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luveline · 4 months

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hi jade !! this is me resending my hotch request bc of ur recent post 🤍 i sent the one about hotch taking care of bau!reader who has a really bad stomachache, thanks so much, i think you’re amazing 💞💞💞

thank you for requesting angel! fem

You do this sad thing with your hands when you're in pain. Aaron wishes he didn't know your tell, that he'd never had reason to understand it, but he does. Your fingers, in particular your pinky, curl toward your palm frenetically, and he has an ample view of your closed off face in the chair opposite. He can pin the moment he knows you're in pain down to the minute twitch of your lip.

He peeks at Morgan where he lays on the couch before leaning across the table to touch your arm. The jet offers little privacy, so Aaron tries to be delicate.

“L/N? Are you alright?”

“Mm,” you hum, too high-pitched to have come out the way you meant it.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” You say this, and yet you can't open your eyes, leaning less than subtly away from him as though your pain is catching.

Aaron keeps his head down as he stands so as not to attract attention. You've sat near the wall, leaving an empty seat for him to sit in. “Hey,” he says, touching the crook of your elbow, wanting to fix it, soothe the twitch from your hand, “you're in pain.”

“It's nothing.”

“Saying it won't necessarily make it true,” he says.

“It felt worth trying.”

He is genuinely perturbed to see you in pain like this without explanation. “You have to tell me what's wrong.”

“Hotch, I…” you say, your voice wrought with embarrassment as you open your eyes, “it's just my stomach hurts. That's all.”

“Sharp pains?”

“Just hurts. Nothing dire.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“Happens sometimes.”

He puts his arm around you, careful not to jostle your back. You're tense as a rubber band about to snap. It's unlike you to be the more rigid of the two of you, less foreign for Hotch to have softened, especially when it's you. “How often?” he asks, wary of the tears brimming like silver at the corners of your eyes.

“Just sometimes, I don't know.” You speak in a concise, panicked tenor.

In this line of work, it could be anything. Not eating enough, not having time to stop for breath. You could be thirsty, sick, anxious, stressed into pain. It could be purely psychosomatic or you could be injured. He can't remember you taking any blows during the last few days away. It could be your period. You might not want to mention that.

“Y/N,” he says, falling out of boss mode now he's sure it's not going to kill you, and into someone who cares for you, “what can I do?”

You shudder a breath, slouched under his touch. “It's not that bad.”

It's clearly a shocking amount of pain. Your shuddering worsens as he pulls you into his side. He's prepared to sit with you until you can give him better instructions, or until the pain passes, or, God forbid, things get worse. “I'm here,” he says, rubbing your arm gently. “Try to breathe.”

He's wondering why you might think this amount of pain is normal, or acceptable. Wondering why he shouldn't just call for medical assistance here and now, but then you start to come around, your face shining with perspiration. “Oh,” you sigh, wiping your face with your sleeve, leaning into your hand, hiding.

“Is it getting better?” he asks.

“I think it's anxiety or something.” Your breath slips out in disjointed huffs.

He can't guess what it is. Have you been to the doctor? he wants to ask, but perhaps in a moment, when you're steady in yourself again. “From the jet?”

“No. Maybe.” You frown.

“Jack doesn't understand that I'm on a plane.”

You lift your gaze in confusion. Aaron moves onwards.

“He doesn't understand that this is a plane. I brought him by, once, to try to explain why I can't always answer the phone. It's thick metal, you know?” It was an easier explanation than having no signal in the sky. “But he didn't get that it was something that could move. I had to take him to the airport. We watched…” He slows as your eyes meet his completely. “We watched them take off for hours. Now he doesn't get so angry when I don't answer.”

“Jack was angry?” you ask, half incredulous.

“A bit.” He tries to string the story together before you can realise what it is he's doing, his arm curling around your from behind, fingers making the most tenuous of circles into the very side of your stomach. A barely there sort of comfort. “It's not like him. He reminds me of his mom when he's angry.”

Your smile is a physical relief to see. “Does he have tantrums?”

“Doesn't every kid?”

You talk about Jack in dulcet tones while he tries to keep the pain at bay, his arm steadfast behind you, your faces closer than they have any platonic business being. He'll pester you into doctors appointments when you touch down, but for now, he just holds you and talks to you like everything is normal.

You cover his hand with yours when the pain starts anew, talking through it, pain in the soft line of your bottom lip.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks. You give him a weak smile. He feels awful, but it makes his heart race. So close, and so pretty, and so upset. “Is there anything I can do?”

An embarrassing amount of weight lies in ‘anything’. You shake your head, whispering, “Nothing. This is enough.”

Aaron pulls you in closer and wraps both of his arms around you, hiding you from the others, an aimless attempt to protect you from a pain he can't touch. Someone puts a cup of tea on the table for you, but otherwise you're left alone for the rest of the flight.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 16 all chapters

~AUTHOR'S WARNINGS: N$FW, SEXUAL CONTENT, COPIOUS SWEARING, TOXIC POSESSIVENESS , IF SOMEONE TREATS YOU LIKE THIS IN REAL LIFE RUN RUN RUN BC IT WILL NOT TURN OUT WELL U CANT FIX THEM~

-Aware that John Wick knows this city much better than you, you stick to the crowds. You manage to find your way to the Peggy Guggenheim collection, and you hang out there for hours, looking through the art works, but really only half seeing what is in front of you.

You are devastated.

You’ve had controlling boyfriends before, and it was not fun. They seem exciting at first, until the person you were before is eaten alive by their tantrums and their ridiculous expectations as they try to fit you into a box of their own making.

You can’t believe John turned out that way.

Or maybe you can. Maybe you have a fucking type, and you should have seen this coming.

You stay almost until closing, then grab a bite to eat before daring to wander the streets. You find a little walled in park, a courtyard filled with lush greenery and a tinkling fountain. By some miracle, there is only one other couple on a bench at the far end. You practically have the place to yourself, and you sit down on a wrought iron bench with a sigh and eat your sandwich.

You pull out your sketchbook afterwards to pass the time. Your doodling hand wanders, and perhaps its no surprise when you draw John Wick from memory, his proud lips and haunted eyes. There are tears running down your cheeks as you do so. When it gets too much, even though you’re in public, you hang your head and weep into your hands.

Darkness falls, and you know you should be getting back. The bench has long ceased to be comfortable, and yet it’s like you have grown into it, unable to move.

Even with your head down, when someone sits silently down beside you, you just know it’s John.

You do not look at him, and thankfully he does not try to touch you.

“It’s getting late, y/n. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Yes it is,” he insists, sounding almost tired about it. You hate it that your demeanor softens towards him, just a little.

“You broke my heart, Mr. Wick.”

“I was afraid I might.” He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “Would you let me make it up to you?”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“No?”

“No. I think you have a mean streak.”

He had tried to warn you, you realize, in his way.

God, are you really such a fool?

“Doesn't everyone?”

You make a sound between your teeth, and he nods like you have said something profound.

“I'm not a nice man, y/n. But I would be good to you.”

“Like last night? I didn't like that.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a wicked smirk, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, damn him. Was the contrition all an act?

“Yes you did.”

“Not the last part.”

“Hmm. I tried to warn you.”

In the vaguest terms possible, maybe.

“My fanny.”

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you’re not sure why that little gesture wounds you like a knife to the heart all over again. Perhaps because he is beautiful, and even though you know he’s dangerous for you, you still want him so very much.

You start to cry again, and try to get up from the bench. You need to get away from him, because you can’t think straight when he’s near.

“Y/n, wait.” He catches your wrist, and when you don’t really fight him, he pulls you down into his lap, and goddammit if this isn’t what you’d wanted all along. You feel small in his arms, cradled against his long torso and sheltered in the bend of his neck, even if in your hindbrain you know you are not actually safe at all. He strokes your hair until you quiet, and he kisses your temple like you are something precious.

How can this man be so sweet, just to turn on you?

“Why did you leave me, like that?”

You just do not understand. You could have had a lovely, fulfilling, mind-blowing if not vanilla night together. He’d laid all the groundwork like a master orchestrator, and you would have let him fuck you senseless. Fuck, you wouldn’t have even minded the tying up part, if he just hadn’t humiliated you.

“Because…” His lips ghost along the line of your jaw, and you fight not to squirm as his large hand slides up your thigh, his fingertips feather light on your skin. “Only good girls get to cum,” he says low in your ear, and you hate how it makes you ache between your legs, to hear him talk to you that way.

Outwardly, you do your best to keep your cool.

“And touching your hair made me a bad girl?”

“No.”

“Disobeying you did.”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Maybe.” He actually seems a little amused by you, which is not the reaction you were expecting. “I like to be in control. But you make me feel...unbalanced.”

“Me?” You sound incredulous. The thought that you could affect this powerful man in such a way seems absurd.

“Yes, you, kitten.”

The urge to demand he not call you that desiccates on your tongue.

“So...what? You feel the need to take revenge for that?”

“Maybe. I thought you knew the game we were playing, when you batted those big eyes up at me. Mr Wick, Sir, aren’t I a good girl?” His fingers dig into your thigh with the memory, and you can feel his growing erection beneath you. “But you’re just an innocent, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re used to boys just eating out of the palm of your hand. But I am a man, with a man’s appetites, and a man’s desires.”

He was a little more than that, you reckoned.

“You want to control me.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Why?”

He smirks. “Maybe I had a rough childhood.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“I want to take care of you.” He kisses your cheek again, and it is gentle and sweet and everything you had wanted from Mr. Wick, before this all went sideways. “I want you to be mine.”

You are not proud of the way those words unleash a fluttering swarm of butterflies in your belly, your breath quickening in your chest. You are proud when you manage to answer, “I don’t need taking care of.”

He just snorts lightly at that, as if it’s not even worth arguing over. “Come back to the hotel room with me. I promise I’ll finish what I started. With interest.” His hand slowly slides up your thigh, just beneath the skirt of your sundress, and you think you might die. You should not want this man, after what he did to you.

The ache between your legs suggests otherwise.

You give yourself some points, when you shake your head.

“No. I’m going back to my hostel.”

The shift in his demeanor gives you whiplash, a thunderhead of a frown pulling his handsome features. “Need to get back to your little friend Javi?” The jealousy in his tone hot as a brand. “Did he try to kiss you again?”

Your heart drops to your feet.

“How did you know he tried to kiss me?” you ask, your voice so small.

That was in Rome, after all.

What should have been obvious before comes crashing in, and you realize what a little fool you’ve been. That feeling that someone’s been watching you, and John’s so convenient and coincidental appearance outside the alley…

“Holy shit. You’ve been following me.”

“I’ve been protecting you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have no idea what the world is really like, sweetheart. It’s a dangerous place.”

You frown at this.

“So…you think I’m stupid?”

“No, of course not.”

“You think I can’t take care of myself then.”

“I think I found you wandering around here like a lost little lamb. There are monsters here who would have gobbled a sweet little treat like you up in one bite.”

The fact that he sees you that way is more alarming than the thought of some unnamed threat in the shadows.

For some reason it makes you think of the men in the van back home—and how that van was found empty and on fire.

“How do you know about the monsters, John?”

“I just know.”

“You said you weren’t a cop. Were you FBI?”

He glares at you, which you take as a no.

“Interpol?”

You are met with silence, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“You know about the monsters because you are one.” You think about those fierce looking Italian men with their scars and their bespoke suits. His previous words echo in your memory. Sono retirato.

“Were you in the mob?”

“Not…specifically.”

Then you remember he’d said he was from Belarus.

“Bratva, then.”

You should be terrified as you work all this out, trapped in the circle of this man’s arms, but you feel strangely numb about it all.

“My clever girl.” He sounds almost sad about it.

“Not clever enough,” you sigh.

You are not sure who is more surprised, you or him, when you burst to your feet. You actually manage to slip out of his grasp, though you only make it three steps before he captures your wrist again with a grip like an iron manacle. He gives you a dark look, annoyed that you would even try to play this game with him.

You remember what you learned in martial arts class a lifetime ago, pointing your thumb down towards the weak point of his grip and trying to jerk free. It’s worked before, with grabby men.

Not with John Wick, though.

“Stop.” Again, there’s that steely tone. The alpha voice one uses to reprimand a naughty dog. It only makes you angrier, and you struggle.

He pulls you hard against him, and you bite his hand. He doesn’t let you go, just adjusts his grip. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” he snarls low in your ear. “But you are so fucking stubborn.”

“Thank you.” You try to headbutt him behind you, but he ducks into the bend of your shoulder. You feel his chest trembling against your back, and only belatedly do you realize he is laughing at you.

“Enjoying this?”

“A little.”

“There’s no fucking way you can get me out of here without someone seeing. Let me go.”

He just sighs into your hair, like you’ve said something extremely naïve.

The arrival of newcomers into the park catches both of your attention. You lift your head, ready to ask for help, when you recognize the besuited tough guys from before.

Well, fuck.

“You've got some balls, showing your face around here, John Wick. Gianna d’Antonio’s son sends his greetings.”

“This isn’t a good time,” he snarls in return.

“Sorry, are you too busy fighting with your little girlfriend?”

He actually releases you then, pushing you to stand behind him. They are blocking the exit, so for now, you comply.

“You know how this will go,” John says, assuming a ready stance, his feet spread. He almost sounds regretful about it. “Do yourselves a favor, and leave.”

“Can’t do it, John,” says the one in the lead.

“For fuck’s sake,” curses John under his breath. The lead Italian makes a move, and John bursts into action. He is like a tornado of carnage upon them, throwing punches and breaking arms, cutting tendons and stabbing throats.

You are absolutely frozen as you watch all this unfold before you.

That is, until one of the thugs throws a knife at John, and you watch it bury in his chest. This is the thing that breaks your spell, and you run towards the fray with a scream, though who the fuck knows what you intend to do.

However, like he wasn’t just stabbed in the heart, John takes another attacker’s gun, pistol whipping him with it before shooting the knife thrower, then the last one standing. It cannot have been more than minute, before all of them are dead at his feet. He leans on his bent knees for a moment, catching his breath.

“John?” You hardly recognize your own voice as you rush to him, certain he’s taken a lethal blow and somehow fought through it with the surge of adrenaline. However, when you peel back his suit jacket you find no blood. He lets you look him over with frantic hands, maybe enjoying the fact that you don’t wish him dead, before pulling the still protruding knife from the breast of his jacket.

When he produces the little leather journal you’d gifted him from his inside pocket, now gravely marred with a puncture through the cover, you understand.

“Holy fuck.”

“You saved my life,” he says with an odd little smile down at you, as though all this is normal and what you just saw is totally ok.

Utterly horrified, you run.

“Y/n, wait!”

You throw yourself into the dark winding streets, taking any turn you can, trying to stay out of sight. Your feet fly beneath you; even in your shitty strappy sandals, it’s the fastest you’ve ever run.

It’s not fast enough.

When strong arms close around you, lifting you from the ground, you try to scream. A big hand clamps over your mouth, and you find yourself pressed hard into a stone wall. “Please, calm down,” he pants in your ear, out of breath from killing four people then running you down.

Your answer of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” is nothing but muffled syllables.

“Goddammit,” he sighs behind you, rifling in his pocket for something as he pins you with his body. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Your pitiful plea of “Let me go,” is cut off by an evil-smelling cloth shoved into your nose.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #bittersweet john wick imagine #yandere john wick #john wick fic #congrats you fought john wick and lived!#i love you allllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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zorosdimples · 9 months

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HYPERFIXATION

pairing ༄ yandere!naruto x f!reader

warnings ༄ minors: please do not interact! i will block you. non-consensual voyeurism, masturbation, stalking, religious imagery, a bit of blood, and generally toxic behavior. reader wears a dress and some lacy underwear and has a vagina, but is only referred to as “you.” this gets icky, so please heed these warnings before reading.

word count ༄ 1311

notes ༄ this work is for the lovely @tired-biscuit! manda didn’t ask for this, but she is the reason why dark naru has infected my brain, so she must accept this creepy lil fic as a token of my gratitude <3 it was fun to write the sunshine boy as…well…a freak. please keep in mind that our narrator is unreliable and filters reality through naruto’s skewed worldview. anyway, please enjoy!

his eyes are an unfathomable ocean of blue, wide and limitless as the horizon. his gaze holds a palpable warmth, as if dipped in golden sunlight, glowing with inhuman kindness and charisma.

only a god, or perhaps a fellow monster, could see past the carefully constructed façade of his eyes. the veil of sincerity is mere gossamer, but appears too natural to be false. it’s intended to attract and allure—the ruse of a predator so beautiful his prey doesn’t perceive danger until after poison is thrumming through their bloodstream.

you are just a human. perhaps your mediocrity is what initially drew those moonless eyes. why else would they turn to you? it’s a secret he will never divulge to another soul; not until you are wholly his, anyway.

he will forever remember the first time he stumbled upon you at the market on a sun-drenched saturday. he was out of eggs and on a quick mission to grab a dozen so he could cook and eat breakfast. there weren’t many people out since it was early, dewdrops clinging to shaded blades of grass and shivering leaves, so he easily traversed the market without much of the idle chit chat that comes with being a public figure.

but there you were: sorting through oranges as vibrant as his jacket. the breeze rustled your hair into what looked like a luminous halo in the morning light. his quick pace came to a lurching halt when he saw you, lithe body slightly swaying as his feet rooted in place.

he was fixated on your handling and inspection of the citrus, fingertips delicately dancing along the skin of each fruit. you plucked up one orange at a time, rolling it in your hands to test the firmness, holding it close to your thoughtful face to check for spots, then placing it in your produce bag. you were too immersed in your methodical fruit selection to notice that the hokage was only a few feet from you, slack-jawed in wonder.

from a single glance he could tell you were a civilian. your movements were too fluid, too carefree; you had none of the mechanical sharpness that marked a shinobi. and if you were a shinobi he would have recognized you instantly. he has met every ninja in the village at least a handful of times.

no, you were a rare breed in konoha: one of the ungifted few.

his mind grew dizzy with questions: was anyone in your family a shinobi? were your parents disappointed that you couldn’t use ninjutsu? were you bullied growing up by more talented and popular peers? he certainly understood the pain of an isolated upbringing.

he thought of your plainness, your innocence, your naïveté to the horrors of his world—to the horrors his bloodstained palms have wrought and rent. in a village of expert spies and killers, you were a lone lamb ripe for the picking. it was painfully apparent that you needed protection. who better than the hokage to be your protector?

his dick twitched at the thought.

he followed you home for the first time that day, his empty stomach a forgotten memory. his deep eyes consumed you: the sway of your hips as you strolled down the sidewalk, the hem of your sundress swishing around your plush thighs, the swing of the produce bag draped over your shoulder. he hungrily watched you bend over to marvel at blooms along your route, peek into colorful shop windows, and kneel down to pet a friendly calico cat.

bitter jealousy seized his gut when you waved at a neighbor, offering a bright “hello!” and flashing the man a disarming smile. his jaw ticked and nostrils flared. the caged beast within him growled in disgust at the man’s audacity to leer at you as you bounded up the steps of your apartment building.

he had to shield you from those who would take advantage of your vulnerability.

༄

moonbeams peak through the gaps in your cheap blinds at this hour, illuminating your slumbering form, limbs curled up beneath a mass of soft bedsheets and cozy blankets. the whir of the fan reverberates through your cold bedroom and masks any noise that the stranger in your apartment might make.

naruto has watched you for days, for weeks, for months. in truth, time has been a blur of your tender laugh and saccharine gaze and supple flesh. since he fell for you, his love has been a hazy dream he can’t seem to wake from. all he can think of is you.

this is the first time he has been brazen enough to visit your apartment while you’re home. his heart was aching for an unobstructed view of you; tracking your figure through windows and computer screens doesn’t do your beauty justice, he determines as he looks down at your angelic face. the rush he feels being so close to you is pure ecstasy. he devours the sight of your sleeping silhouette. he knows that you’re nude under the sheets—he knows everything about you, after all.

he knows that you’re on your period, and that your cycle makes you especially needy. he knows that you masturbated this evening right after your hot shower. he knows that you wore a slinky pair of blue panties while you were getting in the mood. he knows that you didn’t touch yourself until your arousal soaked through the gusset and dripped down into the swell of your ass, proceeding to tease your clothed clit until it throbbed. he knows that you peeled off the soiled lace, lazily tossing the garment on the floor before you spread your puffy lips and fucked yourself with three fingers, rubbing tight circles on your clit until you cried out as you climaxed.

he wishes he could trace the curves of your soft skin, your heavenly body untainted by war and violence unlike his own. to see your eyes flutter open as he worships you with gentle kisses and prayerful praises. to adore your most sacred parts as your sole disciple. to bring you divine pleasure with his cursed lips, tongue, hands, and cock.

he picks your underwear up from where you carelessly dropped it. his calloused forefinger and thumb rub the delicate lace—the same color as his lustful irises—with reverence. he unfurls the fabric, the pearly moonlight highlighting an intimate gift: streaks of your essence and dribbled blood staining the gusset. he buries his nose in the garment, inhaling your musky scent with a shudder. he’s addicted.

he’s painfully hard as his tongue darts out to graze the remnants of your desire and ichor, tentative licks yielding to ravenous laps as he decides there is no sweeter taste. he has to stifle a whimper as he fishes his aching cock out of his wet trousers and smears a mess of precum down his shaft. he pumps his length to the sight of your dreamy face and the overwhelming smell and taste of your arousal, panties flat against his tongue. he should be worried about the schlick schlick schlick of his jerking cock rousing you from slumber, but all he can focus on is quelling the animal urge to blow his load all over your face, to officially mark you as his.

it doesn’t take him long to cum. he rips your underwear out of his mouth and shoots creamy white ropes all over the fabric with a rumbling groan, his fluids mixing with your own. naruto shoves the sodden garment into his pocket and takes a final look at you before disappearing into the velvet night.

the next day you search high and low for your missing pair of underwear; it seems to have vanished into thin air. your confusion only mounts when you find it a few days later, freshly laundered and neatly folded in the top drawer of your dresser.

#i’m dropping this here & running for the hills #goodnight!!!#naruto #naruto shippuden #uzumaki naruto #naruto uzumaki #naruto smut #yandere naruto #naruto x reader #naruto uzumaki smut #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #yandere #tw yandere #tw dark content #yandere x reader #dark naruto #༄ kae writes

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mandowifey · 10 months

Text

Porogue.

Father Paul/John Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, P in V sex, unprotected sex, dry humping, mutual masturbation, lots of priest play, biting, pining, dom!Paul, semi established relationship, cum play, mentions of cervix, mentions of bite wounds.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

It's a storm to end all storms.

That was what Beverly Keane proclaimed at yesterday's service. The woman had a penchant for dramatics and often spoke with puritanical judgment. Folks were accustomed to the devout woman's manic ramblings, which meant she was never taken literally. However, when the Coast Guard reached out to warn the town to evacuate not but four hours before the storm was due to impact, Bev Keane stood, smug and proud.

"I had warned you, all of you."

Towns folk rushed towards the docks with their families, arms full of the few precious belongings they had. Sturge was helping them up the ramp and into the ferry, trying to explain that there was no need to panic. Dark waves sloshed and rolled under the boats. People were gasping and crying out below the blackening sky. Hysteria at its finest.

"You lot wrought this upon yourselves," sighed Keane, who stood on the dock, hands linked together. "Those of us who remained loyal to our faith, who filled the church every day and lived our lives devout and holy have no reason to fear. The Lord recognizes his own and will shephard us unto his raft to guide us through the storm."

Over half the population fled Crockett that dreary afternoon. Those who remained boarded their windows and hunkered down to ride it out. While the last ferry departed, Bev Keane smiled and turned to head back up the trail. Confident in the hopes that God would sort things out in the end.

° ☆ ° ☆ °

Candles warmed the room around you, while flashes of lighting illuminated the windows and caught your eye. When thunder clapped and shook the wooden frame of the rectory, you would suck in a sharp gasp and tense, which drew a low chuckle from the man above you. Rain impacts noisily against the glass windows, causing a steady hum.

"Relax."

A hand closes under your jaw and tips your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. Lips press against your skin, making you rumble and start to smile. "You are so strange," the words leave your mouth in a breathless sigh. "How can you not be at least a little afraid?"

He chuckles again, and you feel teeth graze your flesh. "I have much more important things on my mind." There was a pull to his words that brought moisture between your legs. Heat consumed you, twisting through your limbs and fogging your thoughts.

"Looks like you do too." His palm cups your mound. Embarrassment overtakes you as you realize you had soaked through your underwear. "Messy little lamb." Lips slotting together, the man kisses you with intensity. He parts your mouth with his own and scoops his tongue between your teeth. You can feel the way his nose pushes to your cheek and taste the remnants of the tea he had earlier.

Words fail you as you cave below him. The bed moves under you as he shifts your bodies and lays himself between your legs. Another flash of lightning, another gasp, this time it's for him. He presses the aching bulge against your core and leans his weight into you. You feel so small with his body caging yours, and the contact makes you simper.

"O-oh, P-paul,"

"I'm sorry?"

Paul's voice was lile velvet in your ears. Candlelight flickers in those obsidian eyes of his, and you watch his angular brows start to vex. Heat burned in your stomach, and you paw at the blankets beneath you.

"F-father, p-please."

A smile breaks the tension, and he drops his head down to gently kiss the middle of your forehead. He rumbles his praise against your skin, balancing himself on his knees and one hand while the other pulls your leg around his hip. You tilt and groan unabashedly as Paul starts to grind into you. The friction of his clothed cock pressing and sliding over your crease had your clit engoring with blood.

Head tilting back, your mouth hangs open as soft groans waft out. Paul was watching you, admiring every line in your face as he began bucking into you. Your body bounces, your cries coming out louder as he thrusts as though he were fucking you. The impact had you soaking more than before, leaking a spot on the blankets.

"U-uhn, hnn, p-please-" You felt frantic, desperately craving the Priest to bury inside and claim you as his. To carve through your insides and nestle himself in the furthest reaches of your cunt. The ache within your body called to him, your scent nearly driving the starving man mad.

"Patience is a virtue." Paul sat back against his legs before placing both large hands on your hips. Fingers gripped bruisingly tight as he hoisted you upwards against him, locking your pelvis to his so he could continue rutting. The man sighed, his eyes closing as he grunted and panted softly. Both of you mutually wind your bodies together in a frenetic desire.

Panting fills the empty space, and you're using the massive bulge between his legs to chase your release. Paul used you, too. His hands greedily squeezed and pulled you while his hips bucked to yours. "T-that's it." He gasps, his large thumbs pressing down into the front of your pelvis, causing a pleasant pressure inside of you that made you mewl.

Ravenous, the holy man watches as you fall apart. Chest heaving, skin flushed, and nipples showing through your tank top. "Look at you, little lamb," His voice purrs. "So beautiful, a spectacle to watch unfurl." Rolling his hips forward, Paul grinds his cock into your core and makes you whine. You are gradually rising now, the friction pushing you higher and higher. Smiling, he smoothed one large palm over your stomach as he moved it onto your breast. "Let me hear you." He pinches your pert nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing you to arch and cry.

"That's it, good girl."

Your face burns. Sweat builds in a thin layer on your skin as the sensation of bursting swells inside of you. Paul lifts off his legs to get a better angle and alternates slow grinds with firm, steady rocks of his hips. Each impact jostles your smaller frame, bouncing you under him and pushing cry after cry from your parted lips. "I-im g-gonna-" It was hurtling towards you full speed. You knew there was no use in trying to fight it. You could feel the burn of his eyes on your face, watching you as you fell apart.

"It's alright, my angel, let me see you."

Paul leaned over you, bucking himself against you just right. Your clit throbs, slick soaking through your panties and onto him as you gasp and jerk. Fireworks spark in your belly as the rush hits you. Your cunt clenches sporadically, your body shaking as you cum. Reaching your hands up, you curl your fingers into his arms, thighs shaking as he continues to grind against you. Paul coos, mesmerized by your face. When you rest back and relax, he leans and opens his pants to spring himself out.

With your head still spinning, you hardly notice him fist his cock. Eyes transfixed on your soaked underwear, the Monsignor inches closer and strokes himself against you. "S-such a messy lamb," his voice shudders with pleasure as his palm slicks across his length. "S-so beautiful." He sounds like he may cry, his dark eyes heavy with lids and lips parted. You look up at him, feeling your heart race at the sight. "P-please father, I need you to cum." Paul jerks, startled by your words and breath stopping in his throat.

That undid him. He bucked against his fist while you pulled your panties to the side. Whimpering and looking down, he groans as he cums. Hot, thick ropes spraying across your folds and fingers. You feel the heat as he drips inside your crease. "O-oh." He bucks one last time, a final spurt landing on your clit and dribbling downwards. Paul looks disheveled, breathless, as he settles down from his own high.

You were ready to speak when he dropped over you, impacting your lips with his own. Paul slips his large hand between your legs, using his nimble fingers to collect his cum and push it into you. You gasp, groaning into his starving mouth as he sinks inside your cunt to the knuckle. "Mh, p-paul-" He kisses your words and swallows them whole, adding a second digit which causes you to shriek into him. He pumps them inside of you, trying as hard as he can to reach your end with his seed.

Mouths and tongues lashing together, Paul slows his fingers right as you begin to buck against him. "So needy tonight," remarked the holy man as he licked over your kiss swollen lips. "I suppose you have been good enough to earn a little more. What do you say, my lamb?" His fingers curled inside of you, applying pressure to your gspot and bladder. Sparks flash behind your eyes, and your back lifts off the blankets. "Y-yes, p-please father Hill." You gasp, struggling to bring your eyes to his. The man flashes his teeth, and his eyes crinkle along the edges. His digits squelch inside of you as he begins to pump them faster.

"Since you asked so nicely." Paul nods, drawing his fingers out while you whine.

The loss of him makes your cuntache. Feeling no need to rush, Paul takes his time removing your sodden underwear and his pants. Carefully, he lays beside you and shifts you on your side, facing away from him. As he closes the distance between your bodies, you feel the cold press of his skin behind you. Paul lifts your leg and kisses behind your ear. "Keep this up for me, please." The delicate tone in his voice makes you throb, and you obey.

You feel the familiar prod of his cock and angle your hips back to make it easier for him. Paul guides his tip to your sopping opening and grunts with you as he presses inside. With a sudden snap of his hips, he submerges inside your heat and bottoms out. The stretch is immense, and you can already feel the tip nudging at your end. "G-god!" Your lip quivers and leg shakes, the muscle burning now.

As if he knew, Paul curls his frigid hand under your knee and holds your leg. Lips kiss at your shoulder as he starts liesurely rocking inside of you. The drag burning your cunt and making you whine. Eagerly, you shove yourself back against him, nearly sobbing each time he pushes fully inside and reaches your furthest depths. You're keening, whining, noisily falling apart for him as he rocks. Paul smiles against your skin, peppering you in soft kisses as he takes his time.

Thunder rattles the wooden frame of the rectory, but you hardly notice. Paul drives himself inside you faster now, spearing every inch of his aching cock deep inside your heat. More sparks are flying now, he's brushing everything right within you. You can hear him grunting and gasping behind you, his breath fanning your skin as he bucks his hips. His fingers dig into your skin as he plaps noisily against your ass. Paul grunts, his movements stuttering and becoming uneven.

It spurs something in you, and you fuck yourself back against him. "P-please, please!" You cry as he desperately stuffs himself inside you. Paul bites your shoulder, muffling his groan as he sinks to the hilt. You flutter around him, your abrupt orgasm taking you by surprise as you clench on his throbbing cock. Groaning louder, he bruises your skin as he empties directly against your cervix, the hot flood of his cum making you whimper and grind into him.

As he calms, he lowers your leg and pulls you into him further by wrapping his arms around you. Paul enjoys the rapid patter of your heartbeat, and he licks over the bitemark he left. You were melting, sinking back into him and closing your eyes as you smiled. "Thanks," you giggle, feeling him pause in licking you. "For distracting me from the storm. I think it helped quite a lot." His chest rattles with a soft chuckle. The two of you remained embraced while it continued to pour outside, safe and warm together from the storm.

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4izawas · 5 months

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On my knees 🧎🏽‍♀️Begging🤲🏻 for more shounya fics😼

ur on ur knees n so is he!! cw hybrids, gn reader w a pussy, oral, and prev est relationships <33 also set pre eri izuku n shinsou !!

“Ohhhh fuck~”

Your breathy sighs and low moans almost echo through the rooms, your toes curling as your body soaks in the feelings being wrought out of you by the feeling of Shouta’s mouth between your legs.

A desperate fiend when it came to oral, Shouta was a greedy creature. Whenever the opportunity arose for him to have a taste of what lay between your legs, he metaphorically ( and sometimes physically ) lunged for it — like today. After a long day of you being at work, he’d been impatient for you to arrive home, and he’d been very annoyed when you’d swept past him with nothing but a grunted, “C’mon.” He’d been tempted to ignore the word, to ignore you like he hadn’t in almost a year, but begrudgingly he’d followed with his thick tail swishing angrily behind him only to be surprised by the sight of you sitting on the bed with your legs spread and your cunt bare to him.

“Make me cum, kitty,” you’d said tiredly, and he’d leapt at the opportunity. He’d taken his place between your legs, his formerly pinned-back ears pushed forward and his tail moving back-and-forth behind for an entirely different reason as he’d pressed as closely to you as possible before licking a wide stripe up the length of your slit from your taint to your clit.

That had been an hour ago, and here you still were with your cat hybrid on his knees and feasting on the slit between your legs, slobbering all over your cunt as he lapped at it like a man possessed with his thick arms hooked around your thighs as you lay back with an arm cast over your eyes, your now revealed chest heaving as you felt your fourth orgasm approaching. You’d discarded your shirt a little more than half an hour ago when things started feeling far too hot, and the sight of your bare chest had spurred on new excitement from your partner.

“More,” he slurs into your dripping cunt, “More. Mine. Mine.”

“Fuuuuuck yeah, it’s yours,” you moan, your free hand burying itself in his hair as your hips start instinctively rutting up into his face. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck — c’mon, m’gonna cum-!”

Nipping and sucking and licking and biting just the way he knows you like, Shouta moans into your sensitive pussy as a new small gush of wetness fills his mouth as you creep closer to the edge.

Mine, he thinks greedily, his pupils blown and eyes darker than usual as he attempts to bury himself in the taste of you, Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.

His ears flick ever so slightly as the pitch of your gasps and moans shift above him, and he makes sure to keep at the pace and pressure that had gotten you here as they slowly reach a peak amd you start calling out for him, sitting up a little and clutching his face to your slick cunt. He doesn’t mind at all, more than pleased by the fact that his face is so buried in it that all he can taste and smell is you. It’s like a dream come true — his dream, anyway.

“Cumming, cumming, cumming — oh God, Sho’, please!” you wail, your entire body trembling with small convulsions as you cum again. He smiles into you, absolutely desperate for what was once again gushing from your hole and into his waiting mouth. He doesn’t stop tasting you, almost a mindless drone as the motions overtake his mind and he melts into them, and it’s only when you try to push him away while speaking that he wakes up from it.

“Shouta, I need to order dinner for us,” you finally say weakly, and he whines a little and shakes his head ‘no’.

“Wanna — Wanna be good,” he grunts into your hole, lapping at it slowly and relishing the way your thighs twitch around his head. “More. Want more. I can be good-!”

“Let me order dinner then,” you retort, unable to hide the way your thighs jump from oversensitivity as he keeps curling his rough tongue around your engorged clit, and he shakes his head in denial again.

“I have dinner,” he replies snarkily, “Right here in front of me,” before attempting to dive back into you.

You laugh softly, placing your toes and the ball of your foot against his bare chest and pushing him away just enough that he sits back on his feet. “Down boy,” you murmur, and he whines lightly. You just ignore it, sitting up and reaching for your cell-phone then tapping in your passcode as he huffs at you.

“I think American food sounds nice tonight,” you hum to yourself, and Shouta feels his mouth begin to water. You glance up at him, a playful glint in your eye that he doesn’t understand for a moment, then say, “Oh, you don’t want anything, right?”

“Huh?!”

“I mean, since you have dinner here and all,” you tease, and he groans out a growl that has you laughing. “Okay, okay — I know the drill, no getting between you and food.”

#shou_nya.♡#shouta aizawa x reader #tw hybrids #aizawa shouta x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Drawn Together 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

I saw this and had to

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You are not a rebel. You are clean cut. You live within very precise boundaries. Minimizing every part of yourself to evade notice. Rules are not meant to be broken, despite that old cliche.

That is until that day. It's foolish, you know it. That voice in the back of your head repeats your foreboding. You know you can't go back. There isn't a magic eraser for this one.

Shut up.

You're over it. Over yourself. Over your boring life. You've never done one fun thing for just yourself. It's always been what has to be done. What must be done. You're thirty years old and you don't even know if you understand the concept of 'fun'.

You sit on the leather bench. Nervous and shaky as hell. There's still time to change your mind. You can take your deposit and go, with clean untainted skin.

No! You're not going to chicken out this time. You want one memory that doesn't end in you tucking tail and running.

"Do you like the sketch?" Sam, your assigned artist asks.

You glance over at him as he pulls on a pair of black gloves, his gun laid out and sterilised. You peek at the open sketchbook, the drawing of a simple red poppy outlined in black with a thick spiraled green stem. Nothing too big or extravagant, easy to hide. If your mother or father ever saw that, you would be excommunicated.

"I love it," your voice quavers and you clear your throat, "I'm sorry, I'm just a little anxious."

"That's fine. First time, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I don't even have piercings," you give a brittle chuckle, "I'm not really the adventurous type."

"I'm sure you are in your own way," he grins, a look that calms you. "So, we still set on ankle?"

"Um, yeah, I think that's good."

"As good a starting place as any. Glad I talked you off the ribs. Those are tender."

"Just an idea," you breathe, "I don't know much about these things."

"Not to worry, you're in good hands," he winks, "you can just relax," he rolls his stool to the foot of the bench, "and pop your leg up here."

"Right," you gulp down another chest full of air and follow his direction, "that's it?"

"And keep still. Tell me if you need a break. The pains a bit much at times so don't be afraid to speak up."

"Okay, sounds good," you try to settle in but your blood feels thick and your vision speckles with silver. Oh god, you're really going to do this.

"Don't hold your breath," he says, "really, I don't like my canvases passing out."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, you want something to drink before we start?"

"No, I'm good."

"Awesome," he says and grabs his gun, double checking the tip before moving back to your ankle. "Alright, I'll count down so you're not too surprised."

"Thanks," you fold your hands over your stomach as he positions your leg and bends forward.

He counts from three and you focus on not moving at the first stab of pain. Don't be a weak bitch. You grit your teeth and let out your breath as the gun buzzes loudly. The pain keeps a steady sear in your skin but you slowly get used to the sensation.

As he works, your eyes wander along the dark red walls and the artwork hanging all around. Tattoos in colour and black and white. The schematics of a tattoo gun. A falcon crest wrought in brass.

You hear the door open and the smoky voice of the other artist, Nat greets the newcomer you can't see past the pillar. The response is a deep, rocky timbre. You can only imagine the inked up brute behind it.

"Always with the notes," you hear a paper crinkle, "I'm the artist here, Rogers."

"Hey, I'm an artist too," the man counters lightly.

You peek over as the redhead woman appears on the other side of the pillar and guides her client through to her open workspace. An open curtain drapes against the wall at the other end of the shop. She sets down the page and tuts as she looks it over.

The man slides off a pair of dark sunglasses, black lenses with golden frames. He slips them into the pocket of his denim jacket and tugs at the sleeves. Their actions seem to be routine and you can see why. His arms are covered from wrist to shoulder in ink, a few smaller tattoos on his knuckles. Now you really feel out of place.

"Sam, what's up?" The other client calls over as he hangs the denim on the coat rack.

"What's it look like, Steve?" Sam says, his eyes not leaving your ankle.

You take in the interaction silently. You're a stranger among the usuals. The poser getting their taste of artificial danger. Your ankle tweaks and you smother a grunt between your teeth. The noise catches the blue eyes of the man, Steve.

You quickly avert your eyes back to Sam and knot your fingers together. Steve's shadow moves away. The artist at your bench hardly seems bothered but gives a shake of his head.

"You want the curtain?" Natasha asks as she approaches the black drapes.

"Nah, you know I don't care."

Your eyes flick up as the man peels off his tank top. Wow. You blink rapidly and make yourself act normal.

He lowers himself onto the leather seat as Natasha takes out her tools and starts sterilising. You once more force your attention back to Sam's careful work. It's going to take a while.

"You good?" He asks as he glances over, lifting the gun from your skin.

"Great," you murmur in an airy voice.

"Still nervous?"

"No, actually, kinda excited," you try not to speak too loud, overly mindful of the other client in the shop.

"Good," he hunches again and you suck in as he put the needle back to your skin. "So, what do you do? When you're not getting sick tats, that is?"

"Um, I, er, I teach. Music lessons."

"Music, huh? You seem like… the drummer type."

"Piano," you correct him, "I can carry a beat–" you pause to check the pain in your voice, "but I mostly teach piano."

"Classy," he remarks, "so, a poppy, any particular meaning to that?"

"Er, no, uh," you rub your neck nervously but make yourself quit moving, "it's my favourite flower."

"Pretty sombre fave but I get it," he remarks.

"Yeah, I guess…"

Your attention is drawn at the soft slap of skin and the rattle of metal. You look up as Steve retracts his hand and Natasha points at him with a sharp nail, "this is a sterile workspace."

He chuckles at her irritation and shows his palms before he sits back. He rolls his shoulders as he leans casually and twiddle his fingers against his jeans. Once more, your eyes meet and his mouth slants slightly. You gulp and look down again.

"So, any ideas for a second piece?" Sam asks.

"I think I'm gonna stick with one."

"Not gonna get a full bouquet?" He wonders.

"Not yet."

"Better get cozy, Rogers," Natasha says.

You look up as she sprays shaving foam onto his chest.

"You know this is my second home," he teases as he relaxes and she spreads the cream.

"Don't remind me," she grumbles as she takes a razor.

You tear away from your distraction once more. Gosh, it is painful. You don't know how people end up like him. Your tiny little flower will be more than enough for you.

You close your eyes and groan. Sam rests his hand on your calf. He squeezes as he pauses again.

"Need a break."

"No, keep going," you puff out.

You grip the side of the leather bench and bite down. You've always been a big baby. You bat away the gloss of tears threatening to confirm that and take another breath.

The subtle creak of leather pulls your gaze back across the room. Steve leans slightly around to see you past Nat as she shaves one side of his chest. You grimace and hide beneath your lashes.

Why is he looking at you like that? It must be amusing, someone like you in a place like that. Now you know this is definitely a mistake.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #drabble series #mcu #marvel #captain america #sam wilson #natasha romanov #au #tattoo au

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yourheartonfire · 9 months

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The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist's side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They'd have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don't catch anyone's...

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

"Hello, little sacrifice," she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist's head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

"Are you serious?" she sneered.

The god of the protagonist's childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

"Spare this one," the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. "Please. This one is mine."

The god of war laughed. "You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I'll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics."

"Oh, I'm no god of anything so prevalent," the protagonist's god murmured humbly. "And I'm not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we're here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you."

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

"A song!" they blurted. "A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and... and honor your name."

The god of war... paused. Tilted their head.

"A fitting tribute to your potency," their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. "From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead."

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. "Fine. But I expect my song. I'll hold you responsible, godling. I don't forget!"

She was gone and the god of the protagonist's childhood turned to look down at them. "Well," he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. "I hope you can actually write music."

"Seems like a priority to learn," the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.

#my fiction #fantasci tumblr #you just turned a perfectly good soldier into a bard #no proofreading we die like men #gods #dnd ocs #fantasy #fantasci #100

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outtoshatter · 3 months

Text

Author spotlight of the week: @aurevell! They have heaps of fics to choose from!

Under 10k:

Returning the Favor | T | 5k tags: established relationship, same age Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski, fluff, Stiles doesn't know about werewolves Summary: Stiles pays a nighttime visit to his boyfriend in secret, or so he thinks. Unfortunately, the Hale family has keener ears than he realizes.

When Derek peers down into the dark, he finds the worst thing imaginable: his boyfriend, scaling the side of the house like some deranged cat burglar. "What are you doing here?" Derek hisses.

Burial Rituals | G | 4k tags: necromancer Stiles, cursed Derek, meet-cute Summary: The necromancer freezes halfway over the fence, stuttering to a halt the second Derek flashes his red eyes. It’s an awkward pose to hold: leg hiked up over the waist-high bars, hands gripping the rail for balance. The fence’s wrought-iron spears dig into his calf a bit as he settles, clearly caught off guard.

“Uh,” he says lamely, his face pale in the scant moonlight. “Shit.”

Derek guards an abandoned cemetery. Stiles is the necromancer trying to break in.

Sugar in my Coffee | G | 3k tags: no werewolves, established relationship, domestic fluff Summary: Derek’s not a morning person. Stiles would live on sugar if he could.

Lessons in Catiquette | T | 3k tags: creature Stiles, slice of life, pack bonding Summary: The pack’s resident werecat is kind of a mystery to Derek. Luckily, Stiles offers one-on-one tutoring.

It May Simply Lie in Wait | G | 5k tags: getting together, declarations of love, magical Stiles Summary: “This place is haunted as hell,” one boy says under his breath.

The house remembers itself, letting out a subtle upstairs creak to let them know what they’re in for. They enter anyway, inspecting its shamefully crumbled furnishings, running fingers over its tattered walls, crouching to peer at the ceiling tiles fallen on its floor, and the house—

The house does not chase them away.

Years after the fire, Derek and Stiles return to the Hale House. It isn’t sure how it feels about this.

Stories Over 10k:

The Only Thing Left | T | 13k tags: angst, no werewolves, creature Derek Summary: “You don’t need air,” Stiles echoes. “You swim. That doesn’t tell me much. What are you?”

Derek stares. He slowly lifts his shoulders and drops them back into the water.

Or, Stiles meets a stranger at the spring outside of town.

Where we Both Could Live | M | 16k tags: shy Derek, meet cute, friends to lovers Summary: Derek’s having a hard time falling asleep in his noisy new apartment.

His next-door neighbor, who always seems to be talking or singing, is surprisingly helpful with that problem.

The Third Sacrifice | T | 21k tags: magical Stiles, dark fairy tale elements, human sacrifice Summary: Stiles can see the writing on the wall. Everyone knows the Stilinskis are cursed, or magic, or both. He knows he’ll be picked as the third sacrifice—the one that dies for the sake of the harvest. But he doesn’t intend to let some ancient god rip his heart out, not if magic can help it.

If only Derek, his estranged best friend, would stop hounding him about his plans to escape.

A Badge for Everything | T | 11k tags: good alpha Derek, BAMF Stiles, boy scout Stiles, getting together Summary: Stiles Stilinski is the only loser left in a pack full of wolves who’d do anything to leave their loser days behind.

(Everything’s the same, but Stiles is a boy scout. That’s it. That’s the story.)

The Beginner's Guide to Everyday Magic | T | 29k | 8 chapters tags: magical Stiles, Stiles is pushed out of the pack, fluff, angst, Studio Ghibli vibes Summary: When the latest threat sweeps into Beacon Hills, Derek decides that the very-much-human Stiles needs to be severed from the pack for his own safety. But when the ritual goes unexpectedly wrong, Stiles finds himself alone—and unable to reach out for help when he needs it most.

Cue a retreat to his mom’s old house, where he finds that magic is more real than he ever could have imagined.

Go check out aurevell's AO3 page, and don't forget to mind the tags, leave a kudos and maybe even a comment!

#sterek #sterek fandom #teen wolf #derek hale #stiles stilinski #author spotlight #aurevell #spotlight saturday

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undertheorangetree · 8 months

Text

Under the God's Eye

Chapter Five- The Dinner

Summary- A family dinner results in an unexpected rendezvous.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Titty sucking. Handjob. Vaginal fingering. Cunnilingus. Smut. Alcohol consumption. Allusions to drug abuse. Severe daddy issues. My bitter and intense hatred for Viserys Targaryen coming through in my writing. Discussions of bad childhood/neglectful parenting.

Author's Note- okay I’m done teasing now. Shout out to modern AUs for letting me use modern terms in smut without it sounding weird to me. Find the rest of this filth on AO3 link below!

Series masterlist

divider by firefly-graphics

She watches mildly distraught as Alicent flutters around the kitchen, murmuring to herself as she sets pots and pans on the stovetop, pulling out an absurd amounts of ingredients from the fridge.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" she asks for what she thinks is the fourth time, hand fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

Alicent looks up at her, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face with a tired smile. "I'm sure, sweetheart. Don't worry, Rhaenyra should be here within the hour to help me. You're on vacation, go and do something fun. I can handle it."

"I don't mind helping, really. Even if it's only until Rhaenyra gets here."

That earns her nothing but another thankful smile and a shake of her head before Alicent is ignoring her completely, mumbling about where she has left her biggest bowl. A part of her is worried that she's annoying Alicent but she still can't stop herself from asking. She looks frazzled, so much so that it is clear that she is not used to working in the kitchen like this. With her hair tangled in a messy red bun on the top of her head, she has a hard time imagining the Targaryen-Hightower household as a place known for nuclear family dinners. Not with the way Alicent seems absolutely wrought with anxiety.

"Oh, my love," Alicent calls out suddenly and she turns to find Helaena pausing on her way to the stairwell, an expensive looking Russian Blue cradled in her arms. Dreamfyre, she had learned the cat's name was, though she has only ever seen her in pictures on Helaena's phone. She is a reclusive little thing, spending most of her days basking in the sunlight in quieter rooms. Alicent waves Helaena over before jerking her head in her direction. "Take our dear friend here and tell her to enjoy being a guest. She's trying to be too helpful for a holiday."

Helaena huffs a laugh, adjusting her grip on her cat before holding her hand out to her, fingers grabbing at air like a child. "Come on then."

She's pulled out of the kitchen unceremoniously, obediently following behind Helaena, though she can't help but look back at Alicent once more, still feeling guilty.

"I don't know why she doesn't just bring some of the staff with her," Helaena laments as they begin climbing the stairs, still hand in hand. "She insists that she doesn't need them on holiday, but then she plans some big dinner like this and all it does is stress her out."

Out of all of Alicent's children, Helaena is the one she can most see herself befriending. The sweetest, the most down to earth, less obvious when it comes to her family's massive wealth. But it is moments like this where the blatant difference between them is abundantly clear. Her home had never had so much as a maid, much less a whole host of staff. She can do nothing but nod dumbly, agreeing with her as they make their way to the second floor.

"You lost this," Helaena says as she opens Aemond's door, smiling at them both and looking incredibly pleased with her own joke.

"You're so funny," Aemond says, voice completely deadpan, not so much as looking up from the book he has open on his desk. She doesn't have to look at the cover to know it's a textbook as her own copy is still sitting on her bedside table in her apartment.

She grins. "I know."

Helaena leaves and she has no choice but to make herself comfortable on their now shared bed, propping the pillows up against the headboard and sitting back against them. Aemond continues reading and she takes the opportunity to really look at him, uninterrupted by his own piercing gaze. The long sharp planes of his face, the strong jut of his nose, the line of his cheekbones. The ever present tilt of his lips, as if there is some secret or joke he’s struggling to hide. Even from here, she can see the way his eyelashes curl against his eyelids, the light blonde of them near translucent. His hair is the same almost silver blond and, fleetingly, she wonders how much effort he truly puts into it. She has heard the sound of the hairdryer when he locks himself in the bathroom but has never seen any of the products he may or may not be using. Nor has she ever been permitted to enter, the door locked tight since their post shower run in.

But it's his eye that truly catches her attention. She's sat on his sighted side and she can see the brilliant blue of his real eye even from there, admiring the way it catches the afternoon light. Only the dilation of his pupil sets it apart from the prosthetic and she realizes now how pretty they are when he’s not glaring at her or attempting to stare her into submission.

She nearly jumps when he speaks, pulling her harshly out of her thoughts. "You'll meet my father tonight. And Daemon."

Read the rest here

Taglist- @backyardfolklore @docmartinis @watercolorskyy @barbieaemond @bellaisasleep @yentroucnagol @aemondsbabygirl @randomdragonfires @at-a-rax-ia @violetletovi @launotfound @helaenaluvr @solisarium

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #aemond smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut

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cafeacademia · 2 years

Text

𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭

𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥!𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐍𝐈

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After you become lost while seeking help against an arranged marriage, you stumble across the Temple of The Devil in the middle of a storm. Matt agrees to help you, but help comes with a cost...

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: PWP DARK FIC NSFW 18+ ONLY, multiple orgasms, oversensitivity, kind of dubcon? But Reader is very much a consenting adult, religious setting and themes but no use of actual religion, oral fem!rec (you should not be surprised), fingering, a bit of edging implied, innocence kink (reader is innocent and a good girl thank you very much), mild corruption kink, a little bit of coercion, deal making, mentions of abusive mother and a plan for arranged marriage (but not really explored, just mentioned).

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.1k

𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Hi! This is my first released fic with dark themes. Honestly, I've been wanting to write something like this for a long time, but I just didn't have the guts to post it, so here it is, in all of it's pwp glory. Tbh, this entire fic is just Matt eating pussy and them both being addicted to it. This was requested by @mattmurdocksscars but, my lovely Amanda, if you don't like it, let me know and I'll write you something else 💕

The storm overhead had come on quickly, the rain lashed down harshly against your hood and soaked through your coat. You were soaked to the bone as you ran towards the only building around, feet splashing through puddles as thunder rolled through the clouds. The trees swayed in a chorus of rustling, the dead leaves falling, heavy with rain as you passed through the wrought iron gateway into an old churchyard.

The church itself looked gothic, but you did not stop long enough to stare up at the impressive architecture and historic carvings of gargoyles and figures that represented something more sinister than what a regular place of worship held.

You almost slipped on the steps up to the old wooden doors, but you made it and with a tug and a whimper of effort, you managed to pull the door open and hurry inside.

It was quiet indoors, save from the drumming of rain against the roof. The church was dark and was only lit with candles, wax dripping onto the stone floors and yet, it did not seem that anyone had been here in a very long time.

“Hello?” You called out timidly, hands reaching up to pull your hood back as you stood in the entryway. Your voice echoed through the rafters and you waited for a response, only there was none. Taking a few steps into the church, you began to look around, realising quickly that this was not an ordinary church. This was home to not a god, nor any typical beliefs, this was home to something that you had only heard of in tales.

The Devil, clad in red, brings justice without death. He was an angel, though morally grey and you swallowed harshly as you made your way further into the church.

“What a surprise.” A voice echoed through the room and you quickly looked around for the source of it, only to see nobody but the reflection of the flickering candles in your trail of rain water across the floor. “Who’s there?” You asked, voice nervous as you froze on the spot. “Relax, sweetheart.” His tone was smooth and soft and somehow comforting as it reverberated throughout the church. And then you saw him, emerging from seemingly nothing, from the dark at the back of the room, almost as if he had risen from mist entirely.

“Oh, hello. I- is it okay that I’m here?” You asked shyly, suddenly feeling very exposed in front of this handsome man. His smile widened and you almost felt a little bit scared of him, but he seemed to have a rather calming effect on you. “Of course, there is always a place for the lost in my church.” He nodded. “Lost? I’m not- well maybe I am a bit lost.” You admitted with a sigh, cheeks heating with embarrassment as you almost squirmed on the spot. “You can stay here for the night, little one.” The man said as he began to walk towards you. “My name is Matthew, this is my church.” “Matthew,” You paused, brows knitting together in confusion. “This is your church?” You asked rather innocently and Matt wondered what he had done to deserve such a sweet, innocent little wanderer to happen upon his church.

“You were in a moment of need, my church provided.” He explained. “When someone needs help, this church will be the one to provide my services.” Matt told you. “Tell me, little one, what do you need?” “Um,” You sniffled, feeling a cold draft waft over you and a shiver crept across your skin. “I need help to get home.” You told him. “Is that all, sweet girl?” He asked. You knew he knew why you were really here. It was not just because of the storm, nor was it because you had been well and truly lost. “I don’t know what to do anymore, she won’t stop.” You whispered. “Your mother?” How did he know? “Mmhmm.” You nodded, eyes wide and scared as you hummed in response. “I can help and give you shelter, little one, but I cannot do my work unpaid.” “How much? I have some money but not much.” You said, immediately digging about in your pockets for your wallet. “No, no, you misunderstand me, little one. It’s not money I need. It’s an offering.”

Oh. How stupid you had been. But perhaps it was the best thing you had done because you simply could not imagine anything better as his fingertips trailed across your skin. Perhaps it was foolish, allowing him payment, seeking his help, but Matthew, The Devil, he was alluring in all of the right ways and you could not resist.

“Take off your wet clothes, sweet girl.” He told you. “But,” You protested, all of your clothes were wet. “I cannot help if you don’t do as I ask.” He was right. You shed your soaked coat, the jumper and shirt beneath. You stepped out of your shoes and pulled off your jeans until you were in nothing but your underwear. “What an offering.” He smiled, devilish, but somehow kind and you could not shake the hazy feeling that overcame you as he passed his thumb over your pebbled nipple, hardening with the cold chill that breezed through the church and you gasped in a soft breath.

“Is this what you want, little one? If it is not, you have free will to dress and leave my church.” Matt told you. “Once I begin, I cannot stop.” He warned. You thought about it for a moment. Would you be a fool for staying? For seeking his help? Or simply a lost girl in need of help. Or perhaps this was something more to you, because desire and a tingling you had never felt before tickled between your legs and you almost whined at the new feeling. “What do you mean, you won’t be able to stop?” You asked. “What I require, little one, is your pleasure.” His words made you feel shaky and warm and you nodded softly. “I want this, please Matthew.” The words left your lips and Matt smiled. “Good choice, sweet girl.”

His fingers were rough against your sensitive skin when he pulled your bra away from your skin and rolled your nipple between his thumb and finger. You had never done this with anyone before. You had always been such a good girl and always waited like your mother had told you to. But now she was out of control and she was forcing something you didn’t want. An arranged marriage to a crime lord and you were not meant for this, you were sure.

Good girls deserved better. Good girls deserved much more than that.

“Come to my altar.” And with his words you were led to the table, where he laid you upon a bed of hard stone, dressed in red silk sheets. “Spread your legs for me, pretty girl.” He instructed, and you rather timidly did as you were told. You were so shy under his gaze, but there was something about him that made you feel at ease. “No one has ever pleasured you before, have they?” Matt asked softly.” “No, Matthew.” You shook your head. “Mm, this is my best offering yet.” He grinned, leaning down and you squeaked out at the sensation that overtook your entire body. His tongue was long, almost snake-like as it glided over your most sensitive area, curling around your pretty little clit and lapping waves of desire over the sensitive bud.

“Oh god,” You whispered. “Use only my name in my temple, little one.” His words were soft but were spoken with a bite and you flinched when you felt his hot breath on you, trapping your little clit between his teeth and licking at your core. The whine you let out filled the temple and raised the intensity of the candles, they roared with flame as you were filled with pleasure mixed with soft pain. Matt parted your lips with his thumbs, exposing your bud to him fully and he captured it between his lips. “Matthew, oh goodness.” You were rambling, pleasuring overtaking you as he began to circle his tongue across your clit over and over again until you were a mess. Matthew loved how innocent you were. You were not like the others he’d helped with their swearing and demands and rudeness. You, on the other hand, were all his. He would feed off your pleasure again and again, he was sure it was the sweetest he’d ever tasted. He would have a hard time letting you go, perhaps he could find a way to keep you for himself, but only if he had your permission.

“Please, Matthew.” You whimpered as his fingers found your entrance, slipping between your folds as he lapped at your clit still. He worked you up as he pumped into you, curling inside until he found the exact spot that made you gasp and whine and squirm beneath him. “Oh, is that too much, sweet girl?” He asked, watching as you shook your head, eyes squeezed shut as you embraced the pleasure. “I need words, baby.” “No, Matthew, it’s perfect, please don’t stop.” The words tumbled from your lips, mumbling almost incoherently as you begged him to continue.

He fucked you with his fingers, lapping at your pretty clit until you reached your high, climax rolling through you like nothing you had ever felt before. But he couldn’t stop, not when you whined so beautifully for him and begged him to continue. “Please, oh please can I have another?” You asked so softly, so politely and he could not deny.

How was Matthew supposed to refuse such a sweet question? Especially if it fed him more.

He didn’t let up, tongue pressing against your oversensitive clit, jolts of pleasure overwhelming you as he circled your centre, stroking his fingers inside of you slower now, but enough to make you moan and whimper in pure want. “Mm, you’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” He asked, words hot against your pussy. “Come on, sweetheart, you can let go, give it to me baby.” Matt encouraged, tongue curling around your clit and lapping at you until you were shaking with pleasure, barely able to handle the intensity as he teased you closer and closer.

“Matthew, it’s too much.” You whined. “You want me to stop?” He asked, seriously, voice laced with concern. “No, please, it feels too good.” You almost cried it out and Matt smirked against your skin, focusing all of his efforts on your clit, capturing the little bud between his fingers, swollen and sensitive and so, so exposed, his long, forked tongue lapping over it, edging you closer and closer, tugging you deeper into his hold. You let out a throaty moan as you came, trembling against him as he pleasured you through it until you came down from your high.

You were almost delirious with pleasure, oversensitive and tingly, but it felt so good, especially when he stood over you with that smirk. “Please.” You whined, shuffling uncomfortably, like the only thing that would relieve you was another orgasm and Matt pressed his thumb gently against your clit, massaging it painfully slowly, watching as you squirmed in pleasure. “Are you sure you want more? You have already paid your due, sweetheart.” Matt reminded you. “Please, please I don’t want you to stop.” You whimpered.

“I’ll make you a deal, sweetheart.” Matt said, helping you to sit up, placing his blazer around your shoulders to keep you warm. “I’ll take care of that problem of yours and once I’m done, you stay here with me.” “With you, like forever?” You asked innocently. “Forever, and I’ll give you as many of those orgasms as you want.” You looked at him, eyes wide with excitement and pleasure, a desire so deep inside of you that you weren’t sure you could ever let go of what had just happened. “You’ll never have to be afraid again. I’ll keep you safe and warm and as dazed with orgasms as you want.” He whispered.

“I want that, I want to stay with you.” You nodded. “Good girl.” And he sealed your promise to him with a kiss, deep and passionate, the warm tang of yourself on his tongue. You really were lost now, but you couldn’t deny, it excited you beyond what you had ever felt.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x you #dark!matt murdock #matt murdock smut #daredevil smut #matt murdock imagine #18+ fanfic #dark fanfiction

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vemaro · 3 months

Note

How did callums and astarions first meeting go? sorry, I’m just a sucker for asty boy with kids

I saw this ask in my inbox and knew I wanted to write it out. Tho I intended to make this a little blurb instead of a long mess lol. In the end, this thing kinda got away from me

Astarion makes some assumptions and you know what they say when you assume things.

…

“Astarion? Is … that really you?”

Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have returned. Maybe he should leave. It’s been almost a year since the wedding and they last saw each other. What if she’s upset? What if she hates him for avoiding her for so long? He was avoiding her, except he doesn’t want to know he’s avoiding her.

Unfortunately for the vampire, all of his other friends have mentioned how much she asks about him. He’s been able to brush it off for months, ignore the urge to see her—and the love he still carried for her— but a foolish flame of hope has reignited in his heart. If Tav’s asking for him, perhaps he still has a chance. It’s a sign from the gods he stopped praying to centuries ago that maybe it’s still a possibility.

So here he is, on her stoop, feeling like an idiot. Too late to back out now.

He puts on a sharp toothed grin and gives her a bow. “In the flesh.”

Her eyes drink in everything, from his impeccably styled hair, to his blood red eyes, the bite marks peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and those laugh lines used to tease him about. He’s usually comfortable in the spotlight, but under her scrutiny, he’s horribly self-conscious. Tav has always been able to see right through him, whether he liked it or not. Except, of course, in the matter of the romantic feelings he harbors. He was never sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Astarion breaks the silence. “Kobold got your tongue? Or has my sheer beauty left you speechless?”

His words seem to snap the druid from her reverie then she all but jumps on him for a hug. “Where have you been? I thought you were dead!”

He relaxes into the embrace. Gods, he missed being this close to her. “Technically, Tav, I’m already dead.”

She abruptly shoves him away, anger splayed across her face. “That’s not funny. I was worried, Astarion. I sent letters and you never sent any back. I couldn’t tell if the others were telling the truth when they said they’ve seen you, or lying to make me feel better.”

If only she knew the reason behind his lack of appearance. “My deepest apologies. I was busy dealing with a horde of ravenous vampire spawn.”

That seems to mollify her. Tav plants her hands on her hips and waggles a finger at him. “I understand, but if you can’t visit, at least write.”

“Fair enough,“ he concedes. “I’ll try to find time in my schedule.”

Content that she got her point across, Tav smiles and crosses her arms. “Thank you.” Then she steps aside and cocks her head past the entryway. “Come on in. I have something important to tell you.”

The last time she had to tell him something important, she announced her upcoming nuptials. At least not much else can top the heartbreak that wrought.

Unless …

No. No, someone definitely would’ve told him if she’s … His eyes drop to her middle. Absolutely not. He refuses to believe it. Damnit, he never should’ve come to see her. He never should’ve let himself hope.

Her better half walks into the foyer. “Tav, I can’t find my—” He stops when he spots the third wheel. “Oh. We have company.”

Astarion detests the man on principle, but he is Tav’s spouse so he’ll play nice. “Pardon my intrusion, Terrick.” He holds out a hand. “Astarion Ancunin. I’m—”

“One of my wife’s former allies. Yes, I recall our introduction at the wedding.” His eyes flicker to the bite marks on Astarion’s neck. His expression eludes to nothing, whether he was aware of his vampiric condition until now or had previous knowledge. He steps closer to Tav and puts a hand on her waist. “Welcome to our home.”

He retracts the offered hand. “It’s quite lovely,” he says, voice honey drenched. “Which is surprising. During our travels, her tent was always filled with trinkets and mementos from our adventures.”

Terrick arches an eyebrow. “I’m not one for clutter.”

Astarion shrugs. “A little clutter won’t do any harm.” He makes eye contact with Tav. “Each souvenir is associated with a happy memory.” She smiles and it feels like a small victory.

Terrick changes the subject. “I can’t find my blue doublet.”

Tav snickers. “You lost it a month ago.”

He purses his lips, displeased with the answer. “Ah. That slipped my mind.” He walks past them, heading for the steps that lead to the pathway. “Then I need another made.”

“If I could make a suggestion. Figaro’s shop—”

Terrick shakes his head. “Shops in the Lower City are of poor quality.”

Tav clasps her hands behind her back. “Actually, his clothes are very high quality and he offers a hefty discount.” They did save him from a murderous dwarf.

The man’s whole body palpitates. “Do I look like I require a discount?”

“No, but—”

He cuts her off. “We’ll discuss it later.” Astarion’s hand is on the hilt of his knife. He could throw it and have it land right between the eyes in two seconds flat. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up. Goodnight.” He makes sure to lock eyes with the vampire one more time. “Astarion,” he spits.

He has to hold back a sneer. “Terrick.” And he walks off into the night. Astarion glowers as they watch him disappear around the corner. “Charming, he is.”

“I didn't marry him for his personality.” Her tone is dry and flat, almost bored. “He’s gotten a bit moodier since the wedding though. Moreso recently.”

A scary thought comes to mind. There’s no subtle way of asking, so he just asks. “He doesn’t … hurt you, does he?” He waits for the slightest confirmation of abuse. Cazador’s death will look like child’s play by comparison if he has to hunt him down.

She swats the air. “No. Terrick huffs and puffs for show. As long as he funds the repairs and my projects, it’s fine.” But then her face softens. “But thanks for the concern.”

First comes the relief, followed by annoyance. He’s relieved no harm has come to the woman he loves, annoyed he doesn’t have reason to hate the man—more reason. That’s too bad. “Now that your loving husband has left the premises, what is it that you wanted to tell me?”

Her eyes light up with manic glee. “Oh yes!” Tav leads him inside, to the closest armchair and sits him down. “Wait here.”

Without another word, she hurries off, leaving behind a curious Astarion. So … perhaps he was worried for nothing. He was jumping to conclusions, coming up with worst case scenarios. Tav’s not going to tell him she’s with child. She doesn’t love Terrick. She’s admitted that on several occasions even before the wedding.

“Close your eyes!”

He does as he’s told. “Ooh, did you slip into something more comfortable?”

She stomps a foot. “If my arms weren’t full, I’d chuck something at you. Are your eyes closed?”

Her arms are full. Does she have a present for him? “Yes, dear.”

He hears her approach. “No peeking.” He holds his hands above his head, twirls them a couple times, and covers his eyes. Not long after that, he feels her presence just ahead of him. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Open your eyes.”

When he opens his eyes, his heart shatters into a million pieces. Swathed in a bundle of blankets, is exactly as he feared; a baby. A shock of blue hair. Topaz eyes. Pointed ears. Freckles sprinkled on the apples of his cheeks and across his button nose. Pale skin, though not nearly as pale as the vampire’s.

Tav bounces and sways in place. “Astarion, I’d like you to meet my son.” The mother is sporting the biggest and brightest grin he’s ever witnessed. “Callum.”

The words echo in his mind. Meet my son. They have a son. Tav and Terrick have a child together. Those two will forever be connected through this child and there is nothing Astarion can do to sever that bond. He’s not so selfish to wish for an unhappy marriage. The innocent soul brought into this world by the woman he loves doesn’t deserve that. He deserves his real father, not a man with fantasies of coveting his mother.

What honestly hurts most is the betrayal from his friends, if he can even call them that at this point. They knew, but elected to say nothing when they fussed at him for keeping away. Worse yet, she also chose not to tell him in any of the letters she sent. He never wrote back, but he read them all.

With the betrayal comes a fierce jealousy. He envies Terrick. Not for the intimacy of creating a child, but the bond a child brings. Astarion never fathomed fatherhood, never entertained the thought, not even after taking down his former master. He’s only just attained his freedom. It’s too soon to settle down, let alone start a family, if that was even possible for a vampire spawn. Now though, seeing the joy her son brings her, he would’ve been willing to try for her. He could picture himself with a child, their child, if that is what she asked of him. What would they look like? Like he used to before transforming into a creature of the night?

The baby voice she’s using is both nauseating and adorable. “Callum, this is one of my very best friends, Astarion,” she coos. “Say hi.”

“He’s …” Terrick’s. And Tav’s. “Beautiful, Tav.”

“Isn’t he?” she gushes. “You’re the first to see him. Gale and Wyll just barely missed it, but left before he came.”

He bows his head. “An honor, truly. And I must say, you look amazing for a woman who recently gave birth.”

She jerks her head back. “I’m sorry, what?”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I mean no offense, my darling.”

Tav opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again then bursts out laughing. She speaks between peels of laughter. “There has been … a misunderstanding … a huge misunderstanding.”

He frowns. The vampire is missing something, clearly. What is he missing? Is there somehow another child? Does Callum have a twin? “What?”

She reaches over and flicks his forehead. “I didn’t have him. Callum is adopted.”

There’s a prolonged silence of Astarion gawking up at Tav. “Adopted?” he parrots.

“Yes, adopted.” She perches herself on the edge of a table in front of the armchair. “I’m sorry, I thought it was obvious.”

He slaps his hands on the wooden handles. “How was it obvious?”

“Callum looks absolutely nothing like me. Or Terrick.” She lowers her head so her hair falls in the baby’s face. “Notice the difference in hair color.”

What would it take for a giant hole to appear in the ground and swallow him up? “What was I supposed to say when you tell me he’s your son? Oh wow, he doesn’t have your hair, eyes, nose, or complexion. Neither your husband’s. Do you have a mistress?” Astarion. Astarion would like to throw his hat in the ring if the position is open.

That makes her laugh even harder. “No! Oh my gods, Astarion. You thought I hid an entire pregnancy?” He’s too embarrassed to say anything. “You know Karlach can’t keep secrets. Not when they’re not life or death. She’s the reason we found out about Lae’zel and Shadowheart.” She blushes and avert her eyes. “And me and Halsin.”

Many emotions are coursing through him and he’s not sure which to process first. Callum is Tav and Terrick’s child, but not in the same sense he assumed previously. Blood relations are irrelevant. Though. He’s still their child. It must be a druid thing. Jaheira has a house in the Lower City, though he wouldn’t call her mother of the year. Halsin has been taking in some strays as well. What does that mean for Tav? Will she and Terrick continue to adopt more children?

He allows himself a half-hearted guffaw. “I forgot you and the bear rolled around in the leaves.”

Tav shudders. “I have no desire to have a child with Terrick. Even when we—” There’s an implied sleep together Astarion would prefer not to acknowledge. It conjures some images he’d rather not think about. “I don’t want children with him.”

He could drop to his knees, throw up his arms, and shout his praises to the gods right now. “There’s no need. You have the perfect child right here.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She stands back up, beaming. “Would you like to hold him?”

He really should’ve seen this coming, but he didn’t. “Oh, uh, is it safe? Babies are fragile little things. I don’t want to, er, break him.” He sits as far back in the chair as he can, hands tucked underneath his thighs.

She slides over to one side of the chair. “Please?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

“Pretty please?” It’s difficult to turn her down while staring into those wide, trusting eyes. And then there was the baby. Eventually he gives in, holds up his hands with a deadpan expression on his face. Tav smirks. “Fix your arms.”

Ten seconds later, he’s holding an infant for the first time in two centuries of undead life. He peers down at the little boy. He’s probably wondering who the hells is this monster holding me? Astarion has no idea what to say besides an awkward, “Hello.”

One Callum’s hands break from the blankets and finds its way to lightly smack Astarion’s cheek. It doesn’t hurt really, but then he does it a couple more times. When he tries to stop the low level attack, Callum grabs one of his fingers and tugs as hard as his little body can manage.

Oh.

He’s only had Callum for ten seconds, but if anything were to happen to him, he would massacre everyone along the Sword Coast and then himself.

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 tav #tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #tav x astarion #bg3 astarion #tavstarion #dadstarion?#dadstarion #or it will be #vemaro #ask

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proxima-writes · 10 months

Text

seven - a joel miller story

pairing: post-outbreak jackson!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 5k

summary:

Joel Miller has spent twenty years pushing the grief and guilt surrounding the death of his daughter, Sarah, to the darkest recesses of his brain in favor of survival. And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why

Living a more quiet life in Jackson means the ghosts of his past have returned to haunt him. He finds his solace in you, the town librarian.

author's note:

another work for the folklore anthology! i'd really love to hear your thoughts on this one, so please drop a comment or slide into my inbox if you're so inclined.

content warnings/tags:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, ANGST, themes of grief and loss, feelings of guilt, discussions of child loss and sibling loss (unnamed brother of reader), descriptions of panic attacks, nightmares, alcohol use, unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering, pet names, a reference to the harry potter series. let me know if any are missing!

“Look at me, daddy!”

Joel watches as Sarah pumps her legs, soaring high into the cloudless blue sky. He has to shield his eyes against the painfully bright sun. He smiles as she laughs, the sound blanketing him in joy.

As she swings down back towards the ground, Joel hears a panicked shout. He turns, a man running toward him over the hill, arms waving. He can’t hear what the man is saying, he’s too far away.

A shot rings out and the man drops to the ground in a heap of limbs. Joel can see a line of soldiers, guns trained toward him.

“Sarah, we have to go!” He shouts, turning back to the swing set. The swing is empty. He searches frantically for his daughter but the little girl is nowhere to be found. “Sarah!”

He’s running, putting space between him and the soldiers. He begs and prays to a God he’s always had trouble believing in that he finds his baby.

He sees her, finally. She’s standing in the middle of a field, her back to him. It’s dark now, he’s not sure when that happened.

“Sarah! Sarah, we gotta go, come on, baby,” he shouts. She turns, slowly, her arm braced around her stomach and a horrified expression on her face. Joel drops to his knees in front of her, taking her face between his hands. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

She lowers her arm, bright red blood smeared on her tan skin and a blossoming stain on her shirt. Her voice shakes as she whispers, “Daddy?”

Joel wakes with a shout, sitting up in bed as he struggles to catch his breath. His sweat damp skin erupts with goosebumps in the cold air of his bedroom. He presses a hand to his chest, the tight grip of panic around his heart easing incrementally as he fights for breath.

The brief glimpse of darkness between the curtains covering the window tells him it’s still early and a glance at the clock on the nightstand confirms as much. He groans, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. The floor is frigid against his bare feet and he shivers with the unexpected chill.

In the kitchen, he makes himself coffee before slipping his leather jacket on and heading to the back porch. The dark sky has lightened the slightest bit, the encroaching dawn painting the inky sky a faded purple as the sun creeps up from its slumber.

From his porch, Joel can see one of the side entrances to the cemetery. He watches as a figure emerges from beyond the concrete walls and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just you again.

You, the curious woman that runs the town library. He’s seen you on other occasions like this morning, where he’s trying to shake off the remaining webs of discomfort that have been spun in his mind. You shut the wrought iron gate and like you can feel his gaze on you, your head turns, keen eyes regarding him.

You approach his house, stopping at the bottom of the porch. You stand with your hands stuffed in your coat pockets, head tilted slightly and a smile on your lips as you say, “Up a bit early, aren't you?”

Joel takes a sip of his coffee. “Could say the same about you.”

“Early bird catches the worm,” you reply, smiling at him. He swallows. You make him nervous. Despite the few interactions he’s had with you, he feels like you know him to his very marrow, and that scares a man like Joel.

“More like a night owl.”

You chuckle. “A bird is a bird. I’ll see you around, Joel Miller.”

He stares after your retreating figure for so long his coffee has gone cold. With a sigh, he returns inside, thoughts no less tangled than when he first stepped outside.

________

You survey the rose bushes you’ve cultivated, rows of different varietals beginning to blossom or in full bloom. The peony buds have gotten larger and any day now they should blossom as spring really begins to show her colors. The mornings and evenings are still cold, but the afternoons give way to hotter temperatures and thankfully you’ve been spared one last late winter snowfall.

You prune some of the faded blooms from the bushes, collecting them for composting. When you’re done, you return inside to wash up and change before heading to the library. As you scrub beneath your fingernails, your mind drifts to the specter of Jackson, Joel Miller.

There’s something about him that draws you in, despite the arms length of distance he tries to keep from everyone. You saw him the other morning after you made your way through the cemetery long before it officially opened, laying extra flowers around some of the less tended graves. It’s not the first time, and based on what you know about the older man, it won’t be the last.

________

Since Joel isn’t scheduled for a patrol for a few days, he decides to visit the library. Too much idleness is dangerous for a man like Joel, who is in constant search of something to keep his mind and body occupied so that his thoughts don’t drift to darker places.

You’re sitting at the circulation desk when he enters, bent over a book as you read off the log number on it and write it in a journal under your hand. You look up, flashing him a smile that briefly suffuses him with warmth.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. He nods, intending to just walk past you, but you continue to ask, “You need help finding anything?”

“No,” he replies shortly. You nod, smile faltering the slightest bit. Joel feels a flash of guilt before he tamps it down and walks deeper into the library.

He explores the tidy shelves until he finds himself in the fiction section, reading cracked spines and faded letters until one catches his eye. It’s a small paperback sandwiched between two larger books, a pink spine etched with white lines and faded blue lettering. He wiggles it free, turning it over in his hands.

A Wrinkle In Time.

The blue cover with a snowy mountain scene, three children carried in an egg over a town by a flying white creature used to stare up at him from Sarah’s nightstand. It was her favorite book, one she had him read to her at bedtime when she was five. It was the same book he’d caught her reading under the covers with a flashlight past her bedtime when she was eight, the same one she carried everywhere until it fell apart and he had to replace it when she was ten.

Joel’s hand shakes and he has to steady himself by holding the bookshelf. His chest feels tight, too small of a space for his rapidly pounding heart. The words printed on the books in front of him all blur together as he tries to focus, tries to breathe, tries to stay in the present.

There’s a hand on top of his. Delicate, soft. A voice he knows he recognizes but can’t place is saying his name, but it sounds like it’s coming through layers of cotton in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut.

After a long moment, that vise grip around his chest eases and he swallows around the lump in his throat. He blinks, spots dancing in his vision as his eyes adjust to the light once more.

“Joel?” You ask, voice quiet. It makes his muscles tense, coiled tight like he’s ready to run. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies roughly. He slips his hand out from beneath yours. “‘M fine.”

You’re silent for a moment, keen eyes making him feel flayed open and exposed as you watch him. Finally you ask, “Was it about your daughter?”

“No,” he snaps. Rage blinds him, white hot in his vision as he moves past you.

“Wait,” you call out. Joel pauses but doesn’t turn. “It’s okay, you know. To still carry that pain. Did you ever even allow yourself a chance to mourn?”

He turns, looking at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean? I mourn every fuckin’ day.”

“No, you grieve. You let the thoughts of Sarah—“

“Don’t. Don’t you say her name,” he hisses, stepping closer in his anger. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“—haunt you to the point of pain. You think I don’t know why you’re out there on your porch so early some mornings? It’s the same reason I’m out in the cemetery,” you confess. You take a deep breath. “You’ve been fighting for survival since the outbreak and you never gave yourself the chance to mourn. You owe it to yourself and to Sarah to try.”

Joel’s chest heaves, a venomous retort on the tip of his tongue when a voice calls out your name from the front of the building. With one last look that speaks volumes with no words, you disappear from the stacks.

Joel leaves the library and heads straight for the Tipsy Bison. A young man is polishing glassware when he storms in, door slamming shut behind him.

“What can I get you?” The man asks as Joel slides onto a stool.

“Whiskey,” he demands. A glass is set in front of him, amber liquid poured until it's halfway full. He brings the glass to his lips and lets the alcohol burn its way down his throat and erase the taste of guilt on his tongue. Setting the glass on the bar he says, “Another.”

He drinks two more glasses in the same fashion, glaring at the boy when he hesitates to pour his third drink. He sips his fourth pour slowly, letting time pass as it always cruelly will.

Finally, when the light beyond the window panes starts to fade, he heads home, hands shoved in his pockets as he wills one foot in front of the other, gaze fixed on the pavement. It’s not a long walk but it feels like it as he cuts between buildings to avoid having to make conversation with people.

When he reaches his house, he stomps up the steps as he digs in his pockets for his key. His boot knocks into something on the ground by the door. He bends over to pick up the object.

A Wrinkle In Time.

Joel opens his front door and collapses on the couch, book pressed to his chest as a dreamless, whiskey tinged sleep consumes him.

________

“Stop running! Put your hands up!”

Joel sets Sarah on the ground, raising his hands above his head. “We’re not sick! My daughter, she hurt her ankle,” he shouts.

The soldier keeps his gun trained on them as a staticky voice over the radio says something he can’t make out. His finger moves from rest to poised over the trigger, the barrel of his gun braced against his shoulder as he takes aim.

“No!” Joel shouts as the gun goes off. He launches himself in front of Sarah, wrapping his arms around her and bracing for the impact and the shocking pain.

The pain doesn’t come. He slowly opens his eyes, expecting to see the soldier and his gun but instead he sees Sarah, a shocked look on her face as she clutches her stomach, dark blood staining her fingers. She’s far away, not right behind him like she had been.

That’s when Joel notices the weight in his hands, the cold press of metal to his palms. He looks down at the black rifle in his hands, then back up at Sarah.

“No!”

Joel wakes tangled in his sheets, panic coursing through his veins and a hoarse shout of Sarah’s name fading in the dark. As he chokes on the air his lungs are desperate for, he glances at the clock. It’s early again, too early for the rest of the town to be awake save for the people scheduled to return from patrol in a couple hours.

He runs a hand over his face with a sigh before getting up. It’s been a couple weeks since he last had a nightmare, the product of back to back patrol shifts and helping with a building repair that left him so blissfully exhausted his traitorous brain couldn’t torture him, but it seems they’ve returned with a vengeance.

Joel gets dressed and heads downstairs, making himself coffee that he brings out to the porch. He watches the cemetery gate, part of him hoping he sees you and a larger part hoping whatever haunts you has left your peace intact for the night.

Like his thoughts have conjured you from the ether, you step outside the cemetery gates. He sees the brief moment of hesitation when you notice him sitting on his porch, but a forgiving part of you must urge you closer. When you reach the porch, you regard him with that same look that makes him feel like you can see right through to his wretched soul.

“You’re up early,” you comment knowingly.

“So are you.”

“So I am.” You take a deep breath. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

You don’t wait for his response before you’re turning, heading for the gate and back towards the cemetery. Despite his better judgment, Joel follows, taking wide steps to catch up with your quick stride.

You walk the winding dirt paths between the headstones with sure steps that Joel follows with uncertainty. He’s never been in the cemetery, has never had a reason, so he appraises the headstones with a morbid curiosity, reading the names of people he’s never met. He notes that a number of the sites have flowers in various stages of freshness.

After a few minutes, you stop and Joel glances at the headstone you’ve paused in front of.

“Tommy had it put in a few years after he got to town,” you say quietly. “He told me about her…about what happened.” Joel takes a step closer, dropping to his knees. The damp earth cushions the fall, early morning dew seeping into his jeans as he reaches out to trace the carved letters of his baby’s name.

“I’ll…I’ll give you some privacy. I just thought you should know she’s here.”

As you turn to leave, Joel reaches out and wraps a tentative hand around your knee. You look at him in surprise as he murmurs, “Stay with me?”

You lower yourself to the ground, settling in beside him as the sun rises and the world around you wakes from its slumber.

________

You sit together in front of Sarah’s headstone for about an hour before Joel stands with a groan and mumbled curse. He holds a hand out to you to help you up, the gesture leaving you nearly pressed together. You search his brown eyes, hoping for a glimpse of relief but it’s still too soon to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, stepping back and clearing his throat. “For snappin’ at you in the library.”

“I understand. I made a lot of assumptions that day,” you reply. He laughs, though it’s strained.

“Yeah, well, if there were still a lottery around I’d tell you to buy a ticket. You were right on the money.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Thought I was gettin’ better. After all that time with Ellie…I felt like I had a purpose again.”

“Maybe that’s the issue. Thinking your purpose is tied to someone else.”

His brow furrows. “How do you keep doin’ that?”

“Doing what?” You ask.

“Seein’ right through me.”

You smile at him.

“Like attracts like, Joel. Remember that.”

________

Joel starts visiting Sarah’s grave regularly. Sometimes it’s early, the result of another nightmare or returning from patrol, and sometimes it’s later in the evening, when fireflies begin to flicker in the grass as spring wears on. He takes the worn copy of A Wrinkle In Time that you left him, reading a chapter of it out loud each time as he sits with his back pressed to the stone marker.

One thing he notes with growing intrigue is how there’s always flowers on a number of the headstones, including Sarah’s. It’s a reminder that he’s not the only victim of loss, even if his own still feels like a gaping wound some days.

He visits the library again, a bag full of books he found on his last patrol shift heavy on his back as he enters the building. You look up from a book you’re reading as the door shuts, smiling at him.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. “You need any help finding anything today?”

“No. Brought you somethin’, though,” he replies, hefting the bag onto the counter and opening it to reveal his bounty. “Found ‘em last patrol.”

You reach in and pull two of the books out, your grin downright ecstatic as you look at him. “The Lord of the Rings?”

“Complete set. You ever read it?”

“When I was younger,” you murmur, fingers tracing the cover of the book. “Thank you, Joel.”

His heart pounds as he looks at you, smile bright and eyes soft. You remove the other books from his bag, laying them out and checking them for damage. He likes watching you work, the gentle way that you flip through the time worn pages soothing to him as he stands there.

“What’s your favorite book?” You ask, glancing at him as you work.

“Not much of a reader. Sarah was, though. She would tell me about the books she was reading,” he says, voice catching on Sarah’s name. “She loved A Wrinkle In Time. Started the Harry Potter series, too. When the last one came out she made me take her to the bookstore at midnight just to get it.”

“My brother did the same,” you reply. “Dressed up and everything.”

“Your brother, huh?” Joel asks. You stack the books, avoiding Joel’s gaze.

“He was about Sarah’s age. Twelve. I was seventeen when…everything happened.” You pause. “The night that everything started happening, I had actually snuck out of the house. Went to a party in the woods. I made it back home just as the grid went out but when I got inside…”

“You don’t gotta tell me this,” Joel says.

“When I got inside, my brother was sitting at the table, covered in blood. Our parents had attacked him and he fought them off as best he could. He could feel the infection, you know? Knew something was wrong. He told me to leave.” You take a deep breath, your eyes returning to the present. A tear slides down your cheek and you brush it away quickly. “If I had been there—“

“Don’t,” Joel interrupts. “You can’t blame yourself.”

You laugh, looking at him incredulously. “Pot meet kettle!”

Joel laughs with you, a boisterous sound he hasn’t heard in years. It feels almost rusty in its disuse. “Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says when quiet descends once more.

“It’s only fair, right? A tragedy for a tragedy?”

“I don’t think that’s how the sayin’ goes.”

You shrug. “That’s how the world goes, though.”

________

As spring starts to fold into summer, Joel finds himself growing closer to you. It starts with visits to the library when he’s off from patrol, helping you shelve and catalog books. Soon, he’s spending so much time there that he’s still around when it’s time for you to lock up and he offers to walk you home or to the mess hall for dinner.

Dinner turns into the occasional drink at the Tipsy Bison. Those nights are his favorite, watching as you try to play darts after a few drinks and laughing when you pout after each missed shot.

Better days still give way to troubled nights, though. He wakes on one such night drenched in sweat, the nightmare just a haze of fear in his mind. It’s early, of course, so he takes a brief shower and dresses before grabbing his coffee and A Wrinkle In Time to make his way to the cemetery.

The ground is soft beneath his footsteps as he takes a now familiar path to Sarah’s headstone, seating himself on the damp dirt. He reads for a bit before the creak of hinges alerts him to someone’s arrival.

You enter through the front gate, a pile of flowers wrapped in butcher paper in your arms. He watches as you lay flowers around the graves with care, moving steadily among the rows until you’ve reached Joel.

“You do the flowers?” He asks. You take a seat beside him, gathering a wilted white rose from in front of the headstone and replacing it with a spray of yellow flowers.

“Some of them. Sometimes people come to me for arrangements to bring themselves,” you reply.

“Why?”

“Because I still believe in beautiful things,” you tell him with a shrug.

Joel watches you set the flower carefully on the ground in front of Sarah’s headstone and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. In the silence between you, his mind drifts to Tess, who he cared for but couldn’t give himself fully with the way he was when he knew her. He thinks about Bill and Frank and the kindness they showed him even when he didn’t show his gratitude. He thinks about Ellie, who stuck by his side despite everything he had to do to make it here.

Then there’s you, who’s planted roots in his heart like the flowers you grow and filled him with a light he hasn’t known in a long time and it leaves him feeling damn near winded. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when a crack of thunder precedes the opening of the sky, heavy raindrops filtering through the tree branches.

“Shit!” He curses, shoving his book into the waistband of his jeans beneath his shirt to protect it from the rain. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging you up from the ground and keeping your hand gripped tightly in his as you both sprint for his porch.

You’re both drenched from the sudden summer downpour, rain dripping from your clothes and hair to the porch as you race up the steps. Another crack of thunder has you jumping, laughter spilling from your lips that joins the melody of the rain on the roof.

As your laughter fades, Joel pulls you closer by the hand still held tight in his. He searches your face for any sign that you might not want this, might not want him, but to his relief he finds none. He wraps an arm around your low back, pressing your rain soaked body to his as he tilts his head to capture your lips in a gentle kiss.

The kiss remains soft, gentle, a smooth glide of his slightly chapped lips against yours. You taste like rainwater but feel like sunshine, a perfect dichotomy. Joel pulls away slowly, not wanting to lose the connection but starting to feel uncomfortable in his soaked clothing.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get some dry clothes.”

He leads you inside the dark house and upstairs to his bedroom. He finds a shirt and boxers for you, turning to give you the privacy to change as he does the same, setting the damp book on his nightstand and leaving his wet clothes in a heap on the floor.

“I’m decent,” you announce. He turns, breath catching at the vision you make wearing his clothes, your nipples pressing against the worn cotton shirt. He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and a hand behind your neck to pull you into another kiss.

You pull away first this time, stepping back and crawling into his bed. You burrow beneath the covers before lifting the edge, an eyebrow raised at him in invitation. He slides in beside you, blankets settling over your bodies as you rest your head against his bare chest.

“I’m scared,” Joel says, a whisper in the dark.

“About what?” You ask, lifting yourself up to look at him. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Losin’ you. Losin’ Ellie. Losin’ Tommy.” A pause. “Like I lost Sarah. And Tess.”

“Fear doesn’t stop death, Joel. It just stops you from living.”

________

Something changes in Joel with your words. He lifts his head from the pillow to kiss you, his body shifting beneath yours to push you onto your back so he can hover over you. This kiss is different, more desperate as his tongue slides against yours and his teeth dig into your bottom lip.

You slide your fingers into his hair, nails scratching against his scalp and making him moan into your kiss. He trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck as he urges your legs apart and fits himself in the space between your thighs.

His hips rock against yours, the friction making you gasp and pull on his hair. He chuckles against the skin of your neck before sinking his teeth against your pulse point, sucking a mark into your skin to match the one he’s left on your heart.

One of his warm hands lifts your borrowed shirt, bunching the material beneath your armpits and exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. Joel dips his head to pull one nipple between his lips and he swirls his tongue over the hard bud, looking up at your face as he does. He does the same to your other breast, the delicious sensation of his mouth almost enough to distract you from the slow drag of his calloused fingers across your tummy and beneath the elastic of the boxers he’s leant to you.

He groans as his fingers circle your clit, gathering your wetness and spreading it over your folds with his movements. He leans up to kiss you again, deep swipes of his tongue exploring your mouth as your hips chase his hand with increasing fervor.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s a bright flash of lightning that illuminates the room, giving you a clearer view of the adoration simmering in his eyes.

You press a hand to his cheek. “You deserve good things, Joel Miller.”

He drops his head, forehead pressed to your collarbone. He slips two fingers inside of you as thunder rattles the windows, the storm overhead matching the one in your body as he works his digits with slow, methodical movements, curling them with each pull from inside of you.

“Need you,” you whimper, “please, Joel, need you.”

“You got me,” he says, sitting up to tug the boxers down your thighs and pull the waistband of his down, freeing his cock that he takes on his fist, rubbing it through your folds.

He notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pressing inside of you with a single deep thrust that has you gasping his name. There’s another crack of lightning as he bottoms out, hips pressed flush to yours.

Joel starts to move, setting a leisurely pace, notably unhurried as you relish in the weight of him against you. His forehead drops to yours and he peppers your face with soft kisses, from your forehead to your nose to your chin. You smile at him and to your surprise and delight, he grins back.

He sits up, gripping your hips for leverage as his rhythm changes to something more carnal, more desperate, sharp thrusts that drag against something inside of you that makes stars dance across your vision. You’re moaning his name with each collision of his hips to yours and his head drops back with his own deep groan as you tighten around him with your release.

“Fuck,” he shouts, withdrawing quickly and taking himself in hand, hot splashes of cum hitting your stomach as you gasp for air. Joel leaves the bed for a moment and returns with a damp cloth he uses to wipe you clean before tossing it to the pile of wet clothes and climbing back into bed beside you.

He pulls you close and with your head on his chest, you let the pounding rhythm of his heart lull you back to sleep.

________

“Look how high I got, daddy!”

Joel watches a young Sarah deftly climb the limbs of a tree she found on their hike. He laughs as she straddles the last branch she can reach, waving down at him with a bright grin on her face.

“That’s mighty impressive, baby girl, but can you get back down?” He shouts up at her.

“Of course I can!” She insists, slowly working her way back down the branches. She makes it to a lower branch but she can’t reach a foothold from where she hangs by her arms. “Daddy!”

“I gotcha,” Joel says, moving to stand below her. “Just let go, I’ll catch ya.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

Joel’s eyes flutter open. The first thing he notices is the sunlight streaming through the open window. You must have woken up before him and opened it. The room is warm from the late summer sun, but there’s a breeze that rustles the curtains as he stands and stretches.

He can hear the clink of pans downstairs and he follows the noise, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen as he finds you whisking something in a bowl. It’s been weeks since that early morning together in bed and every day since you continue to help put him together piece by jagged piece.

You must feel him there, attuned to him as you always are, because you turn and grin brightly at him.

“There you are,” you say, crossing the kitchen to kiss him. “Was wondering when you’d finally wake up.”

“Can’t a man sleep in once and a while?” He asks, pulling you in for a second and third kiss. “What are you workin’ on?”

“A cake. It’s July 20th.”

Sarah’s birthday.

Joel’s breath leaves him in a rush. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you tightly to him, your arms wrapped around his waist as you squeeze back.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Always.”

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou hbo

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epiphyllous · 3 months

Text

when morning comes (Astarion/Reader) [2]

For what could you be to him, if not a victim, not a target, not a night it's better to forget-- if he holds these feelings for you?

Word Count: ~5k Notes: Astarion/Reader, Paladin!Reader, AFAB, gender-neutral "you", following Astarion romance route in his POV + my hc/additional scenes, [switches to your POV], annoyance to lovers, fall first/fall harder, mutual pining, contains NSFW [Part 1] - [Part 3]

[Act II: Underdark/Shadowfell]

How long has it been, Astarion wonders, since the last time he truly cared for someone other than himself? All he remembers is that it didn't go well the last time; sympathy has no place in Cazador's castle, and mercy for his victims does not go unpunished.

It was kill or be killed. Just as he was afforded no quarters, he never allowed himself to feel for another one of his victims again. It is why when he finds himself in the rare position of being cared for (you and Karlach are particularly eager at showing him as much together), caring for others still does not come easy to him.

Or so he thought.

Worrying for your livelihood comes almost instinctively, a panic wrought midst an adrenaline-filled battle when he sees your motionless body on the floor. “No!” He hardly recognizes his own voice like that, a scream full of horror. “You can't die. Get up, goddamn you!” He flits across the battlefield, avoiding enemies with the help of Karlach to reach you. He lets go of a breath he was holding when he sees your face grimace in pain, eyes flickering open dazedly.

“Astarion?” You mumble when you see him, and a volley of emotion rushes him. Anger: the damn Spectator doesn't like to play fair, does it, attacking them on sight. With an eye as big as a target as it is, Astarion cannot wait for payback. Frustration: why must you always plow your way forward with abandon, refusing to bow down from danger?

Then–

Worry: your breathing is shallow, eyes unfocused; does he have a healing potion on him? And relief: you are hurt but you are alive– thank god you are alive. (Irritation: he swears if he must strap you to Karlach to stop you from running ahead, he is certain the tiefling would be on board with his plan.)

Astarion cannot help the scowl on his face even as he quickly untops a healing potion and helps you drink it, a hand behind your head. “Stand back up and start killing something,” he tells you bitingly, and you smile at him gratefully, which he can only look at for so long.

“Got it,” you say, taking a moment before laying healing hands onto your chest. You breathe out in relief and Astarion finds himself quietly doing the same. “Thank you, Astarion. Let's hit ‘em hard this time.” You raise your crossbow and imbue it with holy light before taking aim and firing.

His arrows join yours right after, and the Spectator wails in pain, interrupting its thrall over the petrified drow. “Say less, dear,” Astarion says. “Just make sure to die on your own time, hm?”

Your laugh is a strange thing to hear amidst battle but not an unwelcome one.

Ever since they started traveling in the land of spores and shadows, you have given him blood every night, noticing fairly quickly the lack of vermin or animals to feed on. You are always woozy in the morning, lightheaded at best and exhausted at worst. It is particularly bad whenever he feeds on nights you have suffered injuries, but still, you offer.

Astarion had suggested to only feed every other night if only to spare you from tripping up in battle. He tells you he has little desire to resuscitate you in the midst of it. (And even less of one to see you fallen in battle in the first place. One time was plenty enough.)

He's been eyeing the small population of duergar that so conveniently became their enemies anyways, so feeding would not be quite so dire. He would also feed on the dark gnomes, dislikable creatures that they are, but he has a strong inkling you would greatly disapprove. (You were strangely friendly with that dark gnome you saved on the windmill, but you have done stranger things that still boggle him. He's learned to live with it. Begrudgingly, of course.)

Even then, you insisted on letting him have your blood despite Shadowheart's exasperation. It shows the cleric's affections for you and (a surprising show of) trust for him that she almost offers her own blood, if only to temporarily sate his appetite. You wave away the discomfort though, thankful for the members who are able to restore you from bloodlessness but otherwise willful in your decision to let him feed on only you.

Astarion is thankful– of course he is. He would never say no to a truly good meal; and you are right for the most part about not having much to eat. But as good as he is with words, Astarion is beginning to feel his debt to you accumulate.

There is not much he can do for you in return, really. It's not as if you need protecting, though he does ever so often help keep you hidden among the shadows when you're hiding or snipe an enemy before they even think of aiming at you. But you have always done that for him. It's something you've relayed to him early on: you have his back as long as he has yours.

The protection is mutually beneficial, but giving him blood is a gift. He owes you– among other things. He has always found blood appealing due to his... affliction, but he is finding that your expression during battle, the blood that you bathe in as a result of it leaves him feeling hungry for a completely different reason.

(Astarion finds that he hungers for you similarly when you are otherwise at peace. When you gaze into the campfire with a look of innocent awe at the flickering flames or when you wave him over eagerly for him to sit near it with you, happy to have him close as though it were a rare occurrence and not a near nightly thing. It is a quiet type of hunger-- a yearning-- that often goes ignored. For what could you be to him, if not a victim, not a target, not a night it's better to forget-- if he holds these feelings for you?)

It is easy to come to the conclusion that he can offer his body to you as compensation. Astarion is quite certain you enjoyed his performance before, and he admits he feels... closer to you as a result of the first time. There is nothing wrong with building an even closer bond with you- to ensure his safety, of course. And most importantly, sex is enjoyable with you; he imagines himself less and less being able to propose the same to the others in camp, no matter how strong or reliable they are as allies.

He does suspect none of them would be willing. They seem to view him and you as something exclusive. Astarion doesn't remember establishing anything of the sort, but something about the two of you must allude to it.

Astarion doesn't mind; it makes it easier to seduce you thoroughly. And, if his plan has worked, breaking your heart by straying to others sounds like a terrible idea considering the fact the camp would rather break their own legs than betray you.

(Lae'zel would break his legs for any discretion despite how blasé she is with romantic relationships. (You had gained her stalwart friendship through hard-earned battles against an entire créche– this is not to be taken lightly.) Wyll would be more than happy to have been proven right all along, with how convinced he is that Astarion's heart be as cold as ice. Gale would lecture his ear off, which is a threat on its own, and he is convinced Shadowheart has learned how to torture given her Sharran background. Karlach would probably just give him an equally upset and disappointed look, and that would discomfit Astarion more than anything.

In summary– the odds would not be in his favor. Which works out for him; best be in your debt than anyone else's if there's to be a debt at all.)

After helping the myconids get rid of their enemies, they camp in the safe spore refuge after reaping their rewards from the fungi's makeshift prison. Astarion waits for you to come find him, doing another futile attempt to read the Book of Thay as you make your rounds and check in with everyone. It seems that you have gotten into the habit of saving him for last, knowing how long the conversations might last into the night. It works out perfectly for him, because when you come over to him, eyes bright, he sets out to proposition you again.

"Here's my little treat with their cheeks all flushed." Astarion lowers his eyes and looks up through his lashes coyly. "You will come to my bed tonight, won't you?"

You blink at him. "Are you hungry?" You ask, which is an odd way to start flirting back. "Do you not like coming into my tent for a bite?"

Ah. Right.

Astarion can't stop the unbidened sigh. "No, dear, I was suggesting something a little... more. Though, I am always open to being fed."

"Oh," you say. "Oh!" And like magic, your cheeks darken with color. "Sorry, I- well, you called me your 'treat' so I automatically assumed, you know, food."

"You want something better? It'd be my pleasure," he teases, clearing his throat lightly before continuing. "How about this one: when I'm with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again with you."

You let out a little laugh and he is quick to continue. "Why, your laugh is nearly just as sweet as when I tasted you."

Your smile wobbles in half embarrassment and flattery. "Astarion," you say, halfheartedly chiding.

"Let me give it another go, hm?" He makes a show of putting his hand on his chest. "Every part of your body whispers temptation," he tells you, "as if the Gods made you just to ruin me."

Astarion earns himself what he believes to be an endeared shake of the head, a permanent smile on your face. "You're ridiculous," you say warmly.

"I can go all night with the flattery, but is that really all you want?" He says, putting a finger on his lips, pretending to think. "What if I said these three little words, everyone's favorite." He looks into your eyes and delivers his lines. "I love you."

He hears you laugh again, but it is short and loud, as though you forced it out. It is unlike your usual, genuine laughter, and when Astarion searches for the truth, he feels as though your smile does not reach your eyes… or not. He cannot be sure. For someone who can never find it in yourself to lie to your companions, you make for an impeccable poker face when you need it.

"Looks like you're having fun," you tease, and Astarion starts to think he was simply imagining it.

"Of course," he says, surprisingly honest, "it's hard not to with you." He falters when your countenance brightens at his words, and he clears his throat to collect himself. "Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favorite lines at you, I'd much rather we got to experience each other's full portfolio of talents once again."

"I'll come find you?" You ask as a response, and Astarion smiles.

"I hoped you would say yes. I have missed you," Astarion finds himself admitting. He recovers quickly though, seduction in his voice. "And now you'll be all mine, and I'm all yours. Until morning at least."

There is that little tug of your lips again, gone as quickly as it appeared. Astarion may not fully know what the tic means, but he does know that in some capacity, you are lying to him. It disturbs him more than he can place.

"Until morning," you repeat, giving him an equally quiet smile before turning.

Astarion watches you walk away, heavy with the feeling that he has missed something important.

When he meets you later tonight, you are as playful as ever in bed, eager to touch him and please him as you have been before. You roll your hips into his lap as you hold him from the front, neck tilted up and eyes closed as you loam in the pleasure. A trickle of blood runs down your body, proof of an appetite satiated. He tongues at your skin, following the trail up as you let out a pleased hum.

Astarion has always thought this in one way or another, but you are a vision. Breathtaking in your battlelust, stunning in your resilience, and beautiful in the throes of passion.

It is always a plus, he thinks, to be attracted to you. It makes it a less unpleasant experience, if nothing else. With you, it makes a long night of love almost a cinematic experience; there is so much to watch unfold, so much of you to see.

"Any ideas how we'll know when it's morning in the underdark?" You ask him breathlessly, hands carding through his hair.

"After I have you seeing stars, naturally," he says easily, and you let out a huff of laughter at his words.

"You're so silly," you tell him in the fondest way you can. His heart involuntarily skips a beat as you brush your hand over his cheek before pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips. "Maybe it'll never be morning here," you say, "and I could have you forever."

A thought violently comes to him, holding his heart with a vice grip: you genuinely sound like you're in love with him. Astarion should be elated; his plan is working. Instead he feels dread's cold fingers curling around his neck for a completely new reason.

Before he can process, you grind your hips down in a move he knows you learned the last time around, and he groans, hands on the small of your back to hold you back. "Why, darling," he breathes out, "you're beginning to get as good as me."

He feels your smile on his lips, warm and real, and the dread is soothed-- if only just for a little bit. "I could never," you whisper into him, and he falls onto his back, another time for him to remember.

When he wakes up, your warmth in his arms, his nose buried in your hair, he finds that morning does not come in the underdark like he expects. And his simple plan to seduce you is quickly falling apart in ways he never thought imaginable.

Astarion does what he has always done when things go awry: he disengages. Or he tries to, anyways, but you have a knack about wiggling your way into interacting with him, not at all deterred by his attempted nonchalance. He gives up on that plan quickly one night when he tries to refuse your help to read his scars.

For one, he actually does need someone else's help to visualize the markings on his back. And all things considered, you are the one he is most comfortable to help him, having seen his back once already. Secondly, trying to push you away does him no good in terms of his original plan; spurning you can only build resentment, which works against him in terms of your protection. (Or not, he thinks. You have always defended him even if you were irritated with him that day because of a fight. Your trifles with him never affected how you felt for him in the long-run.)

Thirdly, and most unfortunately, he actually does… like interacting with you, for all the annoying times you are overly good to others. He trusts you, and perhaps that is all the reason he's ever needed to turn his back to you as you scrawl the markings into the dirt floor. About two hundred years he has lived with this on his skin and never seen it until now. Not that he can read it, but it is definitely a step forward.

He looks up at you to see you staring intently at him. “What?” He says, “what is it?”

“I was just thinking,” you tell him. “Slightly unrelated, but maybe when we reach the city or something, we could have the artist we saved from the Zhentarim paint your portrait so you can see yourself again.” You shrug when he merely blinks at you in confusion. “Just a thought, since you didn't like how I described you last time and writing your markings down reminded me.”

You remembered, he thinks, about what he said about not having seen his appearance in eons. He can't help it--he's a little endeared despite himself. “Darling, last time you described me like I was some decrepit old man,” Astarion replies facetiously.

“No, I didn't!” You fume, and he's amused to see the way your lips form a pout, one of the few things that betray your youth. Though he supposed anyone would be young compared to him. “I happen to like the way you look, laugh lines and crow's feet and all.” You huff as if mortally wounded. “I described you with ‘piercing eyes’ too didn't I?”

“Yes, I recall you called me beautiful as well,” Astarion simpers, and you huff in laughter this time around.

“You really are,” you say, smile on your lips. “Beautiful, I mean.”

Something flutters in his chest. It could not have been his heart, surely, for it hasn't beat since the moment he was turned. And yet… The back of his neck feels oddly warm, the heat traveling up to his ears: was he really embarrassed from something like that? Him, the connoisseur of seduction, master of one-liners, brought down by a- a compliment?

Astarion is quick to turn his nose into the air, letting out a noise of approval at your words as though it were a given. And it is– he must be beautiful, for how else would people fall for him so easily? But coming from you, sincere, without expectations for something more, Astarion is left unequipped to deal with as smoothly as he would have liked.

It's becoming more frequent by the day.

“Thank you, dear. Not enough people say so,” he says. “Feel free to lavish me in flattery at any given time.”

“Okay.” Your eyes twinkle looking at him as though there are all the stars in the world in your eyes. He recognizes that twinkle, though it could range from anywhere from mischief to affection– perhaps both when it comes to him. He discreetly presses a hand into his chest, wondering if his heart had suddenly decided to start beating again. “Whatever you say, beautiful,” you sing.

And how is Astarion supposed to resist being charmed by you when you are like this? If that was all there was though, he thinks as you go set up camp, then there wouldn't be much of a problem. Being fawned over by you should be the easiest thing he has done, but it isn't. He feels… Astarion isn't sure what he feels, and he loathes the fact that it can never be simple with you.

You're supposed to be an end to a means. Why does it matter that you seem to care for him beyond his body? That when you tell him he's beautiful, he knows you mean more than surface-level? And that he feels for you when you tell him as much?

It is a dangerous game he is playing, being so close to you while he comes to terms with what you may mean to him. But Astarion admits he lives for the danger of it all, especially when he finds that seduction is not always a one-way road.

Astarion almost forgives you for helping dark gnomes in droves for how ruthless you are to their slavers. You are a paladin, a protector of the weak, but you are also a punisher of evil. You cleanly decapitate Nere with an impassive expression, and Astarion has never felt so thoroughly turned on.

(He remembers a conversation shared with you in the beginning of your relationship with him– even before you had even begun to see him as a true companion. How would you like to die, he had asked.

It was an odd choice of topic. Vaguely threatening and definitely morbid, but you had answered in earnest. And when you asked, how about you?

He said, Decapitation. One good swing and then- nothing.

Astarion watches as you carefully clean your sword of Nere's blue blood and thinks his answer still has not changed.)

He doesn't hide it well, his eyes trailing after you almost predatorily. Shadowheart notices almost immediately, giving him a side look that would have chafed if he weren't who he is. Lae'zel, for once, gives no comment to his lustful behavior. She of all people would understand the irresistibility of power and bloodlust. It is you who does not notice, too focused on inviting– ugh, Barcus Wroot to the camp so he doesn't inevitably find himself in need of saving again and promising to rescue Wulbren, among other dark gnomes, at Moonrise.

At this rate, you'll have an entire laundry list of people to save at the same location, and you'll probably still think that you ‘might as well since they're all in the same place anyways.’ He can already imagine you saying those words, and it would have stopped him from being so hot and bothered had you not turned to notice him then and look at him like a cat who caught the canary.

“Was it killing the duegar? Nere?” You ask him, amusement dancing in your eyes, “Or is it the fact I still have blood literally everywhere?”

His fangs peek from behind his smile. “Why, darling, don't be so surprised!” He tells you seductively, "Blood is an attractive look on you, you know.”

You laugh at this, hand wiping away at your forehead, smearing the flecks of blood that stubbornly stay. Astarion watches you intently as you thumb across your cheek and then your lips, blood painting them like luxury rouge. It's only then Astarion realizes you're doing this on purpose, and the thought of you- you!- teasing him on purpose is unexpectedly charming.

“You cheeky little pup,” Astarion calls you nearly breathlessly, and you can only smile at him, caught in the act.

(Both Shadowheart and Lae'zel give each other long side looks this time.)

The shadowlands are wrought with a darkness unlike Astarion has ever seen. It must be the silence of such a foul curse because he begins to come to terms about what he can do for the scars on his back. Dealing with the devil is never the greatest of plans, but it is a plan he knows for certain will work.

He must have the luck of the realms to find Raphael in the only place where the dark cannot reach: Last Light's Inn. Like the other times they have made contact with him, the devil is as elusive and lackadaisical as ever, much to Astarion's annoyance. In the corner of his eyes, he sees you fume, stepping closer to Astarion as you pin down Raphael with an unfaltering stare.

"Get to the point, Raphael," you say with a tone of impatience. “Will you help him or not?” Brave but reckless coming from you; you are more often like him than not, preferring to fawn and please your way through, but it seems even the devil tests you.

Raphael disappears in a snap of flames with no answers yet, and the lingering smell of ashes puts a foul taste in everyone's mouth. Especially yours, it seems, as you haven't moved away from him yet, stance tense and ready for battle still. Astarion's gaze flickers back and forth between your body language, and he would call it possessive if he didn't know what type of person you were. It doesn't even look like you're aware that you're being protective of him, subtle and unobtrusive as it is.

Astarion recalls his childhood dreams of marrying heroic princes when he was thirteen. He has somewhat grown out of it now, jaded as he is. The thought of being a damsel in distress is no longer as appealing as it was back then now that he understands what it truly means to be helpless. But seeing you as you are, watching over him carefully while trusting him to be able to fight for himself, coaxes the dream back to life just a little bit.

It helps that you are not the perfect knightley archetype of fairytale storybooks. Your imperfections and playful mannerisms help contextualize his childhood's unrealistic expectations into something more real– more suitable for his current tastes. He watches as you get onto your knees and meow at the hairless cat for its attention and thinks he would get rather bored if you were just a princely character.

“At least you purr for me,” he remarks when the cat hisses at you and watches as you throw him one of his favorite looks, a dour expression mixed with amusement.

“Maybe I should start hissing, huh?” You reply with a grin, bumping his shoulders as you walk by to speak to Jaheira.

And there is one other thing he has noticed: you are a physically affectionate person. While he is a master of words, you prefer to communicate through touch--once you have become more comfortable with the people you are with. You brush shoulders with Gale when the two of you stargaze, you hook arms with Shadowheart when the two of you go for walks, and, when you feel that Lae'zel is in the mood for it, you clasp her shoulder for a battle well fought. You are almost reckless in the way you provide touch, hugging Karlach the moment Dammon fixes her infernal engine without fear of getting burned, not afraid to get close to Wyll's new devilish horns, if only to make him more comfortable with the change.

You have never been shy with touch, whether you mean to or not. He gets the sense that you simply want to be closer to him– to everyone– and when words fail you (he has seen you flub a conversation with a rat once), your touch can do the talking.

It's almost awe-inspiring the range in which your actions can convey. Astarion knows well how your brandished sword can intimidate, how your stance communicates confidence, how your gentleness conveys compassion. Knowing you is a strength of its own considering the surprise you gave Marcus when you seemingly go from peaceful conversation to deadly assault. Though Astarion wonders if it is a weakness too when he feels your pinky touch his after the frightful battle, and he understands you almost too well.

“We fight so many demons I'm beginning to get bored of them,” he tells you, and he lets you continue to curl your pinky with his, a small but secure connection between the two of you.

[You are brave but not unafraid, and you are frightened by the idea of betrayal so close to home. You are scared of sudden bloodshed and of repercussions of failure. You are fearful of Astarion getting hurt, and that will always be true, but it is true especially now when you are so close to where this journey all began. You seek him out to make sure he is alright, if only for your own comfort. And if he is fine, then maybe everything will be fine as well.]

“Good to hear,” you say simply. It is all you can find yourself saying in the aftermath, and you stay close to Astarion. It isn't until Jaheira talks about infiltrating Moonrise that you let go of him to speak to her.

Astarion finds himself rooted in his spot, wondering for a brief moment how his heart can be set alight from an innocent touch like that from you.

The night before they infiltrate the heart of the Absolute, Astarion dreams. It is not a nightmare for once, but it feels very little like a dream.

You were in it: crescent moon rising above, sitting on the shore, letting the waves lap at your bare feet. You invite him over to sit with you like you always do in the waking world, and he does– not caring about how the salty waters will ruin the leather of his pants or the fact he has never seen you in the white robe you are wearing now.

The two of you sit in silence for the most part, watching the water stretch out into the distance where the eye can no longer see it. He looks over at you, and as though feeling his gaze, you turn to him and give him a smile he feels himself returning.

“I got you this,” you tell him, holding out a single flower for him. “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

He takes the flower in hand. It is not a rose, but a gardenia, cheerful in its yellow color. Astarion brings it close to his nose, but the flower itself has no scent. “The other flower doesn't smell as sweet, darling,” he says. “Or are you saying I'm the rose in this case?” He lets out a laugh and you only smile wider.

“Beautiful as you are dangerous,” you say, and Astarion is about to comment on how suave you seem to be tonight, but then you stand up and start walking into the water, uncaring of how wet your clothes become. He watches as you submerge yourself halfway before turning to him, unfazed.

Astarion stands too, his feet on the dry sand, unable to follow. The water will be cold, he thinks, and who knows how deep it goes? His thoughts are interrupted by your peals of laughter, and his head shoots up to look at you, robe floating in the waves almost ethereally.

“Join me whenever,” you tell him, eyes bright even in the dark. “I can teach you how to swim.”

And Astarion wakes up, remembering only the thought that it has almost been two hundred years since he last swam. He wonders if he's forgotten how.

*dream sequence symbolism crescent moon - dynamic shift, beginning or end, wisdom, openness to sexuality white robes - protection, purity, clarity, knowledge yellow gardenia - secret love, dreams, thinking of sweetness in the subconscious receiving flowers as a gift - communicating deep feelings, often positive; who is receiving and who is giving? sand - stop in time and lack of growth, waiting; beach sand in particular acts as the border between the unconscious part of you (depths of the water), and the conscious (being on the shore); the cross worlds between your field of perception and the unknown.

#astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion/tav #astarion/reader #astarion ancunin #i need to know how tav and astarion goes from blood bag to ride or die and this is how im finding out #[adds 203139 extra scenes]

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kitty-is-writing · 14 days

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📝 in the mood to post a short story today 📝

this one is called Reunions, set in the same world as my novels are, as the old gods are returning from their centuries of slumber.

- Reunions -

“Hello brother.”

The unexpected greeting startled Ralor-Kanj out of his meditation. His eyes snapped open, immediately fixing on the barrel-chested man leaning against his doorframe.

“It’s been a long time. How have you been?” the visitor continued.

Ralor stood. “What do you want?”

The visitor gave a mocking pout. “Aw, nearly four centuries trapped in another realm and you can’t even pretend you’re pleased to see me? I’m hurt, dear brother.”

“What do you want, Chaos?” Ralor asked again.

“Ooh, I do like it when you call me that... so much more fitting than the name Mother gave, right Order?”

Ralor took a step forward, one hand twitching towards his sword. “Don’t make me ask you again.” The sword flashed as it zoomed from its place on the wall to his hand.

Chaos smirked. “I just want a little fun. Do you have any idea how dull it was, stuck in Nowhere for three hundred and eighty nine long years? You should have known Mother’s little ritual couldn’t keep me there forever, especially after she messed up and lost her following. I suppose that was why she went and made you, wasn’t it? She knew I’d find a way back eventually and thought you’d be able to keep me in line,” he taunted.

Losing his patience, and riled by the other god’s taunts, Ralor slashed at him with the sword. “Get out!”

Chaos vanished in a flash of sickly yellow light, the blade missing him by a split second, and reappeared behind Ralor’s desk. “You’ve had your turn, dear brother. Now it’s mine,” he said, a wicked smirk on his lips as he flicked the end of the golden scales. Another flash of light, and he was gone.

Ralor dropped the sword and reached to steady the see-sawing scales, only to be repulsed by a sharp jolt of electricity. As he shook the numbness from his arm, staring at them as they yawed wildly on their pivot, a strangled yell came from the pavilion. Thinking Chaos had wrought yet more of his namesake already, he willed himself there, expecting to find pandemonium.

Instead, the pavilion seemed as calm and peaceful as ever, except for Vrenid-Malchor. Where the Creator usually sat upon his throne, now he knelt on the floor, clutching his head and groaning in apparent pain. Talri-Pekra was already kneeling at his side, looking more concerned than Ralor had ever seen her. “What’s happening?” he asked her, hoping the goddess of knowledge would know something about it. She looked up at him, and he could almost see her mind forming and discarding ideas at blinding speed, but she said nothing.

“It’s started,” came a voice from behind them. Ralor turned to see Dranj-Aria, watching the Creator with a strange expression.

“What’s started?”

She kept her gaze on the kneeling god, slowly approaching as she answered. “They’re coming back. The lost ones were returning, and he’s going to break apart.” She drew level with Ralor, and turned to face him. “It’s a shame to see him go, but I couldn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see my sun again.”

“Returning... all of them?” Ralor asked. “So it’s not just Chaos, they’re all coming back?”

Talri-Pekra jumped up from the floor. “Chaos is back? When did that happen?”

“He just showed up in my domain, taunted me a bit and unbalanced the scales,” he said.

The three were silent for a moment, considering the implications of that. Each of them knew that Ralor-Kanj’s golden scales were linked to the balance within the mortal world, and whatever happened to one would affect the other.

Their thoughts were interrupted by a drawn-out scream from Vrenid-Malchor, and they turned to face him again. “Is there anything we can do for him?” Talri-Pekra shouted.

“No, but we needed to be here for the others. They’ll be confused and need our help after they split,” Dranj-Aria replied.

Cracks appeared in the kneeling god’s skin, and a blinding light shone through. His screaming continued without pause, and Ralor shut his eyes, wishing that someone could at least ease his pain. Suddenly, the screaming stopped, and the entire pavilion was saturated with a pure white glow for a second. Once the light faded, the three standing could make out four forms lying on the floor, clustered around the spot Vrenid-Malchor had been moments before.

One, a dark-skinned woman wearing a clingy, web-like dress of some golden material, stirred faintly and groaned. A stocky, brown-haired man wearing hunter’s garb slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, and squinted around the place. Another man, tanned and tall with broad shoulders, simply lay on the floor staring upwards. The fourth, a younger man with pale skin and rather fluffy auburn hair, was the first on his feet, and stumbled into Dranj-Aria’s arms. “Mum,” he whispered as she caught him.

She held him close, stroking his hair flat and murmuring words of comfort into his ear. “Call the others. They needed to know what’s happening,” she told Ralor-Kanj.

“Does this mean I’ll get to see my mum again too?” came a little voice from behind them.

Ralor turned to see Aikra-Lora standing there, eyeing the four newly-reformed gods. “Yes, I suppose it does. Would you stay a moment and help these three? I need to fetch the rest,” he said.

She nodded, and made her way across to the woman on the floor. “You must be Venri. Mum told me a lot about you before she went away.”

Venri sat up, gently encouraged by the youngster. “Your mum... Alrin-Fora, yes, I remember her. You... Aikra-Lora, you were even littler the last time I saw you,” she said slowly. “What happened? The last thing I remember was being pulled here against my will...”

“We all got merged together,” said the man still lying on the floor. “Forced into one being by the humans, because their beliefs changed. “You, me, Alch, and Renir over there,” he waved towards the stocky man who Talri-Pekra was speaking softly to. “I remember... there are flashes, bits of the last few years... how long has it been?”

“Almost two centuries now, Chor,” came a leaden voice. Fakro-Umdar had arrived in the pavilion. “When Ralor said you had all returned, I wasn’t certain I believed it. I suppose this means the rest will be back soon?”

Dranj-Aria nodded. “They all started coming back the day Vrenid-Malchor broke apart. Of course, someone already woke Rolar-Triak a few months ago...”

“Chaos is back?” all except Talri-Pekra exclaimed.

“Uh-huh, weren’t you following the mortal drama last year? They’d started up old cults again, the Mistress and Chaos, plenty were already worshipping Alrin-Fora again, so she was back a couple of weeks from now, if I remember right; I think even old Baltakor started getting a following again and rejoined us soon,” Dranj-Aria said. “You really should keep up with the mortals more, you might have a better idea what was going on.”

A grating laugh rang through the pavilion. “I know, right? Did you see the dragon battles over Tewen a few months back? So much glorious pain, so many grieving families,” Somri-Galin said, an ecstatic smile on his lips.

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about that,” said Ralor, returning behind the god of suffering. “I know it’s your thing, but still,” he jerked his head towards Aikra-Lora and the newly returned gods. “A little sensitivity now and then would be appreciated.”

“Oh, don't be such a killjoy. Besides, haven't you got a wayward brother to go chasing after?”

Ralor-Kanj tipped his head back, eyes closed in exhaustion as he mumbled to himself. “He’s only been back five minutes and I’m sick of him already. I suppose he is my responsibility though,” he sighed as he turned to the rest. “If the others are returning, someone will have to be here at all times to welcome them back. I suggest we take it in turns, and keep watch for those more likely to cause harm. You know the ones I mean.”

“We shall watch for our brother, and keep him in check as we always have,” came the leaden tones of Fakro-Umdar. He stalked over to Somri-Galin and clapped a not entirely friendly hand on his shoulder. “I am, of course, what follows them both. Sometimes they need reminding of that fact.”

Ralor nodded. Of the three – war, suffering and death – Fakro-Umdar was the most reasonable, if only because he lacked the others’ impatience. He also had some degree of control over their more sadistic impulses, which Ralor could respect even if he didn’t like it much. “I will take care of Chaos, and Mother if she also decides to rejoin us.”

“When can we expect them to begin arriving?” Talri-Pekra said, turning towards Dranj-Aria.

The time goddess grinned. “It wasn’t that simple. Some of them are going to appear elsewhere, and others didn’t remember what they were, so couldn’t have come here until one of us goes to find them. Then of course, the others interfered, and there’ll be the old deal to consider. You needed to figure out how that thing works,” she pointed over to the vision orb Vrenid-Malchor had so closely guarded, now dark and empty as its master was no more. “Once you got it up and running again, it’s going to be simple to keep track of who’s returning and where. Off to your library, Talri,” she wiggled her fingers.

Talri-Pekra vanished so abruptly that the air currents ruffled everyone’s hair. Renir, who she had been talking to, gravitated towards Chor and the two began talking quietly. From the snatches of conversation that drifted across the pavilion, Ralor-Kanj thought they were trying to separate who’s memories of the last couple of centuries were whose. Aikra-Lora disappeared with Venri, talking about Wirba and Astator, while Dranj-Aria settled onto a puffy chair that hadn’t been there a moment ago, catching her son Alch up with recent events. With things at least vaguely under control for now, he left the pavilion himself to begin searching for his brother. There would be no point in trying to restore any semblance of balance to anything until Chaos was contained once more.

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