high.

“Good girl,” Jeno hissed, watching you writhe beneath him. He went still and tipped his head back, letting out a tiny moan.

You blinked to clear your eyes. You could feel the bruises forming in your skin as Jeno pinned you to the couch. It only turned you on more. When you realized he was still hard, that he hadn’t come, you mumbled under your breath. He was supposed to finish with you.

Jeno’s eyes flickered. Another moan escaped him as you rolled your hips, desperate for friction. He drifted his hands to your hair, gathering it all in his fists.

You sat up and went to work, fucking him as best you could in your position. Despite the condom, your pussy wanted to milk every drop of cum out of his dick. Post-nut clarity hadn’t set in. Either the drugs or the orgasm made you even more feral for this dumb boy.

“Oh, fuck,” Jeno groaned, watching you throw it back, bouncing your ass on him, taking him like a fucking champ. His abs tightened as he tried not to pound the fuck out of you. Instead, he reeled his hand back and slapped your ass, goading you.

“Come for me, baby,” you said darkly, the room echoing with the loud, wet clap of your bodies meeting.

Jeno growled a low curse in this throat. Suddenly he was on the edge, driven by your command and that tight fucking cunt.

You shrieked in surprise when he flipped you over roughly, the sound devolving into a moan when he steered his cock back into your pussy, grabbed your waist, and drilled into you like he would never get the chance again.

He didn’t last long at that pace. Jeno threw his head back and came, one moan after another tumbling from his pretty mouth, each one more ragged than the last as he emptied himself into the condom.

You brushed your hands over his thighs and hips, whispering little nothings as he came, feeling him shake like a leaf as he buried himself inside you. Once Jeno settled down, you touched his chest and asked, “Holy shit. Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” he wheezed, voice cracking, all the air knocked out of him.

Biting your lip to fight a laugh, you failed to hide the smug grin taking over your face.

“Don’t,” Jeno said weakly, rubbing at his eyes.

“You just came so hard you cried,” you teased, pinching his nipple for good measure.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Feeling him about to pull out, you reached for his waist and held him there, joking, “I will remember this, forever and ever, and I will bring it up every time you get on my nerves.”

“You’re the worst.” He sobered, leaning in close. “And you’re the best I've ever had.”

You smiled as he kissed you, sealing his words on your lips. Then you giggled as his mouth traveled over your chest, sucking on a nipple. Your buds were still stiff and Jeno couldn’t resist.

“I see how easy it is to get addicted,” you said when Jeno got up to discard the condom. “That shit is intense.”

“Told you.”

Sitting up, you ran your hands through your messy hair. You could only imagine how you looked; makeup smeared, glistening with sweat. “You know you have to stop,” you told him, making your voice gentle.

Jeno afforded you no looks. “Eventually.”

You were too tired to argue, sore and spent in the best ways. When Jeno returned to the couch, you welcomed him with open arms, pulling him close and steering him to lay his head on your naked chest. You stroked your fingers through his hair and over his broad shoulders, and whispered, “I’ll never let you die, Jeno.”

He stayed quiet.

“You’re not allowed to leave me.”

“Stalker.”

You snorted back a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Jeno lifted his head and nuzzled your cheek, teasing, “I just think it’s cute how obsessed you are with me.”

You kept touching him. His skin was just so hot beneath your fingertips, like caressing an open flame. “Are you really okay with dying?” you asked after a moment.

Jeno shrugged. “It’s unavoidable. I don’t see the point in sweating over it.” As he spoke, Jeno kissed at your neck slowly, curious if he could get you riled up again.

Your lashes fluttered and you shifted underneath him. Though he left you more than satisfied, the longer he kissed over your pulse and palmed your breasts, the quicker the ache in your core came back, ready to be filled up again.

Jeno reached down to cup your sex, running his finger over your swollen clit and swearing under his breath when he felt your soaked entrance, thinking how easily he could slide right back in and make you feel good. Both of you.

“If you died,” you stammered, struggling to form words as he touched you. “I don’t think I would ever smile again.”

Jeno was caught off-guard. He stopped pawing at you to look in your eyes, wondering if you realized just how heavy a thing that was to say. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he told you innocently, kissing the corner of your mouth with affection.

It was the first time you’d seen him so serious. Not hiding behind his usual humor.

Jeno was surprised when you pushed him away and reached for your pants on the floor. He watched curiously as you rifled through your pocket and withdrew a balled-up piece of paper and handed it to him.

“For the memoir?”

You nodded, watching him unfurl the page, your heart thumping harshly in your chest. “Yeah, I’m constantly jotting stuff down.”

Jeno’s eyes drifted over your words.

I can’t stand him. He infuriates me. He makes me crazy. But Jeno is the one person that knows me - the good and the bad, and accepts them both.

I love my boys, but he’s the one I don’t think I could ever live without.

Jeno peered at you with glassy eyes, shining with tears. “Damn it,” he groaned, crashing his lips on yours.

As expected, you made use of that second condom.

Jeno hooked your legs in the crooks of his arms and thrust languidly, staring down at you. Your eyes never parted as he gave you release once more, knowing when the summer was over, he would never get to touch you again.

When all was said and done, the two of you slumped into opposite sides of the sofa, soaked with sweat. Once you caught your breath and Jeno returned from tossing the condom, it was your turn to clamber on top of him, using his chest as your pillow. You rested your head on his shoulder and traced senseless patterns over his collarbone with your fingertips.

Jeno said your name. “I want you to be happy. That’s all I want, but I know I can’t give it to you. I tried.”

You closed your eyes. It would keep the tears at bay. “I know.”

“I feel sorry for you, loving all three of us. It can’t be easy.”

“It’s what I was made for,” you said softly, tightening your arms around him, lest he fly away from you and never return.

Jeno changed subjects before it broke him. “I’ve never felt so self-aware of how it feels to be young. And how it doesn’t last long.”

You nodded slightly. “This time is precious.”

“I wouldn’t say precious. Definitely fun though.”

You snickered, relieved to hear his humor coming back, but a somber feeling rushed over you. “Do you think we’ll ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“The performing, the fucking, and… the drugs.”

Jeno paused. “You mean each other.”

You sighed tersely. There was no hiding it from him.

My biggest fear was that my boys would hate me. That I would be a bitter reminder of what could have been, how close we were to our dreams before crash landing back on earth, broken and bruised forever from the fall.

Jeno brushed his fingers up and down your back, and kissed the top of your head. “I don’t think we’ll resent each other if this fails, babe,” he said in a low voice. Some things just aren’t meant to be, he thought sadly. Like you and me.

“If that happened, I think I would die,” you whimpered, burrowing your face in his chest.

“Don’t talk like that,” Jeno said, running his hand mischievously over your thigh. “But stop being so afraid of death. You’ll waste your life running from something that is going to catch you no matter what.”

You tipped your head back to kiss him. “I just know the devil dreads meeting us. We’ll steal his throne.”

Jeno kissed you back hotly. “Hell yeah. I can’t wait to fuck you on it.”

You laughed.

Hard to steal something that already belongs to you, Jeno.

#nct #nct smut #jeno #jeno smut #nct dream smut #jeno x reader

855 notes · View notes

soapskneebrace · 1 year

Text

disquiet comfort

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only) Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: voyeurism, implied masturbation, John is very lonely and very horny Author's Notes: I tried to get this out yesterday as a birthday present to myself, but I was so dead tired it wasn't gonna happen. Late is better than never! MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

John hears the creak of your bed springs the next morning.

He’s not surprised by it—you’re not the first neighbor he’s had, only the first he’s met. He knows how thin the walls are now, and has long passed the point of finding it annoying. He listens as the sound of your taps coming on filters through drywall and insulation at a low hum, thinks he can hear the buzz of an electric toothbrush. He wonders if you can hear his razor going as he trims his mustache.

It feels nice to have this odd company, he thinks. The two of you, going through the same motions. It strikes an old, abandoned chord—he hasn’t woken up with anyone in a long, long time.

He puts his razor down and squashes the thought flat. His neighbor—his kind, pretty neighbor—does not need him to think like that. Even if your eyes had traveled the length and breadth of his body before making it to his face.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, giving himself a flat look. He isn’t used to civilian life. Answering the door shirtless had probably been some sort of faux pas. If you’d been looking, you’d probably been more disconcerted than anything else. That’s the long and short of it, he tells himself, because there’s no room for anything else.

John is never very good at being home. The things that keep him alive out there—hyperawareness, sharply defined mission parameters, strict operational regimens—are, at home, needs that go unmet. Liverpool is not a popular terrorist hotbed he needs to pay attention to. He isn’t going to die if he forgets to buy milk. And he can only go to the gym so often.

But he needs something to do, or he’s going to go crazy.

So today he does on leave what he dreams of in the field: he has his first of two showers for the day, makes himself breakfast in his own kitchen, and turns on the telly for the noise. It’s some dumb morning show, with too-clean hosts shilling for weird kitchen tools. Easy to ignore.

Inevitably, he thinks about Mexico. About Shepherd. About Chicago, and Hassan, and Laswell telling him he needs to get some goddamn rest before he kills himself trying to stop a war that isn’t even happening.

“Yet,” he’d ground out.

She’d just stared at him with dagger-sharp eyes and told him to go home.

John bites into his toast harder than a grown man told to take a fucking vacation should, and turns up the volume.

Three soft, polite taps sound on the wall.

John blinks. Remembers the previous morning, what he’d said to you. The remote is in his hand before he thinks about it, the mute button depressed beneath a quick thumb.

The quiet is like the end of a gunfight. Unsteady.

He waits. He doesn’t know what for. The silence stretches. He notices a shaft of sunlight coming through his window, little motes of dust dancing in the air, as he looks around his own flat for some reason. It’s habit—surveying a battlefield after it’s been passed over by violence.

He looks back to the space above the TV. Rises carefully from his seat. Goes over to the wall.

Raps his knuckles twice against it. All good?

Immediately there are two taps in response. Yes, thanks! And the break of the still silence is like a soap bubble popping. John breathes, and then realizes he hadn’t been.

There are no further knocks. It disappoints him, but he does not expect them. It’s just a friendly interaction between neighbors.

It doesn’t matter. It feels like something has unknotted in his chest.

He feels almost like a voyeur as the day goes on. He hears when you work in your kitchen, notes the muffled clang of a pan on the stove. He hears your dishwasher run later, and briefly wonders at the utility of using it for so few dishes.

You’re on the phone at one point, but he can’t make out the conversation. He only half-tries to, but the even the indistinct, low sound of your voice is comforting. It reminds him of late nights in the barracks, listening to bunk mates talk while trying not bother anyone else. The closest to domestic comfort John has really ever had.

You turn music on at one point, something soulful and a little moody. John thinks it might be Marvin Gaye, but he’s not sure. The urge to knock on your door and ask is a strong one, but he doesn’t think you need a lonely old soldier bothering you in the middle of your day. At least, not any more than he already has. And before he can figure it out for himself, he hears you exclaim “Oh, shit!” and the volume immediately drops.

He has to smile at that. It’s a rare luxury for him to experience these days, that kind of consideration.

Something in his chest gives a little jump when he hears two knocks on his wall again. Sorry, he thinks you’re saying.

He knocks twice back. All good.

He should not feel so invigorated by this exchange.

You leave the house a little after noon—he hears your door open and close, and the jingle of keys followed by footsteps quickly retreating. Then, your noise is gone.

John and silence do not go well together. Too quickly, the quiet closes in, and John thinks if he stays in his own home a minute longer he’ll suffocate from it—so he takes your cue, and leaves. He isn’t really sure what to do, but he has to do it anywhere else.

He gets home after you do, sore from the weight racks and full on pub food and a few pints. The sky is dark and the sidewalks are illuminated in yellow lamplight, and the air hums with the wind of cars driving in the distance. He sees your window lit up bright and warm, and the relief it fills him with is disproportionate to how anyone should feel knowing that their neighbor is home.

Where did you go during the day, he finds himself wondering? What are you making for dinner? What will you do once you’ve eaten?

John realizes he’s standing there staring at your window, and scowls at himself. He’s a fucking creep, that’s what he is. A pretty neighbor talks to him once, fucking welcomes him home like any nice person would, and suddenly he’s pining like a stupid little schoolboy.

He goes inside. Hears you in your kitchen again and convinces himself he’s ignoring it. Tries to find something to stay awake with. Has one cigar more than he’d planned for the day, and thinks at least he’ll get to go out and get more sooner—something to do with the wealth of time he didn’t ask to receive.

He’s already in bed, second shower finished, when he hears activity on the other side of the wall. He hadn’t really been falling asleep, but he’s wide awake now, and feeling like a pervert as he listens to your bath come on.

He hasn’t gone to bed with anyone in a long time, either.

John lays there in the dark, eyes open, and tries to ignore how easy it is to breathe as the water runs muffled only a few feet away. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he can hear again the tiny buzz of a toothbrush a little after the flow shuts off. He listens to the creak of your bed and does not think about how warm your skin must be, how softly the sheets must fall around your body.

He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep. He isn’t thinking about listening to your breathing beside him. He isn’t drifting off imagining the smell of your hair on his pillow…

He hears a tiny buzz again. Brushing your teeth a second time? No, it’s closer now…

Oh. OH.

John’s eyes fly open. Your bed creaks again. He is rigid under the covers, every muscle tensed. He breathes consciously, testing the limits of his diaphragm, counting to three between each inhale and exhale. He is desperate that his pulse remain even, that his blood refrain from rushing through his ears and other parts.

A small sound. Breathy. Low.

John slaps his hand against his thigh before it can move any further inward. He curls his fingers around the hem of his briefs, grips the fabric as if it’s going to save his damn life. Clenches his other hand into a fist, digs his nails into his palm.

What expression is on your face? What is the scent of your toothpaste on your breath?

What angle are you holding that vibrator at?

You give a low moan again.

His breath shallows out. John considers giving the wall a tap but dismisses the option immediately and ruthlessly. He will take his secret audience to the fucking grave. And he’d shoot himself before denying you this—and, he thinks shamefully, denying himself this, too.

He should get up. He should go into his living room and give you privacy. Your bed creaks again. He remembers his own mattress tends to the same disruption. He can’t move, because it would effect the same outcome as a knock—you’d know exactly how thin the walls are, know that he’s right there and that he’s only leaving after he’s already gotten an earful.

Another sound, higher. John isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. What did your skin feel like? Would his fingers fit you better than that toy? Would his cock?

He thinks he feels a nail break skin. He tries to think of anything other than the throb of blood and heat between his legs, between your legs.

You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off.

John knows you’ve buried your face in your pillow to quiet yourself. His entire body twinges with the disappointment of it. He breathes so lowly as to be silent, to give space to your noise, and waits.

But the buzzing stops. Your bed shifts again, and then all is silent.

Wait. What?

Was that it?

The silence stretches. John does not move. That was it.

John does not think about how much longer he could’ve made that last. He does not think about teasing you with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Does not picture your legs hung up high on his hips.

His cock aches. He ignores it.

The gym tomorrow. And then a run. Maybe a drive to the coast, and a dip in the cold ocean.

It wouldn’t be enough, but it had to be something. John isn’t going to get a minute of sleep, and he’s going to be hearing that cut-off moan for a long, long time.

Taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriiii @aduckingpain @jaimiespn @aconstructofamindd @trashy-panda77777 @lich1 @smoggyfogbottom @cielobgers @antigonusyukii @bubble-dream-inc @monsterhighsblog

The taglist is closed. Thanks everyone for your interest.

4K notes · View notes

ceruleancattail · 7 months

Text

Wounds

Yandere Leona x reader

Tw: mentions of gore, yandere

Don’t scratch at open wounds.

You’ll just make it worse.

That’s what you tell yourself whenever a chill races down your spine, settling deep within its base.

Whenever goosebumps rise on your skins, spreading across both your arms with a sickeningly intensity.

Whenever you tremble, limbs jerking around involuntarily. A sole leaf in the howling winds of a storm, at the complete mercy of the forces of nature.

In a way, Leona felt something like that. A wild, untameable creature. A force of nature, whose abilities lie further then any richter scale could classify. A beast, razor sharp fangs bared at anyone who was foolish enough to oppose him.

He wasn’t feral though. Far from it, actually.

Every single move of his was calculated, like pieces dancing across the checkered floor of a chessboard. One step after another, and before you know it, you’re cornered on all sides. Every route of escape crushed into sand, trickling away before your eyes.

You would know.

You were one of the pieces.

Batted around by his paws, treated like a little plaything. Leona was never far from you, arm draping off your shoulders. He was especially fond of using you as a pillar of support, hanging off you like a big old cat.

You could hardly take a step without Leona’s weight pressing down on your form. Half lidded eyes regard you lazily, a certain sort of affection apparent.

Sometimes, he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, throat rumbling.

Warmth spreads onto your neck, something wet lapping against your skin. The ghost of fangs grazing across the base of your neck, the very edge sliding over with all the smoothness of a well-sharpened dagger.

Leona’s version of kisses, you suppose. Something tender, something soft.

It makes your skin crawl.

But you know better then to stop him.

You’ve attempted to push him off once. That didn’t go so well. Leona quickly decided that you forgot how sharp his fangs were. The wound stayed for days, a crimson, gory mess on your shoulder.

As if his claws couldn’t do enough damage already.

After every “incident”, Leona patches you up personality. His way of making amends, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just a way to ensure that his favourite little toy doesn’t collapse entirely on him.

Calloused fingers yanking bandages free from plastic, dabbing your arms with gauze that scratched and ointment that reeked. He treats you with care, really. It’s surprising how hands capable of such violence could treat you gently, gingerly sewing up gashing wounds.

It’s as if he could be nice, if he wanted.

Once Leona’s satisfied with his handiworks, his arms will find their way around you. Wrapping around your waist, tugging you onto his lap. Slotting your back against his chest, leaving not even a centimetre of space between you two.

You could feel every heartbeat beat into your back, beat steady against the fluttering of your own. The heartbeat of a frightened animal, caught in the clutches of a beast so much bigger then itself.

Nothing but silence passes you two, during these moments. What’s the point of berating you verbally? You know the consequences of defying him. You’ve paid for it, in flesh and blood.

Instead of half-assed apologies, you’ll do much better quiet and docile. Just sit pretty on his lap, sweetheart. Give him something soft and warm to lie against, and all is forgiven.

Behind Leona, his tail is swishing, a metronome’s steady beat. A warning to all the others, who would dare to disturb his peace.

Back Off.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #Leona kingscholar #Leona x reader #Leona kingscholar x reader #Leona #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere leona #yandere leona x reader #yandere Leona kingscholar x reader #yandere Leona kingscholar #protection potion♦️

346 notes · View notes

porcelainhrts · 3 months

Text

🕸️ | Prophetess! Reader x MK

• "Born" from a tree at the Wu Shi Academy, you were found by Raiden, Kung Lao, Johnny, and Kenshi after Kung Lao's hat sliced a nearby tree that revealed a human inside which is you.

Raiden huffed as he wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead after finishing his daily training with the monks. From the corner of his eye, Kung Lao enters with a huge grin, wider than usual. It made him suspicious. What genius idea does he have in mind now?

And as if the younger could hear his thoughts, Kung Lao beams as he pulls out a razor hat. How the hell he made it, Raiden won't even ask.

"That doesn't look safe," he points out, leaning away cautiously.

"it's genius, Raiden," Kung Lao waves his hand dismissively, trailing his fingers along the hat's sharp edges. He does so carelessly and cuts his fingers, earning himself a hiss and a sigh from his friend.

"See? I told you."

Kung Lao raised a smug brow and the hat was sent flying around, faster than the wind as it cuts through everything it comes across. From the practice dolls, to the stands, and even the tall old tree on the side. The monks ducked, some jumped, few froze, but the genius man stood confidently with pride as it flew back at him, proving his point.

"That's a pretty deep cut," Johnny laughs amusely at the demonstration but as he zooms the camera on the tree's wound, his face drops and his eyes squint.

"I know I'm not much of a plant expert, but I do know plants don't bleed."

Kenshi scoffs. "Has the loss of money and fame driven you insane, Cage?"

"Hey!" Johnny yells, his expression changing from amusement to annoyance. "I have not fallen from stardom!" he claims.

"It's only a temporary setback! When this is all over, I'll eventually find my way back! Like everyone does! When they're lost," he adds as if reassuring himself, his face filled with determination and confidence.

A silent clash ensues between the two and the air tenses as they shoot daggers at each other with their eyes, Johnny's smirk taunting yet Kenshi's brow is threatening. "No, it's really bleeding," Raiden, who has been silently observing, breathes out, staring bewildered at the tree, his eyes wide in confusion.

"Look," he says, pointing to the tree's trunk, which still bleeds profusely.

And as the four men eye the said scene, it is no mistake that the tree is indeed bleeding . The scarlet liquid dirties it's clean wood and as they approach closer, little sniffles could be heard from inside.

"Call Lord Liu Kang."

• You were found nestled within the tree, unconscious and malnourished, with no memory of who you are and how you ended up there or why.

• The first few nights at the Wu Shi were filled with sleepless nights, bothering you with blurry yet bothersome enough to keep you up awake and pacing around your room. Some were concerning, some were scary, and some you would rather not speak of.

• Having enough of all the pent up feelings, you turn to the only thing you knew: weaving. Despite having no recollection of your memories, you knew how to weave— and in those carefully woven fibers tells stories yet to manifest.

• You truly wished not to bother Lord Liu Kang about your weird visions for he had already done enough to provide you a new home, but when you awake from yet another nightmare to find him before you, you knew you can no longer keep it to yourself.

• Despite how weird your story may seem, the God seemed to be unbothered. In fact, it may be small, but you can see the tug of his lips as you speak. You wonder if he knew about this.

• You wanted to ask but a part of you held you back, and so Liu Kang ends the conversation with a "you should get some rest."

---

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: I know her introduction isn't really canon compliant, but let's just pretend it is. Originally, this was written for an oc and is purely self indulgent, but hey, why not let others in on the fun. I apologize if there are grammar mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. I would also like to apologize for the shitty writing because I'm not really a writer. Also, if I were to continue this, I still have no one in mind to pair her up with— comment if you have any suggestions.

#mortal kombat x reader #liu kang #kung lao #mk1 raiden #johnny cage #kenshi takahashi #afab reader #kinda ooc

156 notes · View notes

nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 8 months

Text

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 3

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

It didn't matter. Not the any of the questions or their answers. Right now, Mihawk had to find you, to ascertain that you were safe—both from others and your own demons that he doubted you had buried as deeply as you intended to.

He made his way out of the base and through town in long, purposeful strides, scanning around the few storefronts amd vendors he passed to ensure you weren't still shopping for supplies.

And he slowed at the docks, his sharp eyes catching sight of you on the deck of your sloop, pacing.

Crossing and uncrossing your arms.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling to yourself.

Rushing a hand back through your hair and jumping in alarm when you knocked your tattered old hat from your head.

Tou stopped in your tracks and stared down at where it had landed for several long seconds, still as a statue...before picking it up and tossing it aggressively into the captain's cabin. Mihawk watched you lean your head against the wall next to the door for another long moment, before kicking at it and storming around the corner toward the small kitchen.

You clearly hadn't seen him, but he had seen enough to be more than a little concerned. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, pushing past a few Marines and civilians, with a sore suspicion of exactly where the vast majority of your scars had come from.

The door to the kitchen was cracked, and Mihawk saw you were leaned over the dish basin on the counter with your back to him.

Saw you, with the sleeve ofnyour white shirt rolled up nearly to your shoulder, draw the razor sharp edge of one of your daggers across your arm, just above your elbow, flinching and drawing in a sharp breath just before he reached you and grabbed your wrist. You cried out in alarm, dropping the dagger right into the empty basin, whirling around and backing into the countertop.

Your eyes locked onto his, wide as saucers, more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. In their depths swirled astonishment, pain, caution—and fear. Bold as you were, you had never once looked at him with fear in your eyes. Even the first time you had ever laid eyes on him, the first time you had approached him, you hadn't shown a single sign of being intimidated, which was not something he could say of many people at all.

But right now, you were like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, frozen stiff and utterly helpless.

Mihawk remained frozen for some time himself, not at all used to the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. He wanted to shout at you, demand to know what the hell you were thinking—to pull you tight enough against him to knock the wind out if you—to down enough wine to forget about this madness, however briefly.

His eyes flickered to the blood still pouring from the fresh wound in your arm, and shook himself mentally, settling for pulling you over to the small, rounded kitchen table by your wrist and pulling out a chair.

"Sit." He was careful to keep his tone level, to keep any sharp edge from piercing through the command. Still, you obeyed wordlessly, lowering your gaze to your knees and folding your hands together in your lap, your shoulders drooping from your stiffened posture into one of utter defeat. Your breathing was short and shallow as it left your lungs, broken by a small hitch in your throat when Mihawk knelt down and grabbed a clean rag from the handle of of a cabinet behind him pressing it against your arm, carefully wiping away the blood..

Another small hitch interrupted your breathing as he glanced under the rag and sighed. It wasn't deep enough to necessarily need stitches, but they would help far more than they would hurt. He lifted your oposite hand and placed it over the rag, subtly slipping your second dagger from your belt and sliding it quietly across the counter behind him. "Keep pressure on it."

Every move he made either caused you to jolt in brief alarm or your breath to catch in your throat. Mihawk kept himself focused on the wound itself for now, simultaneously trying to gain control of his thoughts and shove them away entirely.

To figure out how the hell to address the subject of you slicing open your own arm.

Why exactly you had done it.

What the hell had possessed you to—

No. No, this had to be handled carefully. Handled in a way Mihawk was entirely unaccustomed to handling things.

He pulled the other chair over alongside your own—effectively blocking your path to the door in the process, a precaution he considered necessary—and set down a first aid box he had found tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets and a nearly full bottle of what smelled like strong whiskey. He pulled down the damp rag he had slung over his shoulder, shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the oposite side of the table to avoid getting any blood on it, and sat down, pulling your hand and the blood-drenched rag away from the wound.

It was a clean cut, considering how sharp you kept your daggers, and that alone was good. He pulled the clean damp rag down that he had draped over his shoulder and set to wiping the drying blood away from around it, glancing toward your face. Your eyes were still turned down toward your lap, your hands trembling a little now as you folded them together.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head a little.

What an absolute mess this day had turned out to be.

"Are you angry?"

The sound of your voice very nearly made him jump—he paused with the rag just beneath the shallow gash, his eyes darting back up to your face. Your voice was so quiet he might have thought he imagined it, if not for the way you swallowed and averted your gaze further away, toward the table at your other side.

"No," he said after a moment, keeping his tone level. Calm. "A bit frustrated, perhaps." You bit your lip, and gave a short nod. "And...curious as to why."

You hesitated a moment, still biting your lip. Your hands squeezed together briefly in your lap while his gaze lingered on the subtle shifts in your expression, long enough that you glanced over and your eyes met briefly.

The pain and hopelessness in yours made you look years younger—perhaps like the fourteen year old girl that had witnessed the destruction of her home and the cold-blooded murder of the woman who raised her.

Mihawk turned his gaze back to your arm after a moment.

"How much did Garp tell you?" you asked quietly.

"Far more than I bargained for," he sighed. He paused when you grew tense for a moment, realizing immediately how his words could have been taken. "Not like that," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I simply wasn't expecting anything of that magnitude." You still remained tense as he finished cleaning the wound, and kept the rag pressed to it as he picked up the open bottle of liquor. He decided to steer the topic slightly away, to attempt to ease into the main issue at hand. "I'm honestly curious how you managed to survive escaping into the Grand Line on a dinghy."

You glanced over slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. Your hands shifted in your lap, gripping lightly at the hem ofnyour shorts.

"I was lucky," you said quietly. Shrugged your other shoulder. "I was able to procure enough rations to last for a week. It was a time of year where the waters were relatively calm in that particular part of the Grand Line. I woke up the seventh morning to find a merchant schooner hauling my boat in. They saw it was a Marine boat. Discussed taking me in until I blurted out what happened and they took pity. Let me work as a deckhand for room and board and safe passage. They were bound for Loguetown. I got off there, worked odd jobs around taverns and inns that were as far from Marine territory as possible. Saved up enough Berries to purchase a sloop and sustain a comfortable lifestyle over a couple years and set out on my own."

"The Marines wouldn't have bothered you regardless." Your eyes twitched in his direction, then back down to your hands. "As Garp so aptly put it, you'll remain off their radar 'as long as the correct people remain in power and you don't do anything stupid.'"

You scoffed quietly. "Did you tell him he was wasting his pity?"

"No," Mihawk said slowly, pulling the rag away from your arm as he lifted his gaze to look at you. Not yet, he decided. You were still too tense. Too combative. "Frankly, I stared at him like he was speaking another language until he elaborated." The corner of your lips twitched the slightest bit, and your tension eased a little amid a small sigh. He lifted the bottle over, and you glanced over at it. "This is going to—"

"I know," you said. You drew in a deep breath, shifting back in the chair a bit, and held your arm out. "Go ahead."

Mihawk lifted his eyebrows a bit, his eyes lingering on your face briefly. Passing down the length of your arm, the line of scars winding down the limb beneath your newest wound, wondering for a moment exactly how many times you had done this yourself.

Then he tilted the bottle, letting the strong alcohol pour over the inflamed cut. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes snapping shut in a grimace, tensing up and shaking for a moment. You held your other hand out, your eyes still closed, and he handed the bottle off to you, watching you take a deep swig of the amber liquor.

You drew in a deep breath as you set it heavily on the table, and let it out in a shaking sigh, laying your head back against the back of the chair.

Lifted it and took another drink, and he plucked it from your hand as you lowered it this time—too much and you would only succeed in thinning your blood and bleeding all over the damned place again. You didn't question it, letting the bottle slip easily out of your grasp, your hand falling back to your lap as you caught your breath. Mihawk leaned back to set it aside on the counter, keeping his eyes on you. You were a ticking time bomb right now—one wrong move, one wrong word, and you were going to go off. There was no avoiding it.

There wasn't much he could do beyond attempt to lessen the blow—or simply get it over with.

It took only a moment for Mihawk to choose the former. Once you lifted your head, still breathing a bit heavily, he stretched his arm across the back of your chair.

"Did you ever intend to mention you mention you were raised by one of the most notorious pirates in modern history?" he asked.

He was a little surprised when you shook your head no, your head drooping, your chest still rising and falling heavily. "I...try not to think about her much," you replied. The pain seemed to have had something of a sobering affect on you—you spoke a bit louder now, a bit more confidently. You swallowed swallowed, running a hand back over your hair, and you turned your head, leveling your eyes with his.

"My last memory of her is watching a vengeance-crazed Marine Admiral saw her head off of her shoulders with a bowie knife."

For a moment, Mihawk could do nothing but stare in your eyes—not moving, not breathing, absorbing the toneless quality of your quiet words, the pain and anger in your gaze. After a long moment, he lifted his hand and pinched at his temples, shaking his head and drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lifted his other hand to the back of your neck and pulled you in so your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"She wasn't a pirate when I knew her, anyway," you said quietly. "I knew she had been, but she never talked about it. Not around me, at least. I think she was trying to avoid glamorizing it so I wouldn't follow in her footsteps. I probably still would have. At least she's not here to be disappointed in me." You gave a slow sigh, the breath trembling a little as it left your lungs. "Though she likely would be here if I had just done what she said and stayed out of sight."

"Don't do that." He kept his voice low but his tone firm—you weren't doing yourself any favors if your were blaming yourself for something as heinous as that. You drew in a sharp breath, and let it out as another slow, trembling sigh, your shoulders tensing a little again. He lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around them. You had a tendency to bolt any time you started to get the least bit vulnerable, and he had no intention of letting you. Not this time. "And it's not worth hurting yourself over."

"Yes it is," you said sharply. You stil didn't lift your head, but he still tightened his hold around your shoulders, just to be sure. You cleared your throat, but it didn't quite hide the hitch in your breath. "She wouldn't tell me about any of her scars." You swallowed audibly, your voice breaking as you went on in a softer tone. "She...told me they were hers to bear. Not mine. That they were reminders of her regrets and mistakes she made. I...I guess I didn't understand until I got this one." You lifted your hand to your neck, the same place Garp had indicated earlier when Mihawk had asked him about your scars. "Every time I saw it in the mirror all I could see was her. Hear her telling that goddamned Marine son of a bitch that he could do whatever he wanted with her as long as they let me go."

Your breath came in short, controlled bursts, your knuckles white as you gripped at the hem of your shorts.

"I have to remind myself. Any time I lose. Get too confident or let my guard down. Any time I make a mistake." Another deep breath, trying and failing to harden your nerve, still shaking like a leaf. "I have to remind myself that *one* mistake and I could—I could lose everything all over again."

"God dammit..." he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand to your hair and briefly lowering his forehead to the crown of your hair. You had this so deep-seated into your mind, so firmly established that it was like a law to you. A code that you had no choice but to follow, that you had no choice but to suffer for every mistake you made and trap yourself within a web of regret just to keep yourself safe.

Mihawk lifted his head from over yours, and took your face in his hands to lift your head. You swallowed as your eyes met, and for a moment the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks made him freeze, made his chest ache, his own shoulders tense. You were on the verge of shattering like glass, and he didn't have any choice but to let it happen. He drew in a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto yours.

"You agreed," he said slowly, "some time ago, that you belong to me." You swallowed. "Which means that these..." He lowered one hand to your arm, and you tensed the same way you always did when his fingertips brushed across the column of scars extending down your soft skin, "...are not just yours. And that you're hurting more than just yourself— Don't," he added firmly when you clenched your eyes shut, your breath hitching, and you opened them again after a moment. "You learn from mistakes you've made and move on. You don't trap yourself inside them and live in misery." Your gaze fell from his as you bit down hard on your bottom lip, openly flinching when a whimper left you. "I personally have trouble believing that was what your grandmother intended for you when she gave her life to ensure you kept yours."

That was it—that was the straw that broke you. Your head fell, your eyes clenched shut, a torrent of tears falling from them. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him again, lowering his head over yours as your arms wrapped around his ribs so tightly that it was almost painful. You sobbed into crook of his neck like a child, broken apologies scattered between the sharp hitches in your breath, and he remained silent. Kept his own breathing slow and steady, cradling your head against his shoulder, letting you spill your heart in a way your solitary lifestyle had never allowed you to before.

Letting you calm down on your own terms, your tension slowly, slowly giving way until you were all but limp against him. Your breathing slowed until there was only an occasional hitch in your breath. It felt like hours had passed even though daylight still poured through the open door behind Mihawk,, casting his shadow over you while he combed his fingers through your hair.

"You won't be doing this again." You gave a small nod in agreement, not lifting your head.

"N...no stitches." He lifted his head a little at your quiet words, your voice hoarse. "This one has to scar." You sniffed, lifting your head finally and meeting his eyes. "I have to remember it so I never do it again."

He glanced down at the cut a couple inches above your elbow, and sighed. "Fine." He shifted his gaze back to your bloodshot eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your skin. "Fine. But never again."

You swallowed.

Nodded shortly, your eyes remaining firmly on his as you repeated the words back, your voice quiet, trembling, but unquestionable in its intensity.

"Never."

#opla #one piece fanfiction #dracule mihawk #fanfic #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #fluff #one piece headcanons #mihawk x reader #smut

376 notes · View notes

theflowerofhumanity · 10 months

Text

Razor Valentine

It all began after an incident just outside the Bridge that sent one man to the morgue and sent Spock to Sickbay. The Vulcan the first officer of the ISS Enterprise didn’t spend much time there. He rarely needed medical attention, not only because he was tall, strong, and intimidating on his own but also because he, like the captain, was usually accompanied by his personal guard. In this case, he’d been attacked from an angle and so failed to unsheathe his own dagger in time to avoid having his upper arm gashed by his attacker. He had debated on the necessity of visiting Sickbay at all after dispatching the man. The last thing Spock wanted to do was spend any time around that drunken butcher McCoy, especially since he always had something disparaging to say about Vulcans. But the bandage he’d wrapped around his arm quickly became saturated, green blood oozing down his sleeve and onto the floor, so it was with some reluctance he made his way to McCoy’s lair.

Happily, the doctor hadn’t been there at all. The sharp-tongued head nurse had taken charge in his stead. You would have thought, to Spock’s slight amusement, that she was the superior officer the way she ordered him to “strip” and to “sit down on the damn bed”. I don’t care what happened, and I’m not going to ask, she’d told him. In fewer than sixty seconds, she had staunched the bleeding and rebandaged his wound much more competently and securely than he had.

Spock spent that brief time considering Christine Chapel. The way her platinum-blonde hair curled subtly around her chin framed her long features perfectly. He had a very un-Vulcanlike preference for blonde, human women, and there were plenty such women aboard if he wanted to admire one from afar...or, more improbably, take one as his lover. Until now, however, he could count the number of encounters he’d had with this blonde crewman on one hand. He rarely had any reason to be here, and he avoided interacting with McCoy whenever possible. Her work in Sickbay likewise kept her quite busy. There was always someone who needed to be metaphorically stitched up and sent back into the violent world that was the Enterprise. In short, their paths seldom crossed.

Something about the curiosity and low-level, thrumming excitement he’d felt when Christine Chapel’s fingers skimmed against his skin made him take particular notice now. He had remained seated on the bed for a few more moments after she had dismissed him. His deep-set brown eyes met her crystalline blue ones as she said, “Well, are you waiting for an official discharge, Commander? I’d advise you to leave while you can.”

Flexing his wounded arm, he picked up his stained and discarded uniform shirt from the floor and swept past her. At the door, he turned to get a better look at her long, shapely legs only to find her looking back at him as well. Her top teeth had sunk into her bottom lip. The gesture made her look surprisingly girlish and vulnerable, and the sight made Spock want nothing more than to turn back, pin her against the wall, and taste those lips himself. It wasn’t logical. It was...instinctual. Instead, he simply inclined his head and went on his way.

Since then, both Spock and Christine Chapel had made a point of manufacturing reasons to run across one another for a few seconds here and there. This contact always occurred while both were on duty, and they seldom exchanged anything but a heated glance or, on Christine’s part, an occasional smirk or a sassy one-liner. Both of them knew what being wanted looked like, and both could read it all over the other. But Spock also knew that the dance was just as alluring as the end result. As a Vulcan, he had a great deal of patience, even in a world that didn’t much value that virtue or any other. He would stay alive and wait.

@multirptrash

#*rv #i wanted to get something up but could never come up with a specific scene in the present #so I'll leave that up to you! hope this is enough for now <3 if not let me know

408 notes · View notes

ant1quarian · 2 months

Text

I bring to thee: Witherborn!

Look at the pretty guy

Info about Witherborn under the cut

Witherborn are a primarily landborn species that reside in the Nether Realm. They are often territorial and possess a kind of unusual, fear-inducing aura to any species that may get too close to them– even if the Witherborn shows no sign of violence.

They are mainly known for their intimidating height (averaging around 9’8”) and their very long, incredibly sharp tails with edges poking up like daggers. They’re essentially an extension of the Witherborn’s spine and look as such. Their claws and feet are as sharp as knives. Their teeth, often hidden and appearing as if they are flat, are about as sharp as a razor.

Witherborn mostly wear baggy pants and a cloak/cape with golden accessories here and there. Their most prominent decoration is the skull of whatever they primarily hunt that sits on their shoulder. What they hunt may not be their food source, but simply sort of like a game.

Under their sockets, two slits may sit. These are actually eyes and open up when the Witherborn is feeling aggressive.

Their senses are impressive, too– and like a Polar Bear, if you see them on the horizon, it’s likely they’ve been tracking you long enough to premeditate the hundreds of ways they could shred, rip, sever and tear your fragile body to pieces.

One of their species, most commonly used abilities is that of levitation.

This is often seen when they "perch" on their tail when they are in a relaxed state.

#Witherborn #Arian's Witherborn #Killer Sans #Killer Sans art #Killer Sans x Reader #Murder Time Trio #Undertale fandom #Arian's AUs #Withertale #Witherverse

76 notes · View notes

meetinginsamarra · 8 days

Text

mayprompts2024 #11, secret

Read parts 1-9 on AO3 here

++++++

The Perfect Place - Part Ten

They were riding in the backseat of a taxi to 221b Baker Street when Sherlock was struck by an unexpected and most unwelcome bout of nervousness.

Would John like the flat? Or would he decline like the previous nine potential flatmates? Sherlock gnawed his lower lip. Will I lose John as quickly as I have found him?

Sherlock remembered when one week ago, he had whined about this to Mike Stamford (Sherlock prefered to call it “complained”). As in being unable to find a suitable flatemate.

He told Mike that so far, every time a candidate had come to take a look at 221b, they had more or less quickly fled, using all kinds of excuses. Dumb ones like “sorry, gotta dash, I forgot to switch off the stove”, plausible ones like “bugger, it’s late, I need to be at work now” or ridiculous ones like the faked phone call that claimed “emergency at home, the neighbour’s run over my hamster with the lawn mower”. And so on and on.

Some of the disturbed looking candidates had kept their composure and simply went down the stairs whereas others had resembled headless chicken, about to run into a wall on their hurried way out.

Whichever way they ran, run they did. Why this always had happened every time remained a secret to Sherlock, one he could not solve. For all his observational and deductive skils, Sherlock stayed clueless about what scared them off.

(To everybody else it would be quite obvious.

The aspiring flatmates were greeted by a real human skull on the mantel and discovered a whole armoury of deadly weapons in the flat, reaching from a razor-sharp looking dagger over an antique Turkish scimitar to a literally bloody whaler’s harpoon. One peeked into the frigde and found himself face to foot with a human foot that was beginning to decompose. Another one was deeply troubled by the scrapbook with gory crime scene photos on the desk. A third one found the kitchen table strewn with the remnants of guinea pig embryos.

Sherlock found all of these circumstances perfectly normal, of course. Whereas these were deeply disturbing to the flatmates-to-be and triggered their instict of self-preservation. They presumed they would cohabitate with a murderous madman and left as long as they could.)

Anyway, after Sherlock’s complaining (whining) to Mike about his predicament, Mike had come up with a name (John Watson) claiming this man could be the pot to Sherlock’s kettle. Sherlock wanted to know more about this mystery man but Mike had simply smiled and said “Go and deduce him yourself, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s interest had been piqued but it died a sudden death when he found out that the address Mike had given him was “Bernie’s Bed Shop”.

How could Mike assume that Sherlock would be interested in sharing his flat with a stupid salesman of boring beds? Sherlock had grumbled for three days about Mike’s proposal but then the next two other candidates had run from the flat and Sherlock had caved and had gone to the Bed Shop for a stake-out.

As soon as Sherlock had seen John limping to the shop and opening the front door with a trembling hand, he had deduced all about this fascinating doctor-soldier-salesman. Sherlock immediately fell in love.

In the present, Sherlock decided to be extra cautious and give John a heads-up about the state the flat was in.

“Erm, John, a warning concerning the flat, though. It’s a bit cluttered at the moment (a blatant understatement) with all my moving boxes and the things that have not yet found their final place (and most of them also never would). So please, don’t let this scare you away.”

(Let’s attest it to Sherlock’s current nervousness and distracted state of mind (palace) that he even considered such a warning might discomfort John when all it did was the exact opposite.)

“It won’t, I promise.” John said and became more curious by the minute. What possible dangers might lurk there in secret parts of the flat?

+++++

It's late and I`ve just finished this, so please don't mind possible any typos.

tagging some people @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear @raina-at

#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #number 11 secret #my sherlock fanfics #the perfect place #no beta we die like (wo)men

54 notes · View notes

pastshadows · 1 month

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 12: Growth

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.5K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

You stare into the pale Elf’s vibrantly red eyes as he holds the razor-sharp edge of his dagger against your neck, which he seems to be looking at rather too ardently for your liking. You frown at him, struggling against his hold on you. He’s stronger than he appears at first glance. You knew this man was bad news as soon as you laid eyes on him. You’ll never be able to comprehend why you thought it was a lovely idea to turn your back on this stranger and walk away.

Perhaps you can blame it on being tired, having a worm thrust into your eye socket, falling out of the sky, or your head injury that smarts fierce and unforgivingly under the baking heat of the noonday sun.

You’re about to burn him to a crisp for this attack, but as you gaze into those eyes, your soul sparks with recognition you can’t place. You know this man, somehow, but you’re sure you’ve never seen him before.

The way he leers at you almost makes you giggle. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

Fear. You can see it plainly, hidden behind this facade of confidence. Your arm holds the dagger's tip steady as the steel kisses your neck. Keeping your voice as balanced as you can, you retort, “You have it backwards - they took me prisoner, just like you.”

“Don’t lie to me. I - agh.”

Your mind twists. Gods. The squirming behind your eye is beyond uncomfortable as it moves your brain matter around. You close your eyes and surrender to the sensation. It seems like the only option lest whatever is wiggling might break open your skull like a melon. A vision is steadily anthropomorphized. You’re looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold onto the memory, but it fades, and you’re left with the light and a potent fear that makes your stomach churn.

“What was that?” The pale Elf stares at you with a suspicious glower. The tenor of his voice increases. You recognize distress when you hear it. You better proceed carefully, or you’re going to wind up with a blade in your windpipe, ”What’s going on?”

Well, there’s no point in lying. Is there?

“It’s the mind flayer’s worm - it connected us."

His grip on you eases as he draws the pointed tip of the dagger away. You think about asking him if he recognizes you or if you’ve met before, but there’s nothing in his demeanour to indicate such. Have you hit your head far worse than you thought, and it’s scrambled your brain like an egg?

“You’re not one of them. They took you, just the same as me.” His scowl eases and becomes… artificial amusement? Real amusement? This man is decidedly hard to read. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

Apologies? Apologies?! Is that really all he has to offer you after he dragged you to the ground with a godsdamned dagger? He’s lucky you didn’t hail fire from the fucking sky! Gods. You want to punch him in his pointy, pale, beautiful face.

Well, I was contemplating burning him to death.

“Apology accepted.” You hiss at him, dusting off your robe. There’s sand in your mouth, gritty against your teeth. It makes you want to punch him all the more, “I might have done the same if roles were reversed.”

He chuckles at your taunting, “Ah, a kindred spirit.” He leers at you with a haughty glower, “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The streets were familiar as the vision played out behind your eyelids. If the glimpse wasn’t enough to convince you that he’s telling the truth about his origins, his accent does.

“I’m a Baldurian as well,” you glower back at him, meeting his arrogance with your own.

“Is that so? We clearly move in different circles.” You roll your eyes at his pompous intonation. “So, do you know anything about these worms?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” You hesitate but decide truth is the best course of action. He might as well know what he’s up against, “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”

“Turn us into - ha. Hahaha!” You jolt at his mordant laughter like a giggle at a funeral. There’s such a deep sadness woven between the facade cracking. “Of course, it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?”

Your heated palms itch. Not with the draconic fire that squirms underneath the thin skin, but to reach out to him, to comfort this total stranger who has been nothing but a pain in your ass since you met him moments ago. So, why do you desperately want to hug him?

What in the Hells is wrong with me? Good Gods.

He continues with an abstract hopefulness, “Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.”

“Control it?” You scoff and quirk a brow, shaking your head. Control the worm? No. You need to fucking expel it immediately! You lean forward and resist the urge to poke his chest, which you are currently trying to imagine without that lovely doublet. You shake your head again, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts, “We need to get rid of it!”

“Well yes, of course,” he drawls as if you’re an idiot. With the way you’re acting and thinking, you begin to wonder if your head wound is worse than you thought, “But first things first.”

“You should travel with me.” The words are blundering out of your mouth before you have time to consider what you’re asking. He’s already been enough trouble, and you’re requesting more, but maybe, if you’re lucky, you will see him shirtless�� Fuck! What in the Hells is wrong with you? You clear your throat, “Our odds are better together.”

“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” Astarion, this pale Elf you don’t know but somehow recognize, sizes you up as you frown at him, “And you seem like a useful person to know. All right,” he bows shallowly, “I accept, lead on.”

A useful person to know?

Ah. Yes. Of course. He’s one of those. He does not see you as another living being. No. You know his kind well. He sees you as a tool he can use to implement his liberation from your new friend who’s currently in a competition with your brain matter for space in your skull.

You walk a couple of steps before your outrage gets the best of you, and you whirl on him, fire in your palm and the Weave aglow in your eyes, “You said your name was Astarion, correct?”

“Yes,” his hand moves toward the dagger’s hilt at his hip. “That’s correct.”

“Don’t make any sudden moves, Astarion,” you snarl and toss Firebolt as close to his toes as you can without burning him.

“Ah,” he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. You’re sure it’s merely a placation so that you let your guard down. His voice is as smooth as butter and warm as daylight, “I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, yes? I apologized. What more do you want? I’m all out of wine and chocolates - I’m afraid.”

“Listen closely, Rogue,” you try to hide the insecurity you’re feeling behind an illusion of poise. “If you ever put another knife to my throat, if I have even a suspicion you might, I will reduce you to dust.”

“Oh, sorceress,” Astarion smirks, cavalier and handsome, “I would love to see you try, you brute. I don’t fancy your chances. I know a thousand ways to kill you before you can so much as utter an incantation, but I digress. You’re welcome to try, of course. You’ll find I am particularly hard to kill.”

You scoff, holding your hand in his view as fire edges over your fingers, up your arm, and back before petering out. “Who said anything about incantations? I hope you’re as good with that blade as you seem to think you are.”

“I assure you, I am. I’ve had more practice than you can possibly imagine,” he turns his nose up, puffing his chest out in bravado that makes you want to deflate that cocksure attitude.

You roll your eyes, stalking away toward the wreckage. You need to find supplies, coin, food-

“Ah-ah, sorceress!” Astarion chimes behind you with a jeering lilt that makes you close your eyes and curse under your breath as your patience wears incredibly thin.

Gods, give me strength.

“What?”

“Hells. You’re a snappy one. Are you always this rude?” He quips. “Do you have a name, or shall I just continue calling you sorceress, brute, shrew….”

“SHREW?!” You cut him off, trying very hard to hide your amusement but finally relenting and dissolving into raving laughter.

“I fail to see what’s so funny,” he peers around, crossing his arms, jutting a hip out. He’s obviously not accustomed to his jeers being scorned, but you’re not some soft-hearted juvenile.

“If you mean to upset me,” you giggle as he glares disdainfully, “you will have to try much harder than that. Until you can come up with a worthwhile slight, you may call me Kamena.”

“Kamena…” Something flashes in Astarion’s ruby-red eyes, dazzling and animated in the sunlight. His lips rap together as if he’s sampling how your name feels on his tongue. He shakes his head, sweeping the perplexity furrowing his brow away, “I would say it’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying. Now, if you’re quite done threatening me, may I suggest we get a move on?”

The spoon in your hand idly churns the thick, pasty curds of the cold porridge that was supposed to be your breakfast. You stare, disconnected and disgusted by the thought of consuming any form of nourishment despite the grumbles in your stomach indicating that you’re hungry. You slump in the chair, pushing the bowl away from you with a grimace. Your appetite is insufficient, and you can’t conjure the will to shove a spoonful of the algid, viscus goop into your mouth.

Days have turned into anxious nights with naught a syllable uttered between you and Astarion. Your heart is heavy in your chest with longing and uncertainty. He doesn’t come out of his room during the day and leaves late at night when he thinks you’ve fallen into your trance. Your nightmares have returned with a savage vengeance now that Astarion is no longer there to wake you from them before they start to escalate. Dark, puffy bags are beginning to extend under your eyes as you avoid slipping into your trance night after hopeless night. Your head spins misery like a web around your last interaction.

Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.

“Sorceress,” Tara grumbles by your side, but you’re so tired her voice is forgotten as soon as it whispers over your ears. “Kamena!” She asserts more stridently, jolting you awake.

“What?” You snap at her, digging your fingernails into the table.

“You look weary,” Tara purrs soothingly. “What troubles you?”

“I did it,” you whisper, trying to swallow the heavy shadow of your heart constricting your throat. “I told Astarion how I felt. He has not spoken to me since.”

“I see,” she considers your words and then smirks as much as her little nose will allow. “So, now he is being the idiot.”

Even with tears welling in your eyes, seeping from the corners, mutinying your control, you laugh, “I suppose you could say that.”

“Did the vampire tell you he did not feel the same?” She looks at you softly with those green eyes that hold the wisdom of a sage in their depths.

“No. Nothing like that,” you say with a tremoring voice and shake your head. “He requested I give him space.”

“And this troubles you,” she cocks her head, “this request for solace?”

“No,” you try to find the words to explain your melancholy. “No, it’s not the space. I can give him that. It’s the avoidance. The silence. He is usually so hard to shut up.” You give a meek laugh and let your head drop into your hands. “I will never get this right, will I?”

“Come, idiot,” she tilts her head toward the door. “Take a walk with me, will you?”

Tara half flies, half-scampers beside you, leading you deep into the forest. Golden sunlight flickers gently through the canopy. A brisk wind shakes the withering leaves from the trees, and they float down around you in a shower of oranges, reds and yellows. She leads you into a small alcove. Her wings flutter as she lands, stretches and settles them.

“What are we doing out here, Tara?”

“Pick a tree and make it fall.” Tara’s eyes glimmer as bold and keen as a hawk. “It matters not how.”

The request is odd, even for her. You can’t begin to fathom why in the world she would drag your sleepless, sapped self out here to simply fell a tree. You grasp the Weave and let the peaceful force thread through your muscles, giving them a pleasant buzzing tingle that starts in your toes and gambles up your spine. The incantation rolls off your tongue like poetry and the electric blue of lightening hisses as the current churns around your fingers. Picking a tree far from you or Tara, the bolt strikes true right at the base with a resounding, echoing boom that causes birds to flit away from the high boughs.

Tara shakes off the splinters of timber your grand display deposited on her fur. “Did it make a sound, sorceress?”

“Are you deaf?” You scoff. Your ears are still ringing from the blast, “Yes, of course, it made a sound.”

“When a tree falls, it tells the forest the tale of its demise, yet its seeds will grow in silence,” she says softly like a purring lullaby. “Growth and creation are often quiet. Even in this silence, you and the vampire are still growing.”

Oh, Hells. This godsdamn cat.

Shit. Tressym.

Astarion sits in the dimly lit confines of his room with his head in his hands and fingers curled in his hair. Turmoil surges within him as long-dormant fears roil, unravelling a tapestry of overwhelming emotion. He scolds himself with a scoff. He’s being a fucking fool, but those catacombs of pain and darkness have once again cast their baleful spell on him. Old insecurities he thought he had conquered paralyze him.

Cazador’s words often float through the darkness in his room. Will he ever stop hearing his voice? How many years will it take for it to fade away, lost to time like the colour of his eyes?

“You are nothing but an insignificant little insect, my boy.”

"You are no one. A monster, a fiend, a creature that can never be loved.”

“You are an abomination, unworthy of affection or compassion.”

It’s not an easy thing to untangle the web that Cazador wove. There are so many knots, snares and tangles that he keeps getting caught on. He feels trapped in this bloody prison of his own making, bound by the chains of his past. Fear has become his warden, prattling doubts that feed on his shattered self, holding him captive. Why can he not leave these things behind? Why do they keep cropping up to plague him?

Gods. He yearns for her touch, the warmth of her embrace to melt away the ice that has solidified in his veins, but shadows loom over him like monstrous spectres, threatening to extinguish any hope of happiness.

He heard the snarky feline call him an idiot today, and he’s loathe to admit it, but she’s right. Two hundred years of being surrounded by lover after lover, victim after victim, and never did he feel any real connection. Not until he met her.

“You look dreadful in that colour, sorceress.” He tuts, clicking his tongue. “That robe is quite unsightly. It leaves much to be desired.”

“It’s a good thing that you already desire me so much then,” she turns, walking backward and taunts. “Perhaps this will stop you from drooling over me like a lovesick pup.”

“I do not drool!” He scoffs.

“You’re drooling over my very delectable neck right now.” She grins, caressing her buttery skin. She does have a very lovely, biteable neck. He would not mind another nibble.

“Gods. You wish.” He crosses his arms, glowering at her presumptuousness. “No one will drool over you if you keep wearing that.”

“I think Gale finds this robe particularly attractive,” she giggles, twirling to showcase the horror show of a garment.

He attempts to remain impassive and emotionless, but a scowl devours his features nonetheless. The wizard has been all over her since she pulled him out of that damned portal. He hoped that Gale might be deterred after their little late-night tryst. It didn’t seem to dissuade him any. He should not even care if she finds herself in the arms of another. Yet, the more he witnesses Gale, Wyll, Hells, even the Gith, ogling her, flirting with her, giving her those amorous looks and suggestive comments, the more it simply rubs him the wrong way. He cannot quite comprehend why. He’s never been a jealous man before. He tells himself it’s because they might ruin his “simple plan” if they gain her affections.

“That’s not a good thing, darling. Do you see that purple curtain he’s wearing?” he snorts, grimacing.

“Need I remind you that you were also wearing purple when we met?”

“Yes, but it looks decidedly fabulous on me,” he retorts. “You look like you're wearing a burlap sack.”

“Oh,” she brings a finger to her lips and cocks her head in an adorable fashion. “Now, that’s a great idea. I shall adorn a sack on our next outing for your viewing pleasure since you seem so utterly invested in my outfits.”

“Hells below.” He grumbles. She likely will do it to get a rise out of him. “By all means, embarrass yourself further. I care not. Just have the decency to leave me at camp so I don’t have to be seen with you.”

“You know what?” She giggles, her face crinkling with the delight of teasing him. “I’ll just take it off right now. Will that shut you up, or will I have to rescue you from drowning in a puddle of your own saliva?”

“First, I cannot drown. I do not need to breathe.” He huffs, sticking his nose in the air. “Second. I do not drool. Third. I’m calling your bluff. Surely, you would not disrobe right in the middle of the road.”

“Hmm.” She ponders with her eyes cast skyward, twinkling in the fading light. A mischievous glower splits her lips, “Challenge accepted.”

“What?”

She laughs as her fingers unlace the ties on her hideous robe. His mouth drops open. Surely, she will stop. Even if she doesn’t, surely, she’s wearing something more than her undergarments under that.

Right?

…. Right?!

It falls open as she fiddles with the last couple of ties, and he’s glad she’s not looking at him because his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. She is decidedly not wearing anything other than her undergarments, and fuck, she is not stopping. He swallows thickly. She is a sight to behold, but good Gods, he does not want anyone else to behold it!

She chuckles and throws the robe over her shoulders, letting it drop to the dusty ground in a puddle around her feet and saunters off with a provocative sway of her hips. It takes him a moment to regain his poise as she strolls down the road in nothing but her underclothes and tall boots.

“What are you doing?” He grabs her robe off the ground, shaking it off and jogging to her. “Are you out of your mind? There are Goblins, Gnolls, and, ugh, Gnomes, roaming all over these parts.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I am not shy, hm?” She laughs lightheartedly. “You’re gawking, Astarion.” She leans in close, swiping a thumb over the corners of his mouth, “And drooling.”

He swallows. He might be drooling a little, but he will never admit it.

“You, my dear, are intolerable sometimes.” He smirks. This woman is full of surprises. “Now, get dressed before I hold you down and redress you forcibly.”

“No, darling,” she tuts, mocking him and poking his chest. She purses her lips, glowering defiantly at him, “I don’t believe I will.”

“I will do it, sorceress,” he asserts with a low growl. “Do not tempt me.”

She giggles and takes off in a sprint through the trees. She calls back over her shoulder, “Consider yourself tempted, Rogue.”

Day bleeds into nightfall, and you sit with your back pressed against the headboard of your bed, resting your chin on your knees as you make the fire transform into various shapes. Your ears seemingly twitch with every tick, tick, tick of the clock, which is maddening as it seems to mock every second spent without Astarion. You’ve considered breaking it several times, and tonight may be the night it meets its fiery end. You see a shadow crawling across the floor, and you jump to your feet on the mattress, looking for the offender. Your heartbeat reflexively patters in your chest as you scan the floor. Your door opens abruptly, and you yelp.

Astarion looks around and arches a brow. He leans a shoulder on the doorframe with a regaled smirk, “Let me guess,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You saw a spider.”

He knows you too well. His voice is a salve to the deafening silence, and for a moment, you just let the sound and sight of him wash over you.

“I saw the shadow of a spider,” you finally reply, eyes flicking toward the floor to make sure the errant arachnid is not crawling toward you. “I have yet to see that actual perpetrator.”

“Well,” Astarion giggles. “If you can calm the thumping of your heart. I could find this transgressor rather quickly.”

“It’s not funny, Astarion!” You scold him and cringe, “Have you seen all the legs?”

“On the contrary, darling. It’s fucking hilarious and entirely adorable.” Astarion strolls around your room with silent footsteps. He cocks his head, listening intently, “It’s under your bed.”

Fire instantly leaps to life on your fingers, and you wonder how angry Gale would be if you burned his manor to the ground. You feel like it might be justified.

“A little excessive, no?” Astarion’s hand covers yours, making you smother the flames. “Come, love.” He grabs your legs and throws you over his shoulder. “I will rescue you from this most deadly of foes.”

You giggle as Astarion strides down the hall to his room. He places you back onto your feet and closes his door. You nearly wrap your arms around him until you remember he asked for space. Instead, you fold your arms around yourself and shrink away, taking quick steps back.

He frowns at your retreat, and an awkward silence stretches between you. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant lately,” Astarion begins, breaking the silence, “I just needed time to-“

“Are you okay?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but you finally find your voice. Unfortunately, it means everything you’ve been holding in starts spewing out in a blundering regurgitation of words. “I’m sorry. It was perhaps an ill-judged confession. I don’t expect you to feel the same. Nothing will change between us if-“

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cutting off your verbal vomit. He holds you close, your body perfectly pressed into the contours of his. He takes his time tasting you, savouring your flavour with an intimacy that makes your knees feel like hot jelly.

“Well,” he smirks, breaking off the kiss, leaving you once again breathless and wordless. “That always did work wonders to shut you up. Now, will you allow me to get a word in, or shall I keep kissing you until you forget what it is you were going to say?”

“I’ve sufficiently been shut up,” you say breathily.

“Good. Sometimes, your mouth is bigger than mine.” He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing all your fingers and palms, rubbing them comfortingly, “Cazador devoted much of his time to convincing us that we were nothing, that we did not matter - not to him, not to any of the Gods, and certainly not to anyone else, and the centuries proved him right, unfortunately. No one ever saw me, really saw me. They saw the rake, the persona I portrayed, and never thought to look any further than that - until you came along with that very darling neck, all your questions, and your objective stupidity.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Astarion puts his finger against your lips and tsks you, “Uh, uh. Patience, sweetheart. It never was your strength.”

His voice is trembling with a vulnerability he seldom allows himself to display. “My past… makes me believe that I am unworthy of such love, but more to the point, it makes me unworthy of you.”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. Your features are a gentle portrait etched in a mix of concern and resolve. “Astarion,” you implore, reaching for his hand, “there is no past that can make you unworthy of love.”

“I have done… unspeakable things,” Astarion protests, casting his eyes away from you. “Things that will haunt me for eternity and beyond.”

“I’ll always be there to fight those phantoms of your past with you if you will allow me,” you assure, trying to keep your voice steady while tears streak down your hot cheeks. This is starting to sound a lot like a goodbye, and you’re not sure if you’re ready, “If you’re going to tell me you’re leaving, it’s okay. I understand.”

“What?!” Astarion looks at you with his eyebrows curved upward in shock. “Gods above. No. Come here.” Astarion pulls you in, pressing you against his chest. He only pushes you away slightly so he can guide your eyes to his and looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of our future together. I once told you the Gods sent you to ruin me. I realize now they sent you to save me. My heart is yours now and forevermore.”

He pushes you up against the door, pinning you with his hips. Your lips are locked with his in a passionate embrace. Astarion gently skims his fangs down your neck. Your hands tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. He scoops you into his arms and throws you on the bed playfully. He crawls over you, removing his shirt and catching your lips in his with a wild and ravenous desire.

He peels off your nightdress with desperation as if his hands simply cannot bear to not have your skin against them for a moment longer. Astarion kisses your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak. Your back arches off the bed, pushing yourself further into him. Your skin is hot, melting the icy chill of his, and you shudder as he bucks his hips into you.

He looks up at you through thick lashes, “What would you say if I said I wanted to make love to you tonight?”

His question consumes all the air inside your lungs, and your body goes rigid as stone. Your heartbeat kicks up as you stare at him with rounded eyes. “Astarion… What are you saying?”

“Hmm,” he cocks his head and arches a brow at you with a charming smirk, “I thought I was rather clear. No matter. Let me try that again. If a night of passion is on offer, I would very much like to make love to you tonight.”

“I… Are you comfortable with that? Are you ready? We don’t have to. We can wait for as long as you need.”

“Oh, my love,” Astarion purrs, taking your hand, kissing every knuckle while never taking his eyes off you. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off, well, mostly off, you. Do you? I have been thinking about being inside you nonstop. It has been quite distracting.”

You sweep your thumb across his cheek and along his strong jaw. Trepidation slightly pinches your brow. Good Gods. You want this, but you are afraid.

“I will stop if I need to.” Astarion assures assertively, kissing your forehead and cheek, “But I do not foresee the need. Do not hold back. I want this, Kamena. Really, really want it.”

“Hells, Astarion. I want you too.”

“I know,” he smirks as his fingers find your folds already slick with arousal. “Always so eager for me,” he teases. “Gods below. I love the way your body responds to me.”

Astarion parts you, running his fingers up and down your seam, coating them in the sleekness of your desire. He circles the border of your swollen flesh, and your hips jerk in a plea as you whine against his needy mouth. You wrap your arms around him, and Gods - he feels like he’s been made to fit in your embrace. Astarion’s arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His fingers finally sweep over your sensitive bud, and he groans as he coaxes whimpers and moans from your throat, catching your sweet cries on his lips. The outline of his desire is pressed against you. Your fingers undo the laces of his pants and grip him greedily, eliciting a hiss from his clenched teeth.

“Gods,” he pants, kicking off his trousers and freeing his throbbing cock. Precum already beads from his swollen head, and your mouth waters with the memory of the salt of him on your tongue.

Astarion sinks two fingers into you, twitching the pads up so that they hit that sweet spot that makes white flash in your vision with every languid pump. He expertly settles into a rhythm that drives you senseless. You could not keep your eyes open if you tried, and you jerk your hips, sinking his fingers deeper into you with the cry of his name.

“O-oh! Gods. A-Astarion.”

“I love the sound of my name on your tongue,” he purrs, peppering kisses down your neck, and he increases the speed of his thrusting fingers.

“Astarion…” you mewl into the crook of his neck, dragging your fingers through his hair as your muscles tighten. “F-fuck. You’re s-so good. I’m going to… fuck. Astarion! You’re going to make me…”

“Yes,” he groans, guttural and eager, as you both drown in each other. “Let me feel you come.”

Your head drops back, and you cry out with the pure blissful intensity of your climax. Your core grips his fingers, clutching and spasming around him as he hauls you tightly to him and catches your lips in a savage and passionate kiss.

He’s between your legs before you’ve fully recovered, hooking your knee with his. His hands guide your hips in little rolls against him as he glides his cock that weeps with his arousal through your folds. The chill of him on your heated sex is decadent, bracing and sets your nerves aflame.

“Hells,” he purrs with a heavy breath, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His voice is gentle, yet rough as sandpaper. “I will go slow. Tell me if it hurts or if you need to stop.”

“Make love to me, Astarion,” you murmur, kissing his chest, nipping his neck playfully, and letting your lips whisper up to the tapered point of his ear.

Astarion gasps, shuddering and curling his fingers into your hair. He eases in inch by delicious inch, slowly working you open. You let out a pained whine, and he stills, allowing your body time to adjust to his girth. Gods. The stretch is such a pleasurable kind of pain that you wrap your legs around him and plunge him into you, savouring the fullness.

“Shit,” he hisses, blinking slowly, looking into your eyes. “You feel divine wrapped around my cock, Kamena,” he pants darkly. “Fuck. I missed this.”

He thrusts, tender and sensual, almost painfully teasing in the measured pace. He rocks his hips into you, coming to his forearms and caging you beneath him, pressing himself into every curve of your body as if he cannot possibly get close enough. You sputter nonsensically, twisting your fingers into his silky silver curls. Astarion increases his tempo, and you buck your hips in time to meet his thrust. He presses kisses to your forehead, your cheek, and down your neck. You roll your head to the side in an offering.

He growls, unadulterated and wanton. His fangs sink into your neck. Your eyes snap open. Your hands grab the taut muscles of his side, and then the pain ebbs to an all-consuming ecstasy as you’re spiralling through his body and drizzling in his veins. Your skin prickles as you chase your release. Astarion’s hips stutter as your walls flutter around his hard length, and he moans, a sinfully heavenly rumble deep in his chest. Astarion’s pace becomes less measured and masterful, his movements frantic and hungry.

When you’re walking on the precipice of your orgasm, Astarion rests his forehead on yours. His face is twisted in pleasure, lips parted, taking heavy breaths with every snap of his hips. It’s a beautiful sight that brings tears to your eyes. Astarion purrs, “I love you.”

Fuck. That’s it. That is your undoing, and you crash into a blissful rapture so intense you’re sure that your heart skips several beats.

With one last plunging pump, Astarion joins you as your core is still in the throes of clenching and spasming, massaging him. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself into you, “Gods above. Oh, f-fuck! Kamena!”

You wrap your arms around him and take his panting lips, dragging him into a ravaging kiss, pressing your sweat-slicked bodies together. Astarion rolls, somehow keeping his cock in you, catching you in his arms and pulling you atop him. You nuzzle your face into him, breathing in his scent. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he heaves a contented sigh.

“You are perfect,” he coos, pressing a kiss into your mussed-up hair and checking the bite on your neck. His breathing is as uneven as yours, “Every time.”

You lay there with him for a while - you’re not quite sure how long, while his hand skates up and down your back, and he hums comfortingly. You could stay like this forever, wrapped in his embrace, sheltered and shielded from your troubles and worries.

Eventually, after your heartbeat settles, you crane your neck to look at Astarion. He smiles at you with ardent love impassioned in the vibrant scarlet of his eyes, “Are you okay?”

Astarion chuckles and points to his temple, “Up here, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I am free, safe, and happy.” He sweeps some wild strands of your hair back and runs his fingers along your jaw, “I have you in my arms, in my bed and on my cock. It would be a most grievous understatement to say I am simply okay.”

“So vulgar!” You giggle, “Are all vampires so crude?”

“Oh yes,” he drawls, grinning devilishly. “It’s a well-loved pastime of ours. We often meet to exchange vulgarities to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses.”

“I would love to see you unleash some of those upon Gale,” You laugh, letting your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arm, “I wonder how red he would get.”

“Sweetheart,” he snickers, “Gale would positively expire on the spot if he heard some of the things that come out of my mouth. Even yours. You are not innocent, sorceress.” He leans close to your ear and gives you a playful jostle, “I’ve heard some delicious, sinfully indecent things from your very lovely lips.”

“I learned from the best,” you quip with a clever flare in her eye.

“Oh, as much as I would adore taking the credit,” he chuckles with a wicked grin. “I think you’ve always been an absolute freak.”

When you wake, you’re famished, and Astarion practically pushes you out of bed, grumbling about how your growling stomach annoyed him all night.

“You’re a vampire,” you retort, giggling at the look of annoyance scrunching up his face. “You don’t even need to trance.”

“Need and want,” he tuts, clicking his tongue, “are very different things. Now, get out of my bedroom and eat something.” Astarion’s lips quirk up, lop-sided and handsome. His curls are mussed, falling with reckless abandon. He winks, “I have some very depraved, hedonistic plans for you later. If you hope to keep up with me, you need your strength.”

Good Gods. You're already wet. Astarion chuckles as you roll your eyes and slink out of the bedroom. The remnant of your night together is still sticky between your thighs, and your skin prickles with the exhilaration of it all.

Astarion is here, in your bed, in your hands and in you.

“Good morning!” Gale greets you as soon as you step into the kitchen. “I trust you had a… good night?”

You hear Astarion’s loud laughter echoing through the manor and try to stifle your own.

Oh… shit.

“You could say that.” You feel the blush burning your cheeks.

Gale chuckles, sipping his tea while you shovel cut-up fruit into your mouth. The silence is a little awkward, and you’re not sure if participating in useless small talk will make it worse or better, so you opt to stay quiet.

There’s a tap on the door that makes you jump, “I’ll get it. Gale, are you expecting someone?”

“I don’t believe so.” Gale’s brows pinch, and then he smirks, “It’s likely a neighbour coming to make a noise complaint.”

You groan, feeling the heat erupt, rushing back to your face. The early morning sun dazzles you as it streams into the open doorway, blinding you momentarily. When you blink, you realize it’s not the sun that blinds you; it's the gleaming of the silver, metallic armour of the guards standing before you.

“That’s her!” Mr. Blackwell snarls from behind the City Watch guards. The noble is bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut, his lip split and seeping, and a cheekbone that appears to be broken along with many of his teeth. “She’s the one who assaulted me!”

“No!” You gasp as the guards grab your arms, forcing them behind your back. “I didn’t do this!”

“Save it for the courts,” the guard drones, paying your protests no consideration as iron manacles snap shut around your wrists, biting into your skin with an uncomfortable pinch.

“Gale!” You shout over your shoulder as they drag you away. “Don’t let him do anything utterly fucking foolish!”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We are finally getting to the smutty goodness :)

And then Kamena is entirely ripped away from the promise of these depraved plans. I, for one, would kill Mr. Blackwell simply for that alone.

#astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #shadows of the past #astarion bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x named tav #astarion spawn #spawn astarion

82 notes · View notes