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fangsandfracturedhearts · 15 hours

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 15: Reclamation

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6.6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

A maelstrom of emotions dithers over the union you share. He seems unsure of what exactly he should be feeling as it fluctuates between fear, doubt, and bewilderment in a tumultuous outburst. His thoughts are akin to walking on the dark side of the moon - frigid, wilful in their grip on him with an undecipherable sapidity.

“What do you mean?” He shakes his head, eyes bouncing around as his brows pinch, creasing his forehead. His voice is detached and reticent, a masterpiece of regret and dolour. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, surely. Would I? Hells below. Did I?”

“You must have,” you conclude, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “I don’t remember you doing it, but I can’t hear or remember it.”

Astarion jumps to his feet, nearly pitching you off his lap in haste, but he grabs you at the last minute, dragging you up with him. He pulls his trousers up but leaves them loose as he paces fitfully, muttering and mumbling to himself and wracking his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t understand,” he utters, half to himself and half to you. “I just do not understand. Why would I do such a thing? How long ago did I do this? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It’s not your fault.

“I think it was before I…” you trail off, squeezing your eyes closed at the memory of Astarion stalking you through the Crimson Palace hallways like a predator, caustic venom spitting from his lips, every word eating away at your soul.

“Left me,” Astarion finishes with a note of despair, like a cold hand laid upon your bare soul. “You can say it.”

You nod sullenly, dropping your head, deject and wayward.

His emotions are flickering through your mind and body like a kaleidoscope of lightning strikes, each blinding flash incomprehensible in its intensity. You focus, but Astarion stops dead as you try to catch and hold them, and the connection is severed.

You are once again empty, a barren midnight sky that’s misplaced the stars and moon. Your eyes snap to Astarion, but the scarlet of his eyes looks hollow with madness as he regards you with the wariness of a wounded animal. He looks at you like he doesn’t know who you are, and it sends a wave of alarm coursing through you, causing your palms to heat.

He retrieves his shirt from the floor, always keeping a close eye on you as if you might pounce. He’s unreadable and cold, the iron countenance of the Vampire Ascendant shrouding him like an icebound veil. Without a word, Astarion darts out of your room, descending the stairs at a whirlwind pace that would be perilous for anyone who wasn’t so agile.

“Astarion?” In confusion, you chase after him without much thought, nearly tumbling down the stairs, and grab his arm. “Where are you going?”

He rips his arm out of your clutches with a bestial snarl. “Don’t touch me!”

“Just wait,” you plead with him, casting Misty Step and blocking his trajectory to the door. You can’t make heads or tails of this shift. “Please. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help.”

“You can’t help me.”

Astarion tries to get around you, but you won’t secede any ground and hold your position with foolish defiance. He grabs your arm, pivots, and thrusts you backward, throwing you to the floor. When you look up at him, those crimson eyes are starting to flick and fade like a star in the throes of death.

“Do not try and stop me again,” he growls, taking stalking steps toward you with a choler tinge in his voice. “Bad, pet.”

Astarion laughs, leans down, and grabs your ankle. He squeezes until the bones are wailing and threatening to break under duress. You whimper, beseeching cries for amnesty, trying to crawl away.

“Master, stop! Please.” You barely recognize the word as it jumps off your tongue in your agony. The haunting palette of bruising is immediately stained on the ghostly white canvas of your skin.

His grip is suddenly snapped away, and he springs back, grabbing his head with a pained groan, shaking it from side to side furiously as he roots himself in place. His breath falters as his eyes meet yours with a hysterical acidity as their claret shifts from deep and warm to shoal and dull as if covered by a thick layer of dust.

“Sorry,” he totters unsteadily on his feet, his lips parting with erratic breaths that make his chest jump aperiodically. His heart beats so hard in his chest that the sound is almost ear-splitting. “Hells. I’m so sorry. I— I— must go.”

Astarion does not even close the door in his urgency, and you’re left naked, clutching your ankle on the floor, staring into the street with your mouth agape. You cast Telekinesis to throw the door closed and limp around the manor, closing the heavy drapes to block the sun.

“Fuck!” You scream at the emptiness surrounding you as you pull yourself up the stairs on your lame ankle.

As you bathe, you allow your body to submerge into the spacious tub. You force yourself to forgo the useless impulse to breathe the air you no longer require and sink. The water’s surface contorts above you like an uneven mirror, twisting and warping reality. Everything is falling apart, and you feel like the sand of a beach being dragged away piece by piece with every crash of another wave upon the shore of your life.

Your heart would be beating recklessly in your chest if you hadn’t been alleviated of life. Colourful promises of love and breaths of forever in a realm of temporary fill your eyes with tears that seep into the water. Time stands still, and your doubt settles and masks your bravery. You’re one step closer to losing him entirely, but you must be fearless. Neither you nor Astarion can afford for you to fall.

Closing your eyes, you run headfirst into memories, searching your soul for all the places that feel like home.

The thudding of boots, the drip of rain that sneaks through the fissures in the bricks, the skittering and squeaking of vermin — everything echos off the stone in Moonrise. The fire throws foreboding, eerie shadows in slinking shapes across your tent that make you uneasy. No one wanted to camp here for the night, with the Absolute Cultists only floors below, but it had been a long journey through the Shadowlands, and the hungry shade had sapped everyone’s strength.

You flop restlessly on the furs in your tent, unable to trance. You had been counting the cultists inhabiting this wretched place as you made your rounds, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout. The omen of the arduous battle hangs over you, and you’re trying to devise some semblance of a plan to wipe them out in stages. You were never a very strategic planner. Typically, showing up and raining fire, violence, and death have worked for most of your life. Even with the help of the Harpers, one mistake could spell disaster.

Your ears twitch as you hear the rumbling murmurs bounce off the walls, and you’re out of your tent in a blink with fire ablaze in your palm, fearing the cultists have figured out that you don’t fit within their ranks. Taking a lap around, you take a quick headcount, checking your friends off one by one until you hear a soft, breathy whimpering.

Astarion…

Crouching by his tent, you whisper his name, but he does not answer. You recognize a nightmare when you hear one, and your hurt lurches in your chest, fingers hovering just over the door of his tent, but you don’t open it. Your proximity is usually enough to calm him without waking him, and this time seems no different. The trashing has stopped, and his muttering has ceased.

You sigh, relieved, and lay down at the door, curling up on the hard stone. You will rest here tonight if it means you can bring him even a scrap of peaceful rest.

“Darling,” Astarion purrs in a rugged timbre, heavy under the weight of drowsiness. “Whatever are you doing?”

You smile and flop over to peer into the hypnotic, heavily-lidded eyes. Astarion yawns, fangs peeking from his lips, and grins back at you.

“You were having a nightmare,” you whisper, making sure to keep your voice down so it doesn’t wake the others. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep. I’ll stay here tonight.”

“You were going to sleep out here on the stone?” He cocks his head, quirking a brow at you. “Why?”

“It seemed to comfort you,” you shrug.

"I meant, why would you sleep out here when there's a perfectly good bedroll in my tent with me?”

“Oh,” you say, sitting upright with a jolt. “That’s okay, Astarion. Really. I’m perfectly fine out here.”

“Get in here, weirdo," Astarion giggles, grabbing your arm and giving it a gentle tug.

You hesitate, but he tows you harder, and eventually, you relent and crawl into his tent. You sit in the corner, trying to make yourself small, wrapping your arms around your knees.

Astarion huffs exasperatedly, “You do realize that we’ve had sex, yes? You were hardly shy during our little late-night expeditions.”

“I’m not shy, not with you,” you giggle but avidly watch how Astarion’s jaw clenches, fingers tangling into the furs. “You’re hungry. I can see it. I can’t imagine it’s comfortable to be so close to a food source in a confined space.”

“I’ll admit, it’s not easy when you’re so very delicious with that lovely neck, begging to be tasted,” he grins, an artificial smile meant to put you at ease. Astarion notices that he cannot fool you, and his fingers rifle through his hair. “I’m fine. Truly. You’re not in any danger around me. I can control my hunger.”

“Danger? Oh, Gods! No, Astarion.” You shake your head at him, offering your hand, and he takes it. His thumb sways softly over the back, “I’m not afraid you’ll hurt me. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. When’s the last time you fed?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. There was that cultist I made a snack of a couple of days ago. You needn’t concern yourself with it. I’ve gone much, much longer without a meal.”

There’s a bleakness shading the sculpted angles of his face that makes your heart palpate with empathy. You don’t have to ask for confirmation. Cazador obviously starved him as some form of punishment. It makes your palms heat in reflex as you seethe. You don’t care what it takes. You are going to kill the motherfucker who dared torture this man that’s stolen your heart.

“Astarion, whenever you’re hungry, I’m happy to offer my neck. All you have to do is ask.”

“That’s very… sweet, but the very shadows of this place are hungry.” Astarion sighs, wrapping his arms around his waist to smother his hunger pains. He smiles, “As much as I would absolutely love to take you here and now, you need your strength. We have many battles ahead.”

“Don’t be dumb," you tut, moving your hair away from your neck. “I need you strong. I am capable of deciding this for myself. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

“Dumb? Darling! You wound me.” He theatrically scoffs, hand to his forehead, falling back as if you slapped him, with a shallow chuckle, “I have received many slights in my life - Insufferable, insolent, insignificant, but this might be the first time I have been accused of being dumb.”

“Well, they say there’s a first time for everything,” you smirk, levity uplifting the lilt of your baritone. “Consider this your first.”

“You are racking up quite the catalogue of firsts,” he chuckles, shaking his head, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you sure? I am truly of sound mind. No one is in any danger.”

You crawl toward him, heart rate accelerating with every forward movement of your hands and knees, “Will you please shut up and bite me already? Before I berate you for believing I think you’re a danger.”

Astarion’s hand wraps around your arm, persuading you closer with pressure, but he does not so much as glance at your exposed neck. He’s fixed on your eyes as if he’s found heaven hidden within them.

“Then allow us to dine together,” he nods slowly, eyes still moored to yours as he sits upright, prompts you to turn, and holds your back steady against his chest. He kisses under your earlobe and hints his lips down the column of your neck until he settles on that rhythmically pumping vein. He kisses it, long and lingering, and groans, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you sigh, barely able to contain your body’s excitement as it trembles in his arms.

His fangs puncture your skin like icicles, impaling the soft flesh, but it ebbs and dulls to a paradisical strumming before your mind has time to react and withdraw. For a vampire that has not fed on thinking creatures much, he’s remarkably gentle and has only become more tender since you started these little meals. He draws from you in unhurried pulls, tallied and modulated as he listens, and his palm splays across your chest over your heart to determine its pace in case he does not hear it accurately.

You feel your ethos skimming through his veins, warming his skin, flushing the tips of his ears, an antidote to his pain. You sigh mellowly, and your fingers untwist from his trousers, going lax. His arousal hardens against your back as he removes his fangs from your neck, tongue lavishing at the residual weeping wounds with broad, flat strokes and moaning a chilled breath over the shell of your ear.

Astarion turns your head toward him, catching your lips in a blistering kiss tinged with the coppery piquancy of your blood. His hips buck into you with a growl, and his hand veers toward your aching clit. You stop him short, grabbing his hand with a shudder.

“What are you doing?” You breathe against the needy, silken embrace of his mouth.

“You’ve been ever so generous,” he purrs. “Allow me to repay your charity in a language I speak proficiently.”

“No,” you break away from the kiss and his arms. Your head swims, bloodless and faint. Your heart hammers, trying to pump the blood no longer within your veins. You sway on your knees, and Astarion supports you with a hand on your shoulder lest you faceplant, “This isn’t a tit-for-tat offer, Astarion. There is no repayment. I am just one friend assisting another. That’s all.”

“I— You don’t want me?”

His genuine confusion encases your heart in a boiling bubble of sorrow, “You know I do, but not like this. I don’t want you if it’s compensation for my blood.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the only thing I know,” he looks bashful. If you didn’t know better, you would say he’s blushing, but that must be the rush of your blood through his veins. “Would you at least rest with me tonight while you're woozy? I will hear if anything untoward happens in camp, and I can protect both of us if need be.” He puts his hands up innocently, “I will keep my hands to myself. You have my word.”

“Do you think--" you trail off, bringing your hand to your forehead that seems to beat in time with your angry heart and groan. “That is to say— Could we —“

“Good Gods, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “Spit it out already before you lose consciousness. I did not take that much.”

Your arms drop by your sides, and you giggle with him, suddenly lethargic, “Never mind. I’ll sleep over here.”

“Now, who is being positively dumb,” he scoffs, clicking his tongue at you. “If you want to cuddle, you have but to ask. You know I do rather like cuddling with you.”

“If you know what I want,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Why are you making a spectacle out of me?!”

“Entertainment,” he shrugs, laughing carefree and alight with humour.

“You’re terrible,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smirks, lying back and extending his arms, twitching his fingers in the come-hither motion. “Come on, love. Let’s have a cuddle, shall we?”

The bath water has turned cold by the time your eyes slide back open. You’re still lying at the bottom of the tub, in a watery grave like a sunken ship. How long have you been in here? Once your brain recognizes that you haven’t taken a breath in what could be hours, instinct takes over, and you propel yourself upright, coughing, sputtering, and gulping down the air furiously.

You scoff at yourself with antipathy. How long will it take for these responses to abate? When will your body just accept that you’re fucking dead?

Wrapping a plush towel around yourself, you listen for the comforting thud of Astarion’s heart but are only met with tomblike silence. It frightens you, making your stomach feel aflutter in your abdomen, reminding you of the Gur attack when you thought you lost him.

You slip into a long-sleeved, purple dress and tentatively peek outside. The velveteen embrace of twilight has cloaked the sky, but the cloud cover is thick, eclipsing the moonlight. You can smell the rain before the heavens have decided to cry. Reaching out to the bond, Astarion does not answer your call.

Fuck this.

You trot through the street, smelling the air. You wince with every step as the injury to your ankle smarts, but the bruising is already receding. It will not be long until it’s healed.

Unfortunately for you, the streets are still relatively busy, and your bloodlust is ever-present and a daunting task to control as you swerve and juke around people. Your mouth waters, and you shake your head like a wet dog to rid yourself of the smog that dampens and threatens to dwarf your self-restraint. The rain starts to drizzle, just as you predicted. The drops plane down your face, and you curse the skies because the scent of the rainfall on the dry stone of the street hampers your ability to detect much else.

You arrive at Wyrm's Crossing and follow the strong scent of blood outside a structure you are familiar with - the flophouse where Astarion's siblings were. The building is ominously dark and far too quiet. You sniff the air. It tastes almost bitter on your tongue, and it’s hard to focus on anything but the metallic richness, but you vaguely make out notes of rosemary and bergamot. You try to open the door, but it’s locked. Locks are hardly a challenge. You cast Knock and crack the door open. The fragrance of blood wafts so thickly in the air that you swear you almost see technicolour as you swoon.

It’s pitch-black inside, and your feet immediately come into contact with a stiff, cold mass on the floor, tripping you. Fire bursts to life in your palm, and mutilated bodies greet the illumination with milky eyes. Some have their intestines spilling out of their abdomens like gooey red ribbons. Others are missing the bottom of their jaw with their meaty tongues lolling out. These people were not just merely killed. They were brutalized, mutilated, and mauled.

A thick slick of congealing blood sloshes around your boots. It drips off the ceiling and down the walls like scarlet raindrops shed from dark skies, softly signifying sorrow's sharp sting. If your heart had not already hardened to macabre scenes like this, you imagine you would be sick. Instead, true to the monster you’ve become, it takes considerable effort not to drop to your knees and start lapping up the sanguine nectar like some thirsty mutt.

You are veritably shaking under the duress of temptation as you crawl over bodies to the one heartbeat that remains. Astarion sits at a table in an alcove in the back with a bottle of spirits clutched in his hand, several more littered around his feet on the floor. He stares abstractly at nothing, a million miles away, bleak and cold.

“Astarion…” you whisper, trying to get a decent look into his eyes.

“Darling?” His brows round when he looks at you, frowning and narrowing his glossy eyes. “You are afraid. Oh, no-no. Don’t be afraid. I didn’t mean to…” He’s confused, and it breaks your heart. “I killed them all, but I don’t remember. I am me now. I’m me - Astarion.”

“I know,” you purr, noticing that he seems to have to remind himself of who he is. “It’s okay.”

“Okay?” He scoffs, bringing the bottle to his lips and tilting his head back. He sways in his chair, causing it to creak, “This is about as far from okay as it gets. Did you not hear me? I killed them. I killed all of them.”

“I heard you,” you cradle his cheek and walk his gaze away from the body he seems fixed on. “We need to go home, Astarion. Before somebody finds us here.”

“Why?” He snaps, gesturing around with a satirical chuckle, “I will probably just kill them too. Or perhaps I will simply compel them to forget their names or their entire lives. Why stop there? How far do you think my power goes? Do you think I could compel them to forget how to breathe?”

“Astarion, please,” you slip the bottle from his fingers and crouch with your hand on his thigh. “Come with me.”

“I hurt you again today,” he sighs, staring at his empty hand with furrowed brows. “How do you sleep with me in the same residence? The same bed? How can you even stand to look at me? Gods. You must fucking hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you cannot help the tears pricking your eyes. He looks lost as his eyes roam aimlessly, climbing toward the ceiling. “I love you.”

“You love me… Do you regret it?” He whispers, curling his empty hand into a fist repeatedly as if he’s unsure if the hand he’s looking at belongs to him, “Helping me complete the Rite, allowing me to turn you, falling in love with me.”

“No,” your answer is immediate, and the uncompromising intonation surprises even you. “The only thing I regret is that we did not know enough about the Rite.”

“You’re lying,” he concludes, hollow, distant, and abject.

“Open the bond and check my truthfulness if you wish,” you retort. Your whole body shakes as you try to make sense of this broken man before you, “I wanted to be with you for eternity. Everything has a cost. I paid it willingly.”

“Do you know why I turned you?” He asks, face contorting with an anguish you did not believe you would ever see adorn his features again. The corners of his mouth are downturned, eyebrows dropping at the ends, “Do you know why I was so adamant that this was the only way our relationship could continue?”

“I don’t know, Astarion,” you sigh soft and sullen. “I don’t care. What’s done is done.”

“Tell me!” He snarls, slamming his fist into the table and cracking it down the middle, “Tell me why you think I did it! Tell me why you think I fucking killed you!”

You finally relent and sob openly. “Why do you do anything now, Astarion? You wanted to possess me, control me, own me, and make me your obedient puppet.”

“No, my love,” he heaves a tremulous sigh, shaking his head. His eyes are vacant and unseeing, blinking slowly. “Nothing so sinister as that. I was afraid. I was still fucking afraid. I knew you would age and die while I remained the same forever. You would leave me alone again, and I feared a world, a life, without you. I took your life and bound you to me for eternity for no other reason than selfishness, but I always was remarkably selfish. Wasn’t I?” Astarion gazes around at the grisly affair of his making, “Why can’t I remember? I am sick. Aren’t I?”

“We will save you,” you slip your finger under his chin like he’s done to you so often and direct his gaze to yours. Your eyes blister with resolve, and your voice bleeds the same, trying to fill him with strength, “But I need you to keep fighting, Astarion. You must not give up.”

“For you,” he murmurs as his eyes finally appear cognizant. Astarion slides out of his chair, descending to his knees before you like you made you do a lifetime ago, and wraps his arms around you. He presses his cheek against your stomach and whimpers, fingers curling into your clothes. “I will fight to my last, my love.”

Sunlight filters into the window, golden rays bathing the room as your eyes flutter open. You nuzzle against the silk pillowcase before your mind bombards you with memories of your skin loosening, dripping, cracking, and the agony that arrested even screams from your throat. You nearly leap off the bed in terror, but solid arms wrap around your waist, pulling your back against the strong muscles of a warm chest.

“It’s okay,” Astarion purrs, grappling with your trashing. He places a soft kiss on your shoulder. “I am here. The sun cannot harm you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

It takes your still hazy consciousness a moment to accept the promise of safety before you relax in his embrace with a sigh and roll over to face Astarion, looping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck. You can smell his blood pumping through his veins just below the surface of that pristine, silken skin, and your mouth waters. Your body urges you to bite, stomach knotting into cramps with the promise of that aromatic, richly decadent blood.

So close.

Before you know what you’re doing, your mouth is open, fangs hovering, and your body seizes. Astarion laughs genuinely, such a sparkling, airy rumble from his perfect lips as they pull into a smile against your cheek.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” He giggles, pushing you away, shaking his head with that playful glower, “Can’t get enough? I’m not surprised.” Astarion sinks his fangs into the fanning veins of his wrist and holds it out to you. “Remember, no biting and mind your teeth.”

You’re almost drooling at the oneiric vision of the weeping wounds. The scent of his blood is intoxicating - warm, full-bodied ferrous. The bright red drink of the Gods is a stark contrast to his pale skin, and it takes everything you have in you not to lunge for it. The offer of his blood is new and a little unsettling if you’re being honest.

“Go ahead,” his eyes dart to his dribbling wrist, brows furrowing at your hesitation. “This is no trick. Feed.”

He looks contrite, but there is a new tenderness in the way his eyes are fixed on you like you are shelter from the storm brewing behind his scarlet irises. You cannot handle it any longer. You take his wrist as gently as your fumbling fingers can possibly manage in your near frenzied bloodlust, bringing your lips to the wound. It tastes even better straight from his body, and your eyes roll back with a moan as you focus with a substantial amount of effort on drawing in slow, measured sips instead of trying to drain him dry in an instant.

“That’s enough,” Astarion instructs eventually, tugging his wrist just slightly. You could never get enough of this ambrosia on your tongue, descending into your stomach and making your nerves combust with delight. Your grip tightens on his wrist, and you growl at him, low and throaty.

“Hells,” Astarion groans pleasurably, eyes rolling back. His body trembles with excitement and pleasure. He enjoys this as much as you. He shakes his arm roughly and commands a little more harshly this time. “Love. I said that’s enough. Don’t be a greedy thing now.”

It’s enough to crack the haze that’s fallen over your mind, and you throw yourself from back, detaching from his wrist with panicked breaths. You’re sure when you look at him again, you will be staring at the embodiment of Mephistopheles psychosis, “I’m sorry, Astarion. I’m sorry.”

“Hey-hey,” Astarion coos deeply, like a warm auditory hug on a cold winter’s night. “It’s alright. I’m not angry.”

“You’re not?” You cannot help the stain of surprise that blooms in your voice.

“No, love,” he chuckles, his fingers pressing into your waist, encouraging you to cuddle, and you curl up against his side. He sweeps his thumb across your lower lip, gathering the blood smeared on it and pops it into his mouth with a sly grin. “I was a young vampire too, once upon a century, and I was certainly over-enthusiastic with my consumption of you the first time. It takes time. I can help you with it. We can practice like this.”

Your brows furrow, creasing as you try to think through the residual film of mist. This man is entirely too perplexing. It feels like you’re always trying to run from him, convincing yourself that everything is a trick, that you must be on guard at all times so you don’t get close, but is this just a way for you to hide from what you fear most of all - that you will be unable to save him, and you will lose him all over again.

There’s just no fucking time for this anymore. There is no more time to lose.

Astarion directs your gaze to him, “What’s going on in that beautiful mind?”

“Do you remember what you said last night?”

Astarion’s brows round, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, “Yes.”

“Was any of it real?” You murmur, pushing yourself upright so you can look at him. You request the bond, and Astarion and you unite, transcending time and space, melding together. It takes you a moment to gather yourself, “Or were you just drunk?”

“I meant every word.” Astarion turns suddenly serious, sitting and sagging against the headboard, “I wish to speak to you about something.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am fine.” He combs his fingers through his hair, “You called me Master. I do not wish you to call me that - think of me in those terms. Is that how you see me? As your… ugh,” he casts his eyes to the ceiling, “Master ?”

“No,” you snap, but it’s a lie, and you know it, which means he knows it through the union. You backpedal, “Yes. It is what you are, Astarion. Whether you or I like it, I am your spawn, and you are my master. This is just reality. It will do us no good to pretend that the dynamic of our relationship is different.”

Disappointment slashes across the bond like a blade cutting into your heart. It’s so strong that it physically aches in your chest, and you splay your hand across it and whimper.

Astarion shakes his head, eyes downcast, “I do not want to be your master, little love. I never did. I did not make you a regular spawn.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Astarion. What do you mean you didn’t make me a regular spawn? What other kind of spawn is there?”

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, taking a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He leans, opens a drawer and produces a book that looks ancient. Its cover is dulled by timeless centuries, and its spine is broken with loose pages precariously tucked in. His fingers tap the book, staring at it as if he dreads what he’s about to do.

He gives you a skeptical sideways look and passes you the book, “Page 152.”

Opening the book, you flip through the musty, yellowed pages until you reach page 152, titled “The Dark Kiss.” You scan the page, reading it once, twice, three times while Astarion stares at you with an unreadable expression. You can feel him in your head, looking through your eyes, thrusting into the folds of your mind, penetrating the softness of your soul, caressing your most intimate thoughts.

There’s trepidation in him. Your soul practically quivers under the weight of his unease. He is afraid of your reaction, and the entity within him is stoking those glowing embers of worry with its babbling breaths of affirmations, trying to ignite an inferno of fear that will melt through the shackles of his control.

“You need to explain this to me, Astarion,” you gawk at him, swallowing thickly as the information slowly sinks in. You’re unsure if the nervousness making your stomach warp is truly yours or his.

“I made you my bride – consort,” he does not look at you when he speaks. His eyes stare blankly at his twitching fingers. “How many times did I bite you that night?”

“Uh,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recall the memory fogged over from blood loss, “Three. Once when we had sex, once on my wrist, and then my neck.”

Astarion nods, “I don’t remember much from that night, high as I was on the power of 7000 souls, but I do recall my intent. I bit you three times, as described in the book you’re holding, and then gave you my own blood. I told you this bond was unique to you and me because it’s only shared with a bride.”

“I’m sorry.” You rack your fingers through your hair, tousling it into an incomprehensible mess to match your whirling, tangled thoughts, “Are you trying to tell me that we are - what? Vampire married?”

Astarion smirks at the bewilderment adorning your face but looks bashful, “I suppose that’s an accurate description, yes.”

“And you declined to tell me this until now because?”

“Honestly?” Astarion’s eyes drift once again to the ceiling, “I meant to. I had every intention of telling you the truth, and then... I enjoyed the power, the superiority I had over you. I saw fear in your eyes when you looked at me, and I liked it. I liked you believing you were nothing. I wanted to revel in it. It fed the sickness within, and then I was... lost for a while.”

“What does this mean for me exactly?” It takes incredible effort to keep the rising panic from your voice.

Astarion’s eyes widen as your whirlwind of terror is added to the mixture of emotions between you, “It means you’re not quite a spawn, not quite a True Vampire, but as close as one could get while still being bound to me and under my control should I choose to exert it over you. I believe it can be reversed, should you wish it so. I’d have to do a little research--”

“No!” you blurt out in a yelping retort that makes Astarion flinch. He assumes your anxiety is due to being bound to him in such a way, you realize. The truth of it is your panic is a shadow looming over the increasingly dire odds of everything you stand to lose.

A friend. A lover. A partner. A... husband?

You smirk at the notion, pushing away that worry - you have time to worry later. Right now, you want to enjoy this. It’s the closest you have gotten to Astarion telling you he loves you. Perhaps, the closest you will ever get, and some sad speck of your soul laps at that wound and dabs it with this new information as if it might cure the incurable.

“Well,” you shift into his lap, leaning into the asylum he’s promising you through the bond, “I’m definitely going to start calling you husband now. I hope you’re prepared for that.”

“HA!” Astarion giggles, shaking his head with an endearingly lop-sided grin. His unkempt silver curls fall and bounce carelessly, “But of course. I can deny you nothing, wife. I wish to try and undo what he,” he corrects himself. “…I did - your name. I might be able to reverse it, but I’m not entirely sure how. You need to trust me, and I can feel you do not.”

You’re a little bemused that there is something Astarion doesn’t know how to do, and you grin at him, your fangs peeking out of your lips.

“Good Gods,” he rolls his eyes at you with a heartwarming smirk. “I am all-powerful, not all-knowing. Compelling is instinctive. Releasing it is another story entirely.”

You want to trust him. Gods above, you long to trust him like you used to, but how can you, given what you know? You wrench on the tide of the bond, causing it to spill and break over you as ocean waves crash upon boulders that dare protrude from its surface. You scour the chords of the harmony, picking them apart note by note, feeling for any sign of manipulation, deceit, or ill intent. Astarion flinches, squeezing his eyes shut with a wheeze, but he does not attempt to stop your search. You find nothing, but then again, he is the Vampire Ascendant. If he wants to hide something from you, he will.

If you want to get your name back, you have little choice.

“Do it,” you confirm.

“Look into my eyes,” Astarion purrs in a deep baritone. “Remember, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing.”

Bringing your eyes to his, the crimson in his eyes sparks alive, like little matches aglow in the red sea, and you have never seen sparks quite so beautiful.

The sensation starts mellow, like the flow of a calm spring, as it trickles through your mind. It feels like liquid fingers whispering against your psyche. The sensation makes your skin prickle, and goosebumps erupt all over. You want to shudder, but your body cannot move. Tributaries branch off and stream until your whole brain feels like it is being grasped by a hand.

And that’s where the pain begins in a sudden influx, a steely, jarring stab, and it feels like his fingers are in your brain, parting every crimp, crease, bend and wrinkle like you are a tome to be read. You’re unsure how long you can take this as he picks your mind apart, looking for whatever compulsion does. You manage to let out a whine, and his eyes flick.

“I know it hurts,” he soothes. “Just a little more, I think. Can you hold on?”

You can only whimper your response. You’re not sure if it sounds like a no or a yes. He continues his dismantling forage, ferreting around in your mind. Suddenly, something changes. All those tributaries and calm, flowing springs snap into one spot, and white-hot pain blooms in your eyesight, blinding you. You’re positive he’s cutting a piece of brain matter right out of your skull. You want to writhe, to scream, to beg him to stop, but you cannot.

You wonder if you might pass out, and then you hope you pass out as the pain becomes more than you can bear. Sharp, like a red-hot blade, has punctured your skull, pierced your brain, and is now broiling against your grey matter. Your vision starts to tunnel, black borders encroaching, blurring everything but the glow from Astarion’s eyes.

Just as you think you're going to lose consciousness, a knot untangles, an invisible barrier crumples, and the bondage on your body eases.

“Hey,” Astarion jostles you, fingers brushing sweaty strands of hair behind your ear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you breathe shakily. “It’s fine. Did it work?”

“I think so?” Astarion rubs the back of his head. “There’s only one way to know for sure. Do you remember your name?”

You think hard, trying to pull it from the deepest recesses of your memories, but you can’t remember it. “No.” You sigh, “Can you say it to me?”

“Illyria?”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, please enjoy ☺️

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Yay! Tav can hear her name, but does she actually remember it?

I'm leaning into the "Dark Kiss" bride/consort theory because why not?

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion x oc #astarion x named tav #fangs and fractured hearts

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phxntomsdusk · 3 months

Text

Spoil it all - Wilbur x GN!Reader

note: this is based on that audio where’s it’s like “and then i go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like i love you” pls say you know that one

summary: wilbur accidentally ruining your friendship by saying those three forbidden words

warnings: slight swearing, fluff at the end<3

tags: @ax-y10 , @joviepog , @pheliiaa , @rqvii , @vibestillaxxx , @idontreallyexistyet , @haunted-headset , @lillylvjy , @average-vibe , @ivvees-blog (ask to be added!)

word count: 309

You and Wilbur had been friends for practically forever, but of course he had found himself falling more and more madly in love with you each day.

He had no clue how it started or even when, all he knew is he was head over heels for you, and anyone else who got your attention he was insanely jealous of.

The two of you were hanging out at your favorite cafe like always, sharing details of recent events; him talking about lovejoy, you talking about work.

The way you smiled had him staring for longer than he wanted, or when you’d touch his arm to make sure he was paying attention, even pushing his glasses back up his nose when they started to fall. Gods, he couldn’t get over this feeling. Not like he wanted too.

“So, yeah, that had happened— Wil, are you listening?” You raised a brow at him, snapping your fingers in his face, causing him to flinch back slightly.

His mouth fell agape, trying to find the right words to justify his silence. Instead, he went and spoiled it all by saying the stupidest thing imaginable. “I love you.”

His words of course caught you off guard, staring at him like he was a mad man who told you he figured out how to transplante brains between dogs and humans.

“Shit— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Well, I did, but if you don’t want me to then, I don’t mean it.” His rambling made you amused, laughing lightly at his antics before placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

“Wil, I love you too. Now please, pay attention to what I’m saying.” You nudged his shoulder, before carrying on with the previous conversation.

The only thing different was the fact he could finally stare at you with a loving gaze, and you returned it.

#phxntomsdusk #phxntoms fics #wilbur soot #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fluff

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whatstruthgottodowithit · 6 months

Text

Southern Boy

Fandom: Elvis Presley, American Musician, RPF

Pairing: Austin Butler x Female Reader, Elvis Presley x Female Reader

Characters: Elvis Presley, Female Reader, Elvis Presley

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1455

Summary: Ain’t nothing in the whole wide world like a southern boy.

Tags/Warnings: Halloween Challenge, Phone Sex, Established Relationship, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Roleplay, Roleplaying, Elvis 2022, Elvis Movie, Song Fic, Southern Girl // Tim McGraw

Notes: No but if I was his gf I’d 100% ask him to do the voice at least once.

ELVIS MASTERLIST // SONG LINK // HALLOWEEN MASTERLIST

‘Really?’ Austin said, his tone laced with surprise. I paused for a moment wondering if I’d overstepped. Now let me preface this by saying I love Austin with all my heart. He’s the most kind and caring man I could’ve ever hoped to meet and I was of course proud of him in all his work. I loved each and every one of his roles; his innocently cute Disney characters, the aggravatingly cocksure Sebastian Kydd, the fearless Wil Ohmsford. So the reaction I had when I saw him as Elvis for the first time was just as much of a surprise to me as anyone. It had only been a snippet, a video he’d filmed of them watching back the last take, Baz’s head obscuring most of my view, and yet it had been enough to light a fire in me. The look, the attitude, the voice. It became all I could think about, so much so that when Austin had called as normal I found myself commending him before compliments turned from mere conversation to a request.

‘Yeah,’ I said shifting in my seat, thinking of him sitting there puzzled.

‘What would I say?’ he asked.

‘Aus,’ I said rolling my eyes, ‘you say that like we’ve never done it before.’

‘I know but that’s as…us,’ he mumbled bashfully.

‘It’s just acting,’ I said feeling disappointed though I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable so I continued with, ‘if you’re not comfortable we don’t have to.’

‘No, no, it’s okay,’ he said causing excitement to flow through me. I could hear him shifting around no doubt getting comfortable for the show as I started to, the anticipation of it all sending a throb between my legs that only increased as he cleared his throat and said, ‘so what got you thinking about it?’

‘Oh well, the video you sent,’ I said, his voice was a fraction deeper now yet lacking a southern twang which made me stall. I didn’t know why I’d anticipated it’d be like turning on a switch, that he’d just become Elvis in an instant but I tried not to get ahead of myself, guessing he was working through any nerves first.

‘You liked what you saw huh?’ he asked.

‘Definitely,’ I giggled.

‘What did you like?’ he asked.

‘What?’ I replied.

‘About the video,’ he said and for a moment I felt embarrassment flood through me. It was unexpected but having to admit that I found him excruciatingly attractive when he wasn’t being himself now felt wrong.

‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled, ‘you just looked handsome and there was this energy about you. It’s hard to explain and we’ll of course there was the voice.’

‘Well you know what they say,’ he murmured, so low and velvety it made electricity shoot down my spine.

‘What?’ I asked barely able to get my voice higher than a whisper.

‘That I make girls feel things they ain’t oughta be feelin’. Is that how you feel honey?’ he purred, and as I listened it was as though Austin was gone and I was talking now with the man I had only ogled through a phone screen. The one whose honey-soaked voice poured so easily off his tongue it may as well have been water.

‘Well,’ I said clearing my throat, ‘if we shouldn’t be feeling that way how come it feels so good?’

‘Fair point,’ he mused, again dropping his voice in a way that made me squeeze my thighs together as he added, ‘do you want me to make you feel good mama?’

‘Definitely,’ I breathed, too pent up to even attempt to play coy.

‘Where are you?’ He asked.

‘In bed,’ I replied making him hiccup a laugh.

‘Damn, at least most girls try and make me work for it,’ he said, a smirk present in his voice.

‘Good job I’m not lost girls then isn’t it?’ I teased.

‘I’ll say,’ he said, ‘what are you wearing?’

‘I’ve just had a shower so shorts and that Van Halen T-shirt you got me,’ I replied.

‘Underwear?’ he asked, genuinely sounding as though he didn’t know when no doubt Austin would know that if I’d gotten myself in bed for the night I’d have done away with anything but comfortable clothing.

‘Nope,’ I smiled.

‘God damn,’ he whistled sending another throb through me, ‘definitely not like most girls.’

‘Tell me what you’d do,’ I said quickly as my desperation for relief started to mount spurred on any time he spoke and yet halted by the fact I didn’t want to start without him.

‘Well first I’d get rid of those pesky clothes so that I could look at that gorgeous body of yours. Make sure you were bare so I could kiss every inch of ya until I got to that pretty pussy,’ he said, I could hear him shifting, the rustle of fabric as his own words amped him up and I followed suit, pushing my shirt up and my shorts down so I could use my hand to trace my skin, pretending it was his lips.

‘I’d kiss down each thigh until you were begging me to touch you, those fingers o’yours tugging on my hair like the impatient thing you are,’ he said.

‘Need you to touch me,’ I whimpered.

‘Oh I would, tease my fingers through that slick,’ he said as my own fingers glided through my slickened folds causing me to shiver with excitement, ‘you doing this mama?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed earning a grunt of appreciation as I heard his own hand start to move.

‘Then I’d kiss it, suck on that clit whilst I work ya good with these fingers until you were ready for me. Have you come undone at least once before I give you this cock,’ he grunted as I followed his train of thought, two fingers slipping inside myself as I used the heel of my hand to create a delicious amount of pressure on my clit.

‘And when you were beggin’ for it I’d bury myself in ya ‘stead of this hand.’

‘Wish you were here,’ I whimpered, feeling my walls clench around my fingers though they weren’t fully satiated by their presence.

‘Me too darlin’ this ain’t feel as good as you do,’ he said, ‘wish I was buried in ya, stretching that lil cunt out the way it’s meant to be.’

‘Oh God,’ I whimpered.

‘My mouth all over those pretty tits,’ he said which made me instinctively move my other hand to my chest, rolling my nipple between my fingers with desperate need.

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Is that what you want baby? My mouth on those tits?’ he grunted.

‘Yes, oh god I’m close,’ I said, moving my fingers back to my clit as I chased the high I so desperately needed, the one I had been chasing since I had seen that video of him rolling around that stage like a man possessed. A man that wasn’t the one I knew but some other, a southern gentleman possessed by want and need. Elvis.

‘That’s it,’ he grunted, ‘c’mon, come for me honey. I wanna hear you come for me.’

‘Fuck,’ I whimpered, my movements becoming more frantic as I felt myself teeter on the edge of bliss.

‘That’s it mama,’ he said, the sound of skin on skin coming down the phone ludicrously obscene but it was enough to send me over the edge.

‘Oh Elvis,’ I moaned, as I hit my peak, my walls clenching around nothing as pleasure ran through me and out through my extremities leaving me floppy in its path.

‘Fuck,’ was all I heard him say, followed by a string of expletives and breathing that was just as heavy as mine. It took a moment for me to come back to reality, enjoying his pants as he came down to meet me where I was lying spent and exhausted.

‘You good?’ he said after a minute, his voice more like himself than it had been before suddenly pulling from the fantasy I had been living and forcing the blood that had been dwelling south of my waist to suddenly rush back up to flood my face, redness no doubt christening my cheeks as I remembered I had succumbed if only for a second. I had lost myself and for all of my neediness and fantasising it felt as though I had overstepped.

‘Yeah,’ I mumbled, ‘Aus I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-’

‘It’s okay,’ he chuckled, ‘I kinda liked it.’

‘Really?’ I asked, a smile coming to my lips.

‘Yeah, you were right,’ he said, ‘he does have something about him.’

‘Well maybe he’ll visit again some time,’ I giggled.

‘Maybe,’ he mused.

ELVIS TAGS

@girlblogger2002 @sania562 @caitlin1996 @literally-just-elvis-fics @notstefaniepresley @artlesson8892 @18lkpeters @velvetelvis @jaqueline19997 @elvispresleyxoxo @amydarcimarie @presleyenterprise @everythingelvispresley @elvispresleywife @lillypink @richardslady121 @lettersfromvenus @louisejoy86 @ccab

AUSTIN TAGS

@caitlin1996 @purejasmine

#my writing #elvis #elvis presley #austin butler #austin butler x reader #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #austin!elvis #austin elvis x reader #southern boy #halloween challenge #halloween challenge 2023

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animeyanderelover · 2 years

Note

could I request itachi,kakashi,hashirama,neji,obito, madara,naruto,tsunade,minato, with a darling who wears revealing clothing?ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

Legit found out just today that Kakegurui Twin wil air this year❣️

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, delusions, paranoia, stalking, manipulation, protective behavior, abduction, threats

S/o wears revealing clothes

Madara Uchiha

🌑I’d give the advice to not do it for the very simple reason that Madara is possessive, the borderline of territorial even. Everything about his s/o belongs solely to him, their body naturally included. We’re also talking about an older area where traditional clothes were very common so alongside with his possessive side it’d probably not go too well down with the clan to have you walking around with those clothes. The elder especially seem to make a fuss about it, order you to wear proper clothing like kimonos with the clan symbol on it. Back to Madara though.

🌑He probably won’t really let you leave for too long with such clothes because he always tags along only to throw death glares at everyone who checks you out. Frankly spoken, he is more annoyed than he is jealous whenever you catch eyes and it won’t take incredibly long for him to boil over and drag his darling back. He leaves them with the choice of either wearing something that covers their body more or to just stay inside. Madara loves it when his darling shows their body, but only when he knows that he’s the only one that can see you.

Hashirama Senju

🌳Once again we find ourselves in an era of strict traditions and so his clan properly tries to push Hashirama’s darling into wearing fitting clothes for their time. Similar to Madara, Hashi’s s/o has a bit of a status due to their partner, who is none other than the Hokage. Hashirama himself, even if shy whenever faced with your outfits, tries to have a more open-minded outlook. He puts your comfort really high, as long as you’re happy he is too. So he goes against his clans wishes and instead lets you wear what you like to wear. He has a limit though where he puts his foot down.

🌳Sometimes genuinely can’t look at you since he feels like he’d be disrespectful by staring. Less possessive unless someone is very obviously checking you out for a long time. He’s more protective, worried that you’ll suffer from lower self-consciousness if people just look at you and your body in disgust or their stares make you feel insecure. Tends to get quicker protective and paranoid than you, shielding you when the glances thrown in your direction become too much for him. He puts his Hokage robe over you whenever he feels anxious in your place.

Tsunade Senju

🐌Traditional clothes aren’t that big of a problem for her anymore, except of still strictly traditional clans like the Hyuga. There is no real denial that Tsunade clearly hesitates a bit whenever she sees your outfits. Ninja in her village tend to wear similar outfits but since you are her beloved, her reaction differs a bit. Tsunade is iffy, adores her darling though so she can be convinced with a bit sweet talking. Similar to her grandfather, there is a certain limit on how much skin you can show and she will very clearly stop you from leaving the place unless you wear something less revealing.

🐌Her biggest worry is that you’ll be called out for your outfits and get weird looks. She herself experiences lecherous stares quite often, fears that you’ll be made a target because of your choice of clothes. It isn’t to the point where she grows overbearing but she does seem to ask you often if there have been any accidents. Don’t let her hear from such an event though because she will come for that person and lecture them. It’s even more scary when she’s there to witness it in person and yanks the person away by their collar with a very scary and pissed look on her face.

Minato Namikaze

⚡️He is a open-minded sweetheart so he will allow it for his darling to walk around with their choice of outfits. Minato has established some rules though with you since there is only that much he thinks of as appropriate and you’ll find him turning a bit more strict if you want to leave with something too revealing. He doesn’t accept arguments when he is set on being a tad bit more controlling. The quite common worries of you either being body-shamed or catcalled also comes to his mind, luckily Kushina is often your companion. She’ll lecture someone properly.

⚡️He can’t deny that he feels a tad bit jealous though when you get positive feedback and attention in public. He’s happy of course since you are gorgeous but can’t deny the ever so slight poke of jealousy. He usually knows that his position ensures that no one will try to court you yet he resorts to clinging a bit more to you in situations where you get compliments for your choice of clothes or for looking pretty. On the other hand he will give everyone who said something rude a very stern glare and the demand for an apology.

Kakashi Hatake

📖Way too protective and way too possessive to let his darling leave the house with revealing clothes. Kakashi is quite restrictive when it comes to such things, isn’t a fan of the thought of his s/o walking around in clothes that show too much of their body. Some of those outfits are absolutely flabbergasting as clearly shown by his slightly widened eyes for a friction of a second. Ushers you instantly back to choose something less revealing. He’s quite stubborn so it’s about impossible to talk with him and just as difficult to sneak past him. He at least seems to be amused.

📖Threatens to throw your outfits away and force you to only wear his clothes if you continue to try to go under people with your clothes. It’s hard to figure out whether or not this is a lie from him. Undeniably Kakashi has certain favorite outfits but just like with Madara, he’s only really fine with you wearing those when it’s just the two of you. It’s probably better to keep those outfits for only him because if you do manage to wear somewhat revealing clothes, Kakashi is much more touchy and possessive with this silent warning in his eyes. Get used to him getting lost in his fantasies.

Obito Uchiha

🔥He is extremely jealous and simultaneously paranoid to have his s/o walking around with their clothes and get the occasional glance and whisper behind their back. He hates the attention you get and despises everyone who has to say something against you. Luckily that problem is solved once he kidnaps you. He probably wouldn’t really see the need to forbid you to continue wear your outfits but he’ll just have a hard time looking properly at you. Funny how bashful he tends to turn, averting his gaze only to take peeks every now and then.

🔥Extremely touchy as he is already, he seems to turn slightly worse now with your clothes. His hands are constantly glued to you and whenever he can, he wants to hold you with his hands traveling around. He’d probably even be the type to get you actively new outfits to doll you up a bit. Obito knows that he’s the only one able to see you so why shouldn’t he take a bit advantage? You love your outfits as well. Be prepared for his gaze to follow you after his initial shyness everywhere and just like his friend, Obito gets lost in his own dreams as well.

Itachi Uchiha

🍡Itachi has slight troubles to adjust to your fashion at first since he was raised by a more traditional clan himself. He can get used to it though unless it doesn’t border for him the borderline of inappropriate. Especially after you’ve been abducted by him, he sees no need to take your clothes away from you. You’re now alone with him and partially his guilty mind speaks to him to let you continue at least one thing you’ve always liked. You can’t keep proper conversations though if your outfits are too much for him since he will always look elsewhere.

🍡You might even see a very slight tingle of pink on his cheeks. Itachi is rather honest so he will tell you when an outfit makes him personally uncomfortable or not since he doesn’t want to be disrespectful by staring somewhere else on your body. The Uchiha finds himself keeping his thoughts free from a dirty mind he tends to have sometimes. He’s embarrassed and ashamed whenever he catches himself in the act and tries to stop himself. Itachi still would want his darling to have a set of rather normal clothes as well for rainy days and colder months.

Neji Hyuga

🕊With the Hyuga clan involved, I do see some troubles since they’re known as a traditional clan who abides strictly by rules. Clothes are included and since Neji was raised with that sort of mindset, he struggles internally with darling’s choice of clothes. He doesn’t find it quite appropriate even if he does know that other people walk around in similar pieces of clothes. The Hyuga finds himself troubled with the thought of you being potentially catcalled or made fun of. You should just stay with him the Hyuga compound where you’re safe.

🕊Known for his composure, even Neji struggles with the way some people look at you and usually he returns the favor by shooting back a scary glare. He attempts to coax you into wearing more traditional clothes when in the campus as well and since he is quite a sweet talker, he’ll probably be able to convince his s/o. As someone whipped for you, you’ll be able to play the same card on him and convince him with a little begging to let you continue with your fashion. Be prepared for him to get you back to the estate as soon as he hears someone making a unnecessary comment.

Naruto Uzumaki

🍜He’s probably constantly choking on his ramen whenever he catches a glimpse of his darling. He’s friends with people like Ino who show more skin as well but it’s a completely different story with his s/o. He’s a person driven by jealousy so he already gets uncomfortable with the mere thought of possible attention you could get by wearing such revealing outfits. It’s not that hard to convince him at first but Naruto is just as fast to turn paranoid and jealous when he starts feeling like everyone is checking you out. Eventually his string will snap.

🍜Chances are that he’ll yell at someone out of jealousy, coupled with his clingy behavior. He’s gawking at you himself here and there, turns red upon looking at your clothes. He’s protective though so with certain outfits he won’t let you go outside, instead clinging onto you and begging you to change. As someone with a history of perverted teachers such as Kakashi and Jiraiya, it’s no wonder that he sometimes has his dirty moments as well. He just shouldn’t let Sakura catch him in the act since she’ll scold him properly.

#yandere naruto #yandere naruto shippuden #yandere madara #yandere madara uchiha #yandere hashirama #yandere hashirama senju #yandere tsunade #yandere tsunade senju #yandere minato #yandere minato namikaze #yandere kakashi #yandere kakashi hatake #yandere obito #yandere obito uchiha #yandere itachi #yandere itachi uchiha #yandere neji #yandere neji hyuga #yandere naruto uzumaki

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kaminocasey · 1 year

Text

Rushed Promises

Pairing: Captain Wilco x F TK!Trooper!Reader

A/N: S2 BAD BATCH SPOILERS!!! (I guess?) Anyone else fall in love with Captain Five Minutes of Screentime??? Lol. I did. Instantly. Anyone else still in denial and almost certain he could survive that fall if there's a body of water at the bottom of that frame????? No? Just me???

Summary: You spend the morning with Wilco before he has to head out.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Established Relationship, SMUT, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, fingering, fluff, angst at the end

TAGLIST FORM if you'd like to be tagged in future fics!

“Don’t get out of bed.” You beg, quietly.

Wilco starts to sit up and pull his clothes up off the floor so he can get ready. You have a better idea and start to pull him back to you in the bed.

“I have to, mesh’la.” Wilco kisses you on the forehead, smiling at how beautiful you look in the dim light of the lamp. “I have a lot to do today, unfortunately.”

You nod sadly, understanding.

“So do you.” He playfully smoothes out the crease between your eyebrows to make you stop frowning.

He’s right. You’re supposed to be running drills with the newbie TK troopers while Wilco and his men are supposed to be heading to Serenno today to gather up Count Dooku’s war chests and ship them out to wherever they were supposed to be going. Honestly, at this point, you stop asking questions. You don’t get paid to ask questions.

“Do you have time to-” You start but you don’t even get to finish your question before Wilco travels down your body, smirking up at you once he settles between your legs.

He knows you so well at this point.

“Always have time for this.” He hums, kissing your inner thighs. “So pretty in the morning. How could I resist?”

“Don’t want you to.” You grin.

You spread your legs even more for him as he moves the cover away from your naked body. Wilco slides his hands up your body, gently massaging your thighs that are sore from your drills you ran the day before.

“Feel good?” He asks, sliding his hands up even closer to your warmth.

You’re already wet from the implication of what his hands have planned for you.

“Mmhm.” You sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed.

“Nope. Eyes on me.” He quietly commands you.

“Yes, captain.” You smirk, looking down at him, knowing that calling him that gets to him every single time, no matter what he’s doing.

Wilco groans and immediately throws his plans to the wind as his mouth desperately latches onto your clit, causing your back to arch up off his bunk. You internally thank the Maker that Wilco has his own quarters.

“Fuck, Wil…” You moan.

He hums against your warmth, still massaging your thighs. Your hand flies down to his hair, trying to hold onto him as his tongue sends fire grazing throughout your entire body. A fire you know so well that you’d live engulfed in flames as long as they were Wilco’s flames.

“So wet for me, aren’t you?” He praises you, flicking his tongue across your clit as he inserts a finger into your soaked hole.

You nod, eagerly. “All for you, baby.”

“You taste so fucking good.” He continues licking into you as he thrusts his finger into you while his other hand continues kneading at your thigh.

“So good with your hands.” You praise him, tightening your grip on his hair. “Fuck… and your mouth.”

He smirks against your pussy and you know he’s trying to make you feel as good as possible since he’s going to be gone for a couple days on Serenno.

The wet sounds of your cunt fill his small room and your hips buck against his hand, knowing your edge is nearing, but trying to hold back for him to give you the okay.

“You wanna cum, pretty girl?” He teases, starting to rub that spongy part of you that only Wilco could reach. “Wish you could feel how perfectly you're clenching around my finger.”

“P-please… Wil…” You beg and plead, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Alright, cyar’ika. You can cum.” He gives you permission and then continues sucking on your clit, making you feel like you may combust completely.

With his permission, you feel your orgasm hit you like a coil snapping and you cum for him, moaning his name so loudly that he has to let go of your thigh to cover your mouth.

“So fucking beautiful.” He eases his finger out of you and sits up on his knees, so he can start pumping his length over your naked body.

Mesmerized by his perfect hands, you watch him and you can’t help the warmth that travels throughout your body as you stare at your partner with absolute love and adoration.

“You are.” You murmur as you sit up so you can be closer to him.

Wil stares down into your eyes as he continues working his cock, expertly. Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you slide them over his ass and up his back, raking your nails down his back, knowing how it spurs him on.

“Fuck, your hands feel so-” He starts to groan but is cut off by a knock on his door.

“Captain Wilco, we’re loading up now.” A voice of another clone trooper says on the other side, having no idea what his captain was really up to.

“Give me five.” He practically barks.

“Yes, sir.” You hear the retreating footsteps.

Quirking an eyebrow, you look up at him amused. “Only five?”

He groans roughly as he pushes you onto your back, leaning over you to crush his lips to yours, and in one fluid movement, pushes into you, making both of you moan against each other’s mouths, hotly.

“I only need two.” He chuckles and starts thrusting into you at the most unforgiving pace he’s ever fucked you.

“Spend the other three holding me.” You smirk.

“Always.” He promises you.

Slamming his hips against your ass, gripping your thighs, he does as he promises and cums, moaning against your neck, holding your thighs tight enough you know you’re going to bruise.

“Pussy from the Maker, I swear.” He laughs as he slows his thrust, slowly pulling out of you so he can hold you.

You roll your eyes with a laugh and let him pull you into his arms and pepper your shoulders with kisses.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” You murmur, kissing his strong forearms.

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

The thing about promises, though? Sometimes, they get broken.

TAGS: @twistedstitcher27 @rebel-finn @grievouus @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @misogirl828 @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @crosshairmylove587 @idlenesses @redheadgirl @dnxgma @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner

#tbb #the bad batch #tbb spoilers #tbb wilco #tbb s2 #tbb s2 spoilers #tbb wilco x reader #captain wilco x reader #captain wilco x you #captain wilco #tbb captain wilco #tbb captain wilco x reader #tbb captain wilco x you

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vibratingskull · 4 months

Text

Yandere!Thrawn x F!reader chapter 7

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Tag: Yandere behaviors (duh), gaslighting, feeding, bathing

You wake up with a terrible headache. One of your eyes barely opens and you can’t move your body, too ankylosed.

You’re…. You’re neither in the med bay nor your room? You’re on satin covers in a double bed in a large bedroom that you don’t know. You lower your gaze to see your arm and your leg in a cast. Your nose is super painful, you’re convinced it’s broken. In fact your whole body is terribly painful, you try to roll on your side and feel all your bones crack.

You abandon the idea of rolling up, standing up is impossible, walking is a dream…

What now?

You try to push your body in a sitting position and manage after groans of pain and failed attempts. When you finally succeed the door in front of the bed slides open.

“ You are awake, I am relieved.” Thrawn says with a comforting smile.

“Thrawn?” You ask, head still foggy “Where… Where am I? Why am I not in my room?”, “Still as sharp as ever, I see. You are in my bedroom.”

You just remain mute at that fact. His room?

He simply sits on the edge of the bed and puts his hand on your forehead. “You have no fever, that is reassuring.”, “Why am I not in the med bay?” you inquire. “Spirits are too heated to let you without surveillance and security, so I took it upon myself to look after you.” He says softly, almost joyfully.

“I… Thank you.” you just mutter. “You are welcome.” He smiles. “I could not leave you in open danger like that.” You shiver, he didn’t say “contrary to you.” but you clearly felt it. You slowly raise your gaze to him, almost timidly and he meets it with clear resolute eyes. “You put us in a difficult situation, earlier.” He chides “I hope you are aware of your responsibilities in what happened.”

What responsibilities? You got beat up by a mob of angry colleagues…

“I… No?” You groan in pain, pulling on the cover over yourself in a self soothing motion. “I’m having a hard time seeing how it could be my fault?” you say genuinely lost.

“If you did not stray from the right path you would not have incurred the wrath of your tormentor.” He explains. Stray from the right path? What does that mean? What did you do? You did nothing wrong, right? What could have you done wrong? You mentally repass the last months in your head trying to find the catalyst of that hate and violence but you followed orders diligently, you didn’t speak ill of anybody, you didn’t do anything reprehensible or wrong to someone. So what did you do? The only thing coming to your mind is Thrawn, but he would never do such a thing! He is not twisted like that.

You must have done something or this wouldn’t have happened to you. Right?

“I… I don’t know, I just…”. He cuts you, raising his open hand, “It is useless to brood over your past errors. You cannot do anything to erase them, what you have done is done and here to stay. The only thing you can do is work harder to right your wrongs.”

“Thrawn, I assure you… I did nothing.”, “Now, now, (Y/n). You clearly have done something, people do not turn against others for the simple pleasure of it. I wish I was there to help you in that moment but I needed time to heal after what you have done to me.” He calmly explains.

“I… I am sorry, Thrawn.” you murmur honestly, shuddering. “I accept your excuses. But that will be the only time.” He mercifully conceded. “Not everyone is as understanding as I am, you should be more careful.”

“I’m… sorry…” you can only repeat. He takes your hand and squeezes it with a gentle smile. “Now, we should focus on your recovery. I defend you from leaving the bed and my suite.”, “I hardly see how I can even roll on the side, I’m completely paralyzed.”, “Poor thing. I will help you, then.” he just responds as if it was obvious.

“What? No! You have work and things to do, leave me with a droid, I will find a way to manage”, “Your frail body is still too fragile to be manipulated by crude mechanical beings, they will only hurt you more. Let me take care of everything.” He counters. You’re about to retort something back when you cross his eyes.

You shiver.

Something in his gaze makes you shut up instantly. He is smiling but his eyes aren’t laughing. They are dark and resolute. This is not a proposition from your friend but an order from your Grand Admiral.

“...Alright, Grand Admiral.” you submit reluctantly. “That is the spirit.” he answers with a dark cold voice inciting no resistance. “You will have a warm dinner and then I will run you a bath.”

You do not need to know he is the one that cleaned your body each evening when you were unconscious. He will leave that detail out… But he didn’t deprive himself to take some pictures and movies. Why would he? You are such a beautiful model by the way.

You lower your gaze, defeated and he softens at your expression. He squeezes your hand again and pulls on the covers revealing your little pajamas and your leg, indeed, in a cast. Your eyes open wide, you were sleeping in those little shorts in his bed??! Argh!

He very carefully scoops up your body to bring you to the living room.

“Thrawn, let me down immediately!” you protest, “What a way to speak to your superior trying to help, Lieutenant Commander (Y/l/n).” You gulp, biting your lips, he’s gonna play that card now?

He lays you on a chair and hands you a plate, inviting you to start dining. He simply sits next to you, observing you intently. You purse your lips, embarrassed “You’re not gonna dine with me?” you ask, “I have already eaten.” He bows his head slightly.

You grasp the fork and start eating under his intense gaze. Or rather you try, your dominant hand is in the cast and you don’t do well with the other. After several unsuccessful attempts you start losing patience and groan between your teeth.

“Let me help.” He falsely sighs impatiently. He takes your plate and cuts the meat in manageable pieces and picks one with the fork and extends his hand to you, like someone helping a child to eat.

Your gaze travels between the juicy bites of meat on the fork to his calm expression. There is no way you’re doing that! “No.” You just say, shaking your head. “You are a grown woman, you should know when to admit you need help.” he stoically assesses.

You wrinkle your nose before giving in and let him feed you. You’ve never been so humiliated! Spoon-feeded like a goddamn child! You swallow with reluctance but eat nonetheless. It pains you to admit it but this is delicious, way better than what is served in the mess halls of the Chimaera. You let a moan escape you as you savor the creamy sauce.

Isn’t it weird to have you eat something solid that needs both hands to be cut, shouldn't you have a simple soup instead? It’s like it is purposefully made to put you in situations where you need his help… Surely not, surely it is a coincidence.

“There, good girl.” He praises you.

You froze completely. Did he just say what he just said?

“What did you call me?” you ask with a shaken voice. “I simply called you a good girl, to support you.” He responds like it is the most normal thing in the world, “I know it is hard to eat with a cast.”. “Hm hm.” You’re not convinced. At all. “I’m not sure I am comfortable…”, “My excuses. Where I came from we are not shy with pet names between friends. It is a force of habits.” he outrageously lies. But how could you know anything about his cultural background anyway? You can only take his words at face value.

“Oh… Okay…” you accept, it doesn’t please you but if he can’t help it, what can you really do? “Now you need to eat to recover some strength, at least three more bites.” He orders, blowing on the hot meat to freshen it up, “Here.”. You obediently eat, swallowing your pride to be forced to eat like a two year old and feeling embarrassed to force a Grand Admiral, your friend, to take his precious times to help you like that.

He takes a napkin and wipes your lips clean with a lopsided grin while you protest “I can at least do that myself!” you bite but he shushes you. He is tremendously pleased by the situation while you are infuriated. You’ll come to your senses soon, when you realize you cannot do anything without his help you’ll relax and obey, you are at his complete mercy, wounded, paralyzed, nobody knows he came to carry you out of the med bay, you cannot do the most basic tasks without his help. He has you all to himself! His heart flutters thinking of all those future weeks of intimate and privileged moments with you. He's on the verge of implosion.

What bliss!

You seemed soooo enraged eating like that, but obediently submitted realizing you had no choice. He could do that all day! Cutting your meat and feeding you, he wants you to eat on his large laps, you so petite, so minuscule compared to his huge stature, your weight was so light in his arms, so fragile… A real porcelain doll, to be manipulated and treated with the utmost consideration and tenderness.

He can do that! He is a Chiss and a deadly warrior with the highest body count imaginable but he can be oh so tender for you. Just for you… Tender and soft, treating you like a Goddess.

But now it is time to bathe you!

He carries you to the bathroom bridal style with such ease it is almost insulting to you. And he left you there, letting you alone fully knowing you’ll need his help to just undress.

But he wants YOU to call for him, to admit you cannot do anything alone, giving him a pretext to bath you himself.

And sure enough, after two minutes he hears a faint call for his name. “Thrawn…”

He re-enters the bathroom with a false wondering expression. You’re sitting on the tube, head in your hand, looking tired. “A problem?” he politely asks, “I can’t even undress, could you please help me?” You ask, defeated and humiliated. “Of course.”

He helps you undress, the tips of his fingers only slightly grazing your naked skin, leaving goosebumps on their trails. Your skin is so soft… He wants to lick it with the flat of his tongue right here and there! Lick every crook and cranny of your body, making you his. But he abstains himself.

Now it is not the time.

You become suddenly shy and squeamish when it is time to get rid of your bra and panties. Suddenly your gaze avert his eyes and you turn your head to not look at him. He unclips your bra with ease and he feels you shudder when the soft fabric slides off your delicate skin and kneels and hooks your panties, “innocently” caressing your thighs as they roll down your legs. You can’t hide neither your breast nor your sex because you have to take support on him to just stand without falling and he hid any towels in advance, leaving you completely bare before him. “I am sorry to ask you such a thing.” You confess, heat burning your cheeks, biting your lips. “It is quite okay, I knew what it entailed when I accepted to take care of you.”

He doesn’t smile, remaining stoic and serious but it is so funny to have you say sorry while everything is exclusively his fault. And everything is happening as he planned all along. How he loves when a plan goes smoothly, especially a plan so delicious as this one…

You’re shaking, exposed like never before. He runs the bath and gently helps you enter so you don’t slip. You sit down with a wince of pain and jump out of your skin when you feel his hands full of soap on your back. You turn to him shocked “What are you doing?” Why did he not leave already?

“You can barely sit without help, I do not know how you can properly wash yourself.” He tilts his head like he doesn’t understand your outrage. “I… You… I will manage!”, “Come on now, we are both adults. Let me help, the more you do, the sooner it will end.” You grit your teeth, digging your nails in your palms, but let him do it. He’s right. As always…

But he takes his sweet, sweet time, thoroughly washing every once of your skin. Yes, EVERY once. He forces you to lift your arms to wash your breast and open your legs to scrub your inner thighs. “Isn’t it excessive?” You try to signal him politely, voice shaking, but he doesn’t care, “I know where germs like to hide on a body.” He responds with a calm, almost uninterested tone as he massages your left boob to lather it up, he grabs it well, resist the urge to pinch your nipple (so, so tempting), feeling its weight in his warm palms and revels in the softness of your flesh. You truly are perfection incarnated!

You? You’re trembling terribly, words blocked in your throat and shallow breaths barely reach your lungs. How did you came to that? How did you???? You appreciate his willingness to help but his perfectionism pushes things too far to your taste, but for any complaints you have he has a sound argument in return. You give him embarrassed side glances, he looks as stoic as usual, like he has seen millions naked bodies in his life and yours is just one among others. He clinically washes you, scrubbing your whole body with soap, with his disinterested gaze floating over your body like a simple heap of flesh. He clearly is not as disturbed as you are.

Maybe it's you? Maybe you really are just acting like a spoiled child and should let him do his work without disturbing him…

He carefully gives each part of your body the same amount of attention to not appear suspicious, and truthfully? Your hands and feets deserve the same amount of care from him as your breast.

He is in heaven. You are letting him touch you so intimately… Not really enthusiastically consenting to it of course, but still. What progress! He wants to hold you close, to kiss your neck, to trail your sensitive slit…

One day he will have all of that, he promised himself.

He scrubs your body with towels, preventing you from wrapping you in one while pretending to help you. He notices your nails are a bit long, he should take the time to file them, he would even apply some nail polish if you wish.

He gives you a new outfit (that he had tailored to his personal tastes) with new undergarments (why does he have that in the first place?) and sneakily robs you of your dirty ones. He needs them for his personal times.

Aren’t you so cute in those clothes? Aren’t you adorable in those colors? The light dress is perfectly cut, hugging your delicious forms tight, leaving little to the imagination but is long enough to not raise suspicion from you.

“Why not a uniform?” you ask confused. “You are not in service while in remission, I thought you would appreciate some liberties in your range of clothing.” Liberties that he will choose the limits of, of course.

He gently scoops you up again, “Hold on to me.” He casually says. You circle his neck with your arm, pressing you against his large, warm body. You strangely feel safe in his arms despite what just happened, like it is your true place, in his arms… You shake your head.

“I will need to leave you for the rest of the afternoon, my break ended an hour ago.” He informs you, laying you on the bed, tugging you under the covers. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Thrawn.” You present your excuses, “It was necessary, I would not have let you roam my suite naked and soapy.” He chuckles.

Only joking, of course he would have if he listened to himself.

He hands you your drawing folder with a board game, “I have a TV in my bedroom and there is some holobooks in the bedside table, if you need anything ring me on my comlink.” And he adds only for himself “I will come running immediately.”

But you don’t hear him. He gently smiles at you and kisses your forehead delicately “I will come back as soon as I can.”

@bluechiss @blueninjablade3 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay

#yandere au #thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth’raw’nuruodo #fanfic #vibratingskull

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phillippadgettwrites · 7 months

Note

I love jealousy stories! Can you give us some good jealous Scully? Maybe it’s been stewing a long time or maybe Mulder got tired of her turning him down for dates and starts stating someone else. Just make her seethe with jealousy please???

One for The Road

Rated X / 3429 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Scully dials the number for the house phone from memory, then takes a big gulp of her wine. She listens to it ring once, twice, three times, four. She knows the machine will pick up after the fifth ring, and she prepares to hang up before she hears the outgoing message. Either she’ll hear her own voice, which will make her sad because he still hasn’t changed it, or she’ll hear his voice, which will make her sad because he has. She’s halfway through the fifth ring, about to pull the phone away from her ear, when he finally answers.

“Hello?” he says breathlessly, like he was running for the phone.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out right away. She closes her eyes and forces herself to speak before either he hangs up, or she loses her nerve completely. “Mulder, it’s me.”

There’s a pause that’s a bit too long for her liking. Longer than a “shocked but happy to hear from you” pause. More of a “shocked and wondering why I’m hearing from you” pause.

“Scully,” he finally says, her name leaving his mouth on a blustering breath. “It’s been a while. Are you okay?”

A little pang of something painful and beautiful spikes in her chest. He still cares about her. At least there’s that.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she reassures him. “How are you doing?”

She closes her eyes as she waits for his answer, unsure how explicit it might be. She wants to know, but she also vehemently doesn’t. If only there were some way to have both at once. Shroedinger’s knowledge of your ex’s love life.

“I’m good,” he says, a polite non-answer. The kind you give to the checker at the grocery store or the coworker you don’t really like. The kind you give to your former partner who cut contact with you months ago to preserve her own sanity.

“That’s good,” she says, disgusted by their milquetoast small talk. They used to talk about everything, and now they don’t talk at all. She takes another gulp of her wine.

He waits for her to explain why she called, and she waits for him to ask.

“Did you need something?” he says when the silence becomes unbearable.

I need you to wait patiently for me forever, she thinks. I need you to never, ever love anyone else.

“I found some things of yours,” she says tightly, then clears her throat. “I must have accidentally packed them. I thought maybe you’d like to come by and get them.”

She already hates herself for being so petty. So immature. It’s really not like her, but then again she’s never loved anyone in her life the way she loves him. She’s never lost someone it hurts this much to lose.

Mulder makes a little curious sound, and she feels hopeful that her plan will work.

“What things?” he asks.

“Um, some knick knacks,” she says, glancing at the pile of junk she managed to assemble. “A couple things you used to keep on your desk at the Hoover. Odds and ends. Sentimental things.”

Mulder has become increasingly sentimental with age. Year over year she continued to find little treasures tucked away around the house that looked to her like trash, but that he begged her not to throw out. She wasn’t sure whether to be touched or horrified when she found out he’d stashed the panties she was wearing the first time they had sex in a shoebox next to a set of tickets from a Knicks game he took her to—their first “real” date.

“I hadn’t noticed they were missing, so I guess I don’t really need them,” he says, and she can picture him running his hand over the back of his neck as he’s prone to doing when he’s debating something. “You can keep them or throw them out, whatever you want.”

Her heart sinks. She was fairly certain he’d take the bait. Things he kept on his desk at the Hoover. That should have been irresistible.

“Will you please come get them?” she says in a low, melancholy voice. “I don’t think I can bring myself to throw them out, but having them here is…It’s still difficult, Mulder.”

She’s not really putting on an act as much as she’s dropping it, but the impact is the same. He hears the hurt in her voice, the acknowledgement that she misses him and mourns their ruined relationship, and even if he’s no longer moved by her ten year old panties, he’s moved by her.

He’s quiet for a few beats, and when he says, “Yeah, okay,” she has to suppress a victorious whoop. “Can I come by now? I can be there in half an hour.”

“Okay,” she says quickly, “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as she hangs up, she drains her glass and pours another, then hurries to her bedroom to get dressed. She needs something sexy, but casual enough that it won’t look like she’s trying too hard. And she needs her water bra.

This is all very much beneath her, she’s marginally aware of that. It’s quite pathetic, actually, and she should probably be ashamed of herself, but she’s not. She just has a very deeply held conviction that Mulder belongs with her, and thus any other woman who weasels her way into his life is encroaching on Scully’s territory. She doesn’t think this consciously—that would be far too catty and anti-feminist. But clearly that’s how she feels, given the way she’s responding to the news that Mulder has a girlfriend.

She hasn’t spoken to him in months, not since the night that she tearfully told him she’s afraid she’ll spend the rest of her life mourning the loss of him if she doesn’t get some space from it. And space he has given her: complete radio silence. She was starting to think she was doing much better, maybe even truly moving on, but then she ran into Debra Kaufman at the Shop N Save and nearly dropped an entire carton of eggs on the floor when Debra asked her if she’d, “Met Fox’s new thing.”

“I’m sorry?” she’d said stupidly, open carton of eggs in hand, waiting to be examined for cracks.

“Oh, I figured you’d have met her since I see you over there all the time. You still drive the gray Explorer?” Debra had asked, one hand on her rounded hip.

Scully felt heat rise to her cheeks at the realization that her Wednesday night drive-bys weren’t as covert as she’d thought they were.

“Yes, but I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said blandly. “How long has he…” she started, then caught herself. Gossiping in the grocery aisle is hardly her style.

Debra layed a sympathetic hand on Scully’s forearm and smiled at her sadly, which made Scully’s eyes immediately well with tears.

“A couple months,” Debra said gently. “She’s a nice gal, but not nearly as pretty as you.”

Scully stands in her walk-in closet, wine in hand, and flips through skirts and dresses, slim-fitting slacks and casual sweaters. She’s not totally sure what her goal is, she just knows that if Mulder is dating, he must be doing much better. And if he’s doing that much better, maybe when he looks at her there will be something behind his eyes again. And maybe if he sees her, and if he feels that thing he forgot how to feel, and if she sees him feeling it, then maybe there’s still hope.

She picks up something she bought on a whim but has never worn: a black velour jumpsuit with a deep neckline and three-quarter sleeves. When she tried it on in the fitting room she felt bold and sexy, but outside of her fantasies she rarely has occasion for either boldness or sexiness these days. When she imagines Mulder seeing her in it she feels excited, and so the choice is made.

She puts on heels and his favorite perfume, and decides that if he comments on her appearance she’ll tell him she’s going out tonight. Maybe she’ll let him think she has a date, depending how things go. She’s examining herself in the full length mirror, admiring the way the jumpsuit hugs her ass, when she hears the doorbell. She pulls the door open prepared to put on an air of sexy aloofness, but the second she lays eyes on him her unaffected facade crumbles.

He looks good. Really good. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a fitted white T-shirt, and his face is clean-shaven. She can already smell his cologne, the one he used to wear before William, and between the reaction from her heart and her cunt she’s disoriented and lovesick.

Realizing that she’s staring, she snaps her eyes up to his face to find him taking similar stock of her body, his eyes lingering on the deep V of her jumpsuit where she’s pushed as much of her cleavage as possible to center stage. She pulls in a deep breath and he clears his throat, averting his eyes to the door jam and then back to her face.

“Hey,” he says with a bob of his head, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets.

“Hi,” she says back, trying to regain composure. “Please, come in.”

He hesitates, giving her a quick head-to-toe glance before he steps through the threshold. Scully walks down the hall toward the living room and he follows behind her, so she makes a point of switching her hips.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she calls over her shoulder, then bends down to pick up a small box full of the items she used to lure him here.

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” he says haltingly. She looks over her shoulder and catches him staring at her ass. “I have somewhere to be.”

She stands up and turns around, propping the box on her hip. She hadn’t planned to ask about her, but it just comes out.

“Plans with your girlfriend?” she says tartly, and she gets some satisfaction from the panicked look on his face. He doesn’t want her to know, which she takes to mean something.

But then the panic fades into irritation. His jaw shifts and eyes harden a little.

“You’re the one who wanted out, Scully,” he says, indignant, “not me.”

It hits her like a slap in the face. She never wanted out. In her experience, it was him who left her, mentally and emotionally if not physically.

“Well,” she says tightly, handing him the box, “it seems like you’re doing much better than you were before.”

“I am,” he says. “But I seem to recall some stipulation about sticking around for better or for worse. I don’t think you’re supposed to pick and choose.”

Her throat is becoming too tight, warning her of impending tears. He’s being uncharacteristically mean, and she doesn’t understand why.

“I tried, Mulder,” she squeaks, then swallows against the lump in her throat. “I held on as long as I could.”

His shoulders drop and his face falls. He shifts the box to his other arm, and she can tell that he’s debating hugging her.

“I know,” he says instead. “I’m sorry.” He looks at his watch and clucks his tongue. “I have to get going. Sorry I can’t stay longer.”

She nods and follows him back to the door, and then out into the driveway. He unlocks his car and then leans across the driver’s seat to set the box on the passenger side, and Scully takes the opportunity to both admire his ass and scan the interior of the car for any feminine looking items. Mulder rights himself and turns around, leaning against the open door frame.

“It was good to see you,” he says earnestly. His eyes flash over her body so quickly she could have blinked and missed it. “You look good,” he adds.

Scully looks down at her own outfit, smoothing her hands over her hips.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “You do, too.”

“I’ve been running again,” he says. “I’m training for a half-marathon, actually.”

This makes her smile.

“That’s good, Mulder,” she says. “I’m really glad that you’re doing well.”

He smiles back, nods. There’s a little beat of hesitation before he steps forward and opens his arms, and she falls against his chest with a heavy sigh. Her arms wind around his rib cage and she squeezes him tight. He smells like home, feels like safety. She doesn’t ever want to let go. But she feels him loosen his grip on her, so she does the same, leaning away a little until she can see his face. He looks right into her eyes, really sees her, for the first time in a long time, and she’s missed him so, so terribly much. She remembers his girlfriend, some nameless, faceless woman who wasn’t there for all the hard parts, but is getting the best version of him now, and it makes her angry. It’s not fair. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to get better and come back to her.

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#x files fanfic #the x files #xf fic #xf fanfic #smut

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davosmymaster · 2 years

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hi! i don’t know if you take requests, so if you don’t, totally ignore this but a) would you ever consider writing a part two to Fallen from Heaven, Grown On Earth? and b) if you take requests, could you write something abt touchstarved steven getting into a relationship with the reader & he’s totally obsessed with them. the reader is kind to marc when he fronts & gives him little touches & soon he’s in love with them too & he feels horrible, but one day he’s so stressed that he confesses & is crying/almost crying? & the reader cares for him & his anxiety & tells him that they love him too & steven is okay with it so long as they share? your current writing rocked my world & i feel like the specific way you characterize these two is perfect, and you could really do this idea justice if you’re up for it

Hello, anon! First of all, there will be part 2, although I cannot guarantee it will be a good one, bc some people are getting expectations and I'm actually getting a bit scared it wil dissapoint. Second, I did get inspired with your request and wrote something (I shouldn't have bc I have no time but I did, I should be sleeping rn, but srly, thank you). I don't know if it's how you liked it or what you expected, and I gave myself the freedom to add a few more things and plot. It's different from what I've done before, but I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for the ask and all the love <3

TAGS AND WARNINGS - a lot of angst, like a lot, medical procedures (mentioned), blood, not beta read, I did a quick grammar check tho, could be read as poly if you want. Marc-centred.

PAIRINGS - Marc Spector x fem!reader (focus) ; Steven Grant x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 5k.

SUMMARY - Steven gets a girlfriend. Unfortunately for Marc, that also means that he's part of that relationship, in a way. And when you move in, there's no going back.

I'M GETTING TO KNOW SOMEONE

The first time Marc sees you, he wakes up in your lap; and it's unofficial.

It takes him a moment to acknowledge his surroundings, after all he usually wakes up with the sound of Steven's alarm for work, even on motherfucking Sundays. The room is dark and the only source of light comes from a Disney movie playing in front of him. It's not his apartment either, the flat he got Steven in south London looks nothing like the half image he has from that angle.

He's about to jump right out of where he is, confront whoever else is in that room with him, when he feels your hand massaging his scalp, expert fingers knotted in his dark curls. His unmoving muscles relax even more than when he was asleep, somehow, and Marc has to actively retain a moan of satisfaction. Then he remembers.

Yeah, Steven said he was getting to know someone.

Steven had warned him about that. He felt like Marc should know, in case something happened, something like waking up in someone else's house with said person's fingers in his head; or maybe somewhere else. Steven had threatened him with two full-days of work with Donna if he didn't behave and/or ruined it. To be honest, Marc hadn't even paid attention to his rambling; it wasn't like any of Steven's relationships were serious enough, or long enough, for Marc to actually front near his dates. He had heard that speech a thousand times.

So he pretends to be asleep, which isn't difficult being in that situation. You seem so invested in the movie, mindlessly stroking his hair, that you don't notice the change in his breathing or how tense his shoulders got for half a second. Marc could have let Steven front, because the scene is private between him and you and Marc's just a demon getting hold of the body by accident. Plus, he doesn't know you, your face or your name. He only knows that your caresses are putting him to sleep, and that he's so comfortable and warm under the blankets that it takes him less than five minutes to go back to dreamland.

It was the first time someone touched him in a long while, even longer since someone had cuddled with him. He could understand how much Steven longed for affection, because unlike him, Steven never had a proper girlfriend; so it made sense that he got someone who loved touching and cuddling as much as Steven needed it. Marc couldn't complain, even though his conscience told him that what he was doing was slightly wrong.

But then he drifts off again.

The second time is Steven's idea, actually; and it's official.

Marc takes you to a steakhouse in Soho because Steven told him that you wanted to try it some time, and it's the perfect date —without being an actual date— because Steven's vegan but doesn't want you to go on your own or wait for weeks so you can go with your busy girlfriends. So in a way, it's a win-win situation.

It's a bit uncomfortable at the beginning, but you're funny and an excellent story-teller. The conversation revolves around the weather and the only link you both share, Steven; at least at the beginning. Then you mention a horror movie that both of you love and just like that he's invested in the conversation. Marc might not have a lot of time to watch tv, not when Steven is fronting most days and Marc only seems to front to carry out his duties as a masked vigilante for an old Egyptian fossil; but he does love a good horror movie, just like you, and Steven hates them with passion. That's one point for Spector.

After that, it could be said you two see each other often, which is not often enough having as little time fronting as Marc has, but enough to get along really well. Then one day Steven starts acting weird, organizing more and more dates that only include Marc and his own girlfriend —Steven's, not Marc's—, and a month later he finally understands why Steven's been such a damn pain in the ass about getting to know you. They are moving together. The three of them. Unfortunately.

Don't get him wrong, the girl is really nice, like really really nice, like you-have-memorized-how-he-likes-his-coffee-and-you-usually-ask-'coffee or tea?'-to-figure-out-who's-fronting kind of nice. And your conversations are not about Steven anymore, there's no more awkward silences. It could be said that you're friends, to an extent.

The conversation happens one morning. Marc's all happy with his five minutes of consciousness when Steven gets a full-length mirror next to the dining table and starts talking to it.

"I'm summoning you, idiot," he says, squinting at his reflection when Marc doesn't respond the first time he calls his name.

Steven's reflection in the mirro,r —Marc's invisible body— straightens his back and stops squinting, but only Steven can see.

"What do you want, now?" he asks, Marc is usually that friendly with Steven, even now that they get along as if they were actual brothers. "I'm not fixing the sink again, do it yourself," he crosses his arms. "And I'm not Khonshu, you don't summon me."

"First of all, this is not about the bloody sink, you arrogant," Steven says, his nose almost glued to the surface of the mirror. You chuckle behind it. You walk back from the bathroom, take something from the kitchen counter and sit next to Steven, a glass of orange juice in your hands. "Second, we're trying to be nice here, to you. Would be lovely if you were nice for once, you prick." Steven says.

They really do get along. It might not seem like it, but they do have fun with all the name-calling and arguments, you can't help but smile at the idea. It's just their love language.

Marc looks at you through the mirror, at your eyes looking straight at him. You're wearing one of Steven's hawaiian shirts and a short so short that he thinks you're naked for a second, then he realizes that the shirt is simply too big on you and covers it. You cannot actually see him; but you thought that Marc would feel better if you pretended you could.

Either way, he can sense Steven's eyes on him; even when Marc's actually locked somewhere in his own brain and not in the actual mirror. He hopes that Steven doesn't think he was checking you out, because he wasn't, but it's not like he's too worried about it either. Steven knows his girlfriend is a real beauty, and he's not a jealous man.

"Oh, Steven," Marc groans. "Please, please, tell me you didn't get her pregnant."

"Of course I didn't!" he almost shouts, jumping on the chair. "Are you bonkers? "

"Translate for me, darling," you whisper in his ear, still looking at the mirror as if you were asking for context while watching a movie; hoping that Marc doesn't hear. And of course he does. He's not in the fucking mirror, he has explained it a million times.

Marc's aware of the shift in Steven's voice when he talks to you. He mirrors you, whispering back.

"He asked if you're pregnant."

You laugh, hard. Marc feels something in his chest, something he hasn't felt for a long time; so much so, that he cannot quite label it. But Steven's grin while looking at you is so big that he wonders if what he's feeling is a Marc feeling or a Steven feeling. Could be both, though.

"Oh, god, no," you respond, still smiling. "No fucking way, man. You're not having children any time soon."

Steven crosses his arms, a proud grin on his face.

"The banana's well-dressed, cheers."

"Steven, you didn’t call our dick a banana, did you?" Marc squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.

Steven huffs in responde and turns his body slightly at you, ready to serve as an interpreter, but he makes a weird face at the very last moment, slightly shaking his head. "I'm not translating that."

You take a pill out of the package you got from the kitchen counter, but start laughing again thanks to him, so you leave it back on the table. Steven decides to ask the question from the beginning, so you two can relax.

"We want to move in together," Steven says, he thinks that there's no better way to have this conversation than biting the bullet. "We wanted to check you were okay with it."

Marc doesn't have to think much about the answer.

"Look," he started. "I'm very happy for you two, but I got a really good deal for this apartment and the area is expensive as hell, so we're not selling it, let alone renting it."

Steven translates in a whisper. And this time is your turn to talk.

"We thought that maybe I could move in, here," you say, your anxious fingers squeezing the glass in your hands. Marc can't help but remember the soft touch in his scalp. "We thought that it would be easier to move my things here rather than moving one person," you point at the mirror "and one bookworm hoarder's worth of things," she points at Steven.

Steven turns to look at you as if you had insulted his precious Egyptian gods, which was your intention. Marc just laughs.

"Whose side are you on?" Steven asks.

"I like this woman," he's pointing at you when Steven looks back at the mirror. "I accept her in my house."

"Our house."

Marc rolls his eyes. Steven leans to whisper his acceptance in your ear. Marc rolls his eyes again. He's not in the mirror, he can hear it loud and clear, but he says nothing.

"Yeah, whatever..." he says instead.

You smile, and it's the most beautiful smile he's ever seen. Steven giggles when he turns to you, happy and excited, and you can't help but peck his lips and hug him until it hurts. Marc's just a witness there, a being, little more than a ghost witnessing two people in love. He's smiling, he feels happy and content now that Steven can finally experience true love, just like what he had with Layla and ruined, but the feeling is bittersweet.

"So..." he says once Steven is back. Behind Steven, you take the pill back in your hands, Marc frowns at the sight. "Is there anything I should know now that she's moving?" Marc asks, and before Steven can formulate the question, Marc gestures towards you. You swallow the pill and the orange juice, not even aware of the conversation still unfolding.

"It's just an iron supplement," Steven says, and your body gets rigid as if you had been caught red-handed.

You swallow another mouthful of orange juice and ask Steven for Marc's words. He repeats, one of his hands going up and down your back.

"I have iron deficiency," you respond. "Nothing serious, you know, the usual. If you ever see me blinking like crazy when I get up —and you will— I'm not having a seizure, I swear."

Steven purses his lips and nods profusely. "She does blink a lot, tho."

Sometimes Marc would like to punch his own face. "I know what happens when you get dizzy, Steven."

He simply shrugs. "Thought I'd warn you."

No amount of warning could have prepared him for that.

The first time is three weeks later, there's almost no boxes in the flat anymore, except for the one labeled "that drawer full of useless sh-". It actually said shit before, but someone got rid of it by crossing it out with a red marker. Marc would bet his right hand that it was Steven.

Another thing you have in common with Marc is that you both swear like sailors.

You're both working on your laptops; you're doing some homework your boss gifted you for the weekend. Usually, you would get stressed and rush to finish it on friday so you can spend the weekend with whoever is fronting —you'd prefer Steven, or so he thinks— but Marc said he'd probably be busy tracking some people down and spending time together is spending time together, so you don't mind working and talking to him at the same time, watching tv or anything else that doesn't require much concentration.

Once you've spent endless hours working on that couch next to Marc, you decide that your ass hurts enough to spend any more time sitting there. You get up suddenly, without thinking, because if you don't do it now you're not sure you'll do it later, and walk two steps before your vision gets clouded with dark spots.

Marc's focused on the maps, on where he's traveling next to arrest —or kill, if it gets ugly— the next big drug dealer, mobster or any other asshole who thinks they can get away with some heavy crime without facing him. He sees you getting up from the couch sensing how your fingers stop their motion in the back of his neck and then vanish into thin air. He wants to groan, but he is in no position for that. He also notices when you get stuck next to the couch as if you'd forgotten your next move.

You blink, twice, that Marc can see, but it's a lot more terrifying than what Steven had said. Marc wouldn't say you blink too much, quite the opposite, you almost don't blink at all. He sees your clouded eyes from where he is and his mind reminds him of a corpse with its eyes wide open. He feels as if someone had stabbed him in the heart with a fork and twisted it.

He calls your name, but doesn't wait for you to answer. He's taking your laptop, barely hanging from your hands, before his mind can process it. He almost throws it to the coffee table. One of his hands grabs you by the waist, he's standing so close that you can smell him, feel his quick breathing falling in your neck. He waits a literal second before he decides you've pushed yourself enough trying not to faint.

"Easy... Sit down, come on," he encourages you, gently pushing you to the couch again while not letting your body lean on anything that is not his own, your elbow in his grip while he holds you. He's almost dragging you to your previous seat.

"I'm fine," you mumble, slowly, and before you hit the couch your vision and strength are back.

He sees the change, your happy features are there, your eyes are focused again, the faintest tint of red on your face, too. But he still kneels on the floor and says:

"What do I get you? What do you need?"

He looks so worried that you can't help but chuckle. Your hands travel to his face, you cup both his cheeks and Marc feels that something again in his chest. Not the fork, though. You seem to be about to say something very important because the smile has vanished from your face, so he focuses all his attention on you like nothing else exists.

"I need you to get out of my way and let me go to the kitchen," a soft laugh emanating from your lungs. "I'm fine now. We told you this would happen."

He nods, mindlessly at first and profusely after a second, as if trying to convince himself.

"Yeah, yeah... You did," he says.

It still takes him a moment to stand on his feet and step back. His gaze follows you all the way to the kitchen space, though, and then he remembers he's standing in the middle of the living room and he sits down on the couch; but he feels an odd kind of apprehension now that you're out of sight, so he looks at you above his shoulder, once. And you catch him.

"Go back to your business, Spector!"

Grabbing his laptop again, he tries to focus on the maps; but he can't.

The second time is the most horrifying experience of his life, and he's seen some things. Marc's certain that the memory will haunt him to the duat, to the afterlife and he'd be thankful if he can forget it afterwards, whatever comes next. He's beyond thankful Steven wasn't there to witness it.

He's back from a long, exhausting night of being Moon Knight. He's stressed out. He's tired. He's seen people die tonight and has no desire of doing anything other than hit the sack and lose consciousness for a few days. Literally.

Maybe he should stop wishing so hard.

He crosses the front door, careful not to wake you up. It's not even dawn yet. He walks to the bathroom in total darkness, only the moonlight guiding him around his own apartment. He stops for a second to see you asleep over the comforter, the ipad still on, showing the page of an ebook. A small smile appears on his lips. Then he tiptoes to the bathroom.

His t-shirt is full of bullet holes, he can see it when he switches the light on. It's been a rough, long night. He's killed someone, someone who almost killed someone else, but a someone nonetheless. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he notices he has drops of blood on his face. It 's not his.

"Marc?"

"Coming!" he says, cursing under his breath because he doesn't want you to see him covered in other people's blood. He splashes water on his face and rubs. "Stay there! I need a second!" but you don't obey him, he knows you won't.

It takes him longer than a second, but not much longer. He rubs the last drop on his cheek and, when it's finally gone, he hears a heavy thud.

At first he thinks it was his imagination. He calls your name, and eventually sees his own confused face in the mirror when you don't answer. He calls you again, walking through the door frame.

His heart sinks in his chest when he sees you lying on the floor. His stomach takes a violent turn. Before he notices the floor under his feet he's already next to you. You have your eyes closed, your face pale. He has that terrible vision again, with the wide-eyed bodies, but now they are closed, and when his hands get in his field of vision, patting you gently on your cheeks while he calls your name, he sees his hands fiercely trembling.

One second his mind is completely blank, white, empty, he feels out of his own body and he doesn't know what to do. On the next, he tries to calm himself. He's not helping you by freaking out.

It's just a low iron, he thinks. It's just that. She will wake up soon, the hit to the floor is not hard enough, surely it cannot be.

It doesn't help. Not enough for him to feel like everything's spinning around both of you. And certainly not enough to prevent the tears from pricking his eyes. He does the only thing he can do, which is get you on the bed so you can rest, but he feels so weak and he's so afraid of hurting you, that his hand barely touches the back of your head in a desperate attempt at lifting you, and he feels his fingers wet.

He doesn't feel his heart beating anymore, there's only a hollow space where it used to be. He doesn't think he will ever get it back, even less when he sees the fresh blood on the pad of his five fingers.

"No, baby," he whispers the words, he chokes on them. "No, no, no. You can't do this to me."

As if by magic, your eyes start fluttering. Marc's just a witness kneeling there, unable to do anything as he sees you struggle. His mind wanders, half of it panicking in your home, half of it asking how the hell something like that could have happened. Then he looks ahead, trying to find someone or something to blame, and he finds the edge of the bedside table.

Who the hell needs a fucking bedside table? What's so important that you need it next to your head while sleeping? He had once opposed the idea of selling or renting the apartment, now all he wants is to burn it to the ground. The whole damn building if possible.

"Steven..."

He hears your voice calling his alter, whispering, and he swallows what seems to be a rock in his throat. You're calling your boyfriend, he understands that; but he doesn't have the heart to correct you.

"Don't worry, baby," he says, but the words barely make it out of his own vocal chords. "I got you. Just don't fall asleep, okay?"

You're not even half-conscious, Marc knows that because you said Steven's name with your eyes closed; but he cannot just stay silent while you suffer. He tries to reach his phone on the back of his jeans, but once he has it between his fingers and he's already calling A&E, he realizes that he cannot wait for an ambulance. And he has another way, a quicker one, of getting you to the nearest hospital.

It physically hurts him not to touch you, but he has to in order to summon the suit. Once he has it, he carries you in his arms, as gentle as he can. He sees his own tears falling and staining the fabric of your pajama when he lifts you. He had always hoped you never had to see the Moon Knight suit, but he's so pleased that you seem to get at least glimpses of it now that he could cry.

In fact he is crying; sobbing more like, but he doesn't like that word.

An hour later he's sitting next to you in a waiting room, a small and empty one, waiting for the results of an MRI. You have one of those hospital gowns, so he wonders if you're cold; he knows your butt probably is. Then he wonders if the room is not too bright and white for someone who smacked their head against a bedside table and the carpet; but he doesn't say anything because he knows he's probably just freaking out again. He knows he shouldn't be freaking out, you're in good hands. Actually, you're holding his.

He tries to take his mind somewhere else, somewhere nice, but he's seen too much blood in the last twenty-four hours and it's almost impossible. He tries to remember something from his childhood, but that's a no-no too. Shit, that's fucked up, Spector, he tells himself. But he's so used to that old wound that it doesn't hurt anymore.

He remembers the first day he fronted with you, the Disney movie playing was Nemo, obviously the first one, your favorite. Also Steven's. Then he remembers how the doctor asked if he was your boyfriend. He said no, you know, like a dumbass. And technically they shouldn't allow anyone who's not a first-degree relative or a partner in, but the doctor mumbled something about how complicated modern-day couples were and let him through.

Oh, he had no idea how complicated it was.

"Would you like Steven to front?"

He's the first to talk; suddenly aware that he's not the one you want by your side.

"No, he will freak out."

"Yeah... probably," Marc answers, asking himself how he didn't think about that before.

"You're a drama queen, you know that," you say, your arms crossed over your chest. Is not a question but a claim. You're still holding his hand, even though the angle of your arms crossed and Marc's hand is weird, but it works out and everything else doesn't matter.

Marc has always thought you look beautiful when you get angry, even if you're pretending, but it's twisted that he's thinking that right now, with a hospital gown and three stitches on the back of your head. You go on, because he doesn't say anything.

"You didn't have to bring me here all Moon Knight style."

"You were bleeding," he simply answers.

"They said it's not even serious."

"You could've died." Marc says, his voice emotionless. "...and if they're doing a scan they must have their reasons."

"See?" you say. "You're worse than Goog- auch..."

He turns to look at you so quickly that you wonder if he snapped his neck. You can't help it, a loud laugh fills the room as you touch the stitches. You shouldn't be gesticulating so much.

"Can you stay still for a second?" he asks, it sounds more like a beg, so he repeats it with the right intonation; and you think that Marc has already had enough between your attitude, kicking asses, the hospital, and going home to you passed out on the floor; so you don't say anything else.

"I'm sorry," he says after a second.

"It 's okay, you're right," you agree, your head is starting to throb as they didn't give you a high dose of painkillers, in case you fell asleep. "I'm not getting out of bed ever again."

Marc sighs, pleased that you're not playing with his nerves anymore. His hand squeezes yours, it's a gentle and short squeeze, but enough to calm him.

"I'm not letting you out of bed ever again."

The scans are perfect, it was all just a scare. Albeit one Marc will never forget in his life. Both of you get home and he has no idea why he's silently crying again. He can feel a tear falling down his face while he opens the door, so instead of waiting for you to cross first as he usually does, he walks in first and walks to the bathroom again. Not without taking a glimpse of where you fell, thanking his own egyptian god and all the others that there's no blood to clean. Not visible from where he stood, at least.

His chest is tight and he's soon crying his heart out on the bathroom floor. He tries not to sob, muffling the sound with the palm of his hand while covering his mouth; but you hear a faint hiccup coming from the bathroom. Now it's your time to call for him, and he doesn't answer, he can’t.

"Marc?" you ask, slowly opening the door. Then you see him crying on the floor, his knees to his chest and his hands now covering his whole face. "Oh, baby, no. Don't do that."

You get on the floor next to him a second later, ignoring the throb in the back of your head.

"I'm sorry," he says, even if it takes him a few tries. You hug him as tight as you can, until it hurts in your ribs. It's almost physically painful to witness the image of Marc Spector crying, you can barely hold back your own tears. After all, you've never seen him cry before. And there he is now, having a meltdown on the floor, holding on to you as if you were his anchor, the only thing keeping his feet on the ground, his head above water.

"Don't say sorry, babe. I did scare you, didn't I?" you say, and stroke his hair the way you know he likes it.

"I love you so much," he said, then he covers his face again, as if he was embarrassed he said that. He runs his hands through his short black hair, his eyes blood-shot, his fingers trembling. "I just love you so much, and I was scared I'd never be able to say it. I've spent such a long time, such a long time, waiting for it to pass because- Steven... he doesn't deserve that."

"That's why you're crying?"

Marc looks at you confused, his whole face red as blood itself, his lashes wet with tears. Your fun tone is usually music to his ears, but not now. Now he's just confused.

"No- I mean... It's... part of it, yeah..." he says, then he frowns. "What?"

"Marc we've known for a while," you say, taking his hands in yours.

"What?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" you draw circles with your thumbs in his palms. Then you chuckle. "Did you really think Steven wouldn't notice?"

"You both knew?"

You smile, because it's the only thing you can do, that, and shaking your head.

"Marc, Steven loves you, he would never not let you be happy," you say, now sitting next to him on the floor. You hit his knee with your own, gently, joking. "And how could I not love you, too? You're Marc, my Marc. I'd do anything for you. I love you both. Steven and I, we were just hoping you'd accept it soon enough; but it took you a while."

You watch him attentively, he's not crying anymore, but he has that look in his face like he can't believe what he's hearing. He feels that sensation in his chest, again. He tries to follow it, to touch it with his own hands, and he finds out he has his palm over his heart. It 's love. He never thought he'd ever feel alive again, let alone feeling love, but there it is, beating under his muscles and tissues and whatever else.

You pull from one of his curls, jokingly. Not to hurt him, not to take his attention, but because you know he likes it when you play with his hair. The curl rolls around your pinky. You literally have him wrapped around your finger; you've had him for a while.

"He's okay with it?" Marc asks. "You're okay with it?"

"We're more than okay with it, babe," you say, then you smile with pursed lips. "Sorry, it seems like you're stuck with us, now."

He could weep with joy.

And so he does.

#marc spector x reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction #requested #moon knight request #I had so much fun with this #it's insane #steven grant x fem!reader #steven grant x reader #moon knight #marc spector

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modelbus · 7 months

Text

Here we go, my first tumblr anything-tober. This year I’ll be doing flufftober!

These will be shorter “oneshots”. Also I apologize if this isn’t exactly fluff lmao…

Pairing: Cc!Tommy x Gn!Reader

Flufftober 1 - The Clock Is Wrong (Time Loop)

“Tom, right?”

Day 27 of this stupid time loop. The first day, you didn’t even realize. By the end of the week you moved into despair, bargaining, and anger. By day 20 you hit acceptance. For the past 7 days, you’ve been living out the day as you normally would. Same thing every time, save for it you change bits yourself.

Tom was the boy you bumped into every repeated day at the zoo. The first day you hadn’t thought much of it except for a mental “oh, he’s cute”. But now, when everything is so monotonous, he’s become an oddly bright spot.

It took you four days to get his name: Tom Simons. The name, oddly, seemed to fit him.

He blinks at you, gaze swiveling from his dropped drink—Coke, you learned on the sixth day—to you. His spilled Coke was entirely your fault; you had bumped into him. On purpose this time, unlike that first day.

“How-?” He starts, eyebrows furrowing.

“You have the vibes.” You joke, laughing. “I’m so sorry about your drink, I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” He smiles at you, bright. Most of his smiles were—day 9.

“Are you sure? I can buy you another one, I feel like shit.” You don’t.

He shakes his head. “No, I can buy my own. Don’t worry about it mate.”

“At least let me accompany you to get another.”

This was your in for today. You’ve been trying different ones, just attempting to spend more time with him. He wasn’t alone here, he came with friends (day 2), so you always ended up parting ways. And you always ended up wishing you didn’t.

“Fine.” He relents. “But only because I should make you pay for running into me.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll put my full effort into walking with you to get another drink.” You laugh, sarcasm lacing your words.

“Coke.” He says. “And you should.” After a moment of heading back up to the fridge with the drinks in the gift shop, he speaks again. “So. You guess people’s names from their vibes a lot?”

“It’s actually my superpower. Don’t tell anyone though.” You nudge your shoulder against his, grinning when he nudges you back.

“Name someone else then.” He challenges.

Truthfully, you panic for a second. Sure, you know the names of his friends (Wil and Phil—day 8), but they’re outside. And then your eyes land on someone in a red vest declaring them as a zoo employee.

“Janet.” You say, pointing at the worker.

Tom grins at you, like he’s predicting your downfall, then marches up to the worker with his new Coke in hand. “Hey, what’s your name?” He asks the worker, already turning to you.

“Uh, Janet. Is there anything I can help you with?”

His jaw drops open, and he quickly shakes his head. “Uh- no, thanks!”

You let out a loud laugh, and he grabs your wrist to drag you to get in the checkout line for his Coke.

“How did you do that?!” He hisses, glancing around.

“She had a name tag, Tom.” You laugh, covering your mouth to muffle the sound so people don’t stare.

“…Oh.” His cheeks flush, making you laugh even more. “Stop! Shut up!”

He quickly pays for his Coke, shaking his head at you. But you know better, and you know his humor. Besides; he’s smiling.

“I can’t believe you actually believed me.” You sigh, still smiling like an idiot.

“How was I meant to know she had a name tag?”

“With your eyes!”

At the exit door to the zoo gift shop, he pauses, fidgeting with the bottle of Coke. Your heart leaps into your throat. This is it. Most likely your parting for the day. Sure, you’ll see him tomorrow, but that’s after another cycle. Another looped day.

“Are you here alone, or…?” He starts, trailing off so you can fill in.

“Alone. I know, it sounds sad, but I like the zoo. And you?”

“Friends. Two of ‘em, actually.” This is normally where he starts to sound apologetic and makes an awkward goodbye. You brace yourself for it, in fact. “Do you- do you want to join us?”

For all the times you’ve waited for this invite, you aren’t sure what to do now that you have it. “Oh.” Is the only thing that comes out of your mouth.

“Not that you have to or anything, but if you want to. I mean, you seem pretty cool and not like a serial killer or anything. Unless you like pineapple on pizza. Then I’m going to have to leave you.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like pineapple on pizza, don’t worry.”

“Cool.” He grins at you. “So…?”

“Yeah, I’d love to join you. And your friends.”

As you step out of the shop with him, rolling your eyes playfully at a dumb joke, you can’t deny the warmth that fills you. Even if it was only for today, a day you’ll repeat, you get to spend it with a boy with blond hair and a smile like the sun.

#dsmp #mcyt #mcyt imagine #tommyinnit x reader #tommyinnit x you #tommyinnit #tommyinnit imagine #tommy innit #tommy mcyt #dsmp tommy #tomm

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laundrybiscuits · 2 years

Text

(Continued directly from Part 1)

(Hanahaki AU tag : Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

There’s a bulging duffel bag at Steve’s feet. Eddie tilts his head. “Looks like you’re on your way somewhere yourself, Harrington.”

“Could be,” says Steve. “Depends.”

Eddie knows it’s a bad idea, knows he should just get in the van and drive away from this colossal mess without another word. It’s what he does: he runs. Instead, he hears himself say, “Depends on what?”

Steve uncrosses his arms and hoists the duffel bag over his shoulder, stalking closer. “Depends on whether my dumbass friend was planning to skip town without telling anyone.”

“Sounds like a real dick,” says Eddie weakly.

“Kind of a dick move, yeah. Especially ‘cause he’s been dodging my calls lately, and I had to find out from this butthead I used to babysit that he canceled his dumb dragon game for the rest of the summer.”

“And what part of that made you say golly gee, maybe I should pack a bag and stow away in his van?”

“It’s not stowing away if you know I’m there.”

Eddie pushes past Steve, his traitor heart kicking up at the knock of their shoulders. “Go home, Harrington. I just wanted to get out of Hawkins for a while. Go on a roadtrip, see some sights across this beautiful nation.”

Steve jogs around to the passenger side and slides right in, easy as anything. “Look, man, you know it’s not safe to pull shit like this alone. It’s not safe for anyone, but it’s a hundred times worse for you. I know I’m not your first pick, but I’m the one with spare time and extra cash, so…suck it up.”

It’s gonna hurt. More than that, it’s gonna get real complicated to have Steve around when things take a turn for the worse. Eddie doesn’t have a plan for this.

But he’s never been all that good at denying Steve anything at the best of times, and Steve is uprooting his whole life to go joyriding around the country for an unknown amount of time just because he wants Eddie to be safe. Steve is actually being really pushy about spending 24/7 together in a small, enclosed space, and Eddie’s got a selfish streak a mile wide that feels pretty damn good about having Steve all to himself for a while.

“Fine,” he says. “But if you touch that radio dial, I’m leaving you by the side of the goddamn road.”

———

A few miles out of town, Eddie pulls over. “Hang on, hang on, I just wanna—”

He hops out of the van and crouches down. He grabs handfuls of milkweed, joe pye, whatever he can find growing tall and colorful by the roadside.

“You planning to do something with those, Eddie?” Of course Steve wasn’t going to wait in the fucking passenger seat like a good boy.

“Just thought it’d be nice to have something in the van,” says Eddie. “Brighten up the place.”

People don’t do that. Nice people don’t, anyway. Happy families with the exact right amount of emotion parceled out and evenly matched like silverware sets.

“It’s kinda…dramatic, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m a dramatic kinda bitch, Harrington. You’re the one who decided to be a freeloading stowaway.” Eddie climbs back into the van and dumps the flowers into the center console. A handful of half-wilted dogbane tumbles into the footwell. Steve makes a face and kicks it to the side as he gets back into his seat.

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a stowaway if you know I’m here. I’m literally not…stowing. Second, I told you I brought some money. I’m not freeloading. I’ll chip in for hotels or whatever.”

Eddie laughs and starts the van back up again. “Jesus, Harrington. You think we’re gonna be staying in hotels on this trip? I don’t live that kind of life, man. I put my mattress in the back. Think of it like a starter RV.”

“Oh, what the fuck, Eddie,” Steve whines.

“You’re the one who insisted on coming with me! Wait, is that…” He pulls over again, barely thirty feet down the road, scrambling out to grab big fistfuls of black-eyed susans. This time, Steve does stay in the van. The guy might actually be sulking a little, but Eddie refuses to feel bad about it; Steve will have a hundred other roadtrips in his life. This one’s Eddie’s.

The black-eyed susans fill up the center console and spill over. Eddie dumps the rest in the back, stray roots and dirt and all. There’s probably bugs in his stupid van now.

“Those your favorites or something?” Steve asks. Eddie’d filled his arms with as many black-eyed susans as he could carry, as many as he could see.

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Got it in one.”

They’re not his favorites. They might be his least favorite flower in the entire world, now. But if there’s a bunch of them around, real plants that Steve saw him pick from the honest soil, then maybe the ones he’s been hacking up will fly under the radar a little longer.

(Snippet directory)

#hanahaki au #steddie #still thinking about this! like what does it MEAN to have flowers in your space if flowers have this heavy romantic/morbid connotation #I have even less of a plan than eddie so idek if I'll keep writing this or where it's going #but I got home today and this is what happened

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phxntomsdusk · 3 months

Text

Be around me - Baseball!Wilbur

summary: just a hopeless romantic doing everything he can so you’ll be near him <3

warnings: swearing, lil bit of angsttt, fluff at the end <3

tags: @ax-y10 , @joviepog , @pheliiaa , @idontreallyexistyet , @rqvii , @vibestillaxxx , @lillylvjy , @ivvees-blog , @average-vibe , @haunted-headset , @toastyliltoasts41 (ask to be added!)

word count: 871

“Hey!” Wilbur suddenly appeared beside you, a wide smile on his lips as he looked down at you. “Hey..” You responded quietly, a slight look of annoyance on your face. “How was your day?” He was desperate to get a response from you for once, biting his bottom lip to try and hide the way his smile would widen when you looked at him. Sadly you walked away, not even bothering to respond.

He let out a soft sigh, turning on his heel as he made his way towards his class, at least he would see you at that night's practice.

“Hi.” He spoke up from behind you, an arm planted on the brick wall of the dugout as he peered down towards you. “Hi.” You glanced up at him, tucking your tongue behind your lip. “How was your night?” He raised a brow, a smirk toying at his lips. “I watched a bunch of sweaty guys run around for a ball.” You sighed and walked away, leaving him to stand all alone.

He nodded out of pure defeat and quickly walked over to his friend who watched the whole thing, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Did I fuck it up again? Are we destined to be friends? I wanna give them more than that!” He groaned as he stared at the ground, feeling embarrassed in the moment.

The next day he had slipped a letter into your bag, to which you found during lunch, curious as to who had put it in there. “You’re a smokey tenny-ten!” Is what the letter has read, and you almost immediately knew who put it there. Your gaze soon found his, seeing him wave and smile made you roll your eyes and look away.

As you left the cafeteria, you could hear his frantic footsteps behind you, an arm snaking around your shoulders. “Hey.” He smiled at you, a soft gaze meeting yours. “How was your day? Mine was fine, but I think about you all the time..” He lowered his voice and got closer to your ear, laughing softly to himself. “Mine was going great until you showed up.” You pushed his arm off you, quickly walking off to your class.

“Give it up, Wil. They don’t like you.” His friend Chris came up beside him, patting his shoulder with a frown. “They’ve gotta give me a chance eventually..”

As always, you heard his footsteps and saw his shadow above you after practice. “Hi..” His voice was a lot softer, waiting for you to look up at him before he continued. “How was your night? Mine was wack, but I thought about you and felt alright.” He attempted to be flirty, only to get a groan from you.

“When will you give up?” You sighed and continued to back up your dad’s bag. “When you go on a date with me.” He smiled towards you, offering a hand to see if you’d take it. “Fine. One date, and then you’ll leave me alone.” You raised a brow at him with a stern expression, watching his smile grow as he frantically nodded.

“Deal! I’ll see you later, we can plan tomorrow during lunch.” He sounded so excited, running off to Chris with a proud smile, earning a high five. You couldn’t help but slightly smile at his antics.

“Hey.” You looked over to your right, seeing him slide into the spot next to you at the table. “Hey.” You lightly spoke back, watching as he rested an elbow on the table, using his hand to hold his chin. “How was your day? Mine was fine, but I think about you all the time. Can’t you outta my mind.” He spoke proudly and nonchalantly, earning a chuckle from you as you looked away. “Is that what you’ve been trying to say for weeks now?” You raised a brow at him, earning a wide smile. “How’d you know?”

During your lunch the two of you planned out where you’d be having the date, settling on a local park near the baseball and softball fields. And of course, Wilbur was restless to see you there.

“Hi.” His voice startled you as he approached, a small flower in his hand as he sat down next to you. “Hi..” You smiled as he sat, watching as he handed the flower to you. “You do realize what today is, right?” He chuckled softly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Yes, Wil. It’s Valentine’s Day.” You smiled lightly at him, twirling the flower between your fingers.

You two had started talking about the most random stuff, eventually his arm found its way around your shoulders, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“So, baby, when do you need to get home?” He didn’t fully register what he had called you, not until he saw your face. “Did you call me baby?” Your voice was slightly confused and flustered, watching as he smiled awkwardly. “Maybe.. is that okay?” He looked down at his shoes, pursing his lips. “Yeah, it’s cool.. I liked it.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, a smile on your lips, and one soon forming on his before he spoke again.

“Cool.”

#phxntomsdusk #phxntoms fics #wilbur soot #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fluff #baseball!wilbur #wilbur soot angst

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weirdlyhornyforegos · 2 years

Text

Wilford Warfstache x gn!reader

Anon: Could I please request a fic featuring Wilford and the Captain (reader), specifically set during ISWM Part 2? Maybe Wil knows that the Captain needs some stress relief and offers some “support” when their paths cross outside of the WMLW room ;)

MINORS DNI!!!! Writing block has been hitting hard, leave it to Wilford to make me write again ;P

Wordcount: 1.7k+

Tags/warnings: handjobs, brief oral (reader reciving), biting/marking

You stare at the man, not sure you actually heard him right.

“Excuse me?!?” It’s the first words you have uttered in what feels like forever, and you can’t help but sound incredulous, but the man in front of you just grins.

“Didn’t think your hearing would be affected Captain, but I guess you never know how your adventures might affect you, huh. I said, you look stressed, I’m free to use.” He spreads his arms wide, and you only look in disbelief.

He can’t be quite right in the head. The pink afro that slips a little as he tilts his head doesn’t help matters.

“No.” The word is firm, and that does get a frown from the pink man, but it’s quickly gone as he lowers his arms and takes a few steps closer. On instinct you take a few steps backwards, mindful that the hallway behind you isn’t endless.

“Oh come on old champ, I know it’s been a while since you saw lil’ old Wilford, but we can have some fun can’t we?” You narrow your eyes at him, but the grin doesn’t falter.

“Aren’t you tired of running? A little tired of just going where everyone else decides you to go? Don’t you want to carve out some of your own time and space?” Wilford has slowly been moving forward as he spoke, but now you stood your ground, which means at his last question he stands only inches away from you.

Which would indeed make it very easy to drag him into a kiss.

Fuck, where did that thought come from???

Your eyes flutter all over his face, and he watches you with what almost seems like mild amusement on his face as you think it over.

He was, in some infuriating way, (though you’re not sure why it gets to you so much), right. You have been on such a constant move, and you realize this is the longest time you’ve been in one place.

No doubt because of him, since he popped that blue swirling portal you had become so annoyingly familiar with.

And for now, you find you actually want to stay put for a moment.

Reaching up to your neck, the man watches with rapt interest as you unclasp your helmet, taking it off and setting down on the ground next to you.

“There’s that beautiful and or handsome face.” Grin very much in place, he sets down his martini before cupping your cheeks. You expect him to kiss you then, but instead he just hold your face.

Seeming to wait for something.

Waiting for you.

He truly was going to hold up to his word of letting you use him.

So you drag him closer by his hips and lean in so you can kiss him. His lips are firm against yours, warm and slightly chapped as your tongue comes out to give light kitten licks against them.

With the gentlest of prodding he opens his mouth, letting your tongue start to explore his mouth.

Moving backwards, you pull Wilford with you so you find yourself pinned against the wall, dragging his hips against your own, heat quickly pooling in your stomach. He must be much the same, as you can feel him start to fill out his pants.

And from what you can feel, he fills it out his pants rather well.

But that’s not what you are going to focus on now. He did after all, say he was free to use, and oh, you will use him.

You only let go of his waist so you can guide his hands to the zipper of your flight suit. He has nimble fingers, so they make quick work of it and slip inside, pushing their way into your underwear, firm fingers dancing over your arousal, pressing against you so you buck up against him.

“There you go Captain, chase those wonderful feelings.” Wilford stops the kiss to say, moving to mouth along your neck.

And though it feels nice, it’s not what you want right now.

No.

You want to be in control, and you will take that.

So, instead of letting him keep kissing your neck, you knock that stupid fake pink afro off and get a hand on his hair. You take a firm hold, and yank his head back. It makes him groan, and when he feels your teeth on his neck before your lips, he chuckles.

“Ohh, fiery!” He teases, and you roll your eyes, biting down hard, earning yourself a grunt. You remind him to keep moving his hand with a buck of your hips, and the hand inside of your flight suit soon starts moving again. His other hand comes to rest against the bottom of your spine, warm and oddly familiar.

He pants and groans as you keep littering bites all over his neck, the attention every so often broken by kisses placed over the rather harsh bites.

His hips move too, but that only seems like a second nature, like every bite of your teeth, and movement of his hand on you makes him want to chase his own pleasure even though he said you were the one that could use him.

So, deciding to take a risk (not really a big one), you whisper into his ear.

“You’re not allowed to cum before I say.” He laughs, though it mixes into his moans as your hand not in his hair drags him forward and against you.

“Aye aye Captain.” You don’t know he’s mocking you or just having fun.

Not that you really care, not with how good his hand works over your arousal, and how pretty his groans with every bite sounds.

Though he isn’t allowed to cum, you certainly are.

So as you feel yourself getting warmer and warmer, and closer and closer, you chase that high.

Grinding against his hand, purposefully moaning low right next to his ear, making him shiver as you get closer and closer to cumming.

Your thighs start to shake, and the movement of his hands gets almost desperate, the one on the bottom of your spine now pushing and urging you to move.

So, you do, not because of his eagerness to make you cum, but because you can, because you can use him as you please.

And what you please now is cumming over his hand.

In only a few minutes you do, not caring about your own volume, the music from the other room drowning out the possibility for anyone else other than him to hear you.

Wilford keeps moving his hands and hips against you, keeping you riding that high for a little extra while. You have to grab his wrist to make him still, fishing out his hand of your flight suit. You hold it up in front of his mouth, and without a word, like he knows you so well, he takes his fingers into his mouth, cleaning you off his fingers.

He puts on a show of it, licking each digit with careful attention, keeping eye contact with you the whole time as his tongue cleans off every digit.

When he’s done, he lets the hand fall, shifting so both of his hands gently hold your hips. Your thighs feel sticky, so you get an idea.

A hand on Wilford’s shoulder, pushing at him gives clear instructions without needing words.

He sinks to his knees, and doesn’t hesitate to lean forward to start cleaning you off.

It’s so too soon for you to cum again just yet, but his mouth and tongue on your thighs and most sensitive area feels so good, making your thighs shake again.

He looks up and winks at you, not moving away from you for a second.

“Touch yourself.” His eyes widen, but his hand moves fast with his button and zipper. In seconds he has himself in hand, stroking over his cock. He’s far from small, and for a moment you wonder how it would feel to touch.

And though it’s tempting, you want Wilford to cum by his own hand.

“You can cum like this, but you better give me a show.” Wilford nods, and you put a hand in his hair again, pulling his head backwards so his neck arches so pretty for you.

He groans low in his throat, closing his eyes as he works his hand over himself, his leaking cock making sure you know how close he is to cumming already.

He makes a rather pretty picture like this.

Knees spread wide, panting as his hand turns to a blur over his cock, head held back, his neck covered in your bitemarks.

Though some look to be healing already.

Odd.

But you don’t mind, it’s far from the weirdest thing you’ve seen today.

“Fuucckkk.” He groans, shaking as his hands stills, his own cum now covering it almost just like your did earlier.

You watch as he takes a few deep breaths, opening his eyes, catching your gaze again. Once more he brings his hand up to his lips, licking it clean with a grin, eyes almost twinkling.

“Feeling a little better Captain?” He teases, trying to move his head, but your firm grasp keeps him in a place for a few moments.

“Wanting another round so soon Cap?” You snort, letting go of his hair. On slightly unsteady legs, he gets up, making sure to zip up his pants. He helps you do the same, and with minimal effort, you look presentable again, and not like you just came over his hand. Wilford too looks like before, other than his shirt which has somehow gotten more unbuttoned.

You see more than just a little peek of a firm chest, and for a moment you think about asking for that second round.

But no, you have to get back to.... Whatever the universe has planned for you.

For now.

You put your helmet back on while Wilford pulls out an ancient looking phone from somewhere, and a pink portal appears.

Wilford pulls you close for a moment, at first you think it’s to say something, but he just kisses the forehead of your helmet before pushing you towards the swirling pink that hangs in the air. You absentmindedly notice that all your bite marks are gone, except one just under his jaw.

You wonder how long it will last.

#wilford warfstache x reader #wilford x reader #Wilford Warfstache #wilford #wilford warfstache smut #wilford smut #wilford warfstache fic #wilford warfstache fanfiction #gn! reader #gn reader #my writing #lemon #smut #wilford fanfiction #wilford fic

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