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cabotwife · 5 months

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hii !! i saw you reposted the 150 writing prompts, could i request a johanna mason x fem with the 20/21 prompt ?? thank youuu :))

thank you for request! sorry this took me a bit:(

Would've, Could've, Should've

Johanna Mason x Fem!Reader

warnings: angst, language(ig?), poorly written, not proofread

word count: 2279

a/n: i'm sorryyy this took awhile :( i'm not feeling good at all

prompt: "if you die, i'm gonna kill you." ; "i fucking hate you."

"you know, i can handle them," you mutter under your breath, your sprint reducing to a jog, and then eventually, you find yourself coming to a standstill. your energy, once abundant, is now diminished, barely allowing you to stand.

beside you your girlfriend is just as winded. the two of you had just run away from Katniss, chased relentlessly by the careers. you need to figure out how to get back to Katniss, back to your mission.

"enough with this fucking nonsense, we need to keep going, to lead them away," Johanna grumbles, her tone laced with irritation, clearly fed up with your plan.

"Jo, just listen to me for a moment," you plead, your voice strained. "we can't keep this up forever. at some point, they'll either give up and target the others, or they'll catch up with us."

Johanna's response is immediate and fierce. "then we fight back. i won't leave you here all by yourself. i don't need your protection, y/n." her words come out as a fierce growl, a testament to her determination.

"i won't fight them alone either. i'll keep leading them away, while you make sure Katniss and Peeta are safe," you insist, holding her by the shoulders, maintaining eye contact. you can see the protest forming in her eyes, but before she can voice it, you shake your head. "no arguments. just go. i’ll see you in a minute." you press a quick kiss to her cheek, a silent promise.

after what feels like an eternity, she finally nods, "alright, alright. i'll circle back." her eyes scan the dense forest, ensuring you're both still safe.

"i promise, everything will be okay," you assure her, your voice gentle as you let go of her shoulders.

she nods again, her eyes never leaving yours. "listen to me, y/n," she says, her hands cupping your cheeks before moving to the back of your head, her fingers threading through your hair. her forehead presses against yours, her gaze intense. "if you die, i'm gonna kill you," she murmurs, her eyes flickering around yours.

a small chuckle escapes your lips, "wow, how romantic."

she rolls her eyes at your quip, pushing away from you, "be safe," she murmurs, stepping back.

responding with a mock salute, you grin, "yes, ma'am."

as she quickly disappears into the forest, moving in a slightly different direction to avoid the careers, your grin fades. the true gravity of the situation dawns upon you, and you press your back against a massive tree nearby, forcing yourself to slow your rapid breathing.

suddenly, a figure emerges from the shadows, charging towards you. you spin around immediately, scrambling up the tree you were leaning against. just as you begin to ascend, Brutus appears from behind the tree, his hand shooting out to grab your ankle.

your heart pounds in your chest as you cling to the branch above your head, struggling against Brutus's firm grip. Enobaria now stands at the bottom of the tree, her grin wide, showing off her sharpened teeth, as she watches the struggle unfold.

a scream tears through your throat as the rough bark digs into your palms. you try to pull yourself up, kicking your feet in a desperate attempt to free yourself from Brutus. suddenly, another hand grabs onto you, effectively pulling you down from the tree.

pain explodes through your body as you hit the ground, knocked flat on your back. the impact leaves you gasping for breath, the world around you fading as you lie stunned on the forest floor.

your eyes widen in sheer terror as you gaze upwards at the two menacing figures looming over you. their faces are painted with almost sinister grins that send a chill down your spine. you gasp sharply when Enobaria's hand shoots out, gripping a fistful of your hair with a force that has your head tilting back abruptly, leaving your throat vulnerable and exposed.

"no!" you cry out in panic, writhing beneath her as you desperately try to break free from her vice-like hold. "stop! no!" Your screams reverberate throughout the dense jungle, echoing ominously around you.

the last thing that your eyes register before everything goes black is the horrifying sight of her razor-sharp teeth and eerily unhuman-like eyes. she leans down towards you, her fingers still entwined in your hair, unyielding and relentless. suddenly, a deafening blast erupts through the jungle, sending the two older tributes flying away from you. the shockwave hurls you against a tree, the impact rendering you unconscious.

when Johanna finally opens her eyes she’s met with the blinding glare of artificial light and the gentle hum of a hovercraft's engine. the distant sound of Katniss's frantic yelling jolts her into full wakefulness, and she quickly sits upright, yanking off the oxygen mask strapped to her face and pushing herself up to a sitting position. she glances down at the space she was just occupying, her eyes landing on Beetee, who lies next to an empty slab. behind him are two more slabs, one of which she had just been lying on, and another one that is unoccupied.

Johanna furrows her brows in confusion, but decides to push her questions aside for now, focusing instead on reaching Katniss.

as the doors slide open to reveal Johanna's presence, every head in the room turns to look at her. Finnick's eyes soften instantly upon seeing her, a reaction that leaves Johanna puzzled.

"they left them!" Katniss is practically shrieking at Johanna, her voice shrill with panic.

"what?" Johanna's voice comes out flat, almost raspy. she turns to see Katniss, her body being restrained by Haymitch.

"y/n and Peeta! they left them!" Katniss wails, squirming in Haymitch's hold. "they left them for the damned Capitol!" she turns to Haymitch once more, her eyes wide with pure rage. "you promised me! you promised!" her voice rises to a desperate scream as she fights to free herself from Haymitch's grasp.

Johanna turns to look at Finnick, who hasn't moved an inch from his spot since she walked in. his eyes are filled with unshed tears, and Johanna knows instantly that Katniss is telling the truth. "Finnick," she says, her voice barely above a whisper as she fights against the wave of disbelief threatening to drown her. "you didn't." she starts to march towards her best friend, rage bubbling up inside her.

"Johanna, it wasn't a choice we were allowed to make," Finnick says, his voice laced with regret and sorrow. but his words only serve to fuel Johanna's anger.

just as she is about to reach him, a sharp sting pierces her neck. a syringe is plunged into her skin, and within seconds, her world fades to black as she loses consciousness.

the very moment you awaken a blinding array of lights immediately assails your senses as you gradually regain consciousness, much like Johanna. you find yourself in a sterile, white room, filled with a subtle, nearly imperceptible hum. unlike Johanna, though, you are harshly restrained to a cold, metal table. unlike Johanna, you are far from safe.

it doesn’t even take you a minute to comprehend your location—your predicament.

the Capitol has you. they had gotten to you before the others had the chance to reach you.

you were painfully aware that their mission prioritized keeping Katniss and Peeta safe. they were willing to sacrifice anyone, as long as the faces of the rebellion remained alive. a profound pit begins to form in your chest at a new thought. Johanna.

before you can further your worries about your girlfriend, the mechanical sound of the door to your bleak cell being opened shatters your train of thought.

you muster the strength to look at the figure entering your room, putting on a steely gaze—a facade you had been taught by the very woman you were worried about. the necessity of pretending not to care, to not show fear, to act as if you have nothing to lose, to refuse to give them the reactions they crave. they aim to strike fear into you, but you can't let them see the depth of your terror.

two men stride into the room, a peacekeeper following closely behind, who takes his position at the door. one of the men sports a near-sadistic grin on his face as he hovers over you, “what do you know about the rebellion?” he asks, his tone suggesting he fully expects you to withhold any information.

as the man in the pristine white coat talks with you, or rather speaks at you, the other man, dressed in blue scrubs, begins to wheel in a metallic cart. the contents of the cart are obscured from your view, but your heart picks up its pace as you can only guess what it contains.

“i’ll ask you once more,” the man in the white coat says, lifting a shiny silver tool from the cart, holding it against the harsh light as he speaks. “what do you know about the rebellion?”

“nothing,” you respond defiantly, almost baring your teeth like a cornered animal.

both men exchange a glance, cheshire-cat like smirks forming on their faces before the man in white turns back to you, “if you say so.”

before you can even process his words, the cold, silver scalpel plunges into your bicep. you clench your jaw tightly to suppress any screams of pain. don’t let them know it hurts.

“i wish they were dead,” Finnick breathes out, his declaration causing Johanna’s head to snap in his direction. he is seated, his head held in his hands, a vacant look in his eyes.

“don’t say that,” Johanna mumbles, pushing strands of hair from her face.

“it’s true, i- i wish they were dead. i’d rather they be dead than have to endure anything the Capitol is doing to them,” Finnick confesses, lifting his head to look at his best friend, his gaze appearing lost and disoriented.

“we’re gonna get them,” Johanna asserts, crossing her arms over her chest as she shifts her weight from foot to foot, “Katniss is working on it, she is. we’ll get them back, they’re safe.”

Finnick raises his eyebrows towards her, his face furrowed in confusion, “are you not afraid for y/n?”

Johanna scoffs, “excuse me?” her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “obviously I’m afraid for my girlfriend, Finnick! but she’s strong, she’ll— she’ll be okay.” the brunette's voice falters as she repeats the last bit, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself more than Finnick.

six weeks.

it took an excruciating six weeks to extract you and the others from the iron grip of the Capitol. six weeks of uncertainty, of dread, of pain.

those six weeks were a living hell for Johanna, filled with the overwhelming fear that the only person she’s ever truly loved might be forever beyond her reach. she was tortured by the guilt of leaving you behind, of failing to protect you when you needed her the most.

the question haunted her relentlessly - why didn’t she just stay? why didn’t she stand by your side instead of running back?

Johanna is with Katniss when Haymitch comes to her with the news they had all been waiting for - the captives had been brought back. it is a moment filled with a strange mixture of relief and apprehension.

without a second's hesitation, the two women sprint to the hospital room. Johanna arrives just in time to witness the emotional reunion between Annie and Finnick. but her eyes are searching for someone else in the bustling room that is suddenly just too loud, too crowded.

and then she sees you - lying in a hospital bed. your skin is unnaturally pale, your eyes dark circles of exhaustion, your body noticeably thinner from weeks of captivity. you are covered in cuts, bruises, and other open wounds that tell the story of your suffering.

your gaze shifts from the nurse, who is attaching your IV, drawn by the intensity of the eyes that are watching you. when you look up, you lock eyes with Johanna.

she sucks in a deep breath, her heart pounding against her rib cage as she takes in the sight of you. she quickly makes her way over to you, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions.

as soon as the nurse leaves your side, she takes her place, seating herself on the bed next to you. her hands immediately find your cheeks, her eyes scanning your face, trying to take in the differences.

“i’m alive,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, as you watch her reaction.

her eyes pause, meeting yours once again. “yeah, yeah you are. you did so good, sweet girl.” she whispers back, pressing her forehead against yours in a tender moment.

you hum in response, “don’t go soft on me now, Jo,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

the brunette pulls back, rolling her eyes with a faux exasperated scoff, “can’t even have a nice moment? let me love you, asshole.” she grumbles, her words causing a soft giggle to escape your lips as she interlaces her fingers with yours.

“i fucking hate you,” she grumbles the words, a familiar banter between the two of you.

“i love you too,” you reply, shifting over in your bed to make room for her. she remains silent as she carefully positions herself next to you, mindful of your injuries.

a soft, uncharacteristic smile graced her features as you snuggled up to her the best you could, “i’ll never let you go again, my love, i promise.” she murmurs, sealing her promise with a gentle kiss to your hairline.

#johanna mason x reader #johanna mason #the hunger games #thg x reader #finnick odair #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #finnick odair x reader #katniss everdeen x reader #peeta mellark x reader

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Text

Ruin

König x 'Maus' F!Reader

(Part 7 of Little Mouse)

Word Count: 4.8k Rating: Teen and up Tags: Enemies to lovers, Slow burn, Dark König, Hints of yandere König, Stand-offs, Hostage Scenarios, Ambushes, Price Whump, Injury mention, Kidnapping, Capture, Angst, Violence Warnings: Violence

You don't like this.

The truck rumbles over the back country roads as you, Soap and Price pick your way through the rolling hills of the Serbian countryside. The wheels grind over the dirt road, and with every bump you feel your joints creaking, groaning with a barely contained, taut energy. Price and Soap are quiet in the front of the car, seeming to mirror your unsteady, fidgeting silence. You can barely see their faces in the twilight darkness, strange shadows cast only by the headlights against their stiff expressions. There's an air of taut apprehension none of you seem to address, a mysticism that leaves the two men ahead of you quiet, hesitant to speak. In the silence you find yourself untethered, shifting listlessly, trying your best to contain your tumbling thoughts and focus on the mission at hand.

Your destination was a warehouse at the edge of a remote town in the southeastern part of the country. No helicopters this time, no armored vehicles. Laswell was specific that some of the Serbian military had a hand in the weapons trade she sent you to investigate. Stealth, subtlety was the emphasis of this mission. No backup, no overwatch. If any of you were injured, you were walking out with the same wounds, one way or the other. Price's brief had been quick, relayed as you three gathered your gear and immediately started making preparations to leave.

"It could be scuttled at any moment." He barked at you both as you piled into the car, gear and supplies packed neatly and efficiently into the back. "It's our only lead after the death of our contact in Mozambique."

Mozambique.

Maybe that's why you were so unsettled, by the memory of a huge, hulking shadow with a red, dripping knife in one hand, and Gaz's throat in the other. Gaz's scream, choked as he was hoisted further up the wall, seems to ring ceaselessly in your thoughts, urging you to run, flee-

Yet when König's eyes had turned to you it wasn't malice that painted his gaze, it was surprise, a pleased interest that briefly had him forgetting about the man in his hold. Compulsive, keen, fixated on you, like a cat with a small, tiny bird fluttering in the trees. Just out of reach, tantalizing, mouth-watering. You can still remember his eyes, glinting like waxing crescent moons under the dark of his mask, a forbidden penumbra that has you falling into the eclipse of your thoughts.

"If I run, will you chase me?"

"If you run, I will catch you."

It shudders a sinister prophecy in you, feeling for all the world like this is the game you're destined to play with him, of running and fleeing from your thoughts, from the truth of your attraction, to the ends of the earth- only for him to find you, corner you, engulf you in his fastened hold.

Why then, did you want to run? For him to chase you?

"Everything ok?" Soap asks from the front, having noticed the shiver of your shoulders as you sink further into the depths of your rumination.

"Fine, why?" You ask, and your deflection is anything but convincing, throat a little tight, eyes not meeting his.

You cast a glance at him from where you sit, see the taut line of Soap's mouth as he purses his lips, doesn't answer. It seems...vaguely displeased, which is odd coming from the Scot, usually cheery and teasing. Now he doesn't bother to fill the car with any type of conversation, leaving you reeling in his absence.

It's the mission, you tell yourself. He's just nervous. Price too, is quiet, and you think it's because he's just focusing on the road ahead, navigating the pits and bumps of the remote hillside.

It's not because of you, you try to reason. It's not because you came back from Mozambique different, quieter. The team was used to your cheery smile and teasing, friendly banter. Yet instead, you had hidden yourself away at base, secluded yourself to your room, refused to talk except for briefings. Lost in your thoughts just as you are now, trying to find excuses within yourself, trying to find the person you were before all of this began.

You continue to lie to yourself, like you have been doing for some time now. Creating a false raft of hypocrisies on which to save yourself, to keep yourself from drowning in the truth.

They're concerned for you, that much is clear. No doubt they heard from Gaz about your most recent encounter with the man who is supposed to be your enemy. From what Gaz has said before, your actions are all the more reason for them to be convinced there's things you didn't say about when you disappeared, when König captured you. Your refusal to tell them what really happened that night seems to only be further, damning proof of their suspicions. You can't correct them, can't confess to them the truth. How are you supposed to say you might have feelings for the enemy?

Caught, in a web of falsehoods of your own design, the silvery threads ensnare you further as you continue to struggle, to free yourself.

"Do you want me to take you, Maus?"

You rub a hand over your face, trying to smear away the lingering sound of his voice, like dark oily clouds that blot out the moon in the night sky.

"Rookie."

You snap up instantly at the sound of Price's voice, at attention, back straight. His eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror- stern, steely.

"Don't get distracted, soldier. We have a job to do."

"Yes, Sir." You answer immediately, voice clipped in your reply.

"Good, because we're here."

You blink, looking out the window. If by 'here' Price means a dark, pitch-black set of woods with what could hardly constitute a road, then...yes. You suppose you were. Before you can ask, however, Price is shutting off the car, the headlights blinking dim and plunging the three of you into the dark.

"Warehouse is two kilometers east. We're walking there. Get your gear." He issues, voice measured, rough from years of tobacco that grows thick against the back of his throat. "Stay close, stay quiet, understood?"

He pauses then, and even in the dark you can sense his eyes have turned to you.

"There may be enemy operators inbound to our position." He goes on, voice dipping now. Stern, a warning. There's a murmur of something there that's unfamiliar to you. It's quiet, restrained, but paces at the corner of his thoughts like a caged animal, eyes glinting with a feral, untamed anger.

"Rookie."

"Captain." You reply, voice quieter now, easing into the resolve of a soldier, one who's mission stands before them.

"If you see König, I want you to exfil, do you understand?" He states, and that animal inside him growls with a distant, ominous thunder.

"But Sir-" You try, for once trying to argue against him, brow furrowing. It doesn't make sense. There's only three of you. You need every person you can get. To bench you doesn't suit the needs of the-

"Understood, corporal?" He asks again, voice harsher now.

A pause. Anxiety roils in your stomach. That same trepidation from earlier, the unease that clogs your throat like black smoke rises once more. It's as if you can see the murky, shadowy shapes of something imminent, gliding smooth underneath the surface of the reality before you before vanishing into obscurity. Something isn't right. Yet there's nothing you can do except walk forward willingly, into the night, waiting for fate to inexorably descend upon you all.

"Understood."

---

It takes less than an hour for the three of you to get fully geared and make your way up the hill towards the warehouse. The forest around you is cloaked in darkness, misty at the edges, entirely silent except for the distant, troglodytic calls of owls within the canopy. It feels much too like your dreams, the ones where König rises from the darkness like he did once upon a memory. When you had gotten separated from the team in the hills and he had risen from the darkness like a primordial phantom, looking down at you from the cliffs, his eyes reflecting the scant moonlight in the trees.

You shake the thought, once more earning a stern look from the captain ahead of you.

Keep it together, Rookie. You remind yourself. No room for error on this job.

The three of you pick your way through the trees like hunters of old- silent, still, fatalistic with every breath, every step and sweep of your scopes. It does nothing to assuage the asphyxiating paranoia in your chest, winding it tight and tighter until you hear your heart flutter against your ribs like a frantic, trapped bird. You’ve always been able to discern smoke on the wind, a shift in the breeze before anyone else. Now, however, you push it down deep into your chest, certain it’s only the remnants of your thoughts that pull your mind taut like a bowstring, ready to snap and send shockwaves cataclysmic through your form.

Price clears the path ahead, his form lit green by night vision goggles. Soap stays tight to your flank, more so than usual, and seems to match your every step, to watch your six more than his own. He doesn't speak. None of you do, radio silent as you approach the dim lights of the warehouse. It's only once you're there that Price holds his hand up in a silent gesture for you and Soap to pause.

He withdraws his scopes, and the air feels too cold, thick around you as he catalogs the exterior of the building, noting the scant few sentries that pace the perimeter.

Three guards. He signals to you both. Armed.

You hold your breath, looking through your own scope to confirm the captain’s observations, noting as well the freight truck in the asphalt lot of the warehouse. Several more figures walk between the vehicle and the loading dock doors. It’s at the entrance of the truck that you see a figure vanish behind the edge of the doors, and you blink, feeling a pull of recognition at the woman before Price taps your shoulder.

There's a pause before he puts away his goggles. You prepare to set up your rifle from this vantage point, provide sniper fire so the captain and Soap can infiltrate, but instead Price signals for you to follow him.

You and Soap exchange a silent look.

Soap is a sniper too, of course. You two have had more than one go at it to see who's the better shot and come up close every time. Still, it's Soap who's the demolitions and arms expert, not you. If anyone should be in there to examine the weapon's cache, it should be him. Still, you've learned your lesson from earlier, to not question the captain. So, silently, you nod in confirmation, offer Soap a fist-bump, and begin descending the hill down to the warehouse.

The three sentries are dead by the time you cut through the wire gate, slumped on the ground in an ooze of red you don't pause to look at, courtesy of the Scotsman hidden on the rise. You pass them, following as Price takes point, moves interior to the back hallways of the warehouse.

You take out two more guards as you go, pausing over each with a confirmed kill before you both make your way towards the main storage area of the warehouse.

Yet you signal Price's attention as you pass one of the offices, noting the ledger of goods and its origins that lays in plain view, not yet tucked away. You stuff it into your pack as Price hovers by the door, reminding yourself to offer it later to Laswell for intel.

It's only once you're inside the dim, musty storage floor that Price dares to speak.

"Bravo seven one, this is Bravo six. We're interior. Searching for payload, stand by."

"Copy Bravo Six." Soap's voice comes across the comms- hushed, focused.

Price motions for you to fan out, so you do, the world shades of black and green through your goggles as you navigate the shelves of crates and boxes. You step over one aisle from Price, eyes roaming over the vast collection of possible items in the warehouse. Your first few attempts yield little, nothing more than repair parts or work tools. Most of the boxes are conspicuously empty, and the more of them you discover the more you begin to feel that knot of stifling anxiety coil further within you.

There should be more boxes, clues, leads, something that may yield answers. In fact, for a place that is supposed to offer intel like Laswell promised, it's noticeably unguarded. You’re supposed to find indications of ties to enemy organizations, foreign suppliers with which to track down KorTac. However, this feels for all the world like a standard warehouse filled with various bits and bobbles used only for farming in the surrounding area. It’s almost like someone is trying to hide the evidence here.

You stop where you stand, hands tightening on your weapon in realization. Like scenting blood in the air, you feel your shoulders tighten, your heart thrum louder.

We need to leave.

You find Price at the end of the next aisle, his face hidden behind his goggles. Yet you can tell from the way his shoulders scrunch, his mouth set taut, that he feels the same. There are no answers here, and the scent of iron seems to only thicken at the back of your throat as realization slowly, horrifyingly begins to wash over you.

It's a trap.

No sooner do the words enter your mind does the world suddenly grow bright, blinding you. The clunk of a switch greets both your ears, and your goggles flood with piercing light that makes your head throb sharply. You grunt, tearing them from your face and rubbing your eyes, instinctively hunching down to hide from whichever enemy decided to ambush you.

"Soap!" You whisper urgently into the comms, trying to find your vision. "We've been made, I repeat, it's an ambush, we-"

A hand settles over yours, and you flinch hard, blinking up at Price. The captain settles a finger to his lips, gesturing for you to be silent.

"We need to move." He tells you, voice grave, hushed. "Now."

You nod, eyes wide, startled, clutching your weapon like it's your life support. Your lips purse into a tight line, following as Price turns back in the direction you both entered from.

You freeze when you hear it then, the heavy footsteps that echo through the aisles, predators in search of prey. Distantly, you feel the heavy weight of recognition press down on your shoulders, muted by the consuming dread and panic of your situation.

He could be here. He could be only feet away from us and we won't even know until it's too late.

Your heart thumps loud, loud enough you're afraid that he might hear it, trace it to the source, hunt you down like a shark scenting blood. Yet your next thought feels like a flash of lightning that cracks the sky open, cleaves apart the heavens and leaves you with the earth-shattering remnants.

Price could kill him.

Your brain blinks in radiant, fluorescent light, trying to find the balance between two diametrically opposed rationales. The asymmetry of it makes the world around you haze over, tightens the breath in your chest until you begin panting, overwhelmed by it all as you try to discern the truth lost in a haze of lies.

You need to get out of here.

You need to kill him.

You can't watch Price murder him.

You don’t want him to die.

Panic rises swiftly within you, untamed by the paradox of your uncertainty, and even as Price hauls you to your feet with a hiss you can barely hear him, blinking, eyes unfocused-

"Rookie!" Price snaps at you, voice grating, teeth cracking, and that manages to ground you, and you look at him with wide, glassy eyes.

Only to see the shadow looming behind him.

Price notices a moment too late, raising his weapon, trying to aim. Yet the shadow raises one massive, brawny arm, and swats Price straight in the face with a sound louder than thunder.

The impact sends him flying.

The crack against Price's jaw is harsh enough to rattle your bones, shaking at the creaking, unsteady foundation of you. There's a moment where Price sails through the air, his feet barely skimming the ground and then there's silence, dreaded and suspended on all sides until the moment where the arch of his momentum apexes, races back towards earth.

Your scream is muffled by the sound of your captain's body crashing into the dismantled, empty crates.

"PRICE!!

Yet your captain's body shifts, then falls still, the dust around him lifting, settling around his twisted, fallen form.

He doesn't move.

You can't breathe.

The shadow falls over you, blotting out the light from above.

It's...it's not him.

No, it's someone else. Tall, but not as tall as König, maskless. A beard grazes his jaw, massive, brawny arms hanging at his sides, eyes dark as he advances on you. The distant, still functioning part of your brain reaches for the information Price gave you, tries to recall the face on the folder.

Aksel.

Aksel, the one to hit Price so hard he could have snapped his neck, Aksel, the one who towers over your smaller figure as you panic and try to back up, forgetting the weapon in your hands as your previous panic multiplies, climbs up your throat in a heaving, shuddering gasp. Aksel only continues to move forward, footsteps like the impact of a war drum as he closes the distance, reaching a huge, gloved hand for you.

Your heart threatens to burst from your chest, terrified, paralyzed, the air in your throat frozen as you shake, trying to will yourself to move.

Then, movement from behind him. You watch as a pair of hands reach around, looping a chord over Aksel's neck and then pulling, pulling until the soldier's face contorts and he grunts for air, falling backwards. His hands fly up, trying to dislodge the rope from his neck, writhing violently. Yet all he gets in return is a pair of legs wrapping around his arms, pinning them to his sides.

It's only once he's on the floor that you see him. That you see Price.

There's blood gushing from a cut in his forehead, leaking down into one of his eyes. Yet the other remains open, and you nearly gasp at the violence there, the pure atrocities he threatens with his rage alone. The anger you heard constrained in Price's voice earlier seems to bleed into his stare, promising complete, and utter violence. The fury in his eyes seems to speak of divine retribution, a vengeance so unholy you briefly think he may be the incarnation of the fallen angel Lucifer, sworn to an eternal damnation.

"Keep your. Bloody. Fucking. Hands. OFF my sniper!" Price snarls, feral, untamed, each breath a cracked inhale as he struggles to contain the man in his hold. His hands rub and chafe at the rope, twisting brutally into his skin as he yanks it tighter, tighter.

"KILL HIM!" He roars at you, voice hoarse, bellowing the order like it's his final, ultimate act of defiance. He doesn't bother to look in your direction, intensity entirely focused on the enemy in his grip who thrashes violently, feet scrambling as he tries to buck off the captain to no avail.

It startles you from your reverie, jolts you back into the presence as you lift your weapon, take aim-

A blade at your neck.

"I wouldn't, Maus."

You freeze, heart stopping, breath halting, your entire body rigid as warmth crowds into your back, an arm wraps around your front and drags you back, backwards until you meet the uneven, uncomfortable surface of a tac vest.

König.

"Let go of the gun, kleine Maus." He purrs in your ear, and you can't- not when you can squeeze off a shot, could kill Aksel right here. Yet the blade presses further into the bare flesh of your neck and you blink, trying to understand how he of all people could threaten you like this, could force you to abandon your captain.

Nothing prepares you for his next words, as he leans down, and the fabric of the mask traces the edge of your face even as you lean away, eyes wide, horrified, confused, panicked at all that seems to be happening around you.

"You were supposed to be outside."

You blink, lips parting as you try to speak, try to ask him how he knows-

In your shock your hands loosen on your weapon, and it takes little effort for König to divest you of it, clicking on the safety and placing it to the ground, kicking it somewhere far behind him.

One huge arm wraps around your front, and it isn't until it does that your brain kicks on and you begin to struggle, arching away from the blade and thrashing. It does you little good, for within seconds König has you restrained against his front, arms pinned to your sides.

"Captain." He states, and you look frantically to Price, who's stopped actively trying to strangulate his opponent and instead now focuses on both of you. There's fear that flashes across his eyes, bright and quick as lightning, and it pierces into you. Your captain was never afraid. Resolute, concerned, angry, yes. Fear, however, was not something he displayed, and never in front of an enemy.

"I have your sniper." König goes on, and you again try to thrash, but the man has the advantage of not only size but also strength, keeps you immobile with one, bulging arm. "If you don't wish to see her bleed to death, I suggest you release my comrade."

He wouldn't

Would he?

No, this is all just a mistake. He...he said he'd never hurt you. He's bluffing.

"Let me go." You whisper, voice hoarse, starved of air.

König shifts then, and you feel him stiffen at your voice until he finally replies with his voice almost too soft to be heard:

"I can’t, Maus."

You look at Price, thoughts reeling, hands shaking, trying to find which way is up, to untangle yourself from the cobwebs inside your thoughts that prevent you from thinking clearly. The world tilts around you, the ground shifting under your feet and you realize this was a mistake from the beginning, to come out here. You weren't ready, too ill-prepared after what happened in Mozambique, when König had crowded to you just as he does now, had offered you a single request that even now echoes in your thoughts ceaselessly, tormenting you.

"If I ask, you'll come with me?"

"Let her go." Price rasps, and you stare at him, as his arms bulge with the effort it takes to contain Aksel.

"After you, Captain Price." König practically purrs, keeping you glued to his front, the sharp end of the blade pressed barely into your skin.

Price pauses, and you can see him thinking, processing, trying to find a way out of this where you both survive unscathed.

"Price. No." You manage, again trying to free yourself. Yet König's other hand snaked upwards, covering the lower half of your face in one huge, gloved hand.

"Quiet, Maus."

It doesn't stop you. If Price frees Aksel, Aksel will kill him, and you can't allow that to happen, can't witness the death of your captain in front of your eyes while you're able to do nothing. Not when it's all your fault.

"Our commander has been very eager to meet you, captain." König goes on. "If you release Eriksen, I may be inclined to let your sergeant here meet him as well."

You still, König's words sink into you as you do into terror, realizing exactly what the enemy soldier's threat entails.

Capture.

You thrash in earnest now, heedless of the blade at your throat. Your voice echoes into König's palm, a cry of fear, of outrage at the prospect of being taken again, of Price, your captain being taken alongside you. Somehow, you wiggle your arms free and try to claw at König's forearm, your gloved fingers scraping uselessly against the metal of his bracers. The blade in König's hand nicks against your throat, and you're certain you feel a red ooze from the source, but you pay it no attention.

You could endure capture, shameful though it was. You were trained to withstand interrogations, to not crack under pressure, but the idea of Price, of Price being captured, of them possibly using your own captain against you, or worse, trying to use you to crack him-

You reach for your vest, one hand fumbling for your blade there, trying to withdraw it in a desperate attempt to free yourself, to save Price, anything-

Yet König's hand releases your mouth and twists your wrist as soon as you find the blade, and you grunt as it is twisted free of your grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.

"Let me GO!!" You scream, panic now forcing up your throat and through your limbs in an uncontrolled, untampered frenzy.

König shifts with you in his arms, tries to lean down to you, and you hear his voice dip in an almost soothing murmur, tight and barely audible. You don't hear him, focused entirely on your captain.

"Price!" You scream, voice shrill. "Kill him! Run! Get out of here!"

Price seems taken aback by your outburst, his single open eye glinting as he takes in your wildly thrashing form, eyes feral, untamed, afraid.

Slowly, Price unwinds the rope.

You have just enough time to scream, to shout "NO!!" Before Aksel twists, seizing one of Price's arms and bending it down in a harsh motion so abruptly and severely you hear a 'Crack!' at the motion. Price shouts, a harsh grinding sound, yanking the arm back automatically and trying to grapple himself away from the Norwegian on pure instinct. Yet when his eyes land on you, he pauses, just long enough for Aksel to stand and launch a heavy, booted foot right into the man's ribs.

Price crumples back with a shout that's dwarfed by your own. You scream, your entire body surging forward, only for König to wordlessly catch you, his entire form rigid, stiff at the sight before him.

"Leave her." Aksel barks at König, his voice cracked, hoarse from Price's murderous attempt. You barely pay any attention to the Norwegian, your eyes focused on the form of your captain. He’s curled on his side, blood oozing from the laceration in his hairline, his hat crumpled and tossed to the side. He writhes slowly on the floor, choking on a ragged inhale, and you call for him, voice thick with despair.

"Price, John, please- look at me."

He does. He turns his head and there's anger there, hard enough to make you flinch. Pure ire seeps from his gaze, one eye mottled with blood that continues to seep from his head. His shoulders heave as he tries to gather his breath. No doubt Aksel's kick, harsh enough to dent metal, was enough to fracture a rib. The pain only feeds the fury, your captain's teeth bared in a feral, gnashing snarl. Yet it isn't directed at you, it's focused instead on the man who holds a knife to your throat, the one who you feel shift with you pinned against his front.

"No." König's voice startles you, makes you flinch against him. Yet the hand clasped across you eases just a touch, his thumb grazing reassuring circles into your skin you barely seem to feel. "O'Conor wanted him alive. We can use her as leverage."

Aksel shoots König an annoyed look, but there must be something in the Austrian's stare that makes him pause, consider.

"Fine." He bites at last, clearly displeased. "You take her. Roze is expecting us outside."

With that he reaches for Price and you snarl, thrash in König's grip like a wild, rabid animal.

"Don't you fucking touch him." You grind out, but Aksel has the audacity to shoot you a look akin to amusement, as if he doesn't really believe the unspoken threat in your words. So, you turn to the captain, who stretches on the floor, seeking your weapon that was kicked uselessly to the side. When Aksel's foot lands on his hand with a sickening crunch, John grits his teeth and only offers a grunt. His enraged stare fixates on the Norwegian standing above him, reaching down to grasp him by his tac vest, and haul him upright.

Then, in a brutal, dizzying move, Aksel cranes his head back and then forwards, connecting it with Price's hard enough to severely stun the man. John’s eyes roll hard enough to make your stomach turn with a putrid, sour taste.

"John-" You try again, voice terribly small, broken at the sight of your limp captain's body now hauled over Aksel's broad shoulders. "John, please."

"Let's move." Aksel barks to König, and soon your world shifts as well. You're too startled to offer a reaction, not until you're slung across König's shoulders in a similar manner to Price, both hands caught in a single, strangulating grasp.

"König." You try once you're sure Aksel can't hear you. Your voice is tight, caught in your throat. "Please- please don't do this."

König doesn't reply, not at first. You can tell he's thinking, considering, his shoulders tense under you as he absorbs your plea.

"I won't let them hurt you, Maus." He murmurs back, voice hushes, raspy. "I'll...keep you safe."

Yet he doesn't sound convinced by his own words, and you only struggle in response, trying vainly to free yourself.

"Let me go." You plead a little louder, voice cracking. "Please, don't...don't let them use me against him. König."

König flinches. Yet he doesn't respond, not as his mind continues to churn and yield only fruitless solutions. You feel panic rise within you again, and as you struggle König only offers small, hushed assurances that do little to deter the building terror inside you.

They're going to capture you. Yet this time it won't just be König. As much as he says so he can't guarantee your safety, can't ensure you won't be tortured, used as fodder to break your captain.

The cool night air billows across your face as you exit the warehouse. There's cars now that you didn't see before, and among them is an armored truck that Aksel makes for with long, unbroken strides. Horror wells in your stomach, the back of the truck yawning open like a black maw, threatening to take you down, down until you choke only on ichor and darkness.

You struggle then, air rising hot and suffocating in your throat, made worse when König's distant murmur of "Maus, Maus, it's going to be okay-" filters through the smoggy haze of fear. You can hardly breathe, mind conjuring images of being tied to a chair in a dark room, of Price, bloodied and beaten across from you-

BOOM-!!

A deafening, catastrophic explosion shakes the ground under you, and the darkness of the warehouse lot is suddenly illuminated by a fiery, orange glow that casts König's gigantic shadow in a looming, phantasmic stretch before your eyes. You twist your head just in time to feel the heat of flames cast brightly against your face.

"ROZE!" Aksel bellows furiously over the roar of the conflagration, and you hear a female voice in the distance yell something back, voice rising sharply in alarm, words indiscernible.

König spins, entire form radiating tension under you. When you twist you catch a glimpse of his eyes- wide, frantic, searching for answers.

You already know. If it wasn't them, there's only one person it could possibly be. Your mouth forms the name, calls out to him amidst the fire and flames, seeking purchase on the only lifeline you have left.

"SOAP!!"

No sooner had you cried out did you feel König's body lurch under you, so abrupt and severe his balance falters. The sound of something sinking into his tac vest is enough to make your heart stop, and he grunts, something akin to pain. Too top heavy with your body slung across his shoulders he teeters, and then goes down like a mammoth tree falling in a forest. You spill from his grip, on your feet in an instant.

König grunts with pain when he reaches for you, manages to secure one foot around your ankle.

Yet then, mysteriously, he pauses.

The Austrian catches sight of your eyes, sees your stricken, terrified gaze looking down at him. A rabbit in a snare, staring into the jaws of a predator, the glint of fangs reflecting in your irises.

He lets go.

You pause long enough only to blink at him, wanting to say something, anything, to speak to him in this moment not as enemies or allies, but something between. Something that feels strangely like trust.

Instead, you fling yourself in the direction of the gunshot, hearing a bellow of anger behind you as you sprint for the fence line in search of freedom.

Only to skid to a halt once you get to the edge of the burning building, against the not yet consumed office spaces, sparing a horrified look behind you.

Price.

No sooner did you turn back in the direction of the truck where you captain was being held did you trace the glint of a scope, reflecting the burning haze of the building.

You duck just in time, absent of a weapon to return fire, getting behind the exterior wall of the building. Heart racing, you barely hear your own thoughts above the sound of the inferno, growing closer to your position at every moment.

You need to get Price, need to find a weapon, to return fire, to-

Hands seize you around your middle.

You scream on instinct, reaching for your knife no longer in your vest, searching for one of your other weapons, for something-

"Rookie, it's me!"

You twist in your attacker's arms, seeing the wide, blue gaze of Soap peer down at you. In his eyes you see the orange of the flames, see your own horrified stare, see the ashes of catastrophe falling around you like omens from a cursed, skyward pantheon.

"Soap-" You breathe, voice clogged with smoke. Your relief is short lived, because soon another bullet pings against the wall and Soap is ducking you both down, his face grim, brow drawn in frustration.

"Th-they have Price." You supply, voice cracking. "In the truck, they said they needed him alive. We need-"

Another bullet, and you flinch. You look to Johnny, who peers over your head with growing dismay, face falling open at whatever he sees.

"Soap." You try again, voice tight. "You need to return fire, to get Price-"

"Can't." Soap tells you, and he looks at you then, his eyes wide, afraid. "I can't risk hitting the captain."

The next bullet pierces the wall above both your heads, but you feel rather than hear it, blood rushing in your ears, the fire roaring so loud you feel the vibrations of it in your feet.

"We need to leave." Soap yells over the chaos, voice stern, issuing an order and still somehow failing to contain his utter anger and grief at the situation. He doesn't wait for your approval, doesn't wait to hear you respond. Instead, he seizes your arm, begins dragging your stunned, paralyzed form with him in the direction of the fence.

"S-Soap." You try, but your voice is hoarse, barely able to be heard. Soap doesn't look back, doesn't try and release you, hauling you along as you stumble behind him.

"GO!" He tells you, shoving you at the hole in the fence and turning to spray his weapon wide, long enough to cover you ducking through the wire. In the time it takes to force himself through, whoever's scope has you in its sights fires in your direction once more, shots barely missing you.

"MOVE!!" Soap yells at you, hands shoving, and you've never heard his voice like that before. Terrified, shaking, trying to somehow maintain a grasp on a situation that's spiraled far beyond his control.

"PRICE!!" You scream, voice shrill, cracking in your throat. You reach for him, try and shove Soap off of you, but the Scotsman has an arm secured around your middle, dragging you backwards from the line of fire even as you shriek. "Soap- Johnny, let go!! Price- we need to-!"

"We can't." Soap interjects, and you can hear in his voice the devastation, the complete and utter despair. "We need t' get out of here, right fuckin now-"

Yet it only makes you thrash harder in Soap's grip, watching as the injured form of your captain is tossed, thrown, into the back of the truck. You watch the wheels bounce with the impact, a cry of utter anguish tearing raw from your throat, enough to be heard over the fire of bullets that rain down on your and Soap's position.

"Leave him." Soap hoarses into your shoulders, even as your fingers try and pry his arm from you. "They need him alive- we...we can get him back." Johnny's throat cracks on the promise, as if he doesn't believe his own words. "We will die if we stay here, corporal. We need to leave. That's an order."

You sob then, at the reminder of your rank, at Soap using every method he has to get you to retreat away from your captain. It doesn't make sense. He's right there, so close you can almost see his eyes as the back of the truck closes, and he vanishes from sight.

"C'mon, lass, move." Soap grunts then, none too gently hauling you further into the shadows of the woods, away from the line of fire. "Yer no use to him dead."

You don't reply, allowing Soap to haul you further into the forest even as your wails leave a trail of anguish behind you.

----

You leave him.

You leave Price.

Both of you, you and Soap, flee into the Serbian forest. The blaze of the warehouse burns brightly behind you, casting a red glow upon the horizon in the absence of dawn. The smoke clings to the back of your throat as you pick your way through the forest, jumping at every twig snapping underfoot, every rustle of the canopy. It's unclear if you're being pursued, or if your attackers are too preoccupied with their own exfiltration to even bother.

You and Soap make it back to the van with record speed, and it's only once you're there that you seize him, use all your force to corner him against the side of the truck.

"Why!?" You gasp, hot tears blooming in your eyes. "You could have gotten him, not me!"

You bend your head forward, voice choking on a wail, knowing still there may be enemies in the trees just beyond sight. Fists clench on Johnny's chest and you shudder with a sob, uncontrollable guilt bubbling searing and viscous up your throat.

This. This was your fault.

You should have told Price something was wrong, should have reacted sooner to the ambush, shouldn't have gotten panicked in your own head because of him-

Soap's hands land on yours. Firm, comforting. He doesn't snap at you to get back in line, doesn't scold you for your tears in the face of defeat. Instead, he murmurs two words, his voice broken, choked with emotion that mirrors your own.

"I'm sorry."

You look up at him through a watery gaze, ashes smeared across your face, hair coming loose from under your helmet. Soap's eyes are miserable, face contorted as he tries to contain the guilt, the grief that sinks deep into his chest like the carve of a dull, serrated knife. It's enough to make you pause, blink your eyes free of tears.

"I-I had to." He goes on, voice thick with emotion, laced with despair that fractures at the brittle inside of you, threatens to send the foundation of you crashing down. "It couldn’t be you. Not...not again."

Again.

After the first time. After König had marched away with you into the night, had begun this winding, ensnaring tale of irrevocable magnetism, two planets in asynchronous orbit destined for a ruinous collision of destruction. After you had come back different, shaken, trying so hard to hide the truth that your teammates, your brothers had no choice but to assume the worst.

You understand now, how they must have felt when you were taken. The grief, the despair, the all-consuming outrage that now festers inside of you like molten glass, dripping and scorching over your form.

Your face crumples at that, and like a child you weep against Soap's front, feel the warm wetness of grief trace paths through the ashes on your cheeks. You bang a fist weakly against him, and it only summons another cracked apology, arms closing around you as he gathers you to him in your combined grief.

"We'll get him." He murmurs. Over and over again, a litany of promises that you try to find solace in, try to hide from the guilt of your own ruinous emotions.

Slowly, as the sun rises, you try to bury him in your heart.

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soullesscinders · 2 months

Text

Stolen Glances

pairing: Astarion x Named!Tav (Ezrael)

genre: porn, zero plot.

warnings: MDNI, 18+, throat fucking, piv sex, blood drinking, oral, rough piv, not proofread

word count: 2.7k+

a/n: i havent written smut in so long, feedback appreciated <3 also. I am so sorry for the pure sin you are about to read.

AO3 // Wattpad

For weeks now, Ezrael couldn't stop herself from stealing glances at Astarion. Even doing mundane tasks, like reading, she found him to be the most beautiful being she'd ever seen. He'd been flirty, sure, slightly manipulative as well. She knew he didn't- and, likely wouldn't- harbor any feelings for her.

That fact would also, not leave her alone.

All of his deliciously flirtatious greetings, the smug smirks painted on his lips. Ezrael was sure that he was aware of the effect he had on her, painful as it may be. As aware as she was, her heart still fluttered and her face burned at the thought of him, even now as she traipsed through the woods gathering. Various flowers and other plants for Gale, the resident alchemist. Orchids for Shadowheart, she could use some softening up. Lae'zel appreciated moss, citing it made her sword shine. Astarion... she wasn't sure. Starcluster, maybe, but he'd know instantly. No, that's too sappy for Ezrael. She showed appreciation quietly, covertly, so as not to disturb her friendship with him.

Until, she found herself daydreaming of what she wanted his delicate rogue hands to do to her. Leaned up against a tree, his free hand covering her mouth. Gentle swirls around her...

Snap

Her eyes flew open and shot to the direction of the sudden noise. There, Astarion stood.

"Hello, Ezrael. Fancy meeting you here," He smirks, a coy undertone to his words. "What might you be up to?"

"Gathering wood and alchemy supplies for Gale and the others. Why, care to assist?" She asked, pretending not to notice his ruby eyes hungrily searching her face for clues. He shrugged in response.

"Not particularly. I noticed you leaned against that tree, thought something might be wrong. Care to share, dear?"

"No, I really don't, actually." She mustered, attempting to slow the pounding of her chest and the redness in her cheeks.

He hummed, crossing over to her.

"I think you're lying, pup. Are you sure you don't have anything to say to me?"

Shit

She stops picking the cluster of a vague plant- admittedly, a weed- and glances up at Astarion, now looming slightly too close to her. She shakes her head no, the pounding in her chest forcing blood to rush in her ears and face to burn a brilliant crimson.

"Oh love, I'm a vampire. You think I can't hear that pretty muscle pounding away when I get close to you?" He bites his lip, one fang shining in the moonlight. Ezrael stands, straighter than she normally would, attempting to put on a brave face and-

Unsuccessful, as usual. Astarion steps closer, eyes darkened and burning a hole through the thin shirt she is wearing. She backs up until she can feel the rough bark of the tree, and Astarion is impossibly close, thigh between her legs.

He tilts her chin up with one finger until she's looking into his eyes, and leans into her ear.

"Ez, love. I've wanted you for quite a while. I look at you twice as often as you look at me," he whispers. A slight nip to her earlobe elicits a small, nearly inaudible moan from her. Her eyes are closed, but she can feel him moving down to her neck. Goosebumps raise all over her body when he gently brushes his lips over a healing bruise, and she shivers.

He puts his hands around her waist, circling the small of her back and presses his thigh closer into her heat, delighted by the tense in her shoulders and hitched breath lodged in her throat.

"My love, you can make noise," He says into her collarbone, desperate to hear her noises.

"No one can hear you, we're so far from camp that you could scream for me, and the others would think you were an animal." He whispered, and punctuated with a feather light kiss just under her ear. She groaned lightly, throwing caution to the wind.

"You'd have to make me." She says and Astarion smiles wickedly.

"That's my girl," He says, holding her face and neck in his hand, and pulls her into him for a kiss. A kiss so hot, Ezrael swore she felt a fire in her chest.

His lips are soft, and he tastes like a fresh morning dew and a slight tinge of metal. His scent of bergamot, rosemary, and a sharp brandy encapsulate her senses. His fangs nick her inner lip and he groans, trailing his tongue delicately over her bottom lip. Begging her to open her mouth, her soul to him. She obliges, sliding her tongue along with his in a passionate dance with each other.

He pulls away and Ezrael instantly feels the loss, missing his lips on hers instantly. She groans impatiently.

"Sweet, what's the matter? You don't think I'm done already, do you? Oh, no, doll. I'm just getting started. I will say, I'm getting increasingly frustrated with all of this infernal clothing you have in the way." He says, tilting his head and looking down at Ezrael, squeezing her hip as he does. Looking back up without moving his head an inch, he internally undresses her with his eyes. She reaches down to the hem of her shirt and pulls it off in one fell swoop, and Astarion instantly takes advantage of the new canvas presented before him. Kissing her breasts, taking his time with careful precision and attention to each nipple. Her other breast in his free hand, fingers toying with the sensitive bud, she moans in response to his deft fingers.

"Astarion," she pants breathlessly, "what else can those fingers do?" He hums in response, pulling off of her nipple, leaving the saliva soaked nub to the cool, night air. He kisses her gently, almost lovingly.

"Patience, pet. We have all night after all." He coos to Ezrael. She keens at his words, desperate for his touch.

"Do I have to beg you to take my pants off?" She sneers, clearly not being patient as Astarion wanted her to be. He growls close to her ear.

"That could be arranged, love. If you behave."

She reels at his words, so deliciously sinful rolling off of his tongue. Ezrael tips her head back into the tree once again, attempting to slowly slide her pants down her legs. Astarion notices her gentle wiggling, and in one movement, pins her wrists above her head, eliciting a groan from his new toy.

"Darling, what did I just get done telling you?" He asks in mock exasperation, pushing his thigh further up into her heat. She wiggles, vying for friction and doesn't respond.

"Please, Astarion." She begs breathlessly, hoping for some kind of mercy from him. He ponders this for a moment, taking in her blushing and desperate form panting underneath him.

"I suppose I could give you something, since you beg so nicely for me." He muses, kneeling in front of her, and slides her pants down her slender legs. The distinct scent of her arousal only spurs him on, while she whimpers and moans above him.

Achingly slow, he pulls them off and throws them away, already licking his lips at the delicious sight before him. Ezrael gasps at his cool breathing on her moist and hot center, hands instinctively reaching for his hair. He stops her with a tut-tut, and she positions her hands behind her obediently.

"Good girl." He growls toward her heat, fingers snaking up her body to her mouth.

"Wet these for me, will you, love?" He asks her gently, looking up at her with pure carnal desire in his eyes. She opens her mouth at his command, taking his middle and ring finger into her mouth and swiping her tongue over them to coat them in saliva. With a suck and loud pop, she frees him from her lips, waiting anxiously for him to touch her.

"Thank you, doll." He purrs, and spreads her folds apart. With a slow stripe up, his tongue finally, finally, flicks over her taut bundle of nerves, and she cries out with a sultry groan and tips her head back.

"Ast- ah, fuck, that felt nice." She says breathlessly, thoughts already beginning to muddle together. He smiles against her, and begins a barrage of rapid licks, aiming for her release. He spreads her knees for more access, and slides the fingers she so kindly dampened for him into her. Looking up, expecting her eyes to be on him and his sinful movements, finds his toy off in her own world mewling like a bitch in heat. He pulls away entirely, and Ezrael's eyes snap wide open and stare at him.

"Eyes. On. Me." He says through gritted teeth.

She nods, words lost to her. He returns to his ministrations, looking up at her through his eyelashes, animalistic lust dancing in his eyes. She fights the urge to look anywhere but him, his desiring gaze pulling her in. She feels a familiar coil in her abdomen being wound tight as he works, and she whispers.

"Astarion, baby, I'm so close." She says, the desire in her eyes and on her lips making him moan against her and sends vibrations right to that hot coil pooling in her gut.

"Come undone for me, my heart." He purrs, quickening his already relentless pace. At his words, the coil snaps, sending her reeling into a fit of moans, gushing over his fingers while he kisses her clit through it. She comes down after a moment, head spinning, thoroughly fuck out. Astarion stands, pulling her face to him by her neck and kissing him hard.

"Darling, I hope you don't think we're done yet. We are just getting started." He whispers sensually, cool breath fanning her face, the slight scent of her sex on him. She whimpers, leaning in to kiss him again.

He doesn't object, but after a moment of feeling her tongue on his, has an idea.

"My love, I have a proposition." He whispers gently, leaning down toward her ear. She hums in response to him, still in bliss after the magic he worked.

"I want you to get on your knees, and show me how well that bratty mouth can treat my cock." He growls, inhaling the sweet scent of her oxytocin saturated blood.

She nearly buckles. She's had several sexual partners, but none who could make her legs wobble quite like Astarion could. She nods wordlessly, fingers trailing down his bare chest as she goes, until she reaches his waistband. His hips are beautiful, jutting out against the sharp contrast of his black pains, holding a bulge that could rival the biggest she'd seen previously. She undoes the tie with her teeth, blinking up at him through half lidded eyes and he groans. He runs his fingers through her hair and down her jaw as she slowly slides his pants down his legs.

Rock solid, he springs free from the tight confines of his pants with a hiss. Ezrael takes his length in her hand, and tentatively begins swirling her tongue around the head of his cock, tasting the precum beading at the tip. He bucks his hips instinctively, and he holds her head with one hand, barely restraining himself from losing it and fucking her throat.

"Love, how good is your gag reflex?" He asks as she works him, velvety mouth on his tip.

"I never have gagged doing this, so I think it's pretty good." She winks up at him, and the permission between the lines is all he needs to grip both sides of her head.

"Tap my leg if you can't do it, darling. I'd hate to hurt you." He whispers, almost genuine care behind his eyes, mixed with the dizzying desire. She nods, preparing herself. He pulls her head down his shaft, slowly, gauging her reaction until her nose touches his pelvis. When she hardly reacts, he croons.

"Good girl, you are taking me so well, love."He continues, selfishly indulging his own pleasure at the expense of her, her mouth, and her seemingly innate trust in him. She moans around his cock at his words, salivating profusely. He continues pumping himself in her throat, watching as tears prick the corners of her eyes each time he drives himself a little deeper. Enough, he thinks, and buries the tip of his cock in the back of her throat, driving himself as deep as he can go repeatedly. She moans and whimpers around him, now with tears streaking down her face, ruining her eyeliner as he goes, pounding himself to his own pleasure. He fucks her throat like it's the last thing he'd ever do, sweat beading down his forehead and dripping onto his chest as he watches Ezrael splutter around him.

He pulls out with a pop, her throat now fucked raw, and can't bear to hold himself back anymore. He leans down, kissing her cheek.

"You did beautifully, my love. Now, on your back." He commands, watching her naked form move to his desires without question. He kneels down to her, forcing her legs open as he drinks in her already dripping pussy, ready to be ruined by him.

"I'll make you cum so hard you'll never find pleasure from yourself or another man again, Ezrael. Do you understand me?" He growls in her ear, feeling her thrumming heartbeat skip as he does so. She nods enthusiastically. With one hand, he languidly strokes his cock, sliding it against her clit and watching her eyes flutter shut. Quickly and without a shred of mercy left in him, he pushes every inch of his cock into her, feeling her walls twitch around him. He begins at a slow, hard pace, delighting in every moan that rolls off of her lips, watching her tits bounce each time he drives himself back into her. After a few moments of slow thrusts, something inside him snaps. He drives his hips into her at an almost inhuman speed, listening to the mewls flow from her lips and feeling her cunt continuously tighten around him.

"Yes, Ast- ah." She moans, not a coherent, tangible thought in her head while he rails her senselessly, pounding her into the ground and watching her fall apart under him, for him. He slows for a moment, and leans down to her throat to gently rake his fangs over her pulse.

"Who could fuck you as well as I am?" He asks, nearly purring.

"N-no one, Astarion." She gasps, pussy fluttering around him.

"Good pet." He smirks, punctuating his praise with a sharp thrust, and Ezrael cries out. He picks up his relentless pace again, listening to the sounds of her wet sex swallowing him with every thrust he gives. She begins feeling the heat building in her core, watching him as he fucks himself into her with abandon, absolutely loving the growls and groans coming from his chest. He leans down and doesn't even ask before sinking his teeth into her pulse, lapping her lifeblood up as he pushes himself impossibly deep into her. Her eyes cross, mind going blank with pleasure, and the coil snaps, drenching his pelvis and making him groan into her throat. He bites harder to anchor himself, and he tumbles over the edge as well at the feeling of her pussy clamping down around him. He slowly rocks her through her orgasm, sweet, oxytocin flavored blood staining his fangs as he pulls away from her throat to look at Ezrael.

He smiles sweetly, almost as if he didn't just fuck the life out of her. Her limp body, wracked from pleasure, is already almost asleep. He kisses her softly on her lips, forehead, cheeks, and the tip of her nose.

"That was lovely, darling. We really should do this again." He whispers to her, and she nods in quiet agreement. He dresses them both quickly, and picks her up. She snuggles into his chest, still dozing.

"Sleep with me tonight." She says sleepily, eyes closed. The look of shock on his face isn't noticed.

"That's- awfully sweet of you, love," Surprise coating his voice. "But of course, I will."

He walks her into camp, relieved that everyone appears to be sleeping. He places her on the bedroll in her tent, setting her pack down with all of it's wildflowers still intact. He curls around her sleeping form, resting her head on his chest.

Maybe, everything will be alright. Maybe, if he can ignore how his chest seems to flutter when he's near her, he can stop stealing glances from across the camp.

#astarion smut #astarion x female tav #baldurs gate 3 #18+ only #18+ mdni #shameless smut #I apologize for this

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deliciousdekarios · 2 months

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Reading by the river

A/N - not everything is going to be a thirst fest here, but the possibility is there. For my first writing here, I decided to try something sweet to ease into it. It was a cute idea I had and I hope you enjoy.

You and Gale haven't admitted your feelings for each other yet, but you sense a pining from him and you want him too. Gale x Fem reader

The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the riverbank camp, painting the serene coastline in hues of orange and pink. It was rather picturesque. The camp activity was winding down, and everyone was engaged in their respective tasks, preparing for the approaching night. Amidst this, you sat under a tree with Gale, your trusted companion and fellow seeker of arcane knowledge.

Gale Dekarios, the charming wizard from Waterdeep, sat beside you, his eyes fixed on the ancient tome you both were poring over. The book's pages whispered secrets of the Weave (or so he hoped). Gale's scholarly demeanor was evident as he absorbed every word with fervor.

As much as you love these moments, listening to Gale explain things you don't quite understand, your attention was on more than just the arcane mysteries tonight. An unspoken tension between you and Gale had been slowly driving you mad. You were almost certain that Gale harbored something more than friendship for you. Still, the fear of rejection was holding you back, reminding you of past heartaches.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you and Gale settled into your routine, trading scrolls and tomes as the lanterns flickered to life around you. The soft sound of the river lapping against the shore provided a soothing backdrop to your readings.

Over time, you had grown comfortable with each other, and it was not uncommon for you to doze off against Gale's shoulder, lulled by the rhythmic sound of his breathing. Gale never disturbed you, even though his back protested against the unforgiving bark of the tree.

Tonight was no different. You awoke from your unintended nap, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you glanced at Gale. "Was I asleep long?" you asked in a half yawn, oblivious to the passing of time.

"Oh, only 20 minutes or so, not to worry," Gale replied with a gentle smile. His eyes, however, betrayed the truth. He had sat there, patiently watching over you for much longer than that. "You can stay if you'd like. I'm in no hurry to go to bed." He tilted his head back and shifted his bum a bit, leaning against the tree trunk and looking back at the night sky.

"Okay, maybe I'll stay for a few more minutes then." You settle back down, resting your head on Gale's shoulder as you close your eyes. You hope he doesn't mind, but selfishly, you want to steal a few more moments of this.

Gale remained silent, letting out a small sigh, signaling his contentment to bask in the quiet companionship you shared under the starlit sky. At that moment, as the night enveloped you in its embrace, you knew that some feelings didn't need to be spoken to be understood. Perhaps the barriers between you and Gale were beginning to crumble, one stolen glance and shared moment at a time.

#gale romance #gale baldurs gate 3 #bg3 brainrot #wizard of waterdeep #rizzard of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale fanfic #gale fluff #gale x reader

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megatrxnic · 7 months

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TF[RiD’15]: Steeljaw X G/N canine/wolf-bot reader

•Fandom: Transformers: Robots In Disguise [2015]

•Theme: Steeljaw x G/N Canine-bot reader

•Title: "Freedom Awaits"

•Rating: PG; [mentions of clawing and typical Steeljaw behaviors] pretty sfw

•Notes: A rewrite of an old fanfic. Comrade used for G/N comfort. Steeljaw is just being a desperate loner looking for pack mates. Might be a part two of this if there is any interest. [fic below the cut]

"Most would say that fate whispers to the wolf; you cannot withstand the storm, but this wolf whispered back....I am the storm," Rushing through soon-to-be clawed up trees with talons lashing and frantic panting, you recited the quotation within your troubled and frantic mind, having learned it somewhere in the past but unaware of the real source. You strode on hind and front paws, then on two legs after exhaustion began to kick in. You'd been on the run from the autobot, "Bee" for what seemed hours. You only knew a portion of his name because the ignorant, red painted, flamboyant bot with him was obnoxious and crude when obviously and simultaneously failing to follow orders.

You soon stopped behind an aged, large tree, panting, and yet, as You tried to muster up the fuel supplies to get up and attempted to run...to no avail. Your joints and coils trembled in your exhausted frame, which resulted in a dramatic collapse before miles and miles of more forest. Your pointed, lupine audial gave a sudden twitch and swiveled around when you picked up the slightest sound of moving debris: a twig or branch snapped beneath what sounded like a large, robotic life-form, "A possible ally?" You whispered with glistening fangs readily apparent to snap as you heaved and panted for air. Your glossa hung from your lower jaw like that of an over-exhausted canine, "Show yourself..." You spoke within raspy breaths. Your optics glowed within the dim lit low lights of the sun falling beneath the trees.

Your audials fell back and your muzzle formed into that of an almost crooked smile with fangs exposed. A fearful gesture, and yet when you were ready to ward whatever it was off with a fear-inducing growl, you were suddenly whacked across your chassis with something sharp and searing. Instead of the growling, all you could muster up was a soft whimper of sudden shocked pain and discomfort, "Who are you? Why would you do that??" You continued to pant and bare your fangs as you backed yourself further into the tree. Your assailant's optics became visible in the impending darkness provided by the clustered trees and their foliage. Claws dug holes into the Earth and rake-marks into the tree's tender hide. You became so frightened that you hadn't noticed your own tail between your trembling knees.

After several moments of taunting from the intruder amidst the shadows, it finally spoke aloud, "Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is, you know," The seductive, almost soothing tone seemed quite eerie and disturbing behind the darkened visage of the night. The sudden sound of raking against the bark of another innocent tree struck your audio receptors enough to create a small spark of static and disruption, "Dear...comrade, what are you doing so exhausted and lost in the wilderness of this...backwater planet? Have you endured the same torture? The rude welcoming committee, and worst of all...the Autobots?" The figure stepped toward the small patch of light before you and revealed himself. His appearance was familiar, but you knew not his scent.

"Who are you?" You asked as your voice cracked under anxious pressure, "I will not fall prey to another-" Your words were cut short as a clawed digit pressed itself up against your maw.

"-Trap? No need to fear dear comrade, I bear the same marking as you. We are both-I assume-two cons' trying to make a living on a new planet. A new home to call our own without being treated as...criminals... and morseo...equals," He nodded his head as you glanced down at the deep claw marks through your chestplate. You winced at the still-lingering pain, "I'm sorry about that, loner. I was merely covering your tracks. You'd have probably been caught by now and stuffed back into one of those...stasis pods, again,"

"Thanks....I guess," You crossed your servos over your chassis and glanced away from your assailant, but you glanced back without hesitation, "Who are you?" You raised an eyebrow and rose off of the ground slowly-the tree supporting your still-weakened knees, "I would like to know the name of my...savior," You faltered at that final term, but kept the same, almost blank expression as their optics met.

"My name is, SteelJaw, and no need to thank me, comrade...all I ask is that you join me..on the hunt for more comrades; brothers and sisters...just like us," He clenched a fist and thrusted it to his chassis, showing confidence with every fluid motion of his being, "Again, will you join me, co-"

"My name, call me by my name," He glanced at You, seemingly startled by your retort, with a raised brow and leaned against the tree in which he clawed into shambles, as if he awaited your reply, "It's, (Y/N; first part)" You cut yourself short momentarily, not wanting the devious wolf-mech to catch your full name. You were an extremely cautious Decepticon/Autobot as odd as it seemed, and you were so tired of the rash betrayal or being hunted down by other Decepticons or even being turned in by undercover Autobots.

"...what? You seem to have...come off a bit short?" A sly grin formed on the maw of the wolf-like muzzle sported by SteelJaw. His razor-sharp fangs were visible to you as you shifted and swallowed hard before offering a reply...

"(Y/N; last part)," With defeat in your chords, you lowered your audials and glanced over at the wolf’con, who seemed to be rather amused by your strange behavior and body language, "Don't tell anybody else about my name....or me," Your pointed a claw at least inches away from Steeljaw's chin as he chuckled with utter amusement at your newly delivered threat.

“(Y/N), my dear, why would I do that...Join me. Join my...pack as it would seem I am but one..." He seemed to be playing a rather pitiful card as You saw through his pack of lies rather confidently, "I just might accidentally alert the nearest autobot of your whereabouts...unless you stick with me to...avoid that scenario, don't you think?" The sly lupine con bore his fangs in a gnarled grin as he knew he'd won. He approached you much closer, almost muzzle to muzzle, "I take that as a...yes?"

"....Yes,"

End Part

#kdrabs[✏️]#steeljaw rid #steeljaw x reader #transformers x reader #rid15 x reader #tf x reader #steeljaw #steeljaw tf #x reader #x reader fanfiction #reader insert #self insert #transformers #tf rid 2015

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cookeybg · 2 months

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Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic

Woah, I couldn't wait and whipped this out as fast as I could. I want all of you to feel what I felt. Bwahahaha!

I'm so excited for this one.

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

[In case you missed it Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3]

Part 1 - Chapter 4

Jon had done it. He had actually done it! Taking inspiration from some shoujo manga he had read, he decided to write a letter with his feelings confessing his crush on Jay. It had taken him three days and two nights to write and to say he was nervous was an understatement. He really hoped he hadn’t looked too desperate when he had asked Jay to meet up after art class, since it was their last class of the day. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately since it meant he could take a few breaths to compose himself, Jay had to meet Mr. Thompson in the computer room. Jon told him he would wait at the bench, under the tree, in the small garden the art classes used for sketching and painting. Jon paced the length of the bench. The sun shone brightly through the tree branches. He could smell the soft wet earth under the white rose bushes and hear the chirping of birds encouraging his journey into love. His palms were sweating and his heart was beating unnecessarily quickly. Standing still, he stared at tree bark trying to breathe in and out, the envelope clutched in both hands when he heard foot steps stop behind him. He swung, around eyes shut tightly, arms extended offering his love letter with both hands. “I’ve liked you for a while! Please go out with me!” Almost biting his tongue with how quickly he said it. “Tt.” Jon knew that sound, he lifted his head so quickly he probably got whiplash. A breeze picked up jostling white rose petals around Damian making him look like he had materialized from thin air. “I barely know you,” green eyes glared, “and I am not looking for a relationship.” Jon was unable to move. His hands and feet felt cold and his head was buzzing so loudly he wasn’t sure if it was him or if there was a beehive in the tree above. Damian was NOT Jay. Damian was NOT supposed to be here. WHY was Damian here?! As if in slow motion he watched as Damian cocked an eyebrow and shifted to one foot in annoyance. Damian opened his mouth to say something, but another voice cut him off. “What’s going on?” Damian snatched the letter from Jon’s grasp, as two arms wrapped around Damian’s shoulders from behind. A familiar redhead rested his chin on top of Damian’s head. “Tt, nothing.” Damian hissed. “Get off me!” Damian shook Colin off, glared at Jon, “And you, stop blocking the path.” “Wait!” Jon tried to stop him from storming away, but Colin got in his path, grabbing Jon’s arm. “Sorry dude, but he’s not in a good mood right now. I would leave him alone if I were you.” Colin said apologetically, leaving Jon standing there, dumbfounded. Did he just get dumped? Dumped by Damian Wayne? By a guy he didn’t even like? Was this truly happening, was this truly his reality? What the hell was wrong with him? He should have made sure it was Jay! Why was Damian even around here?! He felt a buzz coming from his pocket. With shaking hands he took it out and stared at the text from Jay blankly. I’m so sorry! My mom came and picked me up early, family emergency. Sorry! Ttyl. Jon slid to the ground, damp grass soaked through his slacks. He tasted salt and could feel tears dripping off his chin. He vaguely heard a crow, it sounded like it was laughing at him.

“I’m home.” Jon said glumly, slowly removing his shoes and placing them where they belonged. Conner did the same glancing at Jon with concern. While they were waiting at the subway, Conner had tried to ask what was wrong, but Jon wouldn’t open up about it. He decided to wait until Jon was ready to speak about it, but it was honestly worrying him since Jon was usually happy go lucky. “Oh good!” Lois walked out of her room holding the curling iron and wearing a bathrobe. “The both of you, hurry and get ready. I left your clothes on your chairs. Hurry or we'll be late!” She said, running back into her room. Jon groaned. He had forgotten that they were going to some fancy dinner. His parent’s friends had invited the whole family for some important announcement, or something. Jon didn’t care. Jon didn’t want to go, should he feign a stomach ache? He sighed watching Conner look at his new clothes appreciatively. He couldn’t let Conner go alone, it would be unfair. Jon went through the paces as he got ready for the evening. Eventually Jon sat in his chair, chin cradled in his hands, elbows on his knees, legs crisscrossed on his desk chair, staring at Conner while he fussed with his hair. Jon did not feel like putting any effort on his appearance. Two knocks resounded from their bedroom door and Lois walked in fiddling with some gold earrings. She was wearing a tight plum colored dress and a gold necklace that Jon had never seen before, it’s blue gem glistened under the bedroom light. She looked between the boys, putting her hands on her hips when she finished with clasping her earrings. “You look so handsome Conner!” She cooed and Conner beamed. Lois then turned towards Jon and frowned. “Brush your hair.” Jon grumbled watching her leave the room. He grabbed the hair spray and brush from Conner and did a passable job at calming his curls.

Lois, Jon and Conner walked out of the parking structure and met Clark outside of the most fanciest and gaudiest restaurant Jon had ever seen. “Was there a lot of traffic?” Clark asked leaning in and kissing Lois on the cheek. “Not really.” Lois said, then covered her mouth and giggled. “This feels like we are in high school all over again.” “It is pretty exciting.” Clark laughed guiding his wife by the waist. When they entered they were greeted with the sight of a huge chandelier that Jon was pretty sure passed as a work of art made of asymmetrical patterns. There was a lot of gold accents, moody lighting, textured beige walls and leather couches that had no patrons. A stuffy looking man stood at the podium in the far center of the room. He looked down their nose at them. “Mr. and Mrs. Kent I presume?” he said in a French accent. “Uh, yes.” Said Clark. “We are here to meet-“ “Ah, please do not mention their names, if it is overheard it might cause too many curious eyes and ears.” The stuffy man cut Clark off. Clark nodded a bit put off. “If you would follow me.” The Kent family followed behind the man. Jon saw some patrons sitting in the open in two seater tables while others sat in more private booths made for larger parties, they passed by them all and walked through a door that another employee held open for them. They were met with a long hallway that held two other doors labeled as private. “What the hell is going on?” Conner whispered from the side of his mouth while leaning close to Jon. Jon shrugged and shook his head at Conner. They both wore identical confused expressions. They stopped at the last door at the end of the hallway. Another stuffy man with gray hair and the beginnings of a balding head nodded at the Maître d. “If you will excuse me.” Said the first stuffy man, he bowed and walked away. “Mistress Kent and Master Kent, it is always a pleasure.” This man had an English accent. “It’s Lois, Alfred.” Lois smiled and hugged the man who hugged back stiffly. “Mine’s Clark, in case you forgot.” Clark laughed and shook Alfred’s hand. “There is very little I forget, Master Clark.” Alfred smiled and looked at Jon and Conner. “These must be the young Masters Jonathan and Conner.” Jon and Conner greeted the man awkwardly. The man opened the door and ushered them in. Jon stopped in his tracks his mouth hanging open and his eyes bulging. Standing at the dinning table next to a man and a woman and four children was none other than Damian Wayne. Who stared at him in slight surprise. Maybe he should faint, would that get him out of this dinner?

Bahahaha, this one was fun.

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #jon kent #jonathan samuel kent #jonathan kent #damian and jon #jondami #high school au #no capes au #supersons #fanfic #fanfiction #first time writing #hope you enjoy

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balladofthewhitehorse · 3 months

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hope you aren't sick of me requesting things but how about "dinner is served" for eng, Scot, and Wales!

I would never be sick of your requests <3 Thank you so, so much - You inspire me to keep writing Hetalia Fics, not gonna lie. Your bear Eng has fuelled me.

Wales scrutinised her brothers quietly, leaned back in her chair as England and Scotland stood on the shores of the lake; It was painted in idyllic colours, faint hues of pink and washed out orange unfurling across the sky. A thread of anxiety coiled tightly around her lungs, her heart, her ribs as England muttered something to Scotland - and then a bark of laughter let Wales breathe. ‘’Having fun-?’’ She called out, smiling thinly as England turned around to regard her - with an expression painfully reminiscent of younger days amongst the dandelions and the trees (Children’s wishes and sunlight - freckling the dark undergrowth). It struck at her heartstrings like fingers at a harp, Wales’ smile thinning. ‘’-Caught anything?’’

‘’Not yet.’’ England grunted softly, shaking his head dolefully; Fish had been furtive and England hovered on the grassy lakeside, almost tempted to dive in head-first into the brackish water. They would have more success that way, England was sure - impatience thrumming through every nerve. ‘’I don’t know how you can stand this - just a load of sitting around…waiting for something to happen.’’ (Once he had complained during a siege, staring up at those insurmountable walls - and now it echoed by the lakeshore, on a cold, grey day).

‘’Maybe if you stopped whingeing, the fish would come.’’ Scotland muttered under his breath.

England’s eyes flashed as he shot Scotland a glare; The surface of the lake rippled as a fish came up for air, a darting brown shape in the dusky light (England pouted, irritation bearing teeth - a thorny thing he was, as he elbowed Scotland in the ribs for good measure). ‘’You’re hardly the epitome of cheeriness.’’ He glanced at Wales, seeking her approval with an impish grin that lit up his eyes - and one that vanished as quick as a wink when Wales shook her head. ‘’Oh come on-’’ England groused, petulant while his half-sister simply crossed her arms in disapproval; A tension crackling in the air as England reluctantly stood down.

‘’Sorry.’’

Scotland shrugged, smirking as he reeled in a struggling trout - its speckles shiny in the early light. ‘’Naw, it’s alright-’’ He held up the fish to England’s face, pride blooming a fire in his heart as he slowly unhooked it from the line. ‘’-Caught something. Shown you how it’s done.’’

‘’Get it away from me.’’ Scotland snorted, amused as England’s nose wrinkled with disgust (freckles dusted the bridge of his nose - and Wales’ too, and Scotland was struck at once with the heady, heavy realisation that they were his siblings). The trout was carefully placed into an ice box, still kicking as Scotland laid it out reverently - a bruise coiled tight in his chest as the chatter of his family continued to murmur in the background like mayflies. ‘’...Hey, you know what we should do?’’ He sat down, wincing something in his back twinged - bad memories dragged to the surface, like a cat with a mouse - and pulled out a small pocket-knife, blood spooling out of the fish as he began to cut it open. ‘’-Have dinner here? There’s plenty of wood for a fire and…England, you remember how to set a fire? Like I taught you? Remember?’’ Scotland asked hopefully as he looked up at his younger brother (hands folded around a pair of dry sticks, knees bent into a thick bed of pine-needles - finger outstretched in patient instruction).

‘’Or I could use a lighter?’’ England replied, his voice curt (the snapping of twigs beneath his feet as they stalked one another like wolves; Circling in bitter enmity, kin’s blood on their palms). He fumbled with his pockets as Wales slowly stood up - wandering along the lakeshore, in search of dry wood for the fire. ‘’It’s not-’’ A lump rose in his throat, England choking on sentimentality as he scoffed, a defensive sneer on his face; Prickly and warring with thorns, swarthy red flowers as a flush rose up his neck, cowed by the purse of Wales’ lips and the raise of Scotland’s thick eyebrows, questioning his little brother’s stubbornness.

‘’Are you saying that because you’ve forgotten?’’ Wales hummed quietly, striding towards her brothers - armful of twigs and sticks of varying sizes, carefully chosen and carefully arranged in a small pyramid-ish shape. ‘’...I thought you didn’t carry lighters, Eng?’’ Wales replied softly, watching England grasp it between his thumb and index finger. ‘’You don’t like the fi-’’ A short, curt look - a flash of sparks in England’s eyes, and Wales bit her tongue ruefully. ‘’It’s not the olden days anymore.’’ He replied, fumbling the lighter out of his pocket; A shudder as he pressed the pad of his thumb down on the cool metal, taking a deep breath as something fearful inside England filled out the space in his lungs - a stone in his throat, smooth and icy and heavy. ‘’We’re not-’’ A spark, and England wavered (a deep chill set into his bones, a field turned barren - there would be no more crops, all the men and women and children were leaving; Seeking more fruitful land, somewhere where there wasn’t ash, smoke and cinders). ‘’We’re not like that anymore-!’’ He cried out, half-between laughter and frustration, crinkling the corners of his eyes as the lighter trembled in his fingers. ‘’Old fuck-’’

‘’Hey-’’ Scotland’s brows furrowed, heavy and thoughtful; Scales clung to his fingers, silvery in the little grey sunlight. ‘’-You forgot. What about it?’’ (Wreaths of smoke hung in the air, trepidation at the base of Scotland’s spine; Convoys of mumbling strangers, yet no England).

‘’I didn’t forget.’’

‘’Aye, you did.’’ ‘’Would you piss off, you-’’

Wales couldn’t help, but snort with amusement - head jerking up towards the treeline, now gone plum-dark. Streaks of gold filtered against a pale pink sky, a blue haze steadily encroaching with the usual impatience of twilight. She had taught Scotland how to build a fire, and then he had passed those lessons onto England while she was away; Cinders at his fingertips, England had a faceful of smoke and coughing lungs by the time Wales had come back to find the aftermath of an argument - tempers had frayed, red-eyed and hissing curses as Scotland tightly bound the puckered, pale seam of a blister under his palm, England’s face drawn into a defiant glare - shot up from the summer grass like a startled rabbit, raw knees. Hot coals on freckled skin, thrown in an argument over what leaves to burn. It was the typical kind of argument that would soon become familiar, and in time - even endearing, before spats were traded for conflict, balled fists and hair-grabbing for swords and war-hammers. The air crackled with tension - a storm brewing between England and Scotland, frowns drawn like blades, and she was stuck between them again. ‘’Would you knock it off, you two?’’ Wales hissed between her teeth, scolding her young brothers - pulling them apart, sit in the corner and think about what you’ve just done - and when she looked at them, eyes flitting between England and Scotland, Wales felt a pang of heartache. Some things would never change.

‘’England, you can prepare the fish; Scotland, deal with the fire.’’ Wales huffed quietly. ‘’I’m hungry.’’ A sidelong glance down towards the copse of woods, and she nodded resolutely. ‘’I’ll get some thyme, sage and rosemary. Please try not to kill each other, you hear?’’ She offered a lop-sided smile - anxiety thrumming beneath her skin as she slowly walked away, slipping into the cool shade of the woods; Twigs cracked beneath her footsteps, a tight coil of nerves sitting heavy in her chest as she drew in a deep breath. She just hoped they would listen to her - just one day of peace and quiet, just one day of the year with her brothers that didn’t make Wales want to scream (it would well up inside of her; Dragonsfire buried deep in mud).

Lingering in the wake of Wales’ silence, England blinked slowly - and staggered to his feet with a grunt, muttering under his breath as he slowly deboned the fish with a practised ease of a man who’s been doing this for centuries. A sailor had taught him, sat on a pier with a grey sea churning beneath their feet - stone and timber and a sense of hope that England longed for. Scotland might have taught him to fish, but England remembered with a rueful smile the lessons passed on to him through mortal hands. ‘’I’ve heard birch bark is good for starting fires.’’ He piped up, glancing towards Scotland with a thoughtful smile. ‘’Don’t remember where I heard it from.’’ A steady plume of smoke had already started, trawling through the air in a lofty and lazy trail from the pile of dead leaves and sticks. ‘’I think you-’’ ‘’-I told you about that.’’ Scotland cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘’Nice that you remember.’’ A silence - filled in by the odd birdsong - crept in, uncomfortable and yet familiar (the woolly burr of an old blanket, drawn tight around their shoulders as they lay side by side - the crooked lean-to of their shelter and one another all that they needed). When Wales returned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, they set about cooking the fish in a small frying pan from the boot of Scotland’s car. (‘’Why do you have that?’’ England had asked, incredulous and confused. ‘’Why not?’’ Scotland had responded - his tone manner of fact, offering no further explanation and certainly not wishing to admit that it had been France’s idea, hastily sequestered on him in case of a car breaking down on the side of the road; Leaving them both to subsist on poor quality petrol-station lunch).

Once dinner was served, they sat in the cool glow of the dusky light - and for the first time in a long while, things were amicable between them.

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #brit bros

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themuseoftheviolets · 1 month

Text

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her

pairing: emmary | wc: 996

can be read as a prequel to emmeline after

Come home to me.

Promise me.

Promise me you'll come back.

She wasn't breathing. As far as she could tell, she hadn't breathed in a long time. Hadn't needed to. Never would need to again.

Don't do this to me.

Please.

I can't take it.

It was difficult to move. There was something heavy all around her, weighing her down, keeping her caged in.

You told me it was over. That you wouldn't do this anymore.

She squeezed her fingers together and found that the sensation was familiar, the feel of it nostalgic. She can't remember much, but she knows this feeling is something she is used to.

You'll die. You know that. You won't get lucky a second time.

Dirt. She was touching dirt.

It was under her fingernails, inside her mouth, under and over and all around her body.

If she wanted to leave, she'd have to dig her way out.

Do you want to die?

She doesn't think she did.

Her fingers move, her arms twist and turn until she can wiggle a path upwards. She tries to focus, but her mind is a fractured thing, memories spilling out of the cracks.

⋆

A large room, covered in blood. Or maybe not blood, but something akin to it. It drips down the walls.

No, no it doesn't. She's just close enough to notice the brushstrokes.

It is red, but it isn't blood. It's just paint.

She's staring, she realizes, at the wrong thing. She's meant to be looking at the picture that hangs on the wall, not the wall itself.

But the paint is harsh and thick and peeling, and it doesn't look right. It's too natural. Something that appears to be hand-made rather than the result of magic.

But this is a magical room, right? She can feel the magic around it, so thick she thinks she could touch it.

Focus.

The picture. Yes, the picture. She's looking at it now.

It's a group of people, all huddled together. She can see them but can't quite make out their faces.

They're moving, though. Jumping in the air.

Magic. The walls may not be magic, but this picture is.

A hand touches her shoulder, warm and firm.

They look happy, don't they?

I wonder if we're gonna look like that when we graduate.

Somehow, she knows they didn't.

⋆

Time passes, or at least she thinks it does.

She can't tell, she just moves.

The ground is solid and unmoving, until it isn't, and she feels a cold wind hit her arm as it finally breaks out.

She keeps on crawling, punching her way to the surface. It should hurt, she thinks, but it doesn't.

You never think things through.

You just start fights like you can win them all.

You can't.

Eventually, she kicks around enough dirt that she can crawl out of the ground, pushing herself up until it releases her.

It's dark, and there's dirt in her eyes, but that's fine. She doesn't need to see, she knows the path before her like the back of her hand.

As she straightens herself she notices a piece of flesh hanging loose in the side of her waist. She picks it up and rips it off her body, and throws it on the ground.

She hardly feels it.

⋆

A small room, just barely big enough for a double bed. A girl, laying down next to her, crying.

It's an awful sound, quiet but excruciating. She doesn't like it, doesn't want the girl to cry anymore.

This is not fair, it's not fucking fair.

Outside, the city is quiet. Eerie, almost. She's never known this part of town to be quiet, why is it quiet?

Because everyone's dead.

No, not everyone. There's still some of them left. They're still here, after all, aren't they?

She places her hand over her own heart, feels it beating. Then she takes her other hand and places it on the other girl. They're alive.

I don't feel alive.

We're alive.

We'll be dead before we know it.

⋆

The tree is the center of it all. Everything that grows in this place, grows around it. That's what the girl had said, when they first came here.

You're everything I have.

She touches its bark, and she can feel it. The years spent here, the memories made. She rests her forehead against it and knows she is not far from home.

This is our life. It's not just yours.

She follows the invisible footsteps they have left behind; hers bigger and spread apart, the girl's smaller and closer together.

The girl, the girl, the girl.

She had a name, a beautiful name. A face she loved to look at, arms she found comfort in.

The girl, the life, the promise.

Are you really going to walk away?

No, she thinks. I won't walk away, I'll walk back.

⋆

There's a letter on the table. It smells of death.

It is death. It'll kill you.

I won't let it.

You say that like it's a choice.

I survived one war. I can survive another.

No.

Yes. I have to.

Why?

I just do.

⋆

She follows the pathway til the end of the park, turns right and keeps on walking.

Her body, if it can still be called that, is falling to pieces and leaving a trail behind, but it is functional enough to carry her.

Two turns to the right, one to the left. Walk two blocks, turn right one more time, and there she is.

Come home.

Here she is.

The door is red, red like the paint, red like the blood. She knocks on it, and the force of the knock causes one of her fingers to fall off, but she doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

All that matters is that the door opens, and the girl appears behind it.

Come home to me.

Mary stares at her, mouth agape.

Emmeline smiles.

“I came home."

#the italics were. such a pain to pass from the docs to here #had to redo each one #anyways tried smth new. barely edited. am pleased w the results. enjoy <3 #emmary #2nd war emmary #emmeline vance #mary macdonald #lia's writing adventures #minifics

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tatterings · 7 months

Text

Lamentable is the Autumn Picker Content with Plums - Chapter 6, "Bracing the Branches"

Pairing: Astarion/Halsin

Rating: Mature

Tags/warnings: NSFW. Spoilers to the beginning of act 2. Trauma/light SA discussion. A little angst.

Word count: 4.9k

~*REBLOGS VERY APPRECIATED*~ <3

Note: This is the sixth chapter of my first ever fanfiction!

I’ve also posted this on AO3.

Fic under the cut.

The party had chosen to transverse the Mountain Pass, at the insistence of Lae’zel of the promise of a creche hidden there. They had set off for the steep hills in the distance. After a day of travelling just to get to the creche, positioned in a former monastery, they had burst through its rotting doors the following morning before the sun had a chance to rise. To nearly everyone’s chagrin, the Gith inside were also early risers. More disappointment followed when the adventurers discovered the creche was not the Vlaakith-sent gift that Lae’zel had imagined, and the Gith “cure” was a painful death. To survive within the creche, the party had to paint its halls with blood, as hostile Gith met the group around each corner.

During each fight, Halsin had found himself fighting by Astarion’s side. As a sleek black panther, the druid had slunk to ambush foes, paired with the stealthy rogue. Together they’d downed scores of Vlaakith’s faithful with claw and dagger, amidst a symphony of slicing blades and startled shouts. A Gith quartermaster met her end when, just before she had reached Astarion, she was struck down with a mighty swipe from Halsin’s gigantic bear claws. Astarion had gently wiped blood from the cave bear’s muzzle and offered him a scratch behind the ears, after he had padded over to ensure his battle partner was unwounded.

Although the adventurers fought well together, confusion was inevitable when fighting as a group. A mix of shouts, spells, and slashing weapons sent the ruined monastery into chaos. Echoes of “Ignis!” and the clatter of weapons created a deafening ruckus that echoed off the stone walls and shattered stained-glass windows.

But within the dilapidated hallways, Astarion and Halsin created their own microcosm, a symbiotic team of shadow and strength, of slashing daggers and sheer brute force, of poisoned arrows and healing spells. It made the battles a little less daunting. And most importantly for Astarion, a lot more fun.

He delighted in the bloodshed of turning his opponents inside-out. The adrenaline rush during and after combat sent electricity through every nerve ending, and Astarion felt as close to a god as an immortal creature could become. It was even more of a delight when he attacked with his fangs to satisfy his bloodlust temporarily.

Once the adventurers had cleared the Gith forces from the monastery, the sun hung far in the west; it was late evening. After dragging a few bodies out of a large chamber, it made sense to use the ruins as their campground for the night.

**************

Though the ancient monastery’s mighty walls sprawled across the cliff sides, centuries of neglect had left the building crumbling. Nature had waited patiently for an opportunity to return, and she had done so with vigor. Trees, shrubs, and thick tangles of vines created a lush, wild grove within the walls. At Halsin’s request, their chosen campsite opened to a courtyard which teemed with life.

Halsin tucked himself away in the courtyard for a pre-supper respite. His companions were a grand old oak and the birds that sang from its boughs. He reclined against its weather-worn bark, his long legs splayed in front of him. In the druid’s hands tumbled what remained of a broken branch; he’d found it lying beneath the tree. He worked it deftly with a whittling knife. At least an hour passed in pensive quiet - Halsin had amassed small piles of wood shavings at his sides.

The sharp hiss of an arrow streaming overhead broke the silence, followed by a dull thud as it met its mark. The arrow had dug into the bark mere centimeters above Halsin’s head.

His lips turned downward, but not in anger or disappointment. The archer’s aim was objectively impressive. His frown was from the surprise of a scrap of paper tickling his nose. Dangling in his face, tied to the arrow with twine, was a small piece of parchment. Halsin raised a hand to steady it against the breeze. In precise cursive script the color of spilled blood, the note read:

“Room for one more, or are you brooding enough for us both? - ★”

Halsin’s smile spread across his scarred face, and his shoulders shook with a laugh. He plucked the arrow from the bark and rolled its shaft in his fingers.

“I would be happy for you to join me, Astarion,” Halsin announced; it was no shout, as there was no need for his deep voice to carry far. He was positive the vampire was quite close, cloaked in shadow.

Astarion seemed to materialize from the darkness about ten meters away. His perch was the east side of a half-crumbled parapet. His ivory hair seemed ablaze in fire from the orange of the sunset. His pearly smirk sparkled even from a distance and deep red eyes flashed as he sauntered to the druid.

“I appreciate the invitation, my dear,” Astarion drawled, casually kicking away wood shavings at Halsin’s side. “Old habits tend to die hard, you know.”

Halsin helped the vampire brush away debris before patting the ground at his side. Astarion lowered himself to sit, making a show of dusting off his breeches when a twig stuck to them.

“So, what are you up to all by your lonesome?” the pale elf asked, his hand gesturing at the wood shavings. Astarion tilted his head back to peer at Halsin through half-lidded eyes. “I’d jest and say ‘sawing logs’, but snoring is no laughing matter when one’s tent is near Gale,” he finished with a hiss.

Halsin presented his creation: an intricately carved wooden duck, small enough to fit in a person’s palm. “I use fallen branches for whittling things like ornaments, utensils… and ducks,” he explained with a shy grin. “I like ducks.”

“Not a bear?!” Astarion asked with a faux, incredulous gasp, his mouth curved in a fanged smile, “Ducks? You never shared with me your inclination for waterfowl.”

Halsin’s eyes were drawn to the smaller elf’s elegant nose; it was endearing to see it crinkle when he smiled. “Well, personal hobbies haven’t been a discussion topic,” Halsin replied apologetically. “With the tadpole issue, you and your friends have had more pressing matters to discuss.” The druid’s heart fluttered when the vampire’s wry grin pulled further at his handsome laugh lines. “Whittling is something I do to pass time. Conveniently, wherever I roam, there tends to be an abundance of wood.” Halsin regretted his words as soon as he saw the devious flash in Astarion’s ruby-red eyes.

“Darling, I’m quite sure that you could never run out of wood, based on what I felt the other night”, Astarion purred, sliding his delicate hand onto Halsin’s thigh. The druid hissed as he nearly cut his thumb with the whittling knife. One thick auburn eyebrow arched at the smaller elf.

“That is.. an apt observation,” Halsin admitted, a flush rising to his cheeks. The large elf pulled one last knife stroke along the wood grain to form the smooth curve of a wing. “I cannot deny my desires. Once you get to my age, you realize there’s little point in denying yourself what you crave… as long as it does not hurt others,” he finished with a smile, holding the wooden duck over Astarion’s lap.

A gift.

The deviousness in Astarion’s eyes melted to delight, his silver-white lashes fluttering as he studied the carved creature. The vampire cupped the duck in his palm with care; as if he expected it would turn to dust if he moved too quickly.

“But what of revenge then, dear Halsin? Surely once or twice you’ve wanted to mete out revenge to those who harm your precious ducklings?” Astarion teased. He finally moved his hand, bobbing the duck up and down in the air, like its live counterparts did on water. The large elf’s heart felt as though it would leap from his throat at the sound of Astarion’s giggle.

“That is fair enough. Perhaps I should rephrase it. ‘You shouldn’t deny your desires, if it hurts no one. Or, if those hurt deserve justice.’ Does that work for you, little duck?” Halsin replied, gently bumping his broad shoulder into the smaller elf’s arm.

Astarion’s porcelain cheeks flushed pink. “Well well, aren’t you quite the hedonist. I thought of you as a ‘let things go’ sort of druid.” He turned his face from the duck to the druid. “But anyway.. thank you. For the gift.”

Halsin’s eyes twinkled as he met Astarion’s gaze. “Thank me by returning the favor, why don’t you?” he asked, “Come on, I’m sure you’ve got something more interesting to share about yourself than a whittling hobby.”

Astarion arched a single white brow. “If you insist. I… may have a bit of a sweet tooth?” he finished with a sing-song lilt.

A deep rumble emanated from Halsin’s throat and grew into a chuckle. “Is that so? Would you seek to drizzle honey on a neck, before indulging?” the druid asked, winking at Astarion.

“Ah, I.. I would not say no to an occasional treat,” the vampire replied. “But your blood was sweet enough on its own, no honey needed,” he said, leaning his torso into Halsin’s barrel chest.

The druid’s pulse roared, changing from a flutter to a drumbeat. He was sure that Astarion could hear it. “I will remember that for the future,” Halsin said with a chuckle. “Out of curiosity, Astarion… does the flavor of blood truly vary by person? Even in wild shape with heightened senses, it all smells of copper to me.”

Halsin felt a tenseness rise in the vampire’s form, which still leaned against his larger body. Astarion released a sigh and his muscles seemed to relax; but only a little.

“I’ve had this condition for two centuries… but truth be told?” Astarion turned his head to Halsin, his gaze half-shielded through his long snowy eyelashes. “You.. were my first.”

“You jest,” Halsin replied, his jaw slack in disbelief. The druid, whose cool-headedness allowed him to not jolt when Astarion’s arrow had struck above his head, could not hide his shock.

“About this topic, Halsin? I would never,” Astarion assured, his eyes wide and earnest. “You were the first person from which I’ve ever actually fed. Sure I’ve gotten a few bites in, but no actual sustenance. In all these years, I’ve only fed on beasts.”

Halsin shook his head in surprise, flyaway strands of his long hair tickling Astarion’s ears.

Astarion nodded, white curls bobbing against the growing dusk. As darkness settled upon them, he seemed made of white marble; true Nature-sculpted beauty. “I was expressly forbidden to feed on thinking beings,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. His arms lay limp in his lap. “Boars, deer… kobolds. During the worst of it… I was served only putrid rats. A cruel jape from my master,” the vampire’s voice trailed off. It seemed as though the energy had been drained; even his hands fell open around the small wooden duck.

Halsin had no words that could ease such a painful memory. He placed a hand on Astarion’s leg; his fingers, when splayed, nearly covered the smaller man’s thigh. He gave a gentle squeeze as they sat, birdsong rolling from the tree above them.

The purple darkness of night finally set after a while, only illuminated by a bright bit of flame shooting into the sky over a crumbling wall. Gale’s cantrip ignis served as a proverbial dinner bell.

“Ah, dinner is served,” Halsin noted with a nod. “And speaking of nourishment… you are welcome to feed again tonight, Astarion.” The large elf paused, waiting for the vampire’s million-realm stare to pull away from the whittled duck to meet his own eyes. “Also… I want to thank you. Your camp is a most welcome solace, one I couldn’t do without. I look forward to your company this evening.”

***********

Supper had been splendid as Gale, ever the people-pleaser and an excellent cook, had prepared specialized meals for his friends. A hearty vegetarian stew for Halsin. For the others, he had added meat from a rabbit Astarion had snared in a trap. And for the vampire himself, Gale had prepared black pudding from provisions he’d found in the Gith creche. Astarion had devoured it with delight and had thanked Gale with a pat on the wizard’s back and a genuine smile. Over the past few days, the vampire had grown more at ease in, figuratively and literally, reaching out to his fellow adventurers.

His friends, as Halsin had insisted on calling them.

Astarion had realized, as he reclined in front of his tent atop plundered creche pillows, they truly were friends. They had risked life and limb (and soul, in Wyll’s case) to protect each other. To work together on the tadpole problem. Everyone also had agreed to help Astarion exact revenge on Cazador, for which Karlach was especially excited. The pale elf felt no need to mask the smile that formed on his lips as he thought of his friends… and especially of the Arch Druid Halsin.

The rest of the party had socialized enough for the evening and had retired to their tents. Though the blood sausage had been delectable, it was time for Astarion’s main course.

The slender elf strode over to Halsin’s tent. Confidence set his mouth in a smirk. Halsin has been won over, Astarion thought, but this is my opportunity to ensure he stays that way. The vampire was certain that he had Halsin’s allegiance; the druid himself had said so, and proved time and again he was trustworthy. He had shown kindness which Astarion assumed stemmed from attraction. It was mutual attraction, if he cared to admit it; but he pushed that thought down to the pit of his stomach. Attraction meant vulnerability.

It was far easier to be an object of desire, than to entertain his own desires.

Halsin’s tent flap hung open, and again the druid was reclined while reading a book, holding it above his head. There were no logs to lean against this time; instead, the larger elf was propped up by delicately embroidered linens and plush pillows. Astarion had insisted that the druid had “roughed it” enough, and that he deserved to treat himself to the luxuries they’d found in the creche.

“Ah, good evening Astarion,” Halsin said, his smile extending to his honey-hazel eyes, “So glad you could join me for dinner.” The druid chuckled at his own jest and patted the bedroll. Astarion returned his smile and kneeled on a pillow by the druid’s chest.

“It is my pleasure,” the vampire replied, his voice a low purr, one hand settling on Halsin’s well-muscled chest. He absentmindedly tugged at the loose strings danging from the druid’s tunic. “Ready whenever you are, darling.”

Halsin nodded once and laid the book aside. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Astarion,” he said, with less nervousness in his voice than there had been in the last feeding. He raised his large hand to the small of Astarion’s back and placed his other on the vampire’s shoulder. His steadiness helped support the smaller elf as he assumed his feeding position.

Astarion took no further prompting; the druid seemed tantalizingly eager. It would make his task all the more simple. And more pleasant. The vampire accepted the unspoken aid from Halsin and climbed atop the druid. It was easier to feed if he straddled the large elf, as opposed to stretching across his wide body.

As Astarion lowered his mouth onto the red-ochre tattoo on Halsin’s neck, the friction of his leather trousers against Halsin’s stomach sent a rush of tingles to his groin. Hells below, he thought, flattening his tongue against the Arch Druid’s neck before a whine could escape from him. Astarion was certain that Halsin could feel his growing erection. Once, then twice his cock pulsed with eagerness; immediately after, the druid’s hand pressed more firmly on the small of the pale elf’s back.

This time, it didn’t bother him; the physical manifestation of lust meant it was easier for him to fulfill, and remain the object of, Halsin’s desires.

A rumble vibrated the druid’s throat against Astarion’s open mouth; Halsin relished in the cool wetness of the vampire’s tongue tracing along his jugular. The pale elf nibbled Halsin’s neck with his dull front teeth. Time for a tease, he thought, and pressed his hardened length into Halsin’s stomach. With the pressure, he felt a firm thickness between Halsin’s legs. The druid was already hard, and Astarion hadn’t even bitten him yet. Perfect.

But the teasing was enough, and his hunger gnawed at his stomach. The vampire opened his mouth wider and pierced his top fangs into Halsin’s neck. As he sank his fangs deeper into flesh, Halsin gripped Astarion’s buttocks with his large hands. The druid rutted his hips against the vampire with a deep moan, lifting them both off the bedroll with his lust.

Hot blood poured onto Astarion’s tongue as he lifted his fangs to suckle greedily at the druid’s neck. His soft tongue lapped at the divine offering, which coaxed a deep groan from Halsin’s lips. Astarion’s hands moved with swiftness; with intention. His slender fingers found Halsin’s nipple through the linen tunic and his mass of curly chest hair, and pinched it gently. Halsin hissed in response, his wide fingertips digging into Astarion’s hips. The vampire smiled against Halsin’s neck as he swallowed one mouthful of druidic lifeblood, then two.

Halsin’s chest rumbled fiercely against Astarion. The smaller elf took it as a sign to stop feeding; he lapped up the remaining blood that dribbled down Halsin’s neck, onto his collarbone.

Dinner was done; now for his duty.

Astarion’s mind was clear, rushing with the ecstasy of fresh blood. But for this second task, it was a habit to clear his mind completely. The vampire let himself mentally float away as he kissed along Halsin’s collarbone, then his throat. His movements were smooth, automatic; a deft hand lowered from the druid’s nipple to his stomach and teased under Halsin’s shirt, running through thick body hair. The large elf’s torso nearly raised from the pillows.

“You enjoy our feedings, don’t you, my dear?” the vampire whispered, his voice an octave lower than normal. “You naughty thing…” his voice trailed off as he lifted his torso from Halsin’s. Although his eyes looked directly into Halsin’s, he stared past the druid. The large elf’s face was a blur, out of focus, but Astarion could tell Halsin’s head tilted to the side.

“A-Astarion,” huffed Halsin, breath hitching in his throat. He kept his hands pressed firmly against the smaller elf’s waist.

“Isn’t this what you want, darling?” the vampire started, slipping his long fingers downward to settle on Halsin’s groin, hot to the touch even through the druid’s breeches. Halsin’s hips pressed into Astarion’s hand instinctively. The vampire drug his palm along the druid’s impressive girth, then rutted his own erection against Halsin’s arousal through his leather trousers. Halsin hissed through clenched teeth at the sensation, but sat stock still in his reclined pose.

It didn’t make sense. The druid’s hands should have been exploring Astarion’s body. Not to worry - they will, Astarion thought. He leaned his front against Halsin’s chest, again creating friction between them. “We could have a quiet evening for once, my dear,” he crooned. “Haven’t you waited long enough for what you want?”

The druid’s body did not respond as it should have. It was inexplicably tense.

**********

As soon as Astarion had finished feeding, his body language had shifted. His gaze had seemed to be a million realms away. His voice had even lowered to that of a stranger’s; it was deeper, with a predatory edge to its vocal fry.

The transformation shook Halsin’s confidence and his chest was heavy with concern. He couldn’t hold back his inner beast’s response to Astarion’s expert ministrations; but he had domination over his mind and his conscience. He did not return the vampire’s heavy petting. He needed an answer, first. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly to tame the beast; his focused breathing soothed the beast, and he felt himself grow soft.

“Astarion, tell me plainly. I need your truth,” Halsin demanded, tipping the vampire’s chin upwards with the tips of his calloused fingers, “What is it that you want? From me? From this?”

Astarion blinked once, then twice. His snowy eyebrows lost their wrinkled furrow, the crease in the skin between them disappearing as they raised. The small elf’s eyes went round and softened; wetness formed in the inside corners of his eyes until his silver-white lashes blinked it away. No cutting words formed on his tongue; no well-worn blithe phrases fell from his pink lips.

Halsin raised one large hand to Astarion’s face, pulling his thumb across the pale elf’s pouted mouth and marble cheekbone. He nestled his fingers into the nest of snowy curls at the back of Astarion’s head and gently ran his fingernails on the vampire’s scalp. He felt the goosebumps rise on the smaller man’s arms and neck as he carded his fingers through Astarion’s hair.

The druid did not repeat himself; Astarion had heard him. Nature has her own timeline, her own natural cycle in which life is born, dies, decays, and is born anew.

Halsin was in no rush; he would never pick from the plum tree in when it was tart and unripe in late spring, nor be surprised when the harvest was mealy and bird-pecked in late autumn. He knew it was best to wait for the natural cycle of things, were it in-season fruits, or the words of someone who did not know what to say.

He existed for this moment, with this beautiful man who haunted his dreams and clouded his mind. Astarion lowered his head to rest his cheek on Halsin’s broad chest, his blood-stained lower lip leaving a smear of scarlet on Halsin’s tunic. The druid pulled his hand from Astarion’s hair and lowered it to his delicate neck, using the pad of his thumb and rough fingertips to massage the vampire’s neck muscles gently. He felt a strained muscle and hummed the verbal part of a healing spell; his fingertips glittered a hazy green before the glow rolled from his hand onto Astarion’s neck, where it seemed to sink into his ivory skin.

Astarion broke the silence a few moments later. “I.. I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice muffled between Halsin’s chest and his own shoulders, “I had nothing at all for so long. Not my free will. Not even my body.” Halsin felt Astarion’s face scrunch into a scowl against his chest. “That was owned by Cazador; to tempt fools into his palace. I laid on my back for breadcrumbs a thousand times or more. Half of them I barely remember,” Astarion choked back the threat of tears he spoke. “Most of them never even bothered to grant me temporary bliss.”

The druid’s chest felt like it was being crushed by an owlbear. It wasn’t Astarion trying to seduce me. It was his past.

“Astarion. I am so sorry,”, whispered the large elf, wrapping his arms tighter around Astarion, accidentally pulling a small grunt from the vampire’s lungs. He released the pressure, but held the pale elf still. “You have survived so much. And you did not deserve any of it. You are so much more than what that bastard forced upon you,” Halsin assured with a low growl in his throat as he thought of Cazador. The druid inhaled deeply and his chest rose, lifting Astarion along with it. The vampire’s body slowly descended as Halsin exhaled. The large elf tilted his chin to place his lips on Astarion’s forehead, nuzzling his nose into the soft white curls.

******

Astarion let himself melt into Halsin’s embrace, and let his jaw relax. The druid’s large arms were heavy but not overbearing; the weight was a soothing balm to his frazzled nerves. For the first time in 200 years, he felt seen. He felt safe enough with Halsin to share the raw wounds of his past that had yet to heal.

“Thank you,” the vampire finally replied, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. His voice had cracked when he spoke. He appreciated that Halsin did not acknowledge the lapse of composure.

“You are most welcome, dear heart,” Halsin replied softly, before releasing his hold on the slender elf. He raised his torso, bracing Astarion’s body as he swapped to a cross-legged sit. Astarion’s rear slipped into the gap between Halsin’s knees, nestling comfortably in the open space; the vampire’s toes dangled a few inches above the tent floor. Halsin adjusted his arm to support Astarion’s back while his free hand grasped Astarion’s long fingers.

“But I want to make something abundantly clear to you,” Halsin said, his deep voice soft and slow. Astarion’s brows shot up, and Halsin felt the man’s muscles tense. The druid gently squeezed Astarion’s torso.

“It is okay to not know what you want, Astarion,” he stated, his honey-hazel gaze meeting the pale elf’s round eyes. “What is not acceptable… is to make assumptions as to what I desire from you. You are no thrall. All of your choices… are yours to make.”

*****

For one of the very few times in his long life, Astarion had nothing clever prepared as a reply. He seethed as he felt his skin flush with the fresh blood when Halsin held his fingers. How is such a large man so gentle?

How he loathed that he could not hide the rosiness in his cheeks. But how he adored the druid for not mentioning it; for not poking fun. For the larger elf’s kindness and patience. For his willingness to see Astarion as more than a plaything, with which he could rut and then leave to rot.

“Halsin…” Astarion started, unable to resist pressing his cheek against the druid’s face. “I.. I appreciate you. More than you know.” He pulled his head back to look into Halsin’s eyes directly. They were as warm as the evening sun; as comforting as a crackling bonfire.

“I needed protection. People don’t trust vampires, perhaps understandably,” Astarion admitted with a nod of his head and flick of his hand, “so I needed someone to get on my side. Seduction has always been easy. It’s all I’ve known for centuries. But now...” His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted realms away.

Halsin waited patiently, dragging his fingers along Astarion’s long leg. His movements seemed aimless, with no intent on seduction. Astarion felt that the druid’s touch was an anchor for him. It tethered his mind to reality and the present moment. For once, he did not drown in a tumultuous sea of past memories. Astarion finally exhaled, his cool breath tickling the hairs on Halsin’s arm.

“I…don’t think I want you to think of me in terms of sex,” he admitted, meeting Halsin’s gaze again with his snowy brows knit upward. The corners of the vampire’s eyes became wet again; as chilled red wine in a glass, covered in dewdrops of condensation. “I don’t know if I want anyone to.” He turned his gaze down, pretending to study his nails.

His body shuddered as he choked back a sob, disguising it as a cough. Astarion knew Halsin likely saw through his ruse; he didn’t care either way. He could not look the druid in the eye. Halsin’s hand stopped its crawl and raised to Astarion’s chin, tenderly pulling his face to meet the druid’s. The larger man’s other arm curled tighter around the vampire’s back.

“Come now dear heart, do you truly see me as so fickle?” Halsin asked, his voice low and thick with hurt. “A river does not suddenly breach its banks to change course. Nor would a bear decide to be sated only with grass,” Halsin said with a chuckle. “Revolutionary upheaval is not the way of nature. Nor is it my way.”

The large druid placed his scarred forehead to Astarion’s pearly brow. Astarion couldn’t hold back the small smile that tugged at the edges of his own lips.

“I have lived a long time, Astarion. I have grown to understand my own desires. I will admit that you tempt me to ruin,” Halsin continued with a wink, rubbing his nose to Astarion’s, “and I would love to partake in your body, and share mine with you. But, that will only happen when, or if, you wholeheartedly want to do so.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open, but no words formed on his tongue, which had grown too heavy and thick to speak. All the vampire could manage was a nod, before tucking his face under Halsin’s chin. The tips of his pointed ears burned with heat as the druid’s thick arms held snugly against his waist.

Astarion felt as though his dead heart had begun to beat once more.

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nix-writes-mcyt · 8 months

Text

For His Viewing Pleasure

Drabble Budbs x reader Contains: No implied relationship, angst, Yandere typical behaviour, manipulation, posessive behaviour, kidnapping. Unspecified Hybrid!reader

Read at your own discretion and remember that this is not a healthy relationship and should not be seen as one! _______________________________________

The night was dark, as always when it was allowed. Night didn't often come around with Bdubs around.

You love the night, the blanket it gives you. It allows you to show your true form, to its full extent. It's been a while since you've been able to, you don't tend to show it in the day. You don't want the attention.

You pass under the Tree of Whimsy, marveling at its beauty in the night. The bark glows under the moonlight, stars can be seen twinkling between the leaves of the canopy. It's a beautiful tree which you're grateful to see on a daily basis, and especially tonight.

You reach out a hand to touch the bark, when a weight from above causes you to fall to the ground. A net. You struggle to get out of it, you hadn't realised there was a net. You've never seen one in the tree before.

Hearing footsteps you look the best you can in that direction, two large eyes shining in the dark. "Bdubs!" You exclaim, "help me out of this will you?"

He lets out a laugh. "But I just caught you. Letting you out now defeats the point." Your heart thunders in your chest as his words sink in. This was a trap.

"See, you've figured it out all on your own. So clever and so beautiful a creature you are. A fitting gift for my King." "Gift? For the king? What do you think I am?" You struggle more with the net, ultimately becoming more tangled with it the more you try escape.

"I think you're stunning and will be a great addition to the castle. I'll make sure to look after you, don't worry." His smile scares you.

"I don't need you to look after me, I need you to let me out. Bdubs, please." He kneels in front of you, allowing you to better see the derraned look on his face.

"Nuh uh. You're mine now, you'll be displayed in the Crastle for the King, but you'll still be mine really." He throws a splash potion on the ground, it covering you. Then he pulls the net from you with a bit of work.

You want to run but you can't, body weak. He chugs a potion of his own, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you up.

It's obvious he's taken a strength potion on top of the weakness he's given you. Otherwise you could have escaped.

But you can't. You try and try all the way to the Crastle but you can't shake the feeling of your body being heavy.

He takes you in a back entrance, making sure you enter every door first just to be safe, and locking each one behind him. With each one you feel more and more mentally weighed down.

"Welcome to your new home!" He beams with excitement, showing you a decent sized bedroom, fully furnished with things you'd find in your own house. No, these are your things. These are your belongings from your house.

"I brought all the important things over here for you. And don't worry there are other rooms. That door leads to your own bathroom, that one to my bedroom, and this third door leads to where you'll be spending most of your time. Go on, take a look." He opens the door for you, knowing you don't have the strength to open it yourself.

You walk out into the thin room, it has a high ceiling and a small raised area in the center. You walk slowly through, noticing the grand paintings on the wall. Then you see the other wall. Tinted glass.

You can barely see through it, after all it's designed so people can see in, not out. But you can see enough to know what that room is. The throne room. Directly in line with the throne is the raised area.

"That's where you stand." Bdubs says, demonstrating. You shake your head, backing back into the bedroom.

"You'll learn to love it, I know you will. A creature as stunning as you deserves to be seen." He follows you back into the other room, eyes on you as you walk over to the small barred window.

"You can't keep me locked in here, I'm not a zoo attraction." Your words are through gritted teeth, full of anger and frustration. You whip around, Bdubs immediately throwing another splash potion at you.

"Oh but I can, Y/n. And I will. You're never leaving this Crastle again. You are mine." With that he slinks through the door to his own room, the lock clicking once he's gone.

You stare long after he's gone, realising quickly there are potions being dispensed into the room right as your existing effect begins to run out.

As the room begins to light up with the rising of the sun you hide your true form. Maybe if you just don't show it he'll let you go, right? Maybe this is all a bad dream. You just hope you wake up soon.

#hermitcraft x reader #bdubs x reader #bdoubleo x reader #mcyt x reader #bdubs #bdoubleo #hermitcraft #mcyt #mcytblr #hermitblr #yan!bdubs #angst

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cvlutos · 1 year

Text

HE WHO OWNS, THE COURT WINS IT ALL!!

✡︎ May.06.2023 | 6.0K| Commissioned by @pinkskybelle

✡︎ Vil S. | Rook H. | Male OC

✡︎ Synopsis: This is a time for all the rich nobles and bacheors gather for six months to find a love, to grow their name, to make a fourtune. So shall you play along.

| One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six |

ACT ONE

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” - Shakespeare

The Huntsman gently closes the book, leaning against the rough bark of the pine tree, basking in the few sun rays that gently touch his skin. Emerald eyes flutter closed as he lets out a low amused hum.

“Something will change. C’est assez excitant~”

══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════

“Vil. You know I am quite disappointed.”

The tip of the fountain pen taps against the pristine white documents, each paper in some way tied to the never-ending business and work that’s conducted by the small Schoenheit Family, made up of the Head of the House, his new wife, and his two sons.

His eldest son, Vil Schoenheit, stands before him. Dressed in a simple button-up and slacks, his blonde hair in a low bun except for the purposeful loose strands that frame the sides of his face. Lilac eyes express nothing, as pink-painted lips press tightly together. The room was dimly lit with little light filtering in through the large violet window shades. A thick, dark oak desk was placed in the furthest part of the room, separating the two.

The silence between them grows more tense with each passing moment, as the head of the family lets out another annoyed sigh. Wishing to be occupied with signing papers alone, then having to deal with the son of his late ex-wife. The shadows prevent the head’s face from being seen, but Vil knows—his father has his always disappointed face engraved into his memory—he knows that his father is scowling. Like he always does. Scowling with disappointed eyes and disappointed lips.

The air, thick and cold—frigid upon Vil’s elegant skin, forcing him to remain present, then allowing his mind to wander to more savory things instead of listening to his father’s long lectures. The pen taps again, showing a bit of his father’s impatience, which is always short. Since Vil was a child, his father has never been patient. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

“I apologize,” Vil bows, placing a hand over his heart, “but there was not much else I could do. Time got away from me...”

The chair beneath his father creaks as he leans forward with a scoff, “The time got away? You—who is insistent upon keeping track of all things I do. Ready to undermine me at all chances.” Vil’s father lets out a tired sigh. “Just like your mother would, always trying to correct—” He speaks under his breath, placing his pen down, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yet time got away from you.”

The blonde brows of Vil’s face scrunch, his glossed lips pulling into a deep scowl, standing straight once again, his arms crossing. “Leave my mother out of this. You tormented her enough when she was here.”

“Do not get smart with me boy!” His father’s hand slams against his desk, creating a firm and echoing sound that seems to shake the very room, Vil bites back any words, watching the multitude of books, pens, pencils, and décor topple off the desk. Vil does nothing. Keeping his posture straight and unamused, eyes firm and staring. His father’s hands clenching and stretching, fixing his wedding band subconsciously, breathing heavily.

“Pick my things up, boy.” Vil’s father’s voice is firm, watching with glaring eyes as Vil’s shoulders drop, slowly sliding down and onto his knees and picking up the multiple objects and placing them back on his desk. Vil’s father proceeds to speak, staring down at his son.

“If time has gotten away from you—then you simply force my hand Vil.”

The chair creaks. His father rises from his seat and pulls out a black envelope with gold writing. He flicks the envelope from his hand, watching it flutter before landing on the wooden flooring, forcing Vil, on his knees, to reach for it, on all fours. Like a dog.

‘Vil Schoenheit’

Written in beautiful gold cursive, Vil recognizes exactly who the letter is from immediately having received a letter occasionally from the family. The Royal Draconia family. He rises to his feet, placing the objects back in place and returning where he stood. Looking over the letter in silence.

“Because I cannot trust you to act reasonably and properly, you will host this year’s courting season.” His father speaks again, straightening his hair and clothing. Vil’s gaze moves up to his father, scowling deeply.

“The courting season is in less than three months. Everyone has already made preparations for the Al-Asims to host. And I have talked to the head of the family, and he is more than happy to let you host.” Vil’s father sits back down, before waving his hand in a shooing motion, “Now go. I’m tired of looking at you.” Vil gives another curt bow, biting back any vile words that wished to escape his lips. Turning on his heel and walking out of his father’s office.

Closing the heavy oak door with a hard slam, keeping his displeased scowl, any servants were quick to move out of his way, keeping their heads low. He walks the lavish white halls quickly, steps muffled by the thick violet carpets, he holds the letter tightly. His huntsman appears beside him in stride, a small smile across his lips. Unbothered by Vil’s scowl and furrowed brows.

“Bon après-midi, mon Seigneur, pourquoi un air renfrogné orne-t-il le beau visage d’une personne?” Vil stops immediately in place, turning to his huntsman, holding up the envelope, and watching his personal guard nod in immediate understanding.

“He has not only forced me to my hands and knees like a dog but has also saddled me with preparing this year’s courting season. Even went so far as to ask the Draconia family, he has absolutely made a fool of me.” Vil’s voice is low, dripping with venom, before resuming his walk, his steps long and fast, his guard follows easily. Dressed casually in his familiar brown feathered hat upon his head.

“How would you like to begin planning?”

“Have letters sent out—Courting with take place at the Pomefiore Manor. I’ll have father regret ever forcing my hand.”

══════ •✦• ══════

“Master Robyn!”

The wind blows softly through the sunlit manor grounds, rustling the vibrant green grass and forest leaves as two figures crouch in the bushes, out of sight and view of the frantic middle-aged maid who was shouting for them. Trying to rush down the stone stairs, but also afraid to fall, leaving her to grip the ends of her black dress and white apron as she sidestepped down the steps. Swatting away at the two large dogs that yap and bark as they bound up and down the steps, messing with her as she tries to shoo them away.

There’s a handmade animal target made of hay and cloth that stands unmoving, placed in the very center of the grassy field. Something the maid is utterly oblivious to, as small hands grip the wooden bow, a hand-crafted gift made for the young brother of the Locksley house, with his name elegantly engraved along the handle.

“Ignore her.”

The master of the house’s voice is quiet, with a hint of playfulness as he tucks a strand of rose-red hair behind his ear, crouching low as he adjusts his brother’s aim. Once again, the maid shouts, which earns a snicker from the younger boy, as the Head of the house grins. Both the brothers are quite used to her panicked shouts, having grown to know the difference between her actual urgent calls and her simple faux panic that she at times sends herself into over the smallest changes.

“Do I shoot now, brother?” His brother’s voice is playful, glancing up at his brother with eager eyes, waiting for the release command. A moment passes before the eldest looks at his younger brother, giving a short nod.

“Shoot.”

The young brother does, the arrow zipping through the bushes and shooting straight into the fake deer’s neck, sending the puppet flying over. The maid shrieks in fear and surprise, nearly dropping whatever she was holding, as the dogs bark happily, rushing over to the straw dummy and pouncing on it. The younger brother immediately jumped with a cheer, revealing his hiding spot as he rushed over to the puppet.

“That was like 15 yards away, brother! And the arrow went zoom!” The young child holds out his arm, pretending it was the arrow and how it flew, nearly falling over from the extra momentum and the dogs that jump and bump into his small frame.

“Master Jay, please be careful!”

The maid, a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and white streaks, holds the ends of her skirt as she rushes across the field, her plump peach-colored face flushed. Jay ignores her completely, entertaining himself with the dogs and the straw deer, chasing them around with it.

“Marjorie, he is alright.”

She nearly jumps 10 feet in the air, turning around and coming face to face with the master of the house, Robyn Locksley. Who has a small smile, resting a firm, gentle hand on her shoulder with an apologetic grin and laugh. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She presses her palms against her fast-beating heart, and he gives her a moment to gain her breath as he fixes the runaway strays of her hair, watching his brother from the corner of his eyes, watching Jay play happily with their two black and white hunting dogs.

“You called for me earlier. Was something wrong?”

Robyn holds out his arm, allowing the maid, one he’s known since childhood, to interlock their arms as they walk around the grassy field. She was the main maid in charge of Robyn’s everything, making sure that he had everything he could likely need, while his parents spent days away from the manor. Leaving their young son alone for days on end, a habit that didn’t change at the surprise arrival of Jay Locksley, who was born when Robyn was only sixteen.

So, while Marjorie took care of him, Robyn took care of Jay. Even after the Locksley name was ruined, all due to his father’s negligence and his mother’s embarrassment, who fled the moment it was declared by the Draconia Family that Robert Locksley had ruined their wealth and discarded their name and found dead in an alley in the next town over. Though his mother, Jane, died six years ago in a carriage accident.

Neither of the sons of Robert and Jane attended the funeral, at the request of her third husband.

“Goodness me! I almost forgot! Well, news has it that the courting season has changed from the Al-Asim Family to the Schoenheit Family, at the last minute’s notice—”

Robyn nods, giving an occasional hum as he listens. Knowing that it was better off to simply ramble on about whatever news and or drama she gained, speaking about all the speculated drama behind the sudden decision. Cause to her, quick and unusual change is never good.

Though Robyn is curious. A sudden change three months before courting season, he can imagine quite the mad faces of some of the more prominent families. Having to rearrange everything to fit the more regal attitude the Schoenheit’s had, instead of the more freeing vibe that the Al-Asim’s conveyed.

“It could possibly be tied to Kalim Al-Asim and his secret lover?” Robyn holds back a laugh but is not unable to stop a sly smile from spreading across his lips.

“I assume it is another story from the market?” Robyn watches her face go slightly pink, making Robyn know immediately that he’s correct. He laughs, watching her wave him off in a playful fashion. “All rumors hold a bit of truth.”

“That they do.”

They continue walking, Marjorie going back to her conjectures, Robyn adding input here and there, his bright blue eyes gazing along the gardens located on the side of the house, the grassy ground shifting into gravel, crossing past a flowery hedge into the fruit and vegetable gardens. His eyes surveyed each plant, silently searching for any growing berries and fresh, vibrant tomatoes. After finding nothing of interest, his gaze moves to the thick tree line that surrounded the entire Locksley Manor. Located on the furthest outskirts of the large bustling town, hidden within the green land forests. Marjorie continues,

“And it is to be held at the Pomefiore Manor!” Robyn turns to her, his full attention, his brows pulling together in shock and surprise. The Schoenheit family had two famous manors, the Schoenheit Manor where all events are held in relation to the family, and the Pomefiore Manor.

“The one in the Northern Mountains?” The maid nods, stopping in her tracks and pulling away as she rummages through her pockets, retrieving an elegant letter, and placed it in Robyn’s hands.

Pomefiore Manor is a manor of pure and utter elegance hidden within the towering northern mountains and shielded by flurries of never-ending winters. No one except the Schoenheit Family to be allowed that deep into the mountains. Others have tried, but none ever returned alive.

“Such an odd location... And so last minute...”

Robyn mutters under his breath, he’s spent time reading about the mountains and the mysterious snowstorm that follows, some say it was caused by a jealous queen who lost her love to another, and her cold bitter hurt would make those that once stood in her way suffer. While more logical, researchers blamed it on a strange influx of magic that forced the storm to never end. His gaze moves down to Marjorie, watching her anxious-filled expression. Robyn gently presses a hand against her head, his lips curling into a smile.

“I’ll be alright. I was invited, so there should be no worries.”

“You’ll be away for six months. Oh dear,” She leans against Robyn, leaning her full weight against him like a mother would her very own son. He allows her, indulging in the slight smell of honey that surrounds her. Marjorie continues to ramble as she pulls away. Robyn watches her talk aloud, speaking to herself, then to others.

“How would I ever—you’re off to getting married? I need to prepare. We only have three months—Dear Seven—” You watch her walk from the garden and towards the back of the house. Robyn follows behind her, slipping the letter into his pants pocket, as he watches her climb up the stone steps, still speaking to herself, stepping into the manor, clearly in her own world.

“What’s courting season?”

Jay pops up beside the young master of the house, holding a long stick, watching Marjorie before wide blue eyes look up at Robyn, dirt, and grass decorating his clothing. Robyn lets out a low hum, roughing up his brother’s hair, ignoring the gentle ‘hey!’, as Jay tries to duck away.

“It’s like a long party. I’ll be looking for a spouse—Though,” The master of the house trails off, a grin spreading across his lips, watching Jay try to fix his short messy red hair, that’s always messy, even after Robyn spends 15 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to style his unruly hair before giving up. Watching Jay try and slick his hair back, squinting his eyes to look cool, making Robyn laugh when the hair practically bounced back into place.

“—I’ll be away for six months.”

The two siblings walk side by side. Jay, with similar bright blue eyes, bounds happily beside his sibling, attracting the attention of the playful hunting dogs, who zip and dart between the two.

“For six months... That is a long, long time.” Robyn’s brother sways as he walks, purposely bumping into his brother, who uses his hand to entertain the dogs, feeling them playfully nip and bite at his fingers, and chasing the siblings as they walk.

“It is—You will be alright; Marjorie and Arthur will take of you.”

Marjorie and Arthur are the only two remaining maids and butlers to the Locksley Estate. The two manage everything within the large, empty manor. Marjorie is in charge of the inside of the manor, while Arthur handles all outer duties. Occasionally, the two siblings help in secret, dusting and sweeping, maintaining the gardens, and handling the large dogs.

“But it’ll be lonely without you—”

Jay wraps his arms around his brother’s waist, stopping the two in their tracks, Robyn gently combing his fingers through his brother’s hair. His lips pulled into a frown, the last few years, since the fall of the Locksley name, everything has been nothing but hectic, meaning Robyn missed his other courting season, leaving him with only this year and the next before he’s considered ineligible, which could possibly leave the two homeless. And though every fiber in his being wants to remain with his brother—nor does he truly desire a spouse—this is one of his ‘noble’ duties.

“I’ll visit. Once a month, if possible... Our situation is no secret.”

Jay is aware of their social standing. Aware of who exactly their parents were, Robyn had no reason to paint his parents in a good light. Sparing no expense to hide the truth in bits and pieces. Jay knows they’re nobles with no riches, nobles alone in status, merely because King Draconia pitied them, and swore that they could properly regain their title if Robyn worked and proved that the Locksley family was worth helping.

Though becoming a proper noble matters little to none to the Head of the Family, it’s merely a title that comes with a following never-ending headache, and if Robyn could—he very well would rid himself of it. Yet, he crouches to his brother’s level, his hands gently squeezing his shoulders. Jay’s eyes look glossed over in worry, his bottom lip poking out as he frowns.

“You’ll be in my thoughts. Always.”

Robyn Locksley has a brother to protect, to care for, whom he loves more than any other. His only family—besides Marjorie and Arthur—and closest friend. Jay nods, his pouting lips curling into a small mischievous smile as his hands tug at the bottom of his shirt. “Then—Can you help me shoot some more?”

Robyn gasps, clearly being tricked by his brother, “I knew those tears were fake!”

Robyn attacks his brother in a flurry of tickles, bringing his sibling into his embrace, wrestling Jay in his arms, causing him to giggle and laugh, fighting back and losing terribly. “No! No! Robyn! Please!” He shouts in between giggles, the dogs barking and yapping happily, knocking over both Robyn and Jay as they practically pounce onto the two, sending them all to the floor, giving Jay a chance to wiggle and squirm away, darting away in a fit of laughs and giggles. Robyn kneels in the grass, green blades coating parts of his clothing, hair, and face, hands resting on his knees. Jay sticks out his tongue, urging the dogs to come get him, leaving Robyn alone for a moment.

Courting Season.

It’s six months long and, unlike any of the other bachelors and bachelorettes, who flaunt and flounce, wearing their name proudly, the Locksley family cannot. ‘If not for myself... then for you,’ Jay darts around with the dogs, smile large and blue eyes happily wide. Robyn can’t remember the last time he’s seen his brother so happy, the last time he’s been so present. Not simply sparing a glance, but spending a moment with his brother after his long trips, to only leave again.

Trying to undo all his father did. Trying to prove his worth to the ever-reigning Draconia Family, who at any moment displeased with Robyn Locksley, could take everything away. Robyn pushes off the ground, wiping off the dirt and grass, his gaze turning to the large house. Whatever connection Robyn felt, whatever love for the manor—whatever love for his Locksley name ceased to exist years ago. It’s nothing but a house within his name, but to Jay—even as he knows the truth, the manor means something to him. That represents something that Robyn is quite unsure of.

“Master Robyn! Master Jay! Lunch is ready!” Marjorie’s voice shouts aloud, carrying a tray out and to the sitting area located at the top of the stairs, Arthur helping her keep the glass doors open.

Jay immediately is on his feet, racing towards the garden stairs, the two hunting dogs yapping and running after the young boy. A short happy huff lips past Robyn’s lips, walking towards the manor with a small smile.

══════ •✦• ══════

Courting Season.

A season in which all elegant bachelors and bachelorettes take a break from the pressures of society, gathering together to expand their family name and grow their riches by finding a spouse. There are no expectations of love, but connections. That is the goal, to connect and grow. Win it all or lose everything. Failure results in shame, and the Draconia refuses to have shame attached to them.

Courting Season is divided into two, the Spring Court and the Summer Court.

The Spring Court [March, April, May]:

The Court of Spring is the beginning of all festivities and gives a chance for everyone to scope out potential suitors and enjoy the fun without absolute commitment.

For most of the spring, the bachelors and bachelorettes remain separate. Getting to know one another and gaining companions. The more socially accepted you are, the less likely you’ll have competition in finding a good partner.

The Summer Court [June, July, August]:

The Court of Summer, this is the latter half of all festivities. During this time, one should already have mutually picked their suitor for the last three months, spending this time to bond more, whether romantically or for future business endeavors.

At this point, most have selected their main interest and attempt to spend the latter half trying to know them. While others, pleased with their connections but have no desire for romance, spend the last three months enjoying the festivities, but must show a sign that they are out of the running and uninteresting.

Origin of Courting Season: Created and in placed by one of the great kings of Briar Valley, as a way to keep the rich with the rich and keep the poor with the poor.

This idea has changed very little over time, due to the expansion of how many noble families exist beneath Draconia’s control.

ACT TWO:

“This above all; to thine own self be true.” - Shakespeare

The Huntsman can’t help but smile, turning his gaze to the growing crowd, as carriages of different sizes and colors move in staggered lines, traveling up the rocky dirt road, lined with elegant floral bushes, filling the air with the gentle scents of lavender and jasmine, guiding them towards the gleaming manor of violet, white, and gold. Feeling the cool spring air bite at his cheeks, he slides off the towering tree branch, falling to the ground in simply ease. Emerald eyes subtly memorized each landau that stood out before landing on a bright red and gold wooden carriage, pulled by two elegant black stallions.

“J’aime bien celui-là.”

══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════

This is the beauty of the Pomefiore Manor.

It is a celebratory night, the first night of Courting Season, the first night before everyone is separated for the first three months. Yet that is the farthest thought from everyone’s mind. For some, it is their first time away from home, away from the suffocation of their titles. For others, this is a usual scene and a moment for them to take a break from their hectic life and bask in simplicity. For others, this is business, not a vacation.

DEAR ROBYN LOCKSLEY,

Greetings from the Draconia Family.

We hope all is well and wish you a very joyful and eventful courting season. May the odds be in your favor, and you find the perfect lover. We have written to you to speak gaily and thank you for all of your dedicated help, but we are also afraid that even after years of service, it is simply not enough. Your father was quite the foolish man and was built quite the debt, one you must repay. So sadly, I’m afraid that if you do not find a spouse of higher rank, you will be stripped of your title and all assets. Now don’t fear, this courting season is quite an extraordinary one, so have fun, be merry. For this might be your last time.

Best Wishes,

THE DRACONIA FAMILY

The words of the letter remain heavy upon his brain. Any formalities slipped out moreso on instinct than purpose, and barely remembering the faces of the different women and men that introduced themselves. Doing well to speak to the noble, only in name, rather than earned purpose. Which Robyn knows, aware of his name being spread across the ballroom like an uncontrolled wildfire, as others send him curious looks.

Looks he does well to ignore.

This had been on his mind for the last three months, in between preparations for his long journey, and making sure finances were in order. Making sure that Jay, Marjorie, and Arthur had all they needed while he was gone. He spent the days spending time with his brother, promising that six months would pass quickly that before they knew it, they’d be together again in the fall. While in the late night, he remained glued to his desk, furiously writing letters to different nobles and businessmen, trying to build any sort of safety net if he did fail in the task appointed by the Draconia Family. Spending nights within his bed, rereading the letter over and over.

Half of him wanted to make the unprompted journey to the Draconia Castle, demanding to speak with the King. Urge them to give him more tasks. To let him find some way to at least make sure his brother and the only two servants that he had were all right and cared for.

Though Robyn is certain that their solution would have Jay work for them. Not only does he lose the title of noble, but becomes a poorly treated servant. That thought alone forced Robyn to remain in the manor, doing well so as to not frighten the others.

He shakes the thought from his head. Suddenly very aware of his facial expressions, he forces a relaxed smile. Turning his gaze upon the crowded ballroom. Spotting some familiar faces and some not. Each and all dressed in the finest of silks and jewels, all wanted to show off to the Schoenheit heir, who has yet to make himself known.

Robyn stands against the towering white marble walls. As flickers of white and gold flames give way to bright light, placed upon hanging crystal chandeliers, as shoes tap and float against the polished floors. Dancing away with whoever filled their fancy, away from prying, judgmental eyes, with hands entwined and bodies close, dancing to the lovely orchestra.

Everyone during courting season has something to gain and something to hide.

The musicians, people that Robyn is sure that they have been alive far longer than him and have more than mastered the dark oak string instruments. The Locksley Head is certain that the orchestra is most definitely a gift from the Draconia Family. Seeing as no noble would accept less than the best, though Robyn is unsure of the last time he’s heard a live orchestra.

He holds the crystal flute glass, one practically forced into his hand the moment he stepped into the ballroom, occasionally sipping its sweet savory flavor that sends tingles down his tongue after every taste. There’s a subtle underlying flavor of alcohol. Yet the sweet flavor overpowers it greatly. He’s sure that there will be a few who make the mistake of drinking downing drink after drink.

Robyn softly sways to the music, far more interested in the different people, each seemingly comfortable in this environment. Not to say he hates dancing or even festivities, but it’s more enjoyable with someone, is it not?

Robyn’s blue eyes shifted across the enormous crowd that formed around the ballroom dance floor, mingling and gossiping—laughing at their own jokes and discussing the future events. Each within their own right, amazed with how elegant the first night seems to be, when Vil Schoenheit only had three months to prepare. While others knew that the moment Vil Schoenheit sent out invitations with a bouquet, that this year’s courting season—Vil Schoenheit's final courting season would be extravagant.

“Such a shame to only watch and never mingle—Though one can find beauty in simply people watching.”

The voice is like a cool summer breeze and has Robyn shuddering—once for the sudden cold and another out of pure surprise. A man, young, with short blonde hair, pulled into a low ponytail, and deep green eyes that betrayed nothing of his thoughts nor actions, but only showed his curiosity and amusement. He wears simple clothing, tight black pants, a white button-up shirt, and a black corset vest with green lace embellishments, with a simple black belt and a bow and quiver attached to his back.

Robyn glances over his form once more, before landing on his face. He’s watching the crowd. He can tell the strange man is a huntsman. The ends of Robyn’s lips curl. “People are the finest works of art.”

“Ils sont vraiment,” the huntsman says nothing more with a merry hum, occasionally glancing at the young nobleman, but keeping his gaze focused on the smiling faces of the people.

“From the way you’re dressed, you do not seem like a noble?” Robyn’s words make the man chuckle, earning his full attention, unlike before. He wears a bright smile, pressing a hand over his heart as he bows.

“That I am not. I am Rook Hunt, personal guard and huntsman to Vil Schoenheit.”

Robyn’s eyes widen at his words, watching Rook stand straight, a still amused smile upon his lips. “May I ask what gave me away, Mr. Robyn Locksley?”

“You know who I am?”

“Who would not? You arrived in such a crimson carriage. Such a red is quite beautiful.” Emerald eyes dart up to his hair, before resting back on Robyn’s face, unafraid of eye contact. Robyn lets out a low huff like laugh, crossing his arms, and tilting his head to the side. “You asked how I knew—”

“Oui.”

“You are simply underdressed.” The words make the huntsman laugh, a few eyes turning in their direction for the sudden loud laugh, unaware of the two.

“Such a simple fact and yet gave so much away. Tu es vraiment fascinant.” Rook wipes away imaginary tears, giving another shallow bow, as if apologizing. “Forgive me of my outburst, it is not often one speaks to me so freely.”

“Freely?” Darting past Robyn’s curiosity, his smile unfaltering, “You spoke as people being art, then we stand in a museum of moving pieces.”

A museum of moving pieces. Robyn follows Rook’s gaze, watching the crowd move and dance. No one is in the same position as before, some with their arms crossed when they once talked animatedly, some who drink when they once were eating.

“So much passes in so little time. How can one truly appreciate it without a photo?” How can one fully enjoy a moment when a moment so quickly passes? Robyn’s gaze moves to his flute glass, watching the bubbles form and pop, before turning his gaze back towards the crowd.

“That is the beauty of it.” Rook tears his eyes away, green eyes filled with so much honesty. For a moment, Robyn swears he sees Jay’s honest eyes. It has been so long since he’s met someone who’s so true to themselves.

“You speak of…” The words come out heavy, and weigh heavily upon his tongue, “beauty quite often… Why?”

Rook takes a moment to answer, though Robyn is certain that the huntsman doesn’t need a moment to think of response, but moreso for affect. “That is my life pursuit… To find beauty in all things.” Robyn’s eyes move towards the orchestra, watching them happily play, caught up in the melodies of their own music. He thinks back to the letter, one he folded and shoved into the deepest parts of his temporary dresser, unable to swallow the bitterness of it all. Robyn lets out a soft sigh, taking a large gulp of his drink, before speaking.

“In theory that would be easy… To find beauty in everything… Yet how do you look past the negative to see beauty?”

“You do not.” The Huntsman answers with ease, rocking on his heels with a smile, laughing at Robyn’s confused expression. “You take all for how it is and how it will be. Negativity is a fluid emotion—no one can avoid it, so you must learn how to see it for what it is. People will always have negativity—that is one of life’s absolutes. Yet that is not all people can be…”

“So, you find beauty in those that experience it and move past it?”

“And those who cannot—il y a de la beauté dans l’angoisse.”

Robyn finishes the bubbly drink, placing the crystal flute glass on the tray of a passing by servant, before turning to Rook with a grin. “I quite enjoy your company,” Robyn face slightly flushed, feeling the gentle buzz of alcohol in his system, yet he doesn’t stop, offering out a hand.

“May I ask you to accompany me to the gardens?”

══════ •✦• ══════

“Master Vil, many are awaiting your arrival.”

A short maid bows deeply keeping her face hidden as the Schoenheit heir finishes his hair. Pulled into a simple bun, adorned with crystals and jewels. His pink painted lips pressed together, fingers elegantly fixing the golden chain of his necklace.

“Tell me, has father said anything about the courting season?” His voice is low, while the elegant makeup brush is carefully dragged across the lid of his eye, unbothered to even look at the shuddering maid, who’s dressed in simply black and white, keeping herself in Vil’s shadow.

“He—um—The Master spoke of annoyance and disappointment, yet has said nothing else, Master Vil.”

Coating the purple eye shadow across his eyes, before switching to black eyeliner, he speaks again. “That is good, I suppose,” he moves to his other eye, “And have you seen Rook? I give him a moment to see all who has arrived, and he takes the time to simply go missing.” Vil speaks to himself before letting out a sigh, switching from the black eye shadow to a deep purple. He speaks directly to his maid.

“I am aware he has been mingling with guests, yet has yet returned, where is he?”

“Um, the gardens, I believe. He is entertaining Master Robyn Locksley.” Vil pulls the brush from his eye, staring at the two perfectly matching eyes, before placing the brush down and for once, turning to fully look at the maid. His blonde brows furrowed and lips in a low grimace.

“Robyn Locksley… If I am correct, he is a noble in name and of nothing else.” There is slight venom in his words, standing up from his vanity and towards the full-length mirror, once again checking to make sure his outfit is in order. The maid makes sure to stand behind him, keeping her hand over her heart and legs crossed in a low curtsy.

“Yes, that he is. But many say that the reason is due to Robyn Locksley having close ties to the Draconia Family. Which is why he is able to retain his title. Rumors say that it was Lord Malleus himself who gifted the Locksley with the crimson red carriage. Which has caught a lot of attention, I am certain that Master Robyn will have quite many who seek him.”

Vil clicks his tongue, heels clicking as he returns to his vanity, picking up the black eye liner, “I do not like rumors, yet if there is any truth in this—I assure you, Robyn Locksley has caught my attention.” He speaks under his breath, adding the wings onto his eyes, before clearing his throat.

“Prepare for my arrival. I want not a soul missing.”

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sofiiel · 1 month

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𝐂𝐡.𝟏: 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐓𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭

CW: Fluff. Mentions of loss. Mentions of deceased family. | Word Count: 1,570

It's a chilly spring afternoon, the sun reaching its amber rays out to break the chill. The old tire swing under Poppy the giant oak tree creaked as it swayed in the breeze.

You inhale the sweet fragrant honeysuckle as you make your way through your front lawn. Towing a little rainbow-painted wagon behind you, you trudge up the mild slope, circled by wagging tails.

"I'm back Skip, Kip. Sorry I don't have treats today ladies," You greet your two collies as they eye the colorful wagon.

Walking towards that old house somehow never lost its magic. As your grandmother used to say:

"Like a giant plucked it from a fairy tale, and it tumbled out his pockets, right here in Hawkins."

A small smile graced your face even as sadness filled your eyes.

"I miss you." You murmured, the loss still fresh.

The barking of your dogs faded into the distance.

Henry the ornery rooster doodled from somewhere on your property.

Leaving the wagon at the base of the steps, you enter your cottage, it is unusually quiet. Bea wasn't playing the piano, which only meant one thing,

"She's gone off into the fields again." You sighed.

It wasn't a bad thing, Bea's adventures into the Sunflower fields and the grass pastures with her sketchbook was better than her hiding under her bed.

"I just wish she'd remember to take one of the dogs." You murmur.

After all, it was well known that Hawkins could be an odd and scary place for children.

Without your little helper, you were left alone to bring the groceries and art supplies inside.

Eddie stepped out the back of his van his hair tousled and one sock missing. With a wide yawn that made his jack pop and eyes water, he stretched his arms up to the sky.

He rubbed his chest groggily as he took in his surroundings.

"This old place works perfectly." He muttered to himself.

"Easy to find but not really looked for." He thought.

Nancy wouldn't have any trouble locating him here and the police would never expect he was so close.

Eddie gazed out at the rows of sunflowers, "I hope Wheeler is right about all this." he thought.

The idea of no longer having to wander like a migratory bird after so many years seemed unfathomable. However, it was closer than it felt.

It would be a few hours before anyone would come by to talk to him., "And there is no way I'm setting foot in town." He thought.

Eddie's stomach growled, last night's gas station burritos had already burned away.

His eyes wandered to the tilted wooden fence in the distance. If he remembered right, there was a garden just a short walk past it.

Getting back into his van, Eddie buckled up and navigated across the grassy terrain, through the collapsed section of fence.

Unbeknownst to him, in the distance a small figure popped her head out of the sunflower stalks.

The colorful plastic barrettes at the end of Bea's braids clanked together as she looked around. Her curious eyes slowly take in the surrounding area.

She could have sworn she'd heard a car.

Though nothing was there, and not a sound echoed besides the rustle of trees and the saying of the flowers. Rushing back to her sketchbook nestled on the ground, Bea picked it up and hurried back home.

"Titi should be back by now." Bea thought, sprinting through the fields, taking the shortcut back home.

Kip barked happily as the screen door opened and shut. As the gentle gust of wind entered, so too did the smell of sunflowers.

"Titi, I'm back!" Bea's voice echoed through the home.

You stopped rolling the dough before you and stood up tall, already regretting the snap decision to make homemade pie.

"In the kitchen Bea!" You called out.

You could hear little feat bounding towards you.

Bea came to a halt, her eyes smiling even when her mouth did not as they landed on the wide flat circle on the counter.

"Is that?" she asked hopefully.

You gave a nod, "Strawberry pie. But you'll need to go pick them. It's already late in the after noon-"

Before you could finish Bea slapped her sketchbook on the table and flew out the kitchen door.

Left wide-eyed, you watched her bound across the yard, her figure getting smaller the farther she ran. A laugh bubbled from your throat as she vanished through the fruit tree hedge line.

"I've never known anyone who likes Strawberry pie as much as you do." You muttered with Bea in mind.

Now you had little choice but to follow through with baking.

You dust the dough with flower one more time and give it one last press with the rolling pin before tucking it into the pie pan.

The radio buzzed softly, it was nearly impossible to get good reception out here. Bits of music snuck in between the static often enough to make it bearable.

You hum along to what you can hear, the broadcast comes to an end and the crackling words of the radio host announce,

"It's the tenth anniversary of the great 86' Quake, taking calls from those who remember, right after this song. Got some Danger Zone for you-"

You sighed and tuned the radio out, shutting out the pang of guilt bubbling up in your stomach.

Right on time, the kitchen door flung open. Bea stood huffing and puffing with a bucket full of strawberries, but she didn't seem happy.

"What's wrong?" You questioned, taking in her frown.

"The bushes weren't very full..." Bea sulked.

"But you brought back plenty." you reasoned.

Bea shook her head, "I like extra stuffed Strawberry pie." she murmured.

Those berry bushes had been around for five generations. You face twisted in mild dismay the more you thought about it, "It is odd that this is all they had." you thought.

From bushes that usually filled two metal washbasins to overflowing, this was odd.

"The branches were a bit broken too," said Bea.

She set the bucket on the sink and took up her step stool to wash the berries.

"Broken branches?" You asked.

Bea nodded, "Yeah, like a bear wanted a snack." she said.

"We don't have bears out here Bea." You chuckle.

"We could!" Bea protested, "I bet it's a friendly bear, we can leave it snacks so it won't tear up the bushes."

"Bea, you shouldn't feed wild animals." You reasoned.

"He's eating the berries anyway." she shrugged.

You sighed, maybe Bea had read too many of your old fairytale books.

"We could name it-" Bea lulled her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Don't-"

"Beary" Bea giggled.

You sighed, "Oh god, you got Grandma's bad joke disease."

Bea however giggled with pride, "GeeGee had good jokes!" she cheered.

"No they were awful, and I am afraid, there is no cure." You teased.

"I would not want a cure! If there was one, I'd go and sit by her grave until I caught it again." Bea stated proudly.

You paused and smiled, looking over your shoulder to find a rare grin on your niece's face.

"Let her have those awful jokes. Today seems to be a very good day." you think.

Eddie with his van parked under the shade of a tree, sat in the back of his van, nestled within piles of blankets. Laying on his back his hair hung down the bumper as he watched the light freckle through the leaves.

He loved this place, there was something about the air out here. A part of home that didn't cause the past to prickle at him.

Eddie tossed a small strawberry in the air and caught it in his mouth.

They still tasted the same, "Like the ones old lady Anita used to sell." Eddie murmured. He could see the old woman's face, she'd used to give Wayne a small basket of them for free as payment for fixing things at the old cottage.

Eddie wiggled his feet, remembering a few times he'd helped out in his uncle's place.

He couldn't help but wonder what happened to Anita's three grandkids.

Eddie chuckled as he remembered the summer he'd caught the oldest and middle having a water fight with buckets in the summer of '84.

Eddie's memory took him back further, to a time when he was much smaller and his hair was little more than a curly puff on the top of his head.

Running around the Sunflower fields with his friends, pretending to leave gifts for the sunflower fairy, in return for those very same strawberries.

Some days, he still regretted never going to say hello.

Eddie popped another strawberry in his mouth. The place was overgrown now with large lush trees and bushes. He hadn't lingered on the property long, just enough to grab some berries.

He'd heard about Anita's death through letters with Jeff.

Eddie frowned and sighed, "Wonder who's taking care of the old place now?" he pondered.

At least the outskirts of the property served as a quiet place to law low and ride out his time.

"Wheeler better be right this time." Eddie murmured.

"I'm sick of hiding." He sighed.

Still, his feet wiggled as he shoved a handful of strawberries into his mouth. Camping out in his van wouldn't be so terrible if he had an endless supply of these.

𝐓𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭

#My Neighbor Munson #eddie munson x afab reader #eddie munson fanfic #no physical descriptions of reader #ethnically ambiguous family & friend names #<- or at least to the best of my ability

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owlsinathens · 8 months

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So, I've written something for the first time in months. Not too sure what this actually is at the moment, but I sure as fuck won't question it 🤷🏻‍♀️

🐺🦑🐺🦑

They’re left alone in the yard, Theon and the little redhead. Robb, Theon repeats the boy’s name in his head. He looks to be about five or six years old, with huge eyes and a lot of freckles all over his nose. A bit too young for Theon, but the boy is the lord's oldest son, so he’ll have to do. For a long moment they stare at each other.

“Come, I’ll show you Winterfell,” the boy – Robb – declares, shuffling his feet. He looks excited, as if he can’t wait, and despite being tired Theon shrugs and follows the boy out of the yard, and into another one.

There’s a gate in that yard and Robb leads Theon through. After a few paces they come out – into the strangest place Theon has ever seen.

The ground is covered with moss, except for a footpath that Robb skips down, not looking back. He doesn’t notice that Theon isn’t following anymore, that he’s rooted to the spot, looking around in awe with his heart beating loudly in his chest.

There are trees everywhere. Big trees, with thick crowns that let almost no light filter into the grove – Theon swallows, a chill running down his spine as his gaze falls on the tree in the middle of it all.

It’s big, gigantic even, with blood-red leaves, the white bark as pale as the bones washing up on the beaches of Old Wyk. In the middle of it a face is carved into the bark, as red as the leaves, as if it is leaking blood, and Theon shivers.

This is a place for different gods than the one Theon knows, gods that fit the man who all of this belongs to, dark and cold and frightening.

“Theon!”

The boy’s – Robb’s – voice rips Theon out of his thoughts. He looks for him, finally spotting the curly red hair next to a pond, under a few blind dark windows. Robb is bouncing up and down, waving at Theon to come over.

Theon squints. Next to Robb another someone has appeared, a little smaller than him, with dark curls tumbling around a pale face. One of the lord’s other children, Theon muses as he cautiously walks over. Robb said he’s got a few siblings.

This must be his sister, Theon decides as he comes closer. The girl looks nothing like Robb, more like her father, and Theon hopes this is not the one he’s going to have to marry.

It had been his uncle Rodrik who’d said it, whispering urgently to Theon’s mother as she sat there crying, painting a picture of what Theon's life would look like in the lord's castle. He’ll be treated with honour, the uncle had said. Lord Stark has children of his own, and mayhaps one day…”

His mother’s sobs hadn’t ceased, and Theon had stopped listening after that, suppressing the urge to cover his ears. He didn't want to be treated with honour, he wanted to stay at home.

When he reaches the two children, Theon gives the girl a closer look. She’s wearing boy clothes, just like Asha always does. Dark hair, dark eyes boring into Theon’s, her mouth forming a small pout.

“This is my brother, Jon,” Robb crows, gesticulating wildly. “Jon, this is Theon. He’s going to live here.”

Oh, a boy. A younger son. Theon gives a half-hearted wave, already losing interest. Still, can’t hurt to be nice.

“I thought you were a girl,” he says with a grin. “You have hair like one.”

Robb’s hand flies to his mouth to hide a giggle, and Theon grins wider, satisfied with this reaction. Until his gaze falls on the other boy – Jon – uh-oh. Theon’s smile fades when the boy glares at him, the dark brows gathering over his eyes, glittering with – is that boy crying?

Theon frowns, confusedly opening his mouth to ask what’s wrong, when suddenly the boy turns, running away along the path, and out of the Godswood before Theon can say a single thing.

“Oh no,” Robb says, his shoulders drooping. “Jon is weird again.” He sighs, gathering something – a small cloak, Theon realizes – from the ground, dusting it off. “I’ll go and look for him. "Are you coming?”

Not waiting for an answer Robb marches away, and with a shrug Theon follows. The other boy will calm down again, and then they’ll start afresh. Or not. Theon doesn’t really care either way.

#greysnow #theon greyjoy #jon snow #asoiaf #writing #fanfic #or something like that #snowjoy #theon x jon #robb stark #game of thrones

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junebug-is-on-jupiter · 1 year

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Merry Christmas, My Love | Jake Kiszka

Merry Christmas Eve for all who celebrate/Happy Holidays to everyone! Thought I would post a little christmas coziness with Jake to mark the occasion.

Warnings: None, all christmas fluff!

Word count: 1.4k

Playlist:

The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You) - Nat King Cole

"Jake," I hummed, shaking my boyfriend's shoulder as I lay in bed, just having woken up. Jake groaned but simply rolled over, dragging the majority of our grey comforter with him.

"You can sleep in on any other day of the year, it's Christmas morning!!" I insisted. "Santa came!" I added when he just grunted again.

"Santa isn't real," he argued from where his head was buried in a pillow.

"Okay, that's rude. “I huffed. He just gave a lazy grin in response, eyes still closed. “Fine, I guess I'll just have to open gifts on my own because there is no way I'm waiting on your lazy ass," I said, flinging the small amount of blankets I had left off of me and pulling on a sweater of Jake's that was carelessly strewn on the dresser.

"Well hold on," Jake insisted, his head popping out of the mound of blankets. "Just give me a minute, it's probably like 6 am," he complained.

"It's 9 o'clock," I laughed, turning the clock to face him for proof.

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes before his head disappeared again.

"You are... unbelievable." I grinned and shook my head. If he couldn't get up, then I would carry on without him. He would join me eventually. I made my way to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, peppermint bark flavored, as well as pulled out some bagels to toast. As the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted its way around the house, I heard some banging from the bedroom and a curse followed swiftly after.

"You okay?" I called, my eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Yeah, this dresser fucking attacked me." he yelled back.

I smiled, "Wow, well tell it to stop or it's gone in the next yard sale. No hostile furniture in this house."

"Hear that you bloody piece of wood?" I heard him ask the inanimate object.

After I had plated the bagels and placed both them and two mugs of coffee in the living room, Jake padded down the hall and stopped in the doorway. "Hey, come take a look at this." he called me over, leaning in to look at the door frame until his face was nearly touching the paint.

"What's up?" I asked, coming over to stand in front of him.

"It's right there," he said pointing to a spot on the wood.

"I really don't see-" He cut me off by standing up straight, grabbing me around the waist, and pulling me in flush to him. My arms when up to his to grab for balance.

"There's nothing on the wall," he said simply.

I raised my eyebrows, "Oh really?" I asked sarcastically.

"Unfortunately not, but there is something above us. What's this? Looks like mistletoe" he asked, looking up. The sprig of mistletoe I had put up two weeks ago and forgotten about loomed over us.

"Real slick," I assured him.

"I try to be," He slid his hands up to the back of my neck and gently pulled me in. The kiss was slow, it was a quiet morning and the soft fall of snow. It was perfect.

He pulled away after a moment, "Now what were you going on about presents?" He asked.

I smirked, "Well since you asked, I want you to open yours first. I've been waiting months without telling you, but I'm about to just blurt it out if you don't just open it." I insisted, pulling him to the couch where he sat, and I dug under the tree for his gift.

"Okay, now I'm nervous," he murmured.

"Me too, I hope you like it." I said, finding it and handing it to him.

It was a thin, square package, obviously a record or two, but I had sandwiched something between them as a surprise.

"Hmmm what could it be?" He teased, taking it from me as I sat down on the couch next to him.

"Open it and find out," I said. So he did, ripping off the paper and tossing it to the floor.

"The Nat King Cole Story? No way, that's awesome. It has all our songs on it." He said picking up the first vinyl and flipping it over to see the back with the list of songs.

"Thank you. I love it," he said, putting the gift down to wrap his arms around me in a hug and kissing the side of my face.

"You're welcome, keep going." I urged.

"Okay okay." he laughed, turning back to his gift.

He placed the vinyl on the coffee table and went back to his treasures. On top of the next vinyl was a printed receipt for a hotel as well as two plane tickets.

"What's this?" He asked, picking them up to inspect them.

"Well, we just loved Australia so much, and we talk about it all the time, yet we didn't get to do all the things we wanted to with your touring schedule and me having to leave early, so I took a look at your calendar and saw you had a break in the spring. So I got to thinking and I got us tickets to go back to Australia, but this time, just us two and entirely for fun. I mean, if you want to that is..." I waited for an answer, but he just stared at the tickets in his hand. "I got insurance just in case you don't want to go and it was really just an idea." I rambled getting nervous.

"Absolutely not," he responded, his head whipping up to look at me. "We are going on this trip, are you kidding? This is like the best gift ever!" He said dropping the papers on his lap as he tackled me back to the couch. He squeezed me tight and said thank you over and over as I laughed and told him he was welcome.

"I can't breathe," I whispered finally after he had calmed down.

"Oh sorry," He apologized, pushing himself back up and reaching back to pull me up by my outstretched hands.

"So I take it that you like it?" I asked, wanting to make sure before I got my heart set on Australia.

"I love it. Thank you so much." He smiled at me.

"Good, one more thing," I said pointing to the last vinyl that got thrown to the coffee table in his rush to thank me.

"Oh right," he said picking it up and pulling off the rest of the paper.

"Arctic Monkeys," he read aloud. "I love them," He said, flipping it over to take a look at the back. "Thank you." He said, placing it on the coffee table with the rest and getting up. "Your turn," He said giddily.

"Oohh," I giggled, reaching for the wrapped gift he handed me after a moment.

"I don't know it you'll like it, but they seemed like you and I just couldn't resist," he explained as I tore away the paper.

It was a shoe box and when I flipped up the lip, the most glorious satin, multicolored boots stared back at me. "Shut up!" I exclaimed, picking the top boot up and feeling the smooth texture. "I love them! Thank you so much, Jake. They are perfect." I said putting it down and it was my turn to tackle him.

He simply laughed but quickly pulled away. "That's not all." He said getting back up.

"What?" I asked, wondering what else it could be.

"Here," he said sitting down and handing me a small wrapped box. I pulled off the wrapping and saw that it was a jewelry box.

I opened it to find a delicate oval locket inside with an intricate floral design etched into the face.

"Open it." He urged.

I undid the clasp and opened it to find a picture of Jake and me from our one-year anniversary a few months ago, taken in front of our favorite restaurant in Nashville as we smiled into a kiss.

On the other side was an aging white petal tucked into the metal.

"What is the flower from?" I asked, my finger ghosting over the side of the necklace.

"It's a petal I saved from our first date. That was when I knew you were the one so I saved some mementos." He shrugged.

"Jake..." I trailed off, at a loss for words. "That's so sweet," I said, my voice cracking from emotion. "Help me put it on?" I asked, standing up and holding out the necklace.

He stood up and took it, so I turned around and gathered my hair so he could see. His fingers were butterfly wings on the back of my neck. After he had clasped it, his arms found their way up around my shoulders and pulled me back to lean on him. We were facing the window and watched the snow start to slow its descent, but still leaving the ground covered in a fine layer of white fluff.

"Do you like it?" He asked.

"I love it," mimicking his answer from earlier. "Thank you".

"You're welcome, I'm glad you like it," he answered.

"I really do, Merry Christmas Jake." I told him.

"Merry Christmas, my love," Jake said back.

#jake kiszka gvf #jake kiszka #jake kiszka fluff #gvf #gvf x reader #greta van fleet fluff #Greta Van Fleet #jacob kiszka #jake kiszka x reader

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ecriter · 9 months

Text

Make the Bond - Pt. 7

a/n: after 6 months....THEY'RE BACK.

warnings: smut, minors DNI

ao3 ver

Part 7 of ?

Part 6

Chapter 7 - Make the Bond

The ritual of mating beneath Eywa had been practiced in Navi culture since the first songs. To take a mate was to bond eternally with another being, two souls connected by the all-seeing mother. Mating was the most tender form of a promise, only breakable by death, and as you and Quaritch moved across the soft, damp moss that bloomed along the sloped roots of the soul tree, you could hardly believe it was an oath you were about to make.

You had dreamed of this day since you were an awkward, gangly teenager just coming into your womanhood - nights spent beneath dusk, your finger brushing the glowing fronds of your queue and imagining the completeness a bond would bring. The hazy face you had always imagined was clear now, a sharp relief that painted strong and straight features belonging to your dreamwalker. He was tangible, not just some foggy idea that you figured was a natural evolution of your future.

The intensity of your connection should have scared you, but you were still high on a cocktail of nerves and adrenaline from the soldier attacking you back in the jungle. It wasn't helping your rationality that Quaritch’s scent curled around you, perfuming your senses until you felt drunk on him.

You knew what lay ahead of you, past the bioluminescent plants that hid a glittering clearing. An almost transcendent pull guided you there, Quaritch in tow, and the closer you neared the soul tree, the tighter your hand curled into his.

“The clearing is just ahead now,” You murmured, words puncturing the heavy air. “We’re close.”

“Where’re we going?” Quaritch asked.

Your pace slowed so Quaritch could pull equal to you, steps in unison with yours. The clearing was ahead, hidden by pale pink fronds that seemed to drape from the sky. You reached forward to brush them away, allowing Quaritch to step first into the clearing that revealed the Soul Tree. The sheer majesty of it commanded respect - white bark shimmered in the moonlight that bathed the meadow, glowing tendrils weaving a blanket around the base of the tree, creating a curtain of privacy from the rest of the world.

“Here,” You whispered reverently. “Our ancestors. Eywa created these sanctuaries to allow us to communicate with our ancestors and herself. See here? We connect to these vines and can see the memories of our clans and seek guidance.”

With a gentle touch, you caressed the glowing chord in front of you, sliding it along your palm until its weight rested comfortably in your hand, then offered it to Quaritch.

At first, he looked uncomfortable - his fingers brushed the back of your hand, but he didn’t grab the vine nor indicate that he wanted to do so. Quaritch's depth and understanding of Eywa was still in its infancy, so you understood his reluctance to connect with her. But there was nothing to fear, nothing you would let happen to him.

“Quaritch,” You whispered, sliding your fingers to interlock with his. He looked at you, his brow creased a little deeper. He was pouting in a way reminiscent of a child, lower lip puffed out and wide yellow eyes glistening. It pulled a laugh from your chest as you smoothed a hand down his cheek.

“Quaritch, what are you afraid of? I am here with you, and I would not let anything happen to you.”

Quaritch cleared his throat in an embarrassed manner, then grinned shyly. “I know it's stupid. I guess I'm just not used to things being inside my head. Other than me.”

You laughed again and the tension eased. Quaritch slid his fingers along the chord, chuffing at the warmth and life of the thing. It glowed under his hand, almost inviting him to connect.

“See?” You teased. “Not so scary.”

The ex-soldier snorted, but his head tilted back, eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. The movement brought candor to his usually guarded expression. You noticed an endearing set of dimples and small creases around his eyes, making your heart flutter. No one else saw him like this. Just you.

Your grin matched his as you looked down at the chord, sliding your braid over your shoulder. The tendrils of your queue curled forward, testing the warm air before twisting towards the vine and holding fast. Warmth poured into your limbs, a familiar peace you found with Eywa’s communion. Memories moved through you, warm like sunlight pouring across your skin - a sandy beach, cool water lapping at your toes, the flash of your mother’s kind eyes, and your father’s guiding touch. You felt soft fingers brush against yours and looked to your right to see Quaritch looking down at you.

“Is that you?”

“Yes. My father was teaching me to fish. I was terrible at it but he was patient and we spent all day together.”

Perfectly timed, your young figure fumbles the large trout hooked on the pole and it splashes back into the water, swimming away. Your father bends down, ruffling your hair with a smile. He says something and you remember the words - Plenty of fish in the sea, daughter. You only fail when you do not try!

“That's a good memory.”

You hum in agreement, drawing closer to Quaritch.

“Yeah. It was the last time we could spend time together before he became Chief and the duties of the clan took him away.”

After that, you saw your father less and less. Trips to the beach for lessons were passed on to the matriarchs that traditionally taught young warriors. It was a bittersweet memory. Your expression must have betrayed you, because Quaritch tucked his arm around your hip and pulled you into his side.

He wasn't one for words of comfort, so he pressed a gentle kiss to your hairline, lingering there. Your eyes fluttered close before you turned into him, burying your nose in his collar. Quaritch smelled like salt and summer, fitting perfectly into the landscape of your mind. His tail brushed low over the foamy surf. You could feel the tickle of his dark hair against your cheek, grown out from the closely-cropped cut he’d had when the two of you had first met.

The memory began to fade, the smell of the sea fading into cobwebs. Your eyes blinked open, back in the clearing.

When you looked up, Quartich was looking down at you. Suddenly, the air felt thick. Your breath caught in your throat. Quaritch was looking at you, communicating something to you through molten eyes. Your body was tingling, growing flush beneath his implication. Quaritch was disconnecting from the tree and you were dimly aware that you were, too. He was moving as if captured in quicksand, slow and deliberate. Then, suddenly, his fingers were curling into the messy strands at the base of your neck, pulling you into him, kissing you. It was all teeth and desperation. Quaritch licked along the seam of your lip, into your mouth, working you open with almost embarrassing ease. His large palms followed the curve of your back, pulling your hips into his, sparking delicious friction that made you groan.

Months of fleeting touches, flirtatious smiles, and tension that had boiled and boiled finally led to this moment.

Your mouths moved decisively against one another, his tongue sliding along your teeth and nipping at your mouth. It was like Quaritch wanted to swallow you whole, devour you and lay claim to you utterly and completely, ruin any thought or desire for anyone else but him. Not that you had any - Quaritch had consumed you since you'd met him.

His hand curled at the base of your spine, grazing along the sensitive skin of your tail - it was a sensitive spot, a bundle of nerves that sent your hips jutting back into his palm.

“ Miles,” You sighed against him, fingers clenching against his shoulders for stability.

“That feel good?” You could feel him grin against your cheek, nuzzling his wet nose down the line of your jaw and dropping soft kisses and nips.

You nodded, whining as he massaged that sensitive spot. The heat in your stomach turned tangible, weakening your legs so you collapsed into Quaritch, holding onto him desperately, craving every inch of skin and muscle.

Your hips moved to rut upwards again but were forced still by Quaritch’s grip around you. He tilted your head back, meeting your wet, pitiful eyes.

“If you look at me like that, I’m going to do some very bad things to you.” He sighed, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What kind of things?” You asked, all innocence.

His ears flicked and he exhaled shakily. The virtue you exuded begged for corruption - Quaritch wanted to do things properly with you, ease you slowly open for him until you bloomed like a flower. But God, your big round eyes that glowed pink in the light of the tree and your swollen plush lips that would look so perfect wrapped around his cock made such formalities impossible.

“Lay down,” Was all he could manage, guiding your pliant form down to the earth.

The tree roots cupped your body like a small burrow built just for the pair of you, soft grass tickling the sensitive skin of your spine. Quaritch’s knees bracketed your hips, pinning you in place. You expected him to lean down and kiss you - he had other plans. Lithe fingers curled around the woven fabric off your chest guard, tugging at the material. It gave away with no resistance, exposing your hardened nipples to the cooling night air.

“Sensitive?” He asked cheekily, thumbing one of the peaks.

“Miles...” You complained, curling upwards at the stimulation of his fingers.

“Alright, alright.”

He reached for your braid, sliding it over your shoulder and kissing the tip of it. His pupils were dilated in the moonlight, cat-like slits taking in every detail of your body sprawled underneath him. His cock twitched under his cloth, heavy and hard and dampening the material with his precum. Quaritch reached for his queue, bringing it around his shoulder until the tip of it just barely brushed yours.

The pair of you stilled, the heaviness of anticipation in the air. You wondered if Quaritch could hear your heart hammering against your chest - it was almost deafening to you, amplified by the impending connection that tingled at the base of your skull. Quaritch’s tendrils curled forward, testing the air. Both of you were panting, gripped by weeks of lust and desire culminating in this garden of Eden.

Then, the tendrils extended, connecting, wrapping around one another in an embrace. The bond was instantaneous. Your head fell against the ground, eyes rolling back into your skull as every feeling and thought of Quaritch’s pumped into your nerve endings. He was all around you, a drug of scent and trace that had your fingers practically ripping the moss from the floor in wanton ecstasy. A shaking gasp ripped from your throat. You can feel Quaritch respond in kind, as gripped as you are in the throes of the bond, baring sharp teeth like a wild animal. Your body was shaking with the force of it. It felt like hours before you could come to enough to look at Quaritch through half-lidded, drunken eyes. He was already looking at you - amber pools of honey that drag up your slick form. His hips knocked against yours. You can feel how devastatingly wet you are from the press of his hardened cock against your slit.

On fire and smothered by the delicious scent of your mate’s lust filling the air around you, you recognized that you would be plucking this scent from crowds for the rest of your life, searching for your mate out in every room.

Quaritch’s mouth brushed against the lining of your jaw, warm breath against the shell of your ear. You turn into him, purring and mouthing at his neck like a kitten.

“Gonna fucking breed you, sweetheart.” He whispered hoarsely, raw from the force of your connection.

You can only whine, thighs spreading open in invitation. You feel the tickle of fingers sliding past your waistband, dancing over your mound. Quaritch could read you easily now - knew what you wanted before the words could gather in your throat, which was likely for the best - you were sure forming a sentence was an impossibility, especially as the ridges of Quaritch’s knuckles bumped against your swollen nub, prodding the entrance of your aching hole.

The pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, then down the dripping slit of your cunt. The slickness made him groan nice and low into your ear. “Already this wet, darlin? Ready to take me?”

“Yes,” You breathed, rutting into him again. “Yes, please, please, I’m ready ,”

Quaritch pinched your clit and grinned against your skin when you yelped. “You need to keep talking, baby, tell me what you want. Can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.”

He pulled his hand out of your bottoms, sliding them up your belly. It left a trail of sticky arousal that glistened on your sweat-soaked skin and he brought them up to your mouth, offering.

“Open.” He ordered softly. You complied. Quaritch slid his fingers into the wetness of your mouth, pressing his fingers back until you had taken them to the second knuckle. The taste was bitter but not wholly unpleasant. You moaned as the flat of your tongue slid over Quaritch's digits, lapping and sucking any trace of yourself off the blue appendages. Quaritch watched you, hooded eyes following the swipe of your soft pink tongue.

“Fuck,” He sighed shakily, sliding his fingers off your tongue and tugging at your bottom lip. “You’re so good at taking orders, sweetheart. Know you’re gonna be such a good girl f’me.”

He leaned down, kissing you slowly, sucking your tongue softly into his mouth.

Wet fingers glided down the curves and lines of your stomach - your legs parted gratefully when his digits found your wetness again, parting your pussy lips so his palm could fit into your cunt. Your hips worked a rhythm against his hand, so slick that you found no resistance with every desperate, heated rut of your pussy. Every response of your body, Quaritch countered it perfectly. He pulled sounds from you that you didn't know you could make, whines and whimpers splitting the quiet air of the clearing. When the stimulation of his hand wasn’t enough, his thumb found your clit again and began to rub harsh circles into it.

“God!” You sobbed, gritting your teeth against the almost-painful stimulation. Your orgasm was getting closer, filling up every crevice of your body. Your wails turned incoherent as Quaritch kept you drunk on his fingers - he hadn’t even stuffed his cock in you and you were already a goner.

Quaritch himself was barely hanging on to the threads of his sanity. His view was glorious, a fucking prize he felt undeserving of. Your puffy pussy glistened with cum, squelching as his fingers pistoned in and out of your heat. His cock had long broken free of its confinements, his lavender tip wept from neglect - he didn't care.

You were going to cum first before Quaritch would even think about satisfying himself. It wasn’t a selflessness he was used to feeling - for the first time, the ex-soldier found himself far preferring the view of you coming apart under him than any pursuit of his own pleasure.

And how good you looked, breasts heaving as you gasped for breath, fingers twisting into the grass beneath you.

You were close. Quaritch could feel it through your bond, the rising white blindness of your orgasm. It was preparing to strike, to send you toppling over the precipice.

Quaritch couldn’t help himself as he leaned down and licked a long stripe up the sweaty valley of your tits, catching rivulets with his tongue, lapping his way over the slope of your breast and across your nipple. He sucked the bud into his mouth, rolling it gently between his teeth despite your whining protests of no more, can’t take it, too much. Your fingers curled into the damp locks of his hair at the feeling - every nerve alive, burning you from the inside out. You could feel Quaritch’s length pressing against your lower belly, heavy and thick. A shift of his hips and the head of his cock caught your clit deliciously. He bit down on your bud and lightning arced down your spine. You felt a prodding at your entrance and Quaritch slipped a finger in deep, curling it against that soft, spongey spot inside you.

It was too fucking much - you could barely process the feeling, could only manage half-choked moans of Mile’s name. Your fingers curled into his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase and stability along the wide expanse of his muscles. He’d moved on from your nipple after pressing a lingering kiss to the bud, working now across the unmarked territory of your neck, a second finger sliding into your heat easily.

“Somethn's happening, Miles -” You squeaked, looking down to catch the sight of his fingers pumping out of your wetness furiously, the squelch of your arousal filling the air.

“Tell me what you feel, baby,” Quaritch panted, watching himself work your cunt open over the slope of your breasts.

“F-feels weird!” You whined, unsure of the tightening in your lower belly.

“Not weird, baby, say it feels good.”

“Ngh, it feels good, ” You slurred, your legs fell open even wider to allow your mate’s fingers more access to your pussy.

He took it as an invitation to curl a third finger into you and the delicious pressure against your walls had your cunt clenching furiously as your orgasm suddenly stole over you. It was powerful, overheating every nerve in its path until you were a shaking mess of overstimulation. The sounds of the forest, Quaritch’s gentle coaxing, the feeling of his hardened cock brushing against your hip, it all disappeared as a rush of euphoria whitening blinding you.

Your body convulsed, fingers digging deep into the muscle of Quaritch's shoulder - his fingers pounded into your hole, three wide as he stretched you out for his cock. A spray of liquid soaked his front and you squealed at the intensity of the feeling, toes curling. You think you blacked out for a second.

When you came around enough to regain your bearings, you were draped across Quaritch’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck. The grass under your hips was wet from your cum and you would have been embarrassed if you weren’t coming down from post-orgasm bliss induced by Quaritch’s finger-fucking.

“Good?” Quaritch asked softly, nudging the flat of his nose against your ear. You purred softly into his neck, feeling the curl of his tail around your calf. You felt numb in a deliciously pleasant way, lazy in the heat, and post-orgasm bliss.

“Good.”

Your voice came out slurred. You could feel the low laugh rumble out of Quaritch’s chest. He was warm against you and his scent hovered like a haze in your senses. Your thighs had stopped shaking enough for you to muster enough strength to push yourself up, meeting Quaritch’s glowing gaze.

Struck by the urge, you kissed him slowly because you could, enjoying the press of his mouth and a swipe of his tongue.

“So pretty,” He sighed, pulling away with eyes wide and glowing like planets. Then his smile became sly.

“I hope you’re not too tired. That wasn’t even the main event.”

Tag List

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#avatar #quaritch x reader #avatar way of water #miles quaritch #strangers to lovers #jake sully #enemies to lovers

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