#I still have so so little energy... it's been icy here this week. like not even FUN but just scary icy even thoguh i lOOOVE the cold

[icewindandboringhorror]

sneeping with his legs up over his head for some reason... weird boye

[imaginesmai]

Promises to keep - Azriel

You've been happy for too long here is your daily dosis of angst. Part two already written and will be posted in a few days!

Plot: while you are held in a rotten cell, Azriel asks you to promise him something you can't. Because no matter how much he wishes it wasn't true, there was little you wouldn't do for your mate.

Warnings: blood and violence. Kind of graphic.

Azriel had stopped counting the days, the hours stuck on that cell. He had given up around the second week, when he realized losing mental strength over the time wasn’t worthy. Now, the only time keeping him partly sane was the constant drip of water from the corner of the room. When the thoughts were too overwhelming, when the pain wouldn’t let him breath, he focused on the steady drip and tried to drift away.

The cell was cold, almost icy. The clothes he had been wearing when they took him weren’t warm enough – and yet he had given away his jacket, claiming he was fine as he tried to control the chills that rocked his body. It now laid over your body, tucked close to his chest.

It had taken him two days to convince you to take it, and only when you shivered so hard it wouldn’t let any of you sleep, you did.

“Don’t take it off” he begged you when they took him away. “Keep yourself safe”

It had worked so far, because Azriel put enough of a fuss when they approached you that they decided to punish him instead. Other times, it didn’t work, and the jacket came back stained with your blood when they threw you back in.

He felt the first tear of many roll down his cheek, matching the drip of the corner. He tried to keep his body still, not to let you know that he was breaking down again.

But as always, you turned in his arms and caught the tear with the tip of your raw finger. Azriel looked down to your bruised face, that hadn’t healed yet, and his throat constricted around a cry. The soft touch against his own bruises and cuts felt underserving.

“Hey” you whispered, breaking the sinister silence of the cell. Straightening against his hold, you turned so you could face him and held back the groan of pain. “We agreed there would be no tears”

“I know”

It was a silly promise, one neither of you had kept so far.

“I’m okay” you tried to convince him, but your voice was tired, and he knew. “Don’t waste your energy worrying. I’m fine”

“Y/N”

His voice was broken, just like his body. He had always been the strong one, the person who held his ground against torture and pain, who inflicted torture and pain. But with you there, with the life of his mate in the line, he crumbled like a paper boat against the water. Azriel had managed to keep it together for the first two weeks – by the time he stopped counting the time, he had broken down in the night.

If your captors would tell you what they wanted, if they made demands, Azriel knew it would be over for him the moment they put a hand on you. But they hadn’t so far – and that was the worst part. Not knowing what they wanted or why they took you, not being able to consider if the information they wanted was dangerous enough to risk your safeties. He knew he would give them anything by that point.

“They will be coming for us” you repeated like a mantra, over and over again.

Azriel didn’t doubt Rhysand and Cassian were shaking the word to find you, he just doubted they would be able to.

“I need you to promise to never do that again” he started, thinking about the previous hours. “Never, Y/N”

“You know I can’t, baby” the corner of your mouth lifted sadly. “You would have done the same”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t –“ he choked out, the urge of making you understand seeping through his words and body.

“Can’t protect you like you protect me? That’s what you want me to promise?” you cut him off. “To promise you to stay still while they drag you away once more, with those terrible promises?”

“Yes” he hissed, feeling anger, guilt and many other feelings he couldn’t talk about in his chest. “I can handle it. You being hurt? That I can’t do. And they know they can get anything out of me with it. So next time they barge in, please Y/N, please, just… don’t”

“I could ask you the same thing. Would you promise me that, hm?”

That morning, or what Azriel could guess was morning based on the meals they brought, the masked fae had opened the cell before you woke up. Azriel had brushed the sleep fast when he saw them, asking the same questions he had repeated many times before. Who were they, what did they want, where were you, why did they take you. He made demands too, repeated so many times he had learned them by heart. To let you go, to keep him so he could be useful, to have a blanket and more food.

Only silence followed them, and the realization of what they were about to do.

His inner demons, the crumbling fear of his past, had stilled him enough time for you to wake up and come to the same realization. A tall woman carried oil and matches, and a sickening smile on her face. Another fae laughed behind her, deep and masculine, when he saw his face. Before Azriel could finish processing what was happening, you copied his actions from the past. Jumped on the woman who carried the oil, assuring Azriel wouldn’t be the one taken that day.

And no matter how much he had screamed his throat raw, how many fingers he had broken trying to break through the bars, he couldn’t stop it. He would damn those seconds of panic and tightness the rest of his life.

For any answer, Azriel gripped softly your elbow, careful of not moving your burnt hand. The pink skin was raw, the first blisters breaking through.

“I would have preferred them to burn me alive” he confessed, staring at your hands.

“This is not your fault. Any of it”

“Feels a lot like it is” he scoffed, not lifting his eyes. “You need to promise me that. I can’t – if they, if it happens again…”

“Baby, look at me” you begged him, but he didn’t concede. “Az”

Nicknames rolled down your tongue easily, like they had always done. Something about you calling him baby warmed his heart each and every time, the way his name tasted so good on your lips. Azriel squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his face contouring in sorrow. They had broken his leg, pierced his wings, beaten him senseless. Still, the sight of your burnt hands, knowing the similarities with his own, was what broke him.

“I’m sorry” he cried out, shoulders shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry”

You didn’t answer, only fell against his chest and let him hug you.

The flames licking up your skin hours ago didn’t feel half as bad as hearing Azriel sob. You contained down your own tears, days of torment seeming endless. You were scared, too, mostly for Azriel. Because, since you both had woken up in that cell, he had taken every possible beating and lashing so that they wouldn’t touch you. And you noticed, smelt, the blood on him when he was brought back. Feared the day he wouldn’t wake up.

The faebane in the food you were fed kept the shadows away, but some of his power was still available and circled your ankles. The panic and guilt he felt was palpable through the watered bond, and in the way he pressed against your bruises without noticing.

“We will make it out” you promised him that, or tried to. “They will come. I know”

He only cried in response. Azriel, your tough, brave mate who tortured people for a living, broke in a dark cell that night. He sobbed until his throat was raw and couldn’t mutter any more apologies, cradled your burned hands as if they pained him more than you. He let his broken wings cover you both until you could pretend you were back in Velaris, in your wide bed, hiding from the world.

Dinner was pushed through the bars and you didn’t miss how Azriel held you tighter, even if he knew they wouldn’t come back until the next day.

“Please” he begged once more. “Please, don’t do that again”

The moment you had seen the oil, had guessed their intentions, you were done for. You would have gladly let them burn your whole arms if that meant they would leave Azriel alone. It had hurt, and you didn’t want to think about it, but Azriel was barely hanging by a thread and you would do anything to keep that thread hanging.

When, a few hours later, the cell opened again, you both turned your heads to meet the only male who talked out of your captors. He was tall, ridiculously tall, thin and with long arms that hung loosely. He wasn’t threatening at all, at least he didn’t seem like it. But you intuitively cowered against his presence, and Azriel intuitively hugged you closer.

His onyx eyes were deep pools of nothing, of wisdom and age that had you doubting Rhysand or Cassian would find you. They moved between Azriel and you, earning a growl from the earnest. If he could, you knew he would get up and fight him. Would try, like many other times, to fight his way out. But there was a reason why he had begged you to stay put, why they had the chance to take you.

Azriel’s left shoulder was broken, his arm only twitching and covered in blood. His wings had been ripped to shreds and were healing too slowly. And his legs, sprawled on the ground, had been twisted and sprained too many times.

“You’re losing your charm” he commented, his lip curling in disgust at the sight of Azriel. “I was tempted to think you would be dead by now. One of you”

“Why don’t you come closer and try to kill me yourself?” Azriel hissed, his good arm curled possessively around your waist.

“Oh, I wouldn’t. My friends are doing a mighty job at that”

“And who are your friends?”

It was a common question. When the male had first appeared in the cell, Azriel had bombarded him with questions that had been ignored. But that day, the male looked between you and Azriel, and tilted his head.

“Let’s trade answers, shadowsinger. I will answer your questions as long as you answer mine” he rocked slightly on his feet, the only indication he was curious. “Where does that power come from? What makes you worthy of wielding it?”

“Mine first. Who are you?”

Azriel had been conscious for a long time, considering the things he had gone through. Normally, he lasted conscious enough for you to try and clean his wounds and for him to promise that he was fine. Then, maybe giving his body a day to rest had accelerated his healing process. Still, you felt his attention rapt and alert as the male considered answering or not.

It felt wrong. He could easily pry the answers out of him. Azriel himself had sworn to answer and give anything when you were in their hands. And still, he only pursed his lips.

“I hope you are smart enough to understand that I cannot give you my true name” he smiled apologetically, as if he was truly capable of feeling anything. “But to answer your question, I could say I am someone interested in your powers. Where does it come from?”

“If you want me to talk, you better give me a real answer” Azriel cut back. “You’ve burned my mate’s hands. Beaten her, cut her. Why”

“Because it is funny what love can make out of powerful people” the male looked at you without dropping his smile. “You are powerful enough to kill any of those fae. To break down this place and destroy it from the inside out. But knowing your mate is here too? Love can undermine so much power. May I?”

Azriel’s grunt of pain almost developed in a scream of pain when he stepped on his broken knee. Blood seeped on the ground and bones creaked under his weight. Still, Azriel only threw his head back and bit down his agony, not willing to move away and expose you any further.

The edge of his boot pressed farther on his wound. Proof of how badly hurt Azriel was, was the lack of movement of his foot. His leg had been so brutalized that he couldn’t even move it to step away from danger.

Your heart rose to your throat and you broke another promise you had made to Azriel the first time you woke up in that cell. Don’t show them. Promise me you won’t show them. Let them think I’m the strong one, I’m the one they can’t break. Promise me, darling.

When Azriel lost his breath and his chest stilled from pain, you couldn’t control the sudden urge of power that broke through the room. Without moving from his grasp, that was now painful against your waist, you filled that room with light and threw the man off your mate.

His back hit the wall with a sickening crunch, and if he had been human just like his smell suggested, he would have died. But he didn’t.

He only looked at you with bloody tears on his eyes and dark stains on his ears.

“Oh my! Oh, how wonderful!” the male chuckled. Laughed. His chest trembled with joy as his broken body stared at you from the other side of the room.

You realized that he had been talking about you. About your power, that you had thought was well hidden. You didn’t bother stopping to think how pointless the torments Azriel had endured for its sake had been then, knowing that thought would haunt you back.  

Not using your burned hands for support, you raised by Azriel’s side. The faebane wasn’t enough to keep it hidden, since it wasn’t from this world. It only dulled your senses and dimmed the mate bond. But now that it had been set free, your power roared at you to let it go. To wrack that place to ashes and kill them all.

You stopped yourself when you got on your feet. Azriel, still out of breath, gripped your calf and looked up at you with terror. He knew what they had done to your parents, what they did to your kind. Why you were the only one left, and how precious you were to them. All of that paled in comparison of you being his mate.

You could havoc that place, but your power was destructive enough to risk his life. And that made the light of the room dim.

“You’re – you’re wonderful. I had heard rumors, but this! Look at this!” the man kept talking, but you could only look at Azriel. He begged you silently to run, to use that opportunity to flee. “We’re going to be amazing friends, my darling. The best of friends!”

“Sir?”

Standing next to the open door, three pair of eyes stared at you. Your tormenters looked between the remains of light at the tips of your burnt fingers and their fallen master, who wouldn’t stop smiling. Panic rose like bile when you realized what you had done. What he had done to make you do it.

You had only agreed to Azriel sacrificing himself because you knew if they discovered your powers and how much you cared about him, it would be worse. The sudden burst of power had left you dizzy, yet you were aware enough to notice that the male was healing way too fast. Way too powerful for a normal fae.

He pointed at you with a bloody smile, the onyx on his eyes not leaving any white left.

“Seize her”

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

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[jsprnt]

your husband loves taking care of you, especially when you're 35 weeks pregnant.

virgil van dijk x pregnant!reader

original request: love your work, could you write a pregnant!reader and Virgil? X

A/N: thank you! this one was so fun to write <3

W/C: 1.640

you shift into another position, again. The soft couch and cushions doing wonders for your back, but still, you couldn’t sleep in your favorite position. Just flat on your stomach, your swollen baby bump not even allowing you to sleep well at night, or take a nap in the quiet hours before dinner time. you felt like you were about to pop, but you still had five weeks to go before your estimated due date.

you had the gender reveal party, which consisted of your and virgil’s closest family members and friends. you both were having a babygirl, the nursery was already cutely designed with a pretty crib and dresser. the baby shower your friends surprised you with was thrown already a couple weeks ago, and not to forget the sweet babymoon virgil and you had gone on. the pretty islands in greece had been a beautiful sights to share with your husband.

the sound of a car parking in the driveway has you halting for a moment. your eyes drift over to the clock on your living room wall. it was past five in the evening already, which meant your husband had returned from training.

you slowly, but carefully get up from your position on the couch, sitting up instead. compression socks alleviating some of the swelling of your legs and feet, your eyes dart to the gray coffee table, full of- everything you could need when being half-immobile. tissues, multiple empty cups, a plate of lazily cut up pickles, a half eaten box of cookies-

“there’s my beautiful wife!” you suddenly hear, swollen, drowsy eyes looking towards your surprisingly very enthusiastic husband. his hands seemingly full of familiar takeout bags as he closes the front door to your home.

virgil’s high energy, even after his intensive training, manages to put a small smile on your face. you hear him take his coat off and wash his hands. so, you stand up, walking- no waddling towards him in the kitchen.

“hi, missed you..” you mumble, feeling him wrap his arm around your back, softly rubbing up and down your sides. you sigh in delight, leaning against his tall and muscular frame, resting your head on his chest. soft sweater grazing your sensitive skin.

“me too, baby.” he mutters, kissing your forehead tenderly.

“I got your favorite takeout. you’re hungry, right?” he asks, thumb rubbing your hips.

your eyes light up, and you nod eagerly. your pregnancy cravings were all over the place. from wanting your usual takeout, to a weird obsession with pickles and chocolate, and the most difficult of all: an icy, crispy red bull. since it wasn’t pregnancy-safe, you definitely didn’t risk it, but your mouth just watered at the thought of taking a sip of the carbonated, sweet energy drink.

“then let’s eat some food. I’m starving...” he says, guiding you to the kitchen island. he’d switched out the bar stools, shortly after your second trimester had started, exchanging them for chairs with a backrest, just for your comfort and convenience.

you watch him grab the takeout, unpacking the dishes.

“you got me the vegetarian one right?” you ask, raising your brows. virgil turns, nodding as he transfers stir fry noodles into a dish and slides it in front of you.

ever since you got pregnant, you detested the smell of meat. virgil being the sweet man he is, did research with his own nutritionist to see how you could still get all the vitamins and nutrients you needed without having to eat meat.

“here baby, eat up.” he mutters, giving you a fork, before walking towards the fridge. he grabs two cans of sparkling iced tea, coming back to sit next to you as you both dig into your meal.

“how was training?” you mumble, chewing down your food, maybe a little too fast.

“good, we were in the gym the entire day- slow down baby, the food isn’t going anywhere..” he chuckles, reaching into the takeout bag and retrieving the napkins. wiping sauce off the corner of your mouth with one.

you both continue eating the delicious food, Virgil’s hand soothingly running down your back every now and then.

“I’m going to take a quick shower.” he says, cleaning off the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.

“can I join? can’t get my hair wet though..”

“sure baby, let’s go.” he quickly says, helping you off the chair and into the bathroom.

“my legs have been killing me..” you mutter, watching virgil take your compression socks off. you were glad you didn’t need them on your hands, though your fingers had gotten pretty swollen. prompting virgil to gift you a chain you could hang your wedding ring on, to wear as a necklace instead.

you allow him to guide you into the shower, his hand settling on the small of your back in support. virgil chuckles deeply as he watches your makeup melt off with the touch of the streaming warm water. he made sure to put on your shower cap beforehand.

“you wore makeup? where did you go today?” he asks, allowing you to reach up and take off his hair tie, dark curls falling to the side of his face.

“went for brunch with the girls. it was so good..” you answer, allowing virgil to run the soapy washcloth down your body, making sure to clean you up nicely. paying extra attention to scrub your legs, since you couldn’t reach down, you needed his help more often than not.

grabbing a fresh towel, he wraps you in it. allowing you to walk out of the bathroom and sit on your bed. waiting for him wash himself.

that’s what you loved about him, he always put you first. whether it was you eating first, getting dressed, falling asleep, or anything at this point in your pregnancy.

you quickly grab your undergarments and loungewear, going back to sit on your bed. towel wrapped snuggly against your body, as you take off your shower cap and wipe the extra moisture on the towel.

you look up to see virgil walk out of the bathroom, towel hanging on his hips. you lean back, admiring him, a small smirk forming on your lips.

“what?” he asks, smirk clearly on his face too as he walks up to you.

“oh, nothing, just admiring what’s mine..”

“really? let me admire what’s mine too then..”

he cups your face as you look up, his wet hair falling in front of his face as a single drop of water drips down onto your cheek. a low chuckle leaving his lips as he swipes it away with his thumb.

he helps you get dressed before the two of you get too distracted, not forgetting to rub bio-oil and lotion on your bump and body. the both of you snuggling up together on the couch. your head laying on his broad chest, tatted arm wrapped around your back.

You pause for a moment, feeling your daughter kick against your uterus. you feel virgil’s hand running against your clothed bump, you place your own hand next to his. feeling her kick was still the most out of body experience to the both you. you could’ve sworn you felt the outlines of her little feet as she kicked like didn’t want you to rest tonight.

“active today, isn’t she?” your husband asks, kissing your temple.

“just like her daddy..” you raise your bows, grinning. the consequences of having an athlete as your partner.

“she’ll definitely be as beautiful as her mommy..” he responds, causing your grin to grow into a bright smile.

“what do you want to watch, hm?” he asks, looking down at you, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“love is blind, the new episode is out.”

he chuckles, his chest vibrating against your cheek as you watch him turn the tv on with the remote.

in the beginning of your relationship he wasn’t too keen on watching shows or movies like that, but the second there was some drama unfolding, he immediately got hooked and it became a thing you both did to wind down after busy days.

“wait- can you grab snacks?” you ask, looking up from his chest. you knew he couldn’t say no to you, because he looked like he had melted at the sight of your face already.

“your cravings are really going off the rails, aren’t they?” he asks, placing a kiss on your lips before slowly getting up.

“don’t see the problem!” you exclaim, looking over to see him open the kitchen cabinets and grab a bag of crisps and salty popcorn, transferring it into bowls before walking back over to you.

“here you go, for my hungry monster..” he teases, prompting you to roll your eyes playfully.

you both start watching the hour long episode, empty bowls on your lap by the end of it. though, you both don’t move from your spot on the couch, virgil’s hand soothing on your slightly aching, lower back.

“you okay?” he asks, your own hand resting on his bicep.

“back hurts a bit, baby’s getting heavy..” you mutter.

“I’m know, sorry love. do you need anything?” he asks, kissing your temple and rubbing your back more thoroughly. he had a tendency to ask what you wanted or needed, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“just- can I ask you something?” you begin, holding back a grin. he’d done enough to make you feel comfortable already.

“yeah?”

“would you mind if I broke your fingers during delivery?” you chuckle, having a laugh. knowing he would probably let you squeeze the absolute life out of his hands.

“of course, during delivery you can squeeze and cuss me out all you want..” he smiles, brushing his thumb against your baby bump.

you did cuss him out, but breaking his fingers, almost…

[saddestsquid]

First Miguel fic + 250+ follower special ୨୧

I’d like to start off by saying THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR ALMOST 300 FOLLOWERS !! And 2000+ notes?!? omg. I checked my inbox a few times and saw 99+ notifs every time, and when I tell you I SCREAMED. As a new writer I can’t thank you enough for all the notes and sweet comments ! I’m so grateful, so take this fic as a thank you <33

Warnings: Miguel is hinted to have slept with socks on which….is a trigger on its own apparently 😥, potentially botched ass Spanish……(no Google translate was used tho, my French teacher taught me better than that), p in v, making out, grinding, slight blood, reader has no chill nor filter but Miguels lowkey into it, degradation, bondage, banter, oral, praise, etc.

a/n: Takes place before the whole Miles incident !! I love Miguel but I can’t forgive him for doing that to my son 🤨🤨 This could also be imagined as König, since they’re both huge stubborn men <33

Pairing: Female reader x Miguel O’Hara 

Summary: Miguel is pent up and needs a release. Lucky for him, there’s a certain spider woman who’d do anything for him <3

Words: 4141 (DAMN I shocked myself w this)

. . .

Miguel runs his hand through his hair, grumbling when he feels it’s getting to a length that needs cutting again. Just another thing to add to his pile of responsibilities.

He pushes the fumbled blanket off to the side and lazily palms at his morning wood, finding the ministrations do little to help his raging hard-on. He’s shocked, mainly that he could still get one with how tense he’s been lately, but mostly that he’s actually annoyed that he has to jerk off. It feels like a chore to him now…though taking care of himself in any sense has since he became Spider-Man.

With a sleepy groan he drags himself up and to the bathroom. His mismatched socks are soft against the cool bathroom tiles where he turns on the shower. His muscles stretch when he tugs his white sweater over his head and tosses it onto the ground nearby, abs tensing and shoulders refusing to relax no matter how much stretching he did.

When the rest of his clothing join the heap on the floor he steps into the freezing cold shower, twitching at the icy droplets that felt like tiny icicles poking into his taut skin. 

He hoped the temperature would make the nuisance go down, but it raged on, standing proud at its full height. Miguel never thought he’d find himself glaring at his own dick, but here he was, horny and heavily pissed off. 

He reached down and tugged at his cock, rubbing his thumb over the angry red tip. He jerked profusely, yet all it did was leave him feeling unsatisfied and humiliated. 

“Fuck.” He cursed, washing his hand off before aggressively turning the knob to stop the flowing water. He tried to remember what he had to do today while pacing the bathroom, but he couldn’t focus with his erection clouding  his thoughts. Maybe if the blood would stay in his head…

He was an attractive guy, he knew that much. It would be easy to go out into the town and hook up with some stranger, but not so much so when he was in this constant sour mood. That sullen energy & resting bitch face paired with his looming height would scare any woman away.

Any sane woman.

You tied up the last of the criminals in your silky webs, smiling in victory. Unfortunately, the joy wasn’t long-lasting since as soon as you got home you felt boredom creeping up on you once again.

For weeks you’d been entertained by the intimidating founder of the spider society; Miguel O’Hara.You’d been bugging him for days on end, literally drooling at his feet and begging him to come back to your place.

He kicked you out multiple times, but like a cockroach you couldn’t be squashed—and neither could your need for him. You just couldn’t take a hint apparently. When he picked you up by the back of your suit and threw you back into your universe, all you focused on was how easily he carried you with just one of his big, veiny hands.

The way that suit hugged his defined chest so well, and his massive arms where you could see every vein…plus that prominent bulge? You were sunk.

He’d finally run out of patience for you when you ‘accidentally’ messed with the tech for his suit, almost making him go full commando in front of everyone in the spider society.(wouldn’t be the last time that happened…) He banned you for good, taking away your ‘multiversal gizmo’ without a second thought.

Your last words being ‘worth it!’ as you were flung back into your universe by the go-home-machine seemed like the icing on the cake to him despising you forever, but apparently that wasn’t the case because the man himself just appeared in your living room.

“Y/N.” He addressed nonchalantly.

You stared at him, jaw agape for a few moments before pinching yourself to see if you were dreaming. You had to be, he basically filed a restraining order against you. A really complicated, multiversal restraining order. Why  would he ever voluntarily come to you?

You couldn’t even respond since your throat felt so dry .. . It seemed your body had other ideas of where to soak.

“Why are you so obbsesed with me?” He suddenly asked, paying no mind to your awkward silence. 

“uhm-“

“I mean, you chased me around every day, eyed me down so intensively it was basically public sex and yet here you are, alone with me like you wanted, and now you’re speechless?” He stalked around your living room, circling you like a bird of prey.

You blushed up a storm and stood frozen in front of him, trying to discretely rub your thighs together.

He eyed you down, noticing your obvious ministrations but only chuckling. “Sometimes I had wished you were an actual spider so I could crush you under the soles of my shoes, but lately I’ve found myself feeling as horny and desperate as you.” He admitted with a smirk that revealed his sharpened fangs. 

That confession had your mind reeling to the point all you could muster up was; “I would’ve let you step on me regardless.”

His smirk grew and he started to approach you until his shadow covered you completely. You had to tilt your whole head up to look him in his glowing red eyes now—but you couldn’t handle making the eye contact anyway.

“You are just a small little thing, yet I didn’t expect you to be all bark no bite. All those filthy things you said lingered in my mind..don’t you want to take care of what you started?” He asked in a deliciously low voice. The almost mocking manner he said it in made you feel called out, and you looked down at your hands and picked at your nails to try and calm yourself.

A clawed finger tilted your head up by the chin and forced you to look into his eyes. How could you forget—in all your time spent basically stalking him you noticed how he never broke eye contact with anyone that he was speaking to. It was both exhilarating and intimidating to see, and you felt that full force while finally being on the receiving end of it. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, arañita.” He ordered, and it sent tingles shooting up your spine.

You swore you heard your neck crack from how fast you looked up at him. He looked predatory staring down at you like that, eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “So? Will you finish what you started muñeca?” He asked, as if it was even a question to you.

“Fuck yes.” You agreed without missing a beat, making him chuckle darkly. “Needy thing.”

Before your mind could catch up you were suddenly being lifted by him and thrown on his shoulder with ease. He walked through the halls of your cozy apartment and waltzed into your bedroom without even searching for it, carelessly throwing you onto the bed.

You landed with a bounce on the soft comforter, feeling even smaller now with him standing above you. “Wha- how do you know where my bedroom is?” You asked when your brain finally decided to have a rational thought. 

“I’ve done my research—wanted to make sure you weren’t a spy. It was a waste of time, really, you’re just a horny stalker.” He shrugged.

You stared at him with an offended expression (tho it was 100% true) and went to argue until your lips were suddenly sealed by sticky red webs.

 “On your back.” He ordered. 

You crossed your arms at him first until he repeated the command in a low, dangerous voice. “Now.” Any defiance you had pretended to have quickly left your body and you laid down flat on the silk sheets.

He stalked over to you, all big and menacing as always. He leaned over you and forced your wrists together, twirling more glowing silk around them until they were bound above your head. 

He smirked down at you, leaning in to pepper kisses all over your neck. He sucked dark hickeys onto the sensitive skin of your throat, enjoying your muffled moans. While before he found your voice excruciating—he was now desperate to hear it crying out his name.

He stripped the webs off your mouth and you whined at the pain. The feeling resembled a bandaid being ripped off a fresh cut. He cooed pitifully above you and leaned in, whispering “Pobre araña, why don’t I kiss it better?” 

You nodded desperately until his lips met yours with a slight sting. He growled into your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and exploring your mouth until you were squirming. He nibbled on your bottom lip, sharp canines threatening to break the skin. He pushed his muscled thigh between your legs and pressed down on your clit with his knee, the pressure making you moan under him. Your sweet sounds drove him wild, and he couldn’t help but bite down lightly on your lip until tiny droplets of blood dripped onto his tongue.

He groaned at the taste, his animalistic split-DNA going wild. When he pulled back—lips reddened, hair tussled and fallen slightly in front of his face— you couldn’t help but stare. His face looked so much more chiseled up close, cheekbones perfectly defined and a jawline sharper than the claws currently resting on your hips. 

His toned chest rose up and down steadily while he regained his breath, the familiar spider symbol on his suit growing bigger then smaller with each rise of his lungs like it was breathing. 

“Let’s take care of these, Cariño.” He addressed your clothing as if it were nothing but a nuisance for him before slicing your shirt right off you. He did this with ease, big claws moving onto your bottoms and clawing those off as well.

“Hey! Those were nice.” You pouted, though apparently he didn’t appreciate that comment because you were now being tied up even worse than before. Webs spewed from his wrist and circled your body like serpents, tying around your waist, arms, and thighs. “Don’t be a brat.” He ordered, webs tightening in warning. Once satisfied, he admired the way they looked pulled taut against your soft skin. “Red looks lovely on you, amor.” He praised, a quick switch from his previous comment.

He lifted you and reached behind your back, unclasping your bra with one hand. He threw it onto the ground somewhere with your torn up clothes, focusing his attention on your soft tits.

He hummed in content, playing with your nipples and letting his webs circle around the soft flesh of your breasts. He licked and sucked at one while tugging on the other, making you moan and squirm under him.

“Fuck Miguel- ah! more!” You whined desperately, coaxing a chuckle out of the behemoth. 

“Such a desperate slut.” He tutted, sucking marks all over your chest to match your throat. He kissed over the already forming hickeys, grazing his teeth dangerously close to your jugular. This man was massive, and made of pure muscle like a Greek god. He could easily hold you down without the help of his webs, but he wanted to focus full attention on you. 

He finally moved down to where you needed him most, going to rip your panties straight off you before you rudely slammed your thighs shut. “You take off your suit first….” You whined, embarrassed at being nearly completely nude before him while he was still covered. He was genuinely offended by this, feeling like he’d just had a door slammed on his face, yet he grumbled and messed around with his watch until the hologram started to dissipate.

Your jaw dropped wider and wider the more you took him in. The man resembled a skillfully carved statue belonging to Olympus itself. His biceps and abs were enough to challenge even Ares himself. Your eyes trailed lower and lower, leisurely mapping him out until your eyes locked on the weapon between his legs.

His dick stood loud and proud against his toned stomach, and it was massive. The man is 6,9, you knew he’d be big, but this thing was around 9 inches and looked like it could rip you in half. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it even if you tried—I mean—the thing was basically introducing itself to you. We’re talking hello, how are you and goodbye.

Miguel basked in your ogling, his ego swelling more than it already had since he first noticed your obsession with him.

You finally snapped out of your trance when he bent down and slipped off your soaked panties, kissing up your leg as he did so. You spread both your legs for him and he took that as an invitation to lean in and lick a stripe up your wet cunt. You jumped, not expecting him to get into it so quickly, but you definitely didn’t complain.

He prodded a finger at your hole and pushed it in slowly, holding your hips down with his free hand. He made sure to be mindful of the claws adorning his fingertips since they wouldn’t go back down thanks to his clouded mind. The thick digit went in without much resistance thanks to how wet you were, until he pushed in a second and started scissoring them. 

You moaned and whimpered at the stretch, two of his thick fingers the size of nearly four of yours. He pumped them in and out quickly, the slick sounds your pretty hole made for him music to his ears. Your slick dripped down his ring and middle fingers that he was ruthlessly pumping inside you and dribbled down his veiny forearm.

He massaged your walls and pushed against them, scissoring his fingers to stretch you as much as possible. He couldn’t hit your g-spot thanks to his clawed fingertips, so he sucked at your clit to fill that extra stimulation until your head was rolling back. 

Something circled your waist and you figured it was his arm until you looked back down to see more webs. You would wriggle far too much without them, and he needed his other hand to spread your folds to drag a mix of his salvia and your slick around your twitching clit. You mewled at the overwhelming stimulation, bucking onto his face while he had a full on make out sesh with your pussy.

Only when he finally sunk four fingers into you and you were basically on the brink of tears with need did he pull away. Not without blowing on your sensitive clit, of course, just to see you twitch and squirm under the unrelenting grasp of his webs.

He stood up with a playful smile, freeing you from some of the webs just to pull you to the edge of the bed. Your ass met his pelvis with a slap when he yanked you by the ankle that quickly locked around his waist. He chuckled out something in Spanish that you didn’t understand, maybe along the lines of “Qué bonita putita…”. You didn’t bother to question it when he started to grind his rock hard dick on your drooling pussy, getting him all nice and wet to push into you. 

Only when he was coated completely in your essence did he listen to your pleas and finally line his fat tip up at your hole. Even with the all the stretching, your poor cunt had to stretch to accommodate the swollen red tip. His pre-cum mixed with your juices when it finally popped in after some resistance, and he groaned at the warm feeling.

“So fucking tight, your poor pussy can’t take it, hm? You were so confident when you were begging for it like a desperate whore.” He growled, degradation making you clench Impossibly tighter around his head until he had to bite back a groan.

“Please Mig, I can take it.” You begged, rutting your hips onto him and trying to coax him deeper until he swiftly grabbed your waist. His claws dug into your skin, threatening to break through. He pulled back and you immediately assumed he was going to tease you again for being desperate. 

Straight away you whined out apologies, stumbling over your words and pleas until he suddenly slammed back inside you, cramming 5 of his solid inches into your hole. You screamed, tears brimming on your waterline at the stretch. Your back arched off the bed and you squirmed away from the sting until he pulled back and rutted back in again, almost as if testing the waters.

With every drag of his hips his cock slowly got deeper into you until he was bottomed out completely. His tip kissed against your cervix and you looked down, amazed and horrified to see him crammed inside you so snugly. He gave you a moment to compose yourself—preoccupied on the bulge in your lower stomach. 

“My good girl, fitting around me so perfectly. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He teased, dick twitching at the fucked out moan you gave in response.

It definitely was hard, yet his dick was harder. You could feel every single vein and ridge pressing into you, rubbing against your gummy walls in a way that left you drooling. You suddenly understood why he’d prepped you for so long. It wasn’t just to tease you, this just was not an easy thing to take. 

“Move,” you pleaded, correcting youself when he raised an eyebrow, “please.”

He hummed, palming at the fat of your hips to see the way your skin sunk under his touch. “I don’t know Cariño…do you really deserve this dick?” 

You gave him your best “are you for real?” face. This man was not about to make you beg when he was the one to randomly show up in your home. You’d been begging on your knees for him for months, and now he chooses to acknowledge it?

You made it your personal mission to go against everything he’s ever ordered from you, and the grind never does stop, does it?

“Like you deserve to kiss my ass?” You jest without hesitation. 

You can see the way his whole face stretches; clearly dumbfounded at your response before he’s able to compose himself. With your cunt wrapped around him so tight and warm like that, it’s easy to forget the pretty spider underneath him is a little rascal.

“You were just whining a second ago, don’t try that,” He warned. “You’ve been begging for it for months, practically humping my leg in front of the entire Arachno-Humanoid-Poly-Universe.” 

You groaned at his insistence on calling it that, even while balls deep inside you. “I didn’t sign up to fuck a geek,” you mutter.

“With the way you approached me I’m sure you’d fuck just about anyone, puta.”

You wanted to be insulted, but your words caught in your throat when he leaned close to you to whisper right into your ear; “Quit acting like you had any dignity in the first place and beg.”

His warm breath on your nape left you shivering. Miguel wasn’t human—not completely. With DNA mixed with a spiders, he was a predator; one ready to devour you whole.

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone really when you gradually let quiet pleas spill from your mouth. Miguel had half the mind to make you speak up, but he was loosing his thin amount of patience as is. With a satisfied click of his tongue, he pulled back until his flushed head was right at your entrance “see, was that so hard?”

You knew better than to try and answer at this point when he rammed his cock back into you. Huge hands gripped your thighs and pushed your legs into your chest while he bullied his dick further and further into your cunt. 

Your pussy was embarrassingly loud for him, squelching with each brutal thrust of his hips. His muscled thighs were tense with the pure strength he put into slamming into you—beating your sensitive pussy in until it memorized his shape for life. 

“Mig- ah! Holyfuck!” You screamed, draping your arms over his shoulders and scratching at his back like a cat post.

“Go on princesa, mark me up.” He encouraged and got a better grip on your thighs, pushing your legs out to a full spread. He had you displayed like a dinner feast and bent you like a lawn chair with your lower half on his toned chest. He was actually impressed at your flexibility, yet like always he chose the worst way to phrase it.

“I’m shocked, I never expected you to do any real training.” 

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what you’ve been wanting, is it not?” He gloated with such a shit-eating expression that you just had to wipe off his face. He sunk deeper into you when you pulled him in for a kiss and it had you clenching around him.

His thrusts got more erratic until your mind was clouded with only the sounds of his dick disappearing into your cunt. His hands were dragging you back onto him by the hips at the same time, so you could feel him bumping against your cervix with each thrust.

You were too fucked out to say anything other than broken moans and mewls of his name, and he wasn’t too far off.

“So pretty Cariño,” he groaned, “all for me? mierda- yeah, all for me.”

A string of loud mewls along with shameless moans poured out of your bruised lips in response. He pounded your pussy with so much vigour that you edged forward on the ruffled mattress with each rough thrust.

He massaged your throbbing clit between his fingers, laughing at the way they kept slipping around from how much of your own arousal was dripping down your cunt. Heavy balls slapping against your soft skin filled your ears when you felt that coil in your stomach start to snap.

“Pussys gripping me like a fucking vice- you gonna cum for me?” he teased, “look baby- look at how well this sweet little pussys taking me.”

He took your hand and lead it down until it was tracing the prominent bump in your stomach - You could feel every brutal thrust and see the way he ravaged your insides. You pressed down on it, getting impossibly tighter around him and the broken moan he let out was what got you.

He quickly tore a mind-numbing orgasm out of you - thick cockhead still splitting you open while he worked your clit. You soaked his cock and squeezed against it, shaking and crying under him until you could barely take it anymore. 

He smiled in pride, sharp fangs showing and making him resemble the waiting mouth of a shark. “Such a good fucking girl, coming all over me like that. Look at the mess you’ve made,” he hummed, observing the noticeable white ring you left around the base of his cock. 

His thrusts stuttered before stilling completely inside you. He made a noise akin to an animal before spilling his hot cum inside your welcoming heat with a shudder and a broken moan.

“Mfhm- mierda.. .” He cursed, his warmth filling you up so much it started to spill out.

You felt like a rag doll under him, half-asleep and smiling dumbly up at him. He chuckled and admired one last time how pretty you looked in his glowing red webs, wrapped around you like his own custom lingerie. 

He sliced them off you and smiled warmly when you raised your arms out to him. He leaned in to let you wrap your arms around his massive shoulders with your legs now wrapping around his waist.

He picked you up with you curled into him like a koala - the warm sensation of his cum dripping down your connected bodies grounding you while he walked to your bathroom. 

He pressed soft kisses to your marked up-neck while he ran a warm bath, rubbing at the indents his claws subconsciously left on your hips. 

You didn’t remember exactly when you fell asleep; somewhere between when his large hands washed the cum off your skin or when he gently laid you down on your fresh bedsheets. 

All you knew was that you woke up to the smell of clean laundry and noticed snacks and a water bottle left on your nightstand. There was a note too that you had to reach over to grab. His handwriting was smudged but fancy, and it was so adorably him that it left you smiling ear to ear. 

“Had to leave early. Meet me in my office tomorrow and we’ll discuss how you’ll be living in my universe from now on ,seeing as how you’re now mine, mi vida.” 

. . .

[piratesfromspace]

The Escape (Joel/Reader)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rated: Explicit Word count: 2.9k Summary: You've been captured by slavers and thrown into the same cell as Joel. Note: I've been through a severe lack of energy and inspiration, but here is my take on Joel, featuring some sweet smut of course! This happens roughly 10 years after the Outbreak, so Joel would be in his 40s and Reader is in her 20s. Content: hurt/comfort, smut, almost-virginity loss, p-i-v, praise kink, alcohol, overall canon typical violence

MASTERLIST

When you’re thrown into his cell - an old bathroom, all broken tiles and rusted pipes - Joel gets tense, hand clenching harder on the shiv he improvised a couple days ago. He has no idea what the slavers are plotting. He’s been held in here for maybe one week now, hard to tell when the days are blending into each other, long boring hours only punctuated by a bottle of water and some food left on the floor without a word.

He knows his worth is in his strength and the slavers have no interest in letting him starve to death - that’s the only positive thing in his whole ordeal. He can’t believe he’s been stupid enough to let himself be captured. But he had reacted one second too late, and there were too many, and here he is, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. 

You land hard on your knees, unable to stop your pathetic fall on the hard floor, as the door of the cell is closed shut once again. He watches, ready to strike, as you scramble to get back in a sitting position - and then you finally notice him, standing tall in one of the corners, the glint of something undoubtedly lethal in the hand he’s hiding behind him. You try to get up on your feet, but your muddy boots are sliding on the tiles, your legs shaking with the effort - you’re clearly exhausted. Your hands are bound behind your back, leaving you with very little option. You push yourself back until the wall hits your shoulders, until you have nowhere else to go. 

Joel is assessing your form very calmly, a stark contrast with the frantic terror pinching your brows. You look young, younger than him for sure, body lean from years of privation (like everyone else now), and he’s sure you could be mistaken for a teenager from afar - maybe you were when the Outbreak happened 10 years ago, but he can see the way your eyes are sunk, the fine skin under them puffy from a decade-worth of bad sleep and dirty conscience. Nah, you may be a child of the Apocalypse, but you’re definitely old enough to realize you’re in a shitty situation. Something like pity tugs at his heart - or more like recognition, the fire in your gaze despite the fear washing over your features, the will to push through the tiredness, the need to fight until the very end, even cornered and tied up. A mirror handed to him of what he was like at your age.

Maybe you can be useful, you can help him escape, surely you know a trick or two, or you wouldn’t have been able to survive this long - he tries to convince himself that’s the reason why he helps you. Why he walks up to you, crouches in front of your scared face and orders you to turn around. He has to repeat himself because you don’t want to listen but he does his best to not sound as harsh as usual, and finally, you understand and offer him your bound hands. He tugs on the dirty scrap of fabric, unties the knot with skillful fingers. He takes hold of your wrists before you can even move your arms, and for a second you feel the icy stab of panic and treason in your throat. Since when do you trust strangers? 

“Easy there…” his warm voice rumbles in your back “Guess you’ve been like this for more than an hour, ‘gonna hurt if you move too fast.” he explains, while bringing slowly your hands in front of you. He’s right, you hiss a pained fuck when your shoulders protest at the change in position. He’s freaking close, his chest almost flush to your back, the rough skin of his palms still on your wrists. He suddenly lets go of you, gets up on his feet, and you turn on your knees to face him. He looks older than you, his temples already turning to gray. There is a gravity in his expression, like he stopped smiling 10 years ago and never did it again since - but still you catch a distant warmth in his soft brown eyes, behind his steely demeanor. His whole persona is a mix of hard and soft, exposed forearms showing off the chords of his muscles under a skin littered with scars, contrasting with the mundane patchy beard and the soft curls on his nape. He’s kinda handsome in his own way, even though he looks like someone who can do ugly things.

—

That’s the beginning of your cooperation. You had helped him, baiting the guard in pretending to be sick, and then he had used the makeshift knife to slit his throat, without so much as a second of hesitation. You remember the bright red blood spilling on the dirty tiles, staining the dried grout vermilion. It had been a while since you had seen a healthy human get killed up close. You had stood there, bile at the back of your tongue, ringing in your ears, until the firm command - move, come on - had made you join him. He had slashed his way out with too much ease, and had made you run for so long, you got sick the minute you finally stopped inside an abandoned house. You spat all the bile that had been bubbling in your guts, folded over the moldy kitchen sink. You had expected him to get disgusted and just leave you there to a very certain death, but he just took out a bottle of water from the backpack he stole during your escape and wordlessly handed it to you. He did not have to do that, he could have kept the precious resource for himself. You still wonder why - it wasn’t out of selflessness, definitely not out of kindness. You guessed he needed someone to stay awake and keep watch so he could sleep a little. Useful - you were useful. 

He brings you back to the QZ because that’s where you’ll be safe - safer at least. Shielded from the slavers and the raiders and the biters. Definitely not from the corrupt FEDRA guards, the local traffickers, the ruthless fireflies - and really, any individual ready to take advantage showing how thin the veneer of civilization truly was in the first place.

You stay in his small apartment because you have nowhere else to go. Even after you start working and earning your part. At first, he slept on the couch so you could have the bed. But one day, after a gruesome double-shift, he comes back home so exhausted he just crashes on the mattress without realizing you’re already there. It’s not the first time you sleep next to him. You had to during the trek back to the QZ. Only way to keep warm. It was utilitarian, nothing else. Still, it meant you trusted him enough to close your eyes in his presence. You still do. 

When you wake up the next morning, you feel him pressed against your back. Either him or you had sought the other’s warmth during the night. You have to admit you slept pretty well. You’re usually freezing and he’s just… warm. A solid wall radiating heat behind you. His slow breathing is keeping at bay the usual rush of anxiety you get when you wake up every day to discover this too long nightmare is indeed reality. You guess you had to have a similar effect on him because dawn is already lighting the room with its dull glow and he’s not awake yet. 

That’s the beginning of another level of your relationship - you don’t want to give a name to whatever strange alliance is going on between you. Still, night after night, he keeps going back, and you let him, welcome him silently in your bed (actually it’s his). You should be scared, he’s but a man, and if he was any other man, you would know that he’d been expecting something from you. Expecting you to offer your naked skin and your warm body in exchange for his protection. But it never comes. Joel seems very content in being able to lay there on his mattress and share his warmth with you. You can even see how he glares darkly at that FEDRA guard who keeps talking to you for any reason possible. How he makes sure you’re home as soon as the sun sets. 

And then, one day, you’re on his sofa sharing some whisky - the nice one, the real one, a 20-year old bottle he traded - and it says a lot he’s even sharing it with you in the first place. Joel is in a good mood, he cracks a couple awful dad jokes, and you laugh, so hard tears leak on your cheeks. He doesn’t think, just swipes them with his thumb, calloused pad of his finger on the sensitive skin just under your lashes. He lingers there, looks at you with hooded eyes and you know you’re royally fucked. He looks so good, the warm light of sunset on his tanned skin, his hair mussed, making him look a bit younger. It makes you forget he’s almost two decades older - but what does that even mean today? Life - death - is no longer this linear thing, and there is no one left to scold you about your partner’s choice. Nobody cares anymore. Yet he cared for you. So you decide to indulge in this desire that has been brewing in your chest since the moment he untied you in that damned icy cell. 

He’s kind of a jerk with it, lets you do all the work. Maybe he’s just too scared you would feel forced to accept what he wants to offer. But you soldier on, you kiss him with all the fervor of your youth, climb on his lap, and keep licking his tongue until he finally dares to take charge. Joel tastes like the bourbon discarded on the floor - sweet and rich, smoked spice and the desperate furor of someone whose will to live only surpasses his devastating grief by a short inch. 

You sigh in his mouth, the relief provided by his touch welcome but not enough to quench the pent-up thirst you’ve been harboring for years now. He must feel it because when your slightly shaking fingers are hastily working the buttons of his shirt open, then diving straight to the fly of his jeans, he stops you.

“Wait”, he rasps, a hint of worry mixed in the molasses of his voice, “please tell me you have done this before”.  

“Yeah -yes, yes… just -it’s been a long time. Like, not since the ‘break…”

“Fuck.” he answers, head lolling backward against the sofa, and you’re sure you screwed up. No way he’s gonna want to do it with an almost virgin. For your defense, after a few experiments with your then-boyfriend from before the apocalypse, your possibilities were quite limited. You focused more on staying alive than romance. More on avoiding men than courting them. Years went by and no one came who you could trust enough. Until him. 

“Please, Joel” you kiss his cheek, his neck. “I want to feel good just for a bit”, you beg him, because the thought of him leaving you like this makes you wanna die of shame. 

You feel more than you hear him growl, the rumble of his chest making you shiver against him. He grounds his hands on your waist, presses the rough pads of his fingers into your supple and warm flesh. 

“Remove your clothes”, he finally commands. Your jeans and sweater are thrown on the ground without second thought. You’re naked while he just pushed his pants low enough to free his already leaking cock. 

“Joel…” your gasp dies in your throat when he crashes his mouth on yours again. He’s… big. You haven’t seen a lot of cocks in your life, but you’re pretty sure he definitely has bragging rights. He feels burning hot and surprisingly soft in your palm, pulsing in time with the frantic beating of your heart. 

He’s not especially careful when he parts your folds, long fingers pressing against your clit in a couple of crude circles before pushing inside you. The intrusion is nothing like you remember. It burns in an addictive way, and when he crooks his index toward your belly, and presses his thumb on your clit, you let out a whimper that makes him groan in response. His other hand has threaded itself in your hair, and he uses it to hold your head steady. 

“Eyes on me sweetheart” he urges. His lips are parted, the glint of his canines echoing the predatory gaze he’s pining you with. It’s been barely a minute and you’re already panting, feeling your orgasm build up at an impressive pace. You muffle your cries against your palm, unwilling for anyone on the other side of those cardboard thin walls to hear you.

“Come on, don't get shy now.” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Wanna hear you when I make you come”. Reluctantly, you remove your hand, finding purchase on his shoulders where you sink your short nails, trying to contain the molten wave of pleasure washing over you. The orgasm is brutal, your whole body seizing as Joel keeps on grounding his thumb cruelly hard on your clit, the fist on your hair tightening even more as he praises you throughout. It hurts so good you don’t remember sex could even be like this. 

You’re barely down from your high that Joel manhandles your pliant body until you’re under him on the couch. He’s still clothed, his jeans scratchy against your bare legs. His fingers follow an ugly scar on your flank - you got this one pretty early after the end of the world, it’s still itchy sometimes, you don’t really want to talk about it - and you hear him mumble how pretty you are, more for himself than for you. “Joel” you plead again and he snaps out of his haze, voracious glint back in his eyes. 

“I’m here, I’m here” he repeats, guiding his cock against your wet slit. He stops just a second to ask if you still want this, and you beg his name again. Finally, he pushes inside you, fills you in one slow motion. You can’t stop the litany of fuck escaping your mouth. It feels like he’s splitting you in two, molding your flesh to him. The stretch is a lot, makes your brain short-circuit. “Breathe” he instructs, his fingers - still wet from your desire - finds your cheek in a soothing gesture. “Stay with me”, he adds, voice low against the dainty shell of your ear. 

Joel fucks you slow, way more gentle than when he had his fingers buried in your cunt a few minutes before. He pushes your knees apart, hikes your legs high on his waist, almost folding you in half. It still hurts a little, but the pressure feels good, even better when one of his hands finds your clit again. Your soft moans fill the air between you, warm with whiskey and need. One particularly powerful snap of his hips and his cock touches something bright inside of you, awakening feelings you had even forgotten about. He keeps rubbing the delicate and swollen flesh just above there you’re joined, and you already know your second orgasm is not far. 

You seek his mouth, demanding for him to kiss you, as you bury your hand in his soft curls, where early swirls of gray ring the end of his youth. A sudden burst of need and yearning and almost sadness shots through you. It’s not only about being intimate with someone after all those years. It’s the emotion of trusting another human enough to bare your body, to let them come close, to show vulnerability - not in the form of the pain and the gruesome you’re both accustomed to - no, the real vulnerability that lies in the will to share something good, something mundane and beautiful, sinful and sacred. The illusion that everything will be alright, that, in the next seconds, you both have nothing else to care about than your common pleasure, than the warmth of the other’s skin, than this silly and dangerous thrill you’re willing to offer. You’re opening your legs as much as your heart, and you know it’s going to wreck you in the most stunning way. 

You come with a whisper of his name against his lips, like a secret prayer, an oath that in this instant he is all you believe in. He follows you in your bliss just after, considerate enough to pull out and cum on your belly. You forgot how messy all this can be. But the sight of his cum on your skin is also a bleak reminder of reality - you better not get pregnant now. He must sense your distress because he cups your cheeks gently, kisses you again. 

“Stay with me” he says, echoing his words from a few minutes earlier, when you were stuffed full with him. Except this time, you think you understand what he means - what he truly means. 

You think you feel him smile in the kiss.

[mochi-marmalade]

Rose & Scar

ONE: The Rose

♡ series masterlist ♡

a/n: HERE WE GO royal guard!König x princess!reader 3.2k words chapter summary: you are assigned a personal guard, who you take a liking to. suddenly your days seem brighter warnings: language, slightly suggestive (?) 18+ MDNI

Exactly one week ago today, your father gifted you a personal guard. He had been handpicked by your father for your safety- after all you are a woman now. Father does little to conceal his distaste for your refusal to marry, but how can you marry when every suitor is so incredibly boring? They had no real interest in you anyway, many were pushed by their own royal parents or had come in hopes that you’d be a beautiful, complacent prospect. They were wrong. You turned down every single one of them. However… you cannot deny your liking for your new guard. He is quiet, but exudes an energy that demands respect. You know it is quite unbecoming for a princess to be in a situation like this, but nothing will come of it. You are sure that someday you’ll find a proper prince who actually wants to get to know you and court you. You hope. For now, you sit at your desk, head in hand, and look out the window at the scenery below. You are prone to getting lost in your thoughts and daydreaming, which you suppose you are doing right now. Instead you think you’ll ask for some tea. The door opens and you peek out into the long hallway. As usual, your guard is standing by your door. You call your handmaiden and return to your room while you wait for her to arrive. “You’re up early today, Your Highness.” She chimes as she walks in. 

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I’ve brought your breakfast along with some tea. Which dress will it be today?”

You say the first color that comes to mind, “A green one.” She dresses you in a soft sage green dress that flows to the ground. She slips shoes on your feet and powders your face lightly. “His Majesty expects to see you at lunch today. Have a wonderful day, Your Highness.” With that, she slips out the door. You eat your breakfast and drink your tea rather quickly. “Another boring day.” You sigh to yourself. Although you are certainly very lucky and grateful to live the life you have, it still comes with its downsides. Every day is the same, and you are nearly crushed with rigid rules and expectations. You manage, though. Closing the door behind you with a click, you tell your guard, “Come along.” As you two make the short walk to the library, you tell him about your plans to take drawing supplies and books. You’d like to flip through several romance novels and sketch different scenes, maybe it would give you something to do besides study. He follows along in silence. You push open the doors to the library and revel in your grand collection. You think there are probably thousands of books in here, and you’re glad to have access to them. You peruse the selection of books and pick out a few sappy romance novels, also taking a few sheets of blank paper and a sealed well of ink. “Is there anything you’d like?” You ask him. He doesn’t reply, but his icy blue eyes flicker to you. You wonder why he wears a mask. Maybe you’ll ask him someday. Slowly, your guard shakes his head, muttering, “Thank you, Your Highness.” You stare at him, merely processing the sound of his voice. You’re actually not sure you’ve ever heard it before, but it lingers in your mind and you wonder what accent he has. German, maybe. You’re at a loss for words so you nod at him in response, and walk back to your room. You sit at your desk for a while and draw scenes from books: lovers seated on the grass, holding hands and looking at each other. You sigh, wishing you could have this kind of relationship. Really, you have very few relationships at all, including your father and servants. Father. You check the clock, finding that it is five minutes before noon and exhale a sigh of relief. You exit your room to go to the dining hall, your guard close behind. You take a seat opposite your father and brush a strand of hair out of your face. “Hello, father.”

“Good afternoon, daughter. I’d like to discuss a few things.”

“Such as?”

“I have arranged a ball for you to find a suitor! In one month’s time, nobles and civilians of higher standing will be gathered to celebrate your belated birthday and offer their sons. Is it not wonderful?”

“Yes… Wonderful.” You exchange small talk for the rest of your meal, then you are excused. You do not want to attend a ball. In fact, you do not like the idea at all. An event like that will attract all the wrong people, but you pray that you’ll be shown otherwise. You are guided through your studies by teachers for the next few hours, until you are released for dinner. After eating alone, you return to your room. What a dreadfully boring day. You’ve established a habit of undressing yourself, and as you unlace your corset, you spy the stars through the window. Once changed into your nightgown, you inspect the night sky. You’ve always loved stars. Finally, you crawl into bed and drift off into a peaceful sleep. 

Stretching, you awaken to your handmaiden setting down your breakfast. “Thank you.” You yawn. 

“Shall I draw you a bath?” 

“Yes, I think I would like that.”

She scurries off to do that, and you dress into a robe. She returns and escorts you to the bath, followed by your guard. You’re painfully aware of his presence outside the bathroom door, but bathe in peace anyway. When you’re done, you put on your robe again and call your handmaiden. She escorts you back to your room and dresses you in a sky blue dress. “You look lovely, princess.” 

“Thank you, Sara.” 

“You’re quite welcome.”

She leaves, and your attention is turned to your desk. There lays a bright red rose, which you’re sure wasn’t there before. You pick it up and notice all the thorns have been clipped off. Who could have left this? Then you realize it’s probably a gift from another suitor. Although you appreciate the simplicity, you scoff at the thought. Perhaps, though… it wouldn’t hurt to put it in a vase. It seemed too cruel to throw it away. You unceremoniously toss your fake flowers out of a shimmery pink vase and take your vase to the bathroom to fill it with water. As your guard follows, his eyes never leave you. “Just, um, getting water for a flower. Probably from another stupid suitor.” His eyes flicker to the side. “What’s your name by the way?” You ask.

“König.” 

“That’s German, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you speak German then?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, your hands are wet and you notice the vase is overflowing. “Oh, shit.” You say to yourself. He huffs in amusement, to which you raise an eyebrow. König quickly straightens himself, “Apologies, Your Highness. I just… Didn’t expect someone of your standing to use such language.” Before you know it, you’re grinning at him, not expecting this answer. His eyes scan you and he asks, “Did I offend you, Your Highness? My deepest apologies, I didn’t-“

“No, no! It’s just funny.”

König’s eyes crinkle in what you think is a smile. You stare at him and find yourself absolutely unable to form any words. You turn on your heel and quickly return to your room, forgetting to close the door behind you. You place the rose in the vase, and see König peeking at you out of the corner of your eye. “It’s the flower I mentioned earlier.” He visibly stiffens, and asks, “From the suitor?”

“Yes, I often have suitors ask for my hand in marriage. It’s nauseating. None of them even want to get to know me, they just want to own me.”

He hums, and you look down at the pretty rose. “Would you like to go somewhere with me?” You ask. “I don’t have much of a choice, princess.” What an ass. You walk with him down to the garden, which may be your favorite part of the castle. You sit on a white stone bench and motion for him to do the same. He sits slowly and carefully. “Princess, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do this.”

“Oh, hush, it’s not a crime to sit.”

He looks away. You sit in silence for a bit, treasuring the sunshine and sounds of chirping birds. Finally, you tell him, “I love the gardens. Have you been here before?” 

“Yes, princess.”

A part of you feels dejected, as if you wanted to be the one to show him the gardens. “I used to hide here when I didn’t want to bathe.” What are you even saying? “The servants hated it.” Why are you still talking? Finally, you manage to shut up, but instead of repulsed König almost looks amused. You feel your cheeks heating up, and look at the hydrangeas to your right. It must be hot out today. Leaning over, you pick a small flower and smell it. A smile is brought to your face by the soft, nostalgic scent. You hold it out to König, telling him, “It’s lily of the valley. My favorite flower.” He takes it and nods. He really isn’t much for words, is he? “I’m sorry,” You blurt out. “I feel as if I'm bothering you with all my questions and conversation.” Shaking his head, he replies, “Don’t be. It’s my job.” Your heart sinks like an anchor in your body. Right. It’s just his job, why would you think there would be any semblance of a friendship? He notices you looking down at your hands for far too long and places his own gloved hand on your shoulder. “Princess, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m quite fine, thank you.” 

He can’t help but feel as if he’s said something wrong. You look up at him with tear-glazed eyes and it damn near breaks his heart. “Are you really only talking to me ‘cause it’s your job?” You manage.

“No.”

You relax and sniff once more, not sure whether you should trust him or not. You barely know him, after all. You smile at him anyway, and he gives you some sort of look you can’t discern. “Shall we walk, princess?” His question surprises you. “Yes, I suppose we shall.” You hold the crook of his elbow, and his muscles seem to become rigid under your touch. It seems almost as if you can feel his sheer strength from the size of his biceps alone. Now that you think about it, he’s huge in general. You wonder what it’s like to be trapped under him, utterly powerless against his- You pat your face with your free hand and decide that’s quite enough. “Er- Princess, forgive my forwardness, but that’s quite inappropriate, is it not?” You turn to him and your eyes widen before you realize he’s talking about the fact you’re holding his arm. 

“Ah. Well, I am quite clumsy. Besides, is it not a form of chivalry? Do you mean that you have no respect for the princess, König?”

“Certainly not, Your Highness! I simply meant… Is it not a sign that we would be courting?” 

He says the last word in a low voice, almost a whisper. The way he says it is as if he could never think of the possibility of courting you, and it almost hurts you. Then you remember that it is, in fact, not a possibility. You are a princess and he is your guard, and it is nothing more. So why do you keep thinking of him this way? As if you could sit on the plush grass together, holding hands and reading poetry. As if you could press chaste kisses to his knuckles and lay his head in your lap, weaving your hands through his hair. You wonder what his hair even looks like. He always wears a helm carefully designed by you, along with a cloth mask that covers most of his face. Your handmaiden, Sara, had asked for you to sketch a new design for the royal guards’ armor, although it had actually only been used for your special, personal guard. You wonder if he ever felt as silly as he looked- a large, hulking man with dainty decals on his helm and a large sword strapped to his waist. “Princess?”

“Oh. Well, I don’t see it that way and you don’t either, so it doesn’t matter.”

“But you must keep up appearances, Your Highness.”

“And who would dare to argue with the crown princess?”

König falls silent, and begins to walk along with you. The two of you meander through the lush gardens, watching birds flitter by and bees buzz among the flowers. You pause for a second to pick a purple cosmos and place it between the strap of his baldric and his breastplate. Surprisingly, it stays. “Ah… Princess.” He mumbles. You laugh absentmindedly. If he didn’t look silly before, he certainly does now. “It suits you well, König.”

“Princess, I am aware that I am your personal guard, although I’d advise you to distance yourself from me. You’re hardly fit to be friends with a soldier.”

“According to whom? I do think I have a say in who I become friends with.”

“Of course, Your Highness. However, I think… If you knew what kinds of things I’d done…”

“And who says that it would matter, König? Who says that what you’d done in the past determines your happiness now?”

The two of you are locked in a stare, and the air feels electric. His eyes move, from your eyes to your cheeks to your lips. You can hardly keep your feelings inside, butterflies threatening to explode from your stomach at any moment. Finally, he looks away. “Let’s return to the castle, I feel a bit hungry.” You’re such a liar, but you can’t stand the tension. He nods and follows you back into the castle. You call Sara and ask her to bring you a snack, perhaps finger sandwiches and tea. She leaves to do so, and you begin to reflect on what just happened. Step by step, you walk yourself through the past hour. You and König walked through the garden, and you took his arm and told him he deserves happiness. With you. God, you’re an idiot. He definitely thinks you’re weird and maybe even knows that you have feelings. Today, you’ve done irreparable damage to your reputation and relationship with König. You should have kept your mouth shut, you should have never even invited him to sit with you. “Your Highness, I’ve returned with your tea.” 

“Thank you, Sara.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness. Is… everything okay?”

“Yes. That will be all.”

“Then pardon my intrusion. Have a wonderful day.”

You nod to her, although you’re looking through the window with your head in your hand. The closest thing you’ve ever had to a friendship is already destroyed. Feeling nauseated, you wonder if you’ve ever had a friend. You scoff to yourself for even wondering, immediately knowing the answer is no. How will you ever fix this? Maybe you’ll apologize or tell him you were joking- no, you’ll ask for a new guard. This is truly a fine predicament. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll take a short nap and sleep this disgusting feeling off. 

When you awaken, you lift your head off of your crossed arms to find the sky completely dark. Your dress feels incredibly uncomfortable and you walk to your closet to change. Then you’re interrupted by your stomach growling. Perhaps you’ll just grab a quick snack, but how? The kitchens must be closed at this hour, and you don’t know where else to go. You’d also rather not wake Sara. Groaning, you think there’s only one reasonable option, and you’re not even sure it’s all that reasonable. You peek your head out the door and whisper, “König?” He’s very much awake and alert, and looks surprised that you’re awake too. “Princess, what are you doing up right now?”

“I’m hungry.” 

He stuffs his hand into a pouch strapped to his leg, and after fishing for a moment he pulls out a wrapped bar of some sort. He looks away nervously, and offers it to you. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness, this is all I have. I don’t think the kitchens are open, unless you want to wake your servants, I’m sure they’d be willing to-”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

You take the bar from him and retreat to your bedroom. You eat it absentmindedly and change into your nightgown. It tastes pretty good, actually, like it has peanuts and some kind of dried berry. You’re fortunate enough to be the kind of person who can sleep anywhere, anytime, so you turn the lights off and climb into bed. You let your mind wander for a bit, but you’re eventually lulled to sleep by the soft light of the moon. 

The next week is dreadfully dull and you don’t have anything notable happen. However, you continue to have friendly conversations with König. You’d like to get to know more about him, but you wonder how much he’d actually tell you. He doesn’t seem to be the very trusting type, nor does he seem eager to tell anyone about his past. You go about daily life for who knows how long, but somehow everything is different. Things seem more fun, and you actually look forward to certain activities. You’d like to learn another language, but don’t want to go through the trouble of asking your father for another teacher. Besides, he carefully picks each of your studies and you doubt he’d let you give up a current subject for language. You sigh, picking at the plate of chicken in front of you. Maybe falconry would be interesting? You’re sure you could find a book about it in the library. A servant from the kitchen comes to check on you. He frowns when asking, “Is the chicken not to your liking, Your Highness?”

“Oh, no. It’s wonderful, I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

He nods and takes the plate, and you leave the massive, empty dining hall. As you’re walking through the long hallway, you wonder how long it’s been since your lunch with your father. You freeze, realizing it’s probably been a few weeks. Weeks. Which means the ball is drawing near. The feeling sets as a pit in your already upset stomach, and you sigh louder than you mean to. “Is there something wrong, princess?” Of course König has to ask.

“Ah, yeah. There’s just this thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course, the thing I’m obviously supposed to know about.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and you shoot him a glare. “It’s the ball, you fool.”

“Yeah, and I was supposed to know that. Isn’t that a good thing, though?”

“Well, it should be, but my father expects me to find a husband. Tomorrow. Within a few hours.”

“I see. Well, I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” You scoff. Tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day.

[funficwriter]

Celestial is Cruel (Tartaglia/Childe x Recruit!Reader)

A/N: Not much, apart from the fact that damn I got some... Fantasies. Fucked up ones but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a blast writing it. Hopping on to part 2!

Warnings: Sad, disrespect of graves, abuse of power, slight motif of punishment, kinda yandere, horny Tartaglia with even worse timing, talk of a dead friend.

He hated every single thing about this ordeal. The uncomfortable position on the tree was the least of them. At least it offered a good view of you.

He hated how you wailed like a child, because his sweet little recruit shouldn't be sad. He hated how you were laying on the tombstone, arms splayed out as if hugging your dearly departed friend, because such a passionate embrace should only be for him. He hated the flowers you got him tonight, because they symbolized mourning.

He hated it all, because you were giving everything... Your emotions, attentions, presence and more... To another man.

A dead one, too. Really, now! This is how you spent your free nights the last few weeks? Did they stop teaching cadets to not be too attached to each other? That the Fatui had death everyday?

No matter. As your Lord, he was going to put an end to this. He was going to put you back on the right path as a recruit. His recruit.

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

Deeper into the icy woods, laid your friend's grave. It was particularly hard to get to by virtue of being so nestled.

One wouldn't have to go as deep to hear you. It's been weeks and you still have such nights, wailing and apologizing to your companion of years. You also never dared an appearance without flowers, even if he wouldn't mind.

Your body felt cold against the tombstone. You could never pinpoint the exact time that you laid down in this manner, arms sore from sprawling them out across the stone. Perhaps once you stopped denying his death. But what really took your energy was your crying.

"I'm sorry, Julian! I'm sorry, I should have taken that hit, and you should be here! I'm sorry, forgive me...".

When you two were cadets, you were constantly warned about the possibility of losing your comrade. You were told, time and time again, 'don't get too attached to each other'. But hearing it in the classroom was worlds different than facing it. You two would laugh about it and drink afterwards, bantering back and forth:

"If I die, you better bring hyacinths instead of roses! I hate those spiral-ey shits!"

"In that case, you better tell me who's dating who over a bottle of fire-water! You can splash it on my tombstone!"

"Forget this old graveyard etiquette, you can chill out on mine if you need to get away from everyone else!"

Now here you were, with this banter being closer to reality.

Forget your status within the Fatui. Forget the heightened expectation of 'getting over' your friend because 'this happens everyday, it's part of our job'. Forget the potential displeasure of your Harbinger; You knew you were going to face his wrath at some point, but for now, you just needed some space to be a messy griever, consequences to be damned and faced.

"Julian... I don't wanna go back yet. I want to stay a bit more...".

"Y/N.".

Of course he'd seek you out. You tried to adhere to your usual duties, but it was obvious that you needed a bit more time to get back on par. Especially by his standards.

His hulking shadow engulfed your figure, even more so as he bent down to your level. You felt his hand patting your shoulder and looked up to meet his eyes.

"There, there. At least we both know that he died for the Tsaritsa's cause. The most honorable way to go.".

You sniffled: "But he was so young... We still count as fresh recruits, and he was always so resilient...".

"Yes, I know that. Julian was a remarkable unit, and a fine comrade...".

His hand could never remain in one place for too long, least of all if your body's concerned. You wanted to smack him when you felt it slide down to waist level, waiting for more. You were expecting this, but right on Julian's resting place? Really?

"But remember, my dear, that this isn't clerking; This is the Fatui. Great units are still at high risk, no matter how powerful they are...".

It wasn't fully here yet, but you knew where all of this was going. How could you not? You've been performing at a 'sub-par' level in comparison to your usual, you've spaced out thinking of Julian more than a few times, and though you did your best, many who came in contact with you swore up and down that eyes could never look as glossy as those of you losing your friend. All behavior unfitting for Tartaglia's prodigy.

It was very obvious that something has changed, and this will affect your Lord as well. He can't let you keep this up; It's his job as your superior to rectify this in whatever way he sees fit. A messy, moping recruit wasn't a good asset to have.

And you knew Lord Tartaglia - Childe, how fitting. If said way could bring him some sort of fun or pleasure, he was going to take it. For it to involve his sweet, little overachieving soldier? Well, the constant lip-licking was expected.

So did the wandering hand, pulling himself a little closer to you. Now your waist was almost encircled by his arm.

"I'm not saying you're bad for feeling like this. You're human. But you both knew what you signed up for. I myself has a couple of near-death experiences and lost comrades, and I'm a Harbinger.".

He could soften his tone all he wanted. You knew this talk was rehearsed. It sounded too much like his usual cold reading voice. You'd assume someone who felt your pain would be a little more empathetic, more supportive. But him? He was doing a horrible job hiding the excitement in his eyes, the prospect of 'putting you in line'. You looked down; The tent in his pants further told you what you needed to know. What did it matter if your face was still blotchy from crying?

You backed away while asking: "Lost comrades?".

"Yup. Ya know, I had this friend, Antony, who I bunked with back in our cadet days. He always sang for us at parties. Really fun guy. We also talked about our families so you can bet we were close.".

"What happened to him?".

The acting was losing whatever little effort it had: "Burned to death. I mourned too, I liked him a lot. But this is part of the job. This can be expected any day, any mission, and our friends aren't exempt by being loved.".

He made a good point. Julian wasn't going to be spared, and if his power couldn't save him, your friendship certainly wouldn't.

Celestia is cruel.

You looked up to Childe's face: "Anything you want to say?".

"Celestia is cruel. And so are you right now.".

Did you screw yourself over with the second part? You weren't intending on saying it out loud, but repression and your mind being on your friend 6 feet under will have you doing that.

He chuckled and decided that the waiting game was over. He got up on the tombstone, looming over you. Though you've stared into his empty blue eyes a lot, you never manage to shake off that mix of morbid wonder and fear at how... Soulless they were. Did Antony notice too?

"Me?".

"I'm sorry, my Lord, but yes. I'm mourning right now. Can we wait until we're in your quarters, because it's a grave...?".

You didn't have the energy to defend yourself more fiercely. Though you were still relatively young (at least by Fatui standards), your tonality belonged to a retired officer who's seen too much in one life.

You didn't defend yourself physically either. You didn't stop Childe from laying you down onto the stone, nor did you really admonish his lust on top of your friend's grave. You wanted to, but for one, he could easily overpower you, maybe even get harsher under the pretense of 'not obeying your Lord'. Paired up with your tired body, you felt helpless.

"You're correct, Y/N. Celestial is cruel. So cruel for seeing two adorable recruits, so dependent on each other... Then snatching one and leaving the other to suffer.".

He grabbed your hands to intertwine his fingers with yours. The backs of them were on the cool, grey stone, not at all like this fiery man above you. Like Schneznaya and Natlan. Ice and fire. As above, so below not in terms of temperature, but cruelty.

"And me... Well, I'm a Fatui Harbinger. Being a little cruel is guaranteed at this rate."

At last, he captured your lips with his. This kiss was unlike the few others you shared. He was the hungriest you've known. The most lustful you've seen.

What would Julian think?

You wanted to step back, even if the primal in you told you to stay. At some point, you did, only for him to grab your face.

"Now, now, comrade... You haven't been performing to your usual standard. It's my job as your Lord to end this. We can't fall behind the other legions, can we?".

He trailed off to your neck, nipping right where he knew you were most sensitive. Those whimpers were meant to be moans, only you weren't going to let them out.

"Wait, my Lord-".

There was the spot; right above your collarbone, just at the base of the neck. Did you really think he wouldn't know at this point? There was still a fading mark from last time, so he guessed it needed a renewal.

He chuckled and looked down into your eyes: "I know you way too well, Y/N. I'd say...".

He always liked cutting off his thoughts through kissing or nipping. You heeded out every word of his for years, it's basically an unconscious habit for you to grin and bear whatever he threw at you if it meant hearing the rest of his sentence.

How devoted. And thank the Tsaritsa for how delicious you were as well. Sometimes he pondered whether she was testing his mental endurance by sending him a recruit of such a lethal combo, along with more attributes befitting of an ideal partner, too.

To remove the last potential competition, putting him under the ground and far away from you, only served as an encouragement to take you.

When he broke away, he relished into the sad look in your eyes. Yes, you were going to be corrected for your poor performance and waste of time, at his hands.

"I'd say... You're right. Celestia is cruel for throwing you to me."

The tug at your collar was only the start. It was going to end with everything else right next to the grave.

You didn't know if souls were a thing, or if they were near, but deep down, you prayed to Julian to forgive the upcoming act.

[aurevell]

❄won't mean a thing, dear (if you're not here with me) ❄ Steter | 34k | M

Stiles, who was just about to comment on the blinding glare from the Christmas lights, slowly shuts his mouth. Realization is dawning, and he feels like an idiot not to have seen it coming. “Surprise! Christmas isn’t your thing,” he guesses, resigned. Peter gives him a look like he’s insane to even bring it up. He probably is.

Peter and Stiles’s whole relationship is built on sarcasm and disdain for the world at large. No topic is safe from mockery. (Unfortunately, they may not be on the same page about the holiday season.)

*

Some days, Stiles is convinced Peter’s only dating him because the guy gets off on pushing buttons. That’s Peter’s main source of amusement. He knows Stiles is never more than a second away from some minor crime at any given moment, and he likes watching Stiles reconsider and bend his already flexible morals. Likes being the one to urge him on.

Some days, Stiles likes to let him.

Some days.

“Yeah, I dunno about this,” Stiles mutters dubiously, peering through the chain-link fence. When he grabs on, squinting for a closer look, the metal is icy against his skin. “It’s kind of a stretch, dude. Even for me.”

“What’s the harm?” Peter inquires, his tone even. Still, Stiles can hear the smirk without looking. “It’s just a peek. Sixty seconds.”

“Psh. Yeah, right. Sixty seconds now, until we actually get in there and look around.”

It’s late, maybe a little past one in the morning, and the two of them have been meandering a slow circuit through the neighborhood around Stiles’s apartment. Which, yeah, is kind of a weird or even suspicious thing to be doing at this hour, depending on who you ask. Dangerous, too, considering the area. But it’s safe enough when one of you is a literal creature of the night and the other knows his way around a curse book.

It’s also kind of a necessity. Late-night walks are sometimes the only thing that helps Stiles nod off when he’s got too many thoughts rattling around in his head. The rhythmic steps, or maybe the familiar neighborhood setting, always calms his nerves somehow. Or else it just burns off his restless energy. Stiles hasn’t psychoanalyzed himself or anything, but it does the trick.

As for Peter’s presence, that’s a semi-recent thing. He used to just pretend to get offended that the sex alone wasn’t enough to tick the right boxes and knock Stiles’s lights out. But it must have gotten boring sitting around indoors and waiting for him to come back, and the guy has never been one for pillow talk anyway, so he’s started tagging along. Plus, he likes fucking with evening joggers who don’t expect to find someone lurking around the corner in the dark. (See? He’s all about the amusement factor.)

Anyway. They’ve paused here by the fence because Stiles has been keeping an eye on this city block for months. Construction has rattled the ground and diverted local traffic forever. Gleaming in its wake is a new building, freshly raised: a mixed-use space, with apartments above and a couple shops at ground level. One of which, the signs promise, is a coffee shop. A coffee shop, and this cannot be emphasized enough, that is only one block away from where Stiles lives. It’s like some beneficent cosmic being decided Stiles Stilinski does deserve nice things, after all. Things like fresh coffee after an all-nighter. Wi-fi when his shitty router kicks out. Maybe even sandwiches and pastries and stuff—he’d sell his soul for decent bear claws within walking distance.

“You did say you wanted to see the inside,” Peter reminds him idly. The building’s been done for weeks, but the fence still blocks half the sidewalk, keeping pedestrians away from the new facade. Even to Stiles’s human nose, the whole area smells pleasantly of sawdust and fresh paint.

“Yeah, but c’mon. I meant when it was finally open. And anyway, can see it fine from here,” Stiles retorts, and it’s kind of true: with the glow of the streetlight behind them, he can make out the gleam of new machinery and the dark shadows of tables and chairs. “Hey. Look, they even have folding windows. For when it’s nice out.”

“Those are nice.” Peter observes. “Easy to break into.”

Stiles tries his best to fight back a grin, because you can’t encourage Peter at times like this. Give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. “Ok, babe, just so we’re clear. We are not breaking—”

“—into your new favorite coffee shop, which you haven’t shut up about for more than five minutes at a time in weeks? I’d think twice about passing on the opportunity. Once they’ve set up their security system, it won’t be as easy.” He hums, as if a thought has just occurred to him. “You know, they probably have all kinds of decor in there. For your sign collection.”

There are a bunch of dark shapes spread out on the walls, some kind of decorations. A few large ones that are probably just menus or something, but smaller ones too. Could be signs, could be art. “I don’t have a—it’s not a collection.”

“It’s eleven signs. What’s that you always say? Two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern? ‘Eleven’ is probably a collection.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles laughs.

The squeal of bending metal cuts through the quiet. Stiles drags his eyes away from the cafe windows to find Peter peeling up the bottom of the chain link fence, all casual, like it weighs no more than a sheet of paper.

Peter smirks. “It’d be a crime not to.”

“Peter,” Stiles replies, amused, “this is a crime. This is a literal crime.”

“I bet they have those deluxe espresso machines you get so hard for.”

Stiles heaves out a long-suffering sigh, taking in those dark shapes through the window, and pretends to still be thinking about it. He briefly glances around, like anyone else is crazy enough to be out in the cold this time of night, like Peter wouldn’t hear anyone within earshot anyway. Peter lifts the chain-link fence a little higher. An invitation. The same way some boyfriends might hold open a door.

“Alright, fine,” he mutters under his breath. He ignores Peter’s triumphant smirk as he ducks beneath the fence. “Sixty seconds.”

*

A week and a half later, Cuppa Life Cafe opens to very little fanfare. It’s just a tiny cafe on a tiny street in a tiny town—who cares? But to Stiles, it’s revolutionary.

It’s a shiny new distraction to break up his days. When he’s doing research for his magical consulting clients, when he’s combing through digitized bestiaries for Scott, when he’s delving into police files he one hundred percent did not swipe from his dad, he’s got somewhere to go. No more is he confined to slogging away within the four walls of his cramped and arguably dim apartment (he likes the vibe of his scattered ritual candles, but they don’t always do the trick for him, focus-wise). When he needs a change of pace, he can head downstairs for a three-minute walk to sugar and caffeination and sunlight.

And then there’s Peter, who’s trekked here four times already for dark roast coffees he continually claims are beneath him. Either he’s full of it, or he knows Stiles is more likely to peel away from his work if Peter’s within easy walking distance as well.

Presently, Stiles’s phone chimes with a text from a contact listed as Big Bad Creeperwolf, a label he hasn’t changed since their first meeting. (Anyway, it’s still accurate.) When Stiles checks his messages, there’s a snapshot of the Cuppa Life menu and a text that just reads, Unfortunate.

Stiles stares, squinting and wondering what Peter’s point is, but he can’t work it out. He could text back, or he could grab his current working bestiary from the bed and go around the corner to figure it out.

The place really is cute. They’re clearly going for that modern chic look, with chalkboard menus, lighted glass cases full of Instagram-ready pastries, and graphic art peppered across warm, red-bricked walls. At a glance, you wouldn’t know anything’s missing at all. Stiles only feels a little guilty about nicking his latest sign, inasmuch as he ever feels guilty about nicking anything (and then, you know, returning to the scene of the crime afterward). Look, the display was probably a free one the coffee brand shipped to the cafe as an ad. And Stiles is a regular customer now, and he always tips well, so it’ll probably even out in the end.

Peter’s snagged a table toward the front, right where the late fall sunlight streams in. It’s just barely warm enough that all the windows are folded to the side—they really are a nice touch, even if Peter’s right that they’re easy to sneak through—and when he spots Stiles walking past outside, he glances up with a knowing smirk. Because of course Stiles was going to jump up to visit. Annoying, Stiles thinks, how that one look sends a coil of pleasure into his stomach every time.

“That wasn’t an invitation to drop by,” Peter drawls, typing into his laptop, when Stiles appears at his table.

“Then you shouldn’t have announced your location, babe,” Stiles counters, dumping his book. The pet name slips off his tongue without thought again: he started using it ironically a few weeks back, almost taunting, just to dig at Peter for his condescending little “sweethearts” all the time, and now…

Peter smirks at the face he’s making. “Can’t stop it, can you? Cute.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says without bite. He sinks into the opposite chair, his attention catching on the little cardboard table menu. It’s done up in red, with glittering holly leaves, to cheerily advertise the seasonal specials. “About time! Peppermint hot chocolate?”

“Didn’t you see my text? We’ve gone from pumpkin spice to peppermint season,” Peter informs him, voice dripping with disdain. “It’s all Laura’s been complaining about for days.”

“Is that why you sent it?” Stiles asks distractedly, flipping the menu to check the drinks on the back. “And—wait, what are you even talking about? Peppermint’s the best.”

It’s all the good stuff, he finds: butterscotch caramel coffees, peppermint mochas, gingerbread spice cold brews, s’mores lattes. Man, this place does not disappoint. Stiles must have accidentally done a good deed to deserve it, but hell if he knows what it was.

It’s not until he lowers the menu that he sees Peter’s dismay. Too late, he picks up on the haughty tone, which is Peter’s default whenever they parry insults or dogpile on something they mutually believe to be garbage.

“Is that a joke?” Peter demands. “Peppermint is nature’s mildest poison. Who wants to eat something whose primary flavor is ‘cold?’ The whole place reeks of it now—even you should be able to smell it with that chunk of marble you call a nose. We’re going to have to avoid every cafe in town for the next two months.”

Stiles shakes his head, amused. “Every now and then, I feel really grateful I don’t have all your wolf stuff going on. There are definite downsides to super sniffers. But you’re right about pumpkin spice, I guess—that stuff’s a travesty. RIP to Laura and all the pumpkin spice girls probably crying into their scarves as we speak.”

“You’re a witch, and fall's barely over. Are you even allowed to voice a dislike of pumpkin spice?”

“I’m a spark and you know this. And yeah, I guess they’ll probably revoke my card,” Stiles jokes.

With his stuff now scattered across the table, he heads off to the counter, deliberating over his drink choices. He ends up going with the peppermint mocha, partly because he does, in fact, really love peppermint and needs to carpe diem the fuck out of it while it’s still in season, and partly because he knows it’ll annoy Peter.

Once he grabs his order and gets back to his seat, he takes his first taste while making pointed eye contact with the werewolf. Unfortunately, Peter’s crinkled nose just makes Stiles snort into the drink, and he ends up choking on a puff of whipped cream for his trouble.

“Lovely that I’m only learning now that you enjoy drinking toothpaste,” Peter snarks. He looks almost disgusted, but he’s still wearing the delighted smirk that means he’s back in his element. “What other dealbreakers don’t I know about you?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Stiles coughs, still laughing a little. “Out of all the shit I’ve done, peppermint’s the dealbreaker?”

“I already know about the live theater thing. The—musicals.”

“What, that I’ve witnessed some without fleeing the theater?” Stiles asks, covering his grin with a sip of his drink. It really is good, with just enough peppermint to boost the chocolatey taste of the mocha without being overpowering. “I stand by Heathers, my dude. J.D. is hot. I won’t apologize for that.”

“Sickening. What else do I need to know? Do you put motivational quotes in your email signature? Do you unironically follow astrology? If you’re a secret cryptobro, you’d better tell me before this goes any further.”

Stiles snickers into his drink. “No to all of the above. But if either of us was gonna turn into some condescending asshole trying to peddle something skeevy, it’d probably be you.”

“Excuse you.”

“Speaking of dealbreakers. Met this cute guy earlier today.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Did you now.”

“You’d better watch out.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Fat. Tan.”

“Tabby?”

“Maybe, but the fur was pretty long. I took pictures. Wanna see?”

He’s grinning: it’s a bluff, of course, and they both know it. Peter just grunts. There are few things the werewolf finds more boring than pictures of small animals. He’s insane that way. Like he would honestly rather pry his own eyes out than witness a cute cat displaying its belly for scratches. Stiles doesn’t even know what to do with him sometimes.

“Keep your beaus to yourself,” Peter replies, returning to his book.

“Your loss.” Stiles pulls his laptop to him, booting it up. “By the way, did I tell you Pudding’s rash is gone? Saw her this morning.”

“If I have to hear another word about cats,” Peter sighs, “and especially a cat’s skin condition, I’ll swear to god I’ll find a way to get you banned from this cafe.”

Stiles mimes zipping his lips and gets back to work, though Peter looks at him with distrust for a full minute before he resumes reading. But while Stiles does sometimes get a perverse sense of enjoyment from Peter’s poor attempts to feign interest in his interests, he’s got shit to do today. Peter’s off the hook. For now.

Harassment has always been one of Stiles’s love languages. At least when it comes to Peter.

The feeling is clearly mutual, though. And Stiles knows Peter well enough to tell he isn’t the type of guy who’d stick around if he were actually offended.

They’ve come a long way since their first meeting, the first formal introduction of their respective packs. Back then, they were all circling each other warily, a prospective alliance built on contract negotiations and polite adherence to ceremony.

Everyone except for Peter. Peter was an immensely egotistical shit the entire time—not that he did or said anything outright insulting, anything to make the McCall pack cut their losses and back out, just things that were right on the cusp. Snarky insinuations. Snubs. He clearly thought them an insignificant pack of amateur shifters, and bitten wolves at that, a term he used with this pitying tone that suggested he wanted to turn up his nose but wouldn’t for propriety’s sake. It rubbed Scott and Isaac the wrong way right off the bat, and even Kira got sour about it. And Kira believes in peace and forgiveness and pixie dust for literally everyone.

Maybe Stiles only found it so funny because he knew how wildly wrong Peter was about them. The McCall pack, after all, is a bad enemy to underestimate and a good ally to have in your back pocket.

And then, somewhere amidst the getting-to-know-yous and the haughty diplomacy, it became clear that sure, Peter may have been sneering and abrasive, but he backed a lot of the same things Stiles championed: an aggressive defense, strong tendencies toward revenge where appropriate, doling out the harshest possible punishments against offending packs. His mean streak, in fact, aligned very neatly with Stiles’s.

For half the alliance negotiations, Stiles found himself arguing beside Peter, who looked delighted at the unexpected support, especially when it was just the two of them against ultra-forgiving alphas who indulged their reasoning but came down firmly on the side of living and letting go and other bullshit.

“Fine,” Peter had said when it was all done. All pleasant and smirking, of course, because he’s always refused to show weakness after a loss. “Well, I’m sure none of us will ever regret this.”

Talia just rolled her eyes with the exasperation of someone who’d borne this kind of barbed statement all her life. And Peter turned and gave Stiles this meaningful look, the first of many designed to invite his judgment as well, as if to say Can you believe this? You and I are the only ones who truly understand.

Stiles was a little bit in love. Even then.

After they all dispersed for friendlier conversation, Stiles sidled up to him, phone held out imperiously. “Give me your number.” At Peter’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Don’t tell me you don’t want the backup. My alpha wasn’t the only one who said the words ‘minor territory breach’ like it’s not an oxymoron.”

It was hard to disagree. And Stiles wasn’t misreading the exasperation: by the time Peter finished entering his contact info, the werewolf had already begun to complain of all the extra work he often put in just for his own peace of mind given Talia’s relaxed policies. There were no known hunters or magical threats in the area—a feat only accomplished because of strict border enforcement, thanks very much—and the Hales were diligent about maintaining alliances with several nearby packs. But you never really knew. The Hale library, Peter added, was brimming with insights on defenses and known threats for that very reason.

Stiles perked up at the magic word. “A private library, huh? So…we’re officially allies now, right? When do I see it?”

Peter’s grin turned sly.

The attraction was clear as day. Even Stiles could read it, and most people’s flirtations went right over his head. Regardless, both of them were reluctant to make a move right away, both of them aware how disastrous the fallout could get for their respective packs if things went south between them. Or at least Stiles was aware of it, and Peter—perennial schemer that he is—must have at least considered it.

But maybe it was inevitable.

On a totally normal day, Stiles showed up uninvited at Peter’s, just to annoy him into loaning out a bestiary, and then they were just—on top of each other. It was the first and only time Stiles understood what people meant when they said they had sex by accident, a phrase he used to think was a stupid excuse people used for not bothering to control their own impulses, but holy shit, it was like someone just flipped a switch: one second they were staring, and the next second Peter’s tongue was down Stiles’s throat and Stiles was so fucking turned on that he was trying to climb him like a tree about it. He could not stop, could not stop for anything, like the only way out was forward, and forward meant tasting every inch of Peter’s skin.

The sex was amazing. Stiles was fucking wrecked. And of course when they came down, they said they should probably not do it again, absolutely never, because of pack reasons. And that they probably should not even mention it to anyone.

But those turned out to be more impulses they couldn’t rein in.

They became a thing. Somehow.

God knows they still rub each other the wrong way: Stiles is and always will be an annoying little shit, and Peter keeps making condescending offers to help broaden the tiny McCall pack—the implication being, again, that they aren’t perfectly fine as they are.

But somewhere along the way, Stiles has realized that all Peter’s stupid negging and random hints about his current location might be construed—if you looked at them through your dealing-with-a-manipulative-prick lens—as indirect attempts to coax Stiles into spending time with him. They’re the efforts of someone who has never bothered to invite anyone anywhere, and isn’t any good at it, and doesn’t even know how to do it without trying to manipulate the person in question into wanting it.

And now? Well. Peter’s never been one for grand, romantic gestures—he’s allergic—but it’s turned out okay. Do they have a relationship the average onlooker would describe as “normal” or “tender” or even “level-headed”? Hell no. But Stiles feels more comfortable with Peter than he does with just about anyone, and it’s clear Peter feels the same, and that’s enough.

Even now, the silence stretching between them is warm and companionable, with Stiles’s books and notes covering more than his fair share of the little table, and one of Peter’s legs stretched out beneath it to lean against Stiles’s, and the occasional question swapped between them to punctuate the calm.

A while later, after Stiles finishes the peppermint mocha and finds his limbs stiff, he stretches and returns to the front counter. When he comes back, he’s got a plain black coffee to replace Peter’s empty cup and, because he sometimes decides to be a just and merciful boyfriend, one of the gingerbread cold brews for himself instead of the peppermint.

That’s the kind of thing you end up doing when you get a little too invested. Not that Stiles would say it aloud.

Read the rest on AO3

[honiebeaswriting]

40 Weeks Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

The drive to the beach was nice. The car moved fluidly on the road that was thankfully not icy today. Though I wasn’t sure I would have this kind of luck tomorrow, I prayed that I would.

Pulling up to La Push’s beach was like an out of body experience. I didn’t even know where I was going, I just let my gut lead the way. Like something was pulling me here. I smiled seeing that the sun was still up and there was a sunset that I could capture with my watercolors perfectly. This was the perfect setting for a nice relaxing evening. I hopped out of the car and noticed three other cars pull up and park, thankfully not next to me. 

I quickly grabbed my bag and shuffled to the sand, I waddled my way through the sand and listened to the people behind me. What was a huge group of people doing out here on a Sunday afternoon? Was this just the perfect weather to come to the beach or something? No, way too cold. Especially teens, a majority of them look like they are sixteen to seventeen. Similar to me. So why were they out at this time of day right before school tomorrow? Maybe I’m looking too deep into it. I thought to myself. No, I need to be cautious, I have more than just me to think about now.

Still aware of my surroundings I sat on the sand and pulled everything out of my bag. I began sketching and painting the beautiful sky and the gorgeous sunset that was in front of me. We didn’t see things like this from my city. 

Everything was peaceful for almost ten minutes. The group of people that arrived at the beach looked like locals. They were definitely used to the weather because they wore jorts and tank tops. Some even didn’t have shirts. I eyed this group from the side, trying not to be too obvious. 

Two girls, the rest were dudes from what I could see. Wait, is that Emily? I wanted to stand up and say hi, ask her how she was doing and meet her friends but instead I quickly looked away. I was more than nervous to meet all of those people, the only time that I could ever be that confident is if I was high. But of course I couldn’t do that anymore. 

Instead I sat there, ignoring the huge group of presumably close friends, and painted till a ball came flying at me and my shit. I cringed when the ball almost hit my piece and my head at the same time. I was sketching with the paper so close to my face that I might as well have been glued to the page itself. 

“Jared! You need to be more careful man! I am so sorry, are you okay?” A young teen came running up to me. He looked around 14 - 15. A little younger than me, I  was 17, almost 18. “Please ignore my friend, he kicks and doesn’t care where the ball flies. I’m Seth by the way, what's your name?” He spoke fast, like he wasn’t used to having people listen to him. Seth had a huge smile on his face, he looked kind at heart, like the world was treating him right. His smile was infectious. I gave him a small smile, one that I could muster. 

“y/n, nice to meet you Seth. I would shake your hand but I am currently covered in paint.” I tried to sound casual and not nervous, though it was hard. A couple other kids ran up to me, a girl my age, the boy that kicked the ball, and a boy who also looked to be my age. The girl whose name I would later learn to be Leah, seemed to have a permanent glare on her face. The boy that kicked the ball, Jared, seemed playful with his friends but not open to me. And the boy who looked to be my age, Paul, looked me in the eyes and was dogging me down.

He had this look on his face, hard to describe, but the best way to explain it would be to say he was reminiscing on something. Like he saw his life flash before his eyes and everything was perfect, like everything made sense. “Hi,” Paul said, sounding like a fucking idiot. I liked that. “Hi,” I replied as I tried to match his energy. “I’m Paul, nice to meet you.” He said as if he sobered up within a couple seconds. “I’m y/n, nice to meet you too. Uh don’t worry about kicking the ball out here it’s not a big deal-” 

“Want to come eat with us? Emily makes really good food, she’s the woman over there very very nice. We have a ton of food to spare so you know you can help yourself.” Seth said, seeming to be onto something that I wasn’t. 

“Uhm sure, I can’t stay long, I've got to be back soon,” I said, hoping to make some friends outside of school. Maybe this would be a good thing.

The night moved by quickly. I met Sam, Emily’s fiance, Leah, Jared, Jacob, Quill, and Embry. They were all friendly. Welcoming even, like I had always been a part of their group. It was weird, but comforting in a way.

Paul hovered around me all night. Not like I minded, it was nice having someone care for me, someone other than my usual crowd. 

After some time I looked down at my clock and realized I had 20 minutes to get home. I hopped up off of one of the lawn chairs Paul grabbed for me, and rushed to grab my things. Paul looked at me worriedly and confused, it was like a fucking truck hit me or something. 

“Sorry guys, I have to get going, curfew. Look here is my number if you guys want to hang out again, cool! I’ll see you later!” I quickly snatched up my bag after writing my number on a page of sketchbook paper and I rushed away from the group and to my car. 

I not only made it back home safely, but I made it with 5 minutes to spare. I was one lucky mother fucker.

One thing that I didn’t notice was the gigantic wolf running alongside my car, like my own personal gradian angel. 

After bursting through the door and telling my grandparents good night I rushed up the stairs and into my room. 

I finally relaxed when I was in my own bedroom. I set my things down on my bed and started to grab some clothes so that I could take a shower. I made sure not to get my hair wet as it was not a wash day, and only scrubbed down my body. After I was done I rubbed lotion on my body with some nice smelling strawberry lotion, it was starting to grow on me. I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I was more than lucky to have this luxury while I was here, and I moved to go to bed. 

By the time I managed to lay down and get comfortable my phone vibrated on the nightstand. I groaned as I rolled over to grab it and noticed 2 texts from my little sister and 1 text from an unknown number. 

First I replied to my sister, telling her how I was and that I would send her money soon. I pointed her in the direction of a couple well paying jobs that I knew would hire her (I had connections) and told her that a couple of my friends would be checking on her and my other siblings every week. 

I had been saving up for the past couple years to buy a house near my grandparents, far away from my parents, and a place that they would never guess my little siblings would be. They were too stupid to guess I would be right under their noses anyways.

I decided years ago that when I turn 18 I will buy a house and get custody of my siblings. Thanks to my well paying job and some friends, I had more than enough money to support them and buy a house. Now all I have to do is wait. 

Then I opened the message from the unknown number. It said “Hey this is Paul. Just wanted you to know this is my number :)” 

A comforted smile grew on my face. Looks like I made a friend. Happily I replied to him with a simple hi and smiley face and crashed.

The next morning I was up nearly an hour and a half early for school. Normally I wouldn’t be up this early unless I was working, but my grandma wanted me up and ready for the day ahead. I got dressed in a pair of jeans, long socks (that did not match) and a cute long sleeve white shirt with a thick brown jacket over it. I grabbed my backpack after brushing my teeth and washing my face and slowly moved downstairs. All the energy from yesterday left me like there was no tomorrow. I sat down at the dining room table and ate whatever my grandmother put in front of me. Which so happened to be french toast and eggs, according to her it was a “Big day!” and “We need to celebrate after you come home!”

I could practically feel the anxiety rushing through my veins, I had no idea what to do. This was my first time in school for years and I was just supposed to waltz in there and act like I’ve done this shit before? Christ I was a junior taking junior level classes that I was not prepared for at all!

After eating I got into the blue truck and drove my ass to school. I was more than 40 minutes early, but that would give me time to walk around and find all my classes. So it wasn’t such a bad thing, right? 

Pulling up to the school was terrifying, but I collected myself and hopped out of the truck. Everyone's eyes were already on me, but I squared my shoulders and held my head high. Just like my boss taught me. And I walked into the office to get my schedule, books, and make my way to class. 

[thedreamlessnights]

No Promises - Beltane

Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader (NSFW)

This is my fic for @witcherwheeloftheyear as today is Beltane! It's a little late (the fic just kept getting longer and longer) but, hey, it's very much still May 1st here. I wrote this with the game version of Geralt in mind!

Prompt: Aphrodisiac.

Warnings and tags: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, sex pollen/aphrodisiac, no use of Y/N, oral sex (female receiving), outdoor sex (sort of), multiple orgasms, and mentions of blood and corpses.

Word Count: 5.6k

Even from the very beginning, you know the contract is strange.

You must look half-crazed. It’s the middle of the night and you’re soaked, shivering in the rain as you viciously nail the paper onto the inn’s noticeboard. The board is sheltered enough from the weather that the words won’t fade - or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Deeper in your chest, there’s something else. Realism, perhaps. 

No one is ever going to answer this ridiculous thing, and you know it. There aren’t many witchers left these days, and even fewer who’ll do something like an escort service. Monsters are easy - predictable. Humans are much less so. Taking a chance like that could risk their lives.

But you have no choice. You have to try. Nailing this thing on is something to keep your hands busy, something to keep you sane a little longer. It’s the barest hint of hope that one day you’ll get out of this place, kept sacred like the jar of coins near your bedside that you’ve been slowly adding to for years now.

You need to get out of this town, and to do that, you need a witcher. No regular man will survive those monsters in the woods, much less keep you alive through it. No, you need a witcher, impossible as that is.

And, like a miracle personified, not one week later - there one is.

Out of any who could have come around this little town, it seems remarkably funny to you that it’s the most famous of them all who arrives. The White Wolf. You know the ballads by heart.

You first see him in the inn. 

Just as you’ve begun nursing a pint and mourning your current circumstances, Geralt of Rivia walks in and makes you almost drop your drink. At the sight of him, everyone in the room goes completely still, and you with them. It’s as if an icy wind has blown in and frozen you all to the bone. No one dares even to take a breath.

He’s just like they say. White-haired, covered in dirt and blood, stinking of corpses. He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

He takes a cautious step in, and everyone slowly seems to come back to life. Some ignore him as he passes by, pretending they hadn’t seen him at all. Some whisper furiously - hissing under their breath. 

“This is a respectable town,” one man says, rather loudly. Stefan, the farmer’s son. You’d recognize that reedy, whining voice anywhere. “No room for freaks like that,” he continues. “Bloody mutants. Emotionless, that lot.” 

You simply watch Geralt, entranced. The pint in your hand goes forgotten, and your heart starts thundering in your chest with a bruising pace. Don’t expect anything, you remind yourself, rather sensibly. Surely there are other contracts that are better than mine.

Still, your gaze lingers on him with pressing curiosity. There are deep slashes in his armor that concern you, but he doesn’t look pained, and he’s not favoring anything when he walks. Is that his blood on the front, or someone - something - else’s?

You study him in silence until he’s left again, presumably to go off to his room and bathe. Only then do you remember your drink, swallowing the rest of it down in one long swig. You’re buzzing with an electrifying sort of energy, and it stays as you journey home. It keeps you up all night and won’t you rest.

There it is again; that hope. It sits in your chest, and your coin jar, and the paper that, with any luck, is still on the notice board. The longer you lay staring up at the pitch-black of your room, the more that hope seems to bleed out of you into the floors. Hours pass, and hope spills through the room until you’re drowning in it. 

You should be sensible. Guard yourself from the very real, very painful possibility of disappointment. But, if you’re honest, that doesn’t even feel like an option anymore. Until he flat out rejects you, that hope will remain.

Geralt is here and real, and he might take your contract. You might finally get out of this horrid place. He’ll already know the state of the woods - he’d come through them to get here, after all. You can pay decently for what you’re asking, and you’ll even provide food for the journey.

By the time dawn comes around, bringing rosy orange skies, you haven’t gotten an ounce of sleep. Your thoughts have been far too animated for that. Still, despite your lingering exhaustion, you get yourself up and dress quickly as anxious energy starts to flow through you. It works itself out through precise motions, the mundane routine of life. Busy hands make for a calm brain, that’s what you’ve always told yourself.

It still tugs at your chest, though. It won’t be fully pushed away.

Not long after you’ve made breakfast, there’s a knock at your door. Your heart instantly leaps to your throat at the sound. Could it be him? But then you remember that Elise told you she’d be over for some of your spare flour, and your heart sinks back down to its home between your ribs.

With more than a little disappointment, you swallow hard, trying briefly to brush the wrinkles from your clothes, then open the door.

But it isn’t Elise. It’s Geralt. 

He looks a little different than he had last night. For one - he’s been scrubbed clean from the blood and dirt, handsome and rugged as he stands in front of you. His armor is also different from yesterday’s, and he doesn’t smell at all like corpses anymore. 

What does he smell like? You can’t quite pinpoint it.

At the sight of you, Geralt politely bows his head. “Greetings,” he says. “Read your contract. Mind if I come in?”

Warmth, you finally realize. That’s what he smells like. Heat.

“No,” you say breathlessly. “No, I don’t mind at all - come in, please.”

You step back to let him in, and he follows in after you, briefly glancing around at the surroundings.

He should be intimidating. He had been, just last night, even though you hadn’t been scared away in the least. But he’s not at all scary now. Instead, he has an uncertainty about him that’s almost awkward. It’s as if he somehow has the lesser ground in this conversation, and that - combined with the soft hesitance of his voice - makes it impossible for you to be afraid of him.

“Are you hungry?” you ask impulsively. “I’ve just made breakfast.” 

He looks genuinely surprised at your offer. His brows rise, and he shifts from one foot to the other. “Already ate,” he says. “Appreciate the offer, though.”

“Then I’m guessing you’d like to discuss the contract.”

He nods. “Yeah. Don’t usually do escorts. Was hoping I could learn a little more before I agree to anything.”

“Of course,” you reply quickly, nervously brushing down your clothes again. “I’ll be honest, I know it’s not typical for witchers to do things like this, but…” Your words trail off and sit thickly in the air. You’re not sure what to say. You desperately want to convince him.

Geralt raises a brow. “Don’t feel like traipsing around the forest alone?” he asks.

Mirroring his facetious tone, you shrug and tilt your head. “I’m afraid I don’t have a death wish.” 

He smiles a little at that, his eyes crinkling just the slightest at the edges. Your gaze lingers on them, golden and warm and beautiful. With the slitted pupils, they really do look like a cat’s. 

“Smart of you to ask for an escort,” he says. “Just came through those woods. Crawling with monsters. Bandits, too.”

You frown, suddenly remembering the shredded armor you’d seen last night. “I’ve heard as much. It’s the only reason I’m still here.”

He studies you for a moment, gaze piercing. Then he speaks. “I’d need half the pay first. Other half comes when we arrive.”

“Done,” you say.

This really seems to take him aback. Do people often argue with him? It only makes sense for him to get half the pay now. 

“Huh,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. Gotta be honest, you seem smart enough to know this already, but there are some rules I’d need you to follow. I go out there with you, it’s both our lives on the line. Need you to do anything I say, when I say it. Don’t want any risks.”

“Of course,” you breathe, relief flooding you. “Like I said, I don’t have a death wish. I completely trust your opinions on how to get us through safely.”

He seems to relax a little at that. His expression softens, and he nods. “Got a few things to take care of today, so it’ll have to wait. Guessing tomorrow works for you?”

The wall of hesitance you’ve been holding in shatters. “Tomorrow?” you exclaim, perhaps a bit too loud. You have to physically stop yourself from throwing yourself in his arms. “I mean - yes! Yes, tomorrow is perfect, thank you.”

There’s a beautiful flash of a smile again before he bows his head once more and takes his leave, and you start trembling with some euphoric type of adrenaline. 

You’ve had this planned out for months now - years, even. You’d had to wait until you could afford it, and you’ve always told yourself to be practical about it, to wait until you had the best chance of leaving this place and staying away. 

You don’t have much to pack. The woods require you to travel light, so you only grab the necessities. Everything else is left behind. You don’t have many belongings anyhow.

Your employer doesn’t seem to believe you when you tell him you’re leaving, but he accepts your resignation nonetheless. He probably thinks you’ll end up back here like the rest of them. Deep in your bones, you know that won’t happen. Not if you can help it.

Keeping your hands busy, you cook up some food for the journey - things that will last, store well on your back. Then you purchase a few much-needed supplies, and sew up a tear that’s needed mending. When the sky finally starts to get dark again, you start trying to wear yourself out.

The overwhelming elation you feel in every inch of your body is keeping you wide awake, and you’ll need your sleep if you’re going through the forest. More sleep means you’re more alert, and you can’t risk putting Geralt in any further danger.

Eventually, your pacing around in the chilled night air begins to work - your body becomes soft and sleepy, and you crawl into bed knowing that everything is ready. 

Finally.

Over the next week, you learn a great number of things about the woods.

For instance, you learn what nekkers look like, and how to breathe when you’re hiding. It becomes natural - slow, shallow breaths so nothing will hear you. Soon, you learn how to make your footsteps almost silent, and how to identify when Geralt is hearing something dangerous in the distance. The days become a fluid rhythm of understanding. Three days in, and you don’t even need him to tell you to hide. You just know.

From what you can tell, the two of you are lucky. A few monsters and some wolves really aren’t the worst things you could be dealing with. Most of the time, the two of you are undisturbed - but that might just be his heightened sense of hearing steering the two of you away from danger.

You also come to learn that Geralt isn’t much of a talker. His answers to your questions are often brief, but not at all rude. Laconic, rather. It’s as if he’s itching to get the conversation off of him. Which leaves the burden on you. 

He doesn’t seem to mind your near-constant chatter in the least. Sometimes you’ll get a smile out of him, and rarely you’ll even earn a laugh. Other times he’s silent, lost in thought.

What’s the most frustrating of all is that the less he speaks, the more you want to know. Your head is full of things you want to ask, but you refuse to press him. Not when he’s been nothing but polite, keeping the two of you safe.

A week stretches on in scant conversation, but you feel safe and utterly relieved to be leaving that town, so you can’t exactly complain. Geralt starts your fires in the cold nights and always takes the first watch. You take the second, and wake him at any signs of danger.

And the two of you continue on.

When the two of you are forced to lumber over a log to push on, he puts his hands on your waist and hoists you up like you weigh absolutely nothing. His hands are warm and his grip is gentle but firm, and you spend the rest of the evening dizzily thinking about his touch.

His presence feels like a slowly-growing pressure in your chest, a dam about to burst. It swells with every touch, every conversation. If the two of you don’t arrive soon, one of these days your sense might crumble. For now, it holds. 

When there are only a few days left in your journey, Geralt finally initiates the conversation. He asks why you’re leaving - why you’d wanted to get away from that place so badly. 

You readily tell him. 

You tell him about long days spent in the sun, work that never paid as much as it should, hands worn down to the bone and skin constantly cracking. You had skills to share with the world, but they were no good in the middle of nowhere.

Then you tell him of the bitter chill of winter, the sweltering heat of the summer, the seasons that never had any kind of balance.

You hadn’t fit in with the townsfolk, who were nothing but shallow, cruel, and unfeeling. You laugh to yourself a little when you remember Stefan’s words - calling Geralt emotionless. In truth, it’s clear that Geralt feels more than he ever could.

As you speak, Geralt drinks in your words - as if they’re a heady wine he can’t get enough of. His eyes stay on your face the entire time you talk, and he smiles at your jokes. You can’t remember anyone else ever looking at you like that, not even the men you’ve bedded.

When you go off to bed, he offers a hand to help you up, and wishes you good night.

Your sleep that night is feverish. 

You dream of him, nothing but him - callused hands trailing over your skin, his thumb tracing along your jaw, warm lips coaxing yours open. 

When you wake with a start, you find great relief in the fact that Geralt hasn’t seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, and that you hadn’t talked in your sleep.

In fact, Geralt isn’t even looking your way - his eyes are focused on something you can’t see, studying a dark shadow in the distance. 

You sit next to him, pretending that you hadn’t just dreamed of… what you’d dreamed. “More wolves?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Endregas.”

The word isn’t familiar to you. “Monsters?” 

He huffs. “Yeah. Big. Shoot poison quills.”

You shudder a little at the thought, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Have you fought them before?”

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes still trained on the distant endregas. “Lots. Usually don’t have someone else to worry about, though. Prefer not to fight them if I don’t have to.”

“In that case, I can take watch,” you offer. “I’ll wake you if they get any closer.”

But he shakes his head. “Don’t want to risk it. I’ll sleep later.”

You want to argue. The circles under his eyes are dark and he looks exhausted. But you don’t, because you know that he won’t budge.

While you wait, you have to fight to keep your eyes on the forest. You want to study him, want to know what he’s thinking and feeling and where he’s just come from, why he was in town. Instead, you keep your eyes trained on the forest, thinking about things you can never have. 

The endregas move on in an hour or two, and the two of you set off when they’re gone. The air is sweet and cool amid the morning dew, but it quickly gives way to the burning sun.

Geralt seems more alert than usual - there must be something he’s hearing, but it isn’t enough for him to want you to hide, not yet. You ready yourself for the possibility, but as the day stretches on you relax more and more.

Then, when the sun is orange and low in the sky, Geralt stops. 

You tense, getting ready to hide, but he doesn’t give you the usual signals. His brows pinch and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t turn to look at you.

“Endregas?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Boars, I think.”

“Boars?” You hadn’t even known they were in the area. “Are they dangerous?”

Geralt’s expression goes grim. “Think I’d prefer the endregas,” he says. He listens for a moment longer. “Shit. Gotta move.”

You fight the urge to laugh at the mental image of him battling a pack of wild boars, then follow closely behind him.

Out of nowhere, it begins to pour. 

It’s the painful kind of rain, thick, heavy droplets that soak you in an instant. You’re not sure who starts running first, but the two of you end up sprinting to a nearby cave, and you’re laughing and praying that the boars aren’t following you.

With the weather, the cave is so dark that you can’t see. You rush in and come to a halt, gasping for breath - Geralt is effortlessly fast and extremely difficult to keep up with, and you’re sure he hadn’t even been running at full speed.

Then the smell hits you.

It’s earthy and peppery - stinging your nose as you inhale. The feeling travels down your airway, and your limbs start to feel… well, you don’t know what they’re feeling. It’s uncomfortable, though.

You know something is wrong even before Geralt lights a torch, but the look on his face just confirms it. That’s not all, either. The two of you are both covered in the substance you’ve been breathing in, and… and it looks like spores. 

You’re standing right over the source - a mossy sort of plant under your feet, and the glimmering orange flecks in the air are all over you, but Geralt is coated with them, too.

You start brushing them off as fast as you can. Geralt stays frozen, looking extremely pained.

“Well?” you ask. “I’m guessing you know what this is.”

Your words seem to wake him from his trance. He blinks hard and gazes at you before finally speaking. “I… Yeah. Got some bad news.”

Great, you think to yourself. It’s poison. That must be why Geralt is looking at you so mournfully. It’s poison and you’re going to die, and his witcher mutations are going to save him from the toxins.

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, in fact. He gently grips your arm and leads you to a nearby pond that you hadn’t seen in the torch’s dim light. Then sets down the torch, wets a loose cloth and starts wiping the substance off your skin. It feels nice - even though you’re already drenched, this cave is feeling incredibly hot.

You swallow hard, trying to process what’s happening. If he’s doing this, maybe you won’t die. Maybe it’s just… painful.

The flecks are still on him - you reach up to dust some of them out of his hair, and he inhales heavily.

“How bad is it?” you finally ask.

He takes a moment before he answers. “Depends, I guess. You aren’t dying.”

Pain, then.

His hands are shaking as he continues to wipe you off, and something about that scares you. Your body feels hot, so hot, and it feels so nice when he touches you, but at the same time you’re so afraid that you can barely breathe.

“Geralt!”

He sighs, finally relenting. “Really rare plant,” he starts off. “Never actually seen it before, only read about it. Pretty easy to recognize, though.”

“And it’s painful.” You’ve had enough of him dancing around the subject.  

His brows pinch. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” he says gently. “Pretty powerful one.”

Aphrodisiac. It takes you a moment to place the word. Then you do.

The realization must show on your face, because Geralt stops wiping you down and leans back on his heels. “Yeah,” he says softly.

The heat you’re feeling - that’s what this is? Oh, gods. It’s all over the two of you, and… and it’s… oh, gods.

“Got most of it off you,” he continues. “Thing is, it’ll still be in your system for a while.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “Might affect me less. Might be the same. Not really sure.”

You think of his shaking hands as he’d wiped you off, and heat instantly pools between your legs. You press your knees together, and his gaze follows the action and lingers.

Shit.

“Might… might have a book with the antidote recipe,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes still fixed on your thighs.

Taking in a sharp breath, he stands abruptly and begins sorting through his things. You want to stop him. You want to stop him, because what was uncomfortable and hot is now very much pleasant, euphoric even, and the only thing you can think of anymore is having him touch you again.

“Geralt,” you breathe.

His hand tightens on the book he’s just grabbed, but he doesn’t respond. He simply starts sorting through the pages with clumsy fingers. 

You’ve never seen him clumsy before.

Your thoughts seem to have fogged over with some sort of lustful haze, and you can barely keep yourself still. It’s almost painful, when he’s so close and you’ve been wanting him and you know how nice his touch feels.

Geralt sits down a few feet away to read, but you can tell he’s not getting anywhere. His eyes trace over the page again and again and he keeps shaking his head, as if he’s trying to shake himself into concentrating. You watch him in increasing discomfort, shifting and balling your hands into the fabric of your clothes, trying to be patient.

After a minute or so of this, Geralt snaps the book shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he says softly.

You know he must want you. You can see it in the heat of his gaze when he turns to look at you, even though he’s been trying not to. You know he can hear how fast your heart is beating, and that he can smell you, you can see the way his hands have balled into fists and how his jaw clenches. You see the way eyes trail over your chest, taking in how your clothes are sticking to you from the rain. 

His gaze darkens with interest as he stares at you, and you’re staring at him, and his eyes finally meet yours. 

In a flash, you’re on your feet - and he’s somehow there, somehow already next to you. You want him so badly that when he takes your face in his hands, you let out a sob of relief.

Then he kisses you.

The kiss is hot and hungry and desperate and you’ve never known anything better, never want it to stop. His hand is on the back of your neck, needlessly coaxing you closer to him as his chest presses against you, free hand roaming down to grip your waist. 

Trying to steady yourself in his grip, you rest a hand on his shoulder. Your other one goes up into his soft, silky hair, and he groans into your mouth as you tangle your fingers into it.

Desire pulses through you at the sound - you start feverishly clawing at his armor, wanting it gone, wanting to touch him. He steps back a little and yanks it off impatiently, dropping the pieces carelessly to the floor. When it’s finally off, he kisses you harder, guiding you backwards. He wants you against the cave wall, you realize. You hit it hard. There’s no pain.

Now that he’s shirtless, you can see that his torso is just as scarred and beautiful as the rest of him, and you only want more. He presses a leg between your knees and starts to kiss down your neck, and you let out a whimper, fighting the urge to grind against him.

When he gets down to your top, his hands fumble with the lacing for a moment before he gives up and rips it. You feel the stitching tear before it falls away, and - gods, you might die here. Geralt of Rivia might kill you.

You don’t wonder about what the hell you’re going to wear after this. You barely even care. All you can think of is him, his hands, sliding down your ribs, his lips, pressing kisses to your clavicle. To hell with the clothes. To hell with anything else but him.

The way you ache for him is painful - his touch is both burning and soothing and it riles you up into a state of frenzy as you try to get him closer. Your heart is pounding in your chest with such force that it’s a wonder that it doesn’t give out, and everything Geralt is doing is making you less and less coherent  - his tongue tracing down your chest, his mouth hot against your skin. 

You let out a soft whine as his fingers find your right breast, thumb circling around your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. With his free hand, he mirrors his actions on the other side, and you start squirming and whimpering, wanting him to keep going but wanting him inside you. 

His fight against his impatience is evident. The grip of his hand on your waist is bruising, but his mouth is gentle. The longer he goes on, the tighter that grip gets. You want him to squeeze you even harder. You want him to take you, take you hard enough that you’ll feel him with every step tomorrow. 

“Geralt,” you pant. “Please.” 

You’re not even sure exactly what you’re asking for. Don’t stop, you think. Don’t stop touching me, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—

Geralt growls in response to your words, a low, feral sound that rumbles up from his chest as he kisses further and further down. You can feel the vibration of it against your ribs, and your hips instinctively rock toward him.

That action seems to wipe away any patience he’d had. His lip curls and he steps back, ripping the rest of your clothes off of you. You think he’s going to take you right then, but he doesn’t. 

He drops to his knees.

Any thoughts you’d had left die as his warm mouth finds your clit. Your mind instantly goes blank and fuzzes over with pleasure, legs shaking as you resist grinding down into his mouth, and your hand fixes tightly in his hair.

The gasp you’d been letting out quickly fades into a moan, and Geralt hums against you in response, gripping your thigh and hoisting it over his shoulder. You lean back against the wall for support, nearly mindless with pleasure, letting out soft noises you barely recognize.

Heat starts building between your legs, electrifying and so ridiculously good that you’re not even sure you’ll be able to stay upright. Your knees start shaking even more and your vision blurs and he’s licking you as if he can’t get enough, can’t stop, and he feels so fucking good, better than anything you’ve ever felt, and–

Pleasure is suddenly blinding you. Geralt’s grip tightens where he’s holding you - practically holding you up, and your ears start ringing. You shake and gasp and hold onto his shoulder for dear life.

When you finally start coming down again, you realize that the heat is still there - still as intense, and you can only think about one thing.

“Fuck me.” It’s a plea, more than anything, half a sob. 

He must either be moved by it or desperate himself, because he presses a soft kiss to your thigh before gently removing your leg from his shoulder, wiping his mouth as he gazes up at you. There’s still so much want in his eyes.

Legs still shaking, you sink down onto your knees and kiss him. His arms wrap around you, warm and strong, and his hand goes back to your neck, and you crawl on top of him until you’re practically straddling him. 

He’s painfully hard in his trousers, and he sighs in relief when you unlace them, breath tickling against your cheek. He still smells like heat, a woodsy, heady sort of heat, and he’s thick and hot when you take him into your hand. He drags in a strained breath as you stroke him, fingers tightening on the nape of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “Fuck.”

That does it - you can’t fucking wait any longer. You shuffle further up his lap, line yourself up with him, and sink down on his cock.

The hand that’s not on your neck moves to your back, and his brows pinch in pleasure. He feels - he feels so fucking good, and he’s beautiful, and gods, gods. You’re shuddering around him already, clenching hard.

“Fuck,” he groans. Then he puts both hands on your hips and starts fucking you. 

Your hands end up pressed against his chest, and all you can do is moan and let him take you and watch his beautiful face as it contorts with ecstasy, completely entranced by him. His cock feels so fucking good, blissful friction that builds deep inside you, friction that’s getting him close too, and he’s squeezing your hips harder, and you’re already tensing with another climax.

His thrusts are deep and hard and, gods, you don’t even know if you can believe this is real, any of this. How is he real, so tall and gentle and strong, how is this real, how is he taking you away from that awful town, keeping you safe, fucking you like this, fuck, fuck, fuck—

You come around him and he shudders and groans and kisses you, thrusting into you even harder, fucking into you until you’re panting and clinging to his shoulders as you clench around his cock. Then the two of you go boneless and he lays back against the ground, bringing you down with him, smoothing a hand down your spine as the two of you lay there.

The heat is back. It’s a little less this time, but it’s back. Geralt is still inside you, still hard, and he grunts as you rock your hips down. Then, to your distress, he places his hands on your ribs as if to hold you still and pulls out of you, shifting out from under you and leaving you sitting on the cold floor.

You watch shamelessly as he stands and gathers something from his pack, and your heart skips a beat when you see that he’s pulled out a blanket. He lays it out, smoothes it down, then looks at you expectantly and pats the center. “C’mere,” he says.

You quickly scramble over, and he kisses you harder this time and lays you down, coaxing your legs apart as he thrusts into you again. It’s slower this time, less desperate, more intimate. That heat is still there and the two of you are still drunk on it, but it’s not so demanding, not so aching.

You stare at him like he’s come from the heavens and listen to the gradually increasing strain of his breath, and he kisses you and licks into your mouth, and his thrusts slowly get faster, and - gods, it feels so good you can barely think or breathe, and, don’t stop, you think. Please don’t ever stop. 

When he arrives at his peak, he brings you right there with him - gasping and digging your nails into his back, shivering with pleasure, and he groans and presses his cheek to yours and keeps thrusting until he’s finished and you’re both panting.

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment before kissing you again, and you wince a little as he pulls out of you. The heat is still there and, honestly, you’ll probably ending up fucking again, but for now you’re content to just lay there. 

To your shock, Geralt sits up and reaches for your ruined top, using it to clean up the mess he’s made of you.

“Geralt!” you exclaim. 

“What?” he says, smirking a little. “Ruined it already.”

You begin to laugh hysterically, and Geralt chuckles, finishing his clean up before he lays down next to you.

“Hope you have other clothes,” he says.

“Dirty ones,” you reply. “If I stink, it’ll be your fault.”

“Mm. Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Make it up to you.”

“Is that so?” you ask. “How are you going to do that?”

His hand wraps around your waist, and you let out a yelp as he pulls you closer.

“Got some ideas,” he says, nipping sharply at your ear.

Ignoring the heat building in your gut again, you lightly slap his arm. “You owe me a new outfit,” you tell him.

“Sure,” he says. “Buy you a new one when we get into town.”

“Will you, now?”

“Uh-huh,” he says distractedly, kissing down your neck. “Just gotta let me take it off you, too.”

You smile to yourself at the thought. “Don’t rip it and we have a deal.”

He laughs, nuzzling his nose against your neck.

“No promises.”

[bi-bats]

timkon exes to lovers? 👀👀

(also, hi!!! how’s it going?)

Hello!!!!! Yes I am SO stoked about that one honestly because I have literally like. 17k words of it or something cause it's one of my older fics! Here's a snippet:

“Hey,” Kon said, and the room was too heavy, too thick for him to be sarcastic the way Tim knew he wanted to be.  “Hey.” It was barely a whisper out of Tim’s throat, and for a moment he wanted to lean forward and wrap his arms around Kon.  Then he remembered to be angry. It had been so long since he’d been in his room that he barely remembered how he’d left it, but he knew somewhere in his head that it shouldn’t have been so clean. Everything was tidy except for his bed, which wasn’t made, and that wasn’t quite right. He knew he’d made it before leaving, the last time. He wanted to smell his sheets to be certain, but he was pretty sure Kon had slept in his bed.  No, Tim. Bad Tim. Creepy Tim.  There was an easier way to find out, anyways.  “Did you sleep in my bed?” he asked, and he hadn’t quite remembered to leak the anger into his voice. It came out soft, too soft, the way being around Kon always made him.  Kon’s face flushed, but he didn’t drop his gaze. “Didn’t seem like you were going to be using it,” he mumbled, shrugging, and that was the spark Tim needed to remember he was mad.  “Well, I wasn’t, to be honest.” His voice finally found that icy tone he knew Kon would recognize, saw the moment his posture stiffened as he recognized exactly which Tim he was talking to.  “I was just planning on stopping in here to breathe for a moment, because that party is starting to get a little too drunk for my liking, so imagine my surprise when-” “Why didn’t you leave?” Kon interrupted him, his gaze burning into him.

jadkjfak I LOVE that fic so much 💚 would love to finish it one day lmaooo

send me an ask about one of my WIPs!

I'm going to answer how I am under a read more because that is sort of a complicated answer, and I'll be talking about health stuff so consider that my health CW/TW for it

Hi!!! Thanks for asking!! I have been wanting to give a little update on how I'm doing because the answer is... not great, honestly.

I got put on medical leave for two months and got diagnosed with degenerative disc disease in my spine (which is something that doctors keep telling me I'm very young to have), and I'm doing 6 weeks of physical therapy for that. Honestly, I've had chronic back pain for 8 years, and I really haven't had time to process that information with all the rest of the stuff I have going on. I'm waiting for an MRI to see what's causing the degeneration.

I've also been having heart palpitations and lightheadedness and chest pain that were mostly addressed when we figured out that I have anemia (not the traditional kind, though, and it seems to be being caused by something else). That said, I wore a heart monitor for a week before addressing the anemia, and the results on that were very reassuring, so my heart looks okay. I've still been having some symptoms, but much less.

However, I've also been having really horrible GI issues that I'm waiting for a bunch of tests to see if I need any procedures or surgeries done to fix, or if it's a problem that can be solved more easily. I have severe nausea, acid reflux, problems actually digesting food, and I've lost like... 12-13 pounds in the last month I think? I get hungry and then I eat and then food makes me feel awful, but if I don't eat, I also feel awful. My body is flat out refusing to digest certain foods and I do not know why. There are other symptoms that I just don't want to share. It's been really frustrating. I feel horrible all the time. I wasn't staying at home for almost a month because I just didn't feel safe staying by myself. I actually answered some of these asks tonight while sitting on the bathroom floor because I wasn't sure that I wasn't going to throw up (I didn't though! yay!).

But basically, just about all of my energy is going into figuring out what's wrong with me right now. And when it isn't going into that, it's going into spending time with my friends and loved ones in an attempt to get through some of the pain/stress.

So yeah, things are rough. It's why I haven't been super active on here or ao3 this year. I am having a really difficult time focusing on writing, and that sucks, because I love writing. It's my #1 outlet and like. I fully can't focus on it.

Anyways. I don't really know where to end this, but that's what's going on with me. I might post a little update later on next week if I get any answers. I have a CT scan and an upper gi scan next week to see if they can see anything wrong just from that, and then more tests after that too.

Thanks for asking, though! I appreciate everyone's asks, this was a fun little distraction from all the stuff I just talked about💖

Also want to add for anyone reading this: I have many doctors trying to figure this out right now and they are running every test we can all think of. Please, please do not tell me what thing you think may be causing this in a reply or a tag, because it'll send me down a medical anxiety rabbit hole and then all I'll be doing for the rest of the night is panicking. I know the goal of any kind of comment like that would not be to make me panic, but that is what it would result in. So please, anyone can feel free to reply, but please don't reply with any sort of diagnosis or suggestion of what you think the problem might be. Thank you for understanding 💚

[sachikokuroichi]

Herz an Herz (<-Link to AO3)

“Your handwriting is awful.”

Naruto had to look twice at the scroll he was holding in hand right now. He’d been looking forward to Gaara’s answer all week and this was everything he had to say?!

The blond was on the verge of crying. And here he thought that they could converse like this, get to know each other and become closer. Because let’s face it. Since the day he’d laid eyes on him, he knew that the red-haired jinjuuriki was going to be someone special in his life. Someone he wanted to call precious to him. The fact that Gaara came to help him with the Sasuke problem more than just once was not helping to keep his crush in check either.

Tossing the scroll into the depth of his chaos that had been his flat once, Naruto stormed outside. He really needed to clear his head and the best way to achieve that was training.

Meanwhile in Suna…

“Temari, have you seen the messenger scroll I had on my desk? I’ve been looking for it for a couple of days now.”

The blond kunoichi looked at her, a little (very) unnerved, brother. It was not like him to lose his things, not even misplace them. Also, it was definitely not in his normal behaviour to freak out like that over a simple messenger scroll. And for Gaara this was a big case of freaking out: He was currently wracking havoc in his office, using his sand to lift papers, tables, plants and every single one of the heavier pieces of furniture, even if there was no way that a messenger scroll could possibly fit underneath or behind it. Gaara was close to losing it. Okay, who was she trying to kid here? He was losing it and never had Temari been gladder that Shukaku wasn’t with Gaara anymore. He would’ve had a field day with the nervous energy her little brother was radiating right now.

She wondered what possibly could be in that messenger scroll that he freaked out like that. There had been no important paperwork of lately, just the one scroll from Konoha that she- oh.

“You mean the one from Konoha? The one ready to send back? I already sent it a few days ago.”

“WHAT?!”

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, Temari took a couple steps back. Gaara had never been the type to raise his voice. Lower it into icy depths that caused you to freeze or made you want to cease existing all together on the spot, yes, but he never got loud.

But there he was: his turquoise eyes, still marred from countless of sleepless nights, wide in surprise and with an unfamiliar look of pure horror within them, the earlier frantic whirling sand was now lying lifeless all around the office.

“I’m sorry, it looked finished, all closed up and sealed, so I thought-“

“He’s gonna hate me… my life is over…”

Temari watched Gaara let himself fall into his seat, burying his face in his hands, letting out a distressed sound.

“Gaara, what is this all about? Who was the scroll addressed to anyway?”

“Naruto… he sent me the scroll, wanted to write more regularly, keep in touch.”

Temari let out a sigh, relief cursing through her veins. Naruto was simple. There was no way that he wouldn’t forgive them for this mistake. He’d probably find it very funny.

“Naruto would never hate you. Maybe you weren’t finished writing it, who cares? It probably shows anyway. What did you write him?”

Gaara broke down there and then, letting everything spill out: How he was so happy to receive the letter, just for it to morph into something unpleasant, overwhelming him, because how could he be that happy over something that simple? Was it okay to feel that way? What did it mean?

After getting through this crisis (meaning he managed to shove the panic into the farthest corner of his mind) he struggled for some time to decipher the written words. Naruto’s writing was like him: lively, happy, easy to read, but wild and untamed and it showed. His penmanship was horrible.

But after some time he got used to it and it got easier to read the message, which left him with the most difficult task: It was now on him to write his response. There the real struggle began. What to write? What was okay? What too much? Was there some etiquette to follow? Would Naruto think of him as weird? He didn’t want to scare him away. He wanted the letters to continue. After even one single letter he could already claim being addicted to the feeling of receiving, opening and reading them.

“Then I remembered that it wasn’t too bad to let the heart do the talking.”

Temari felt a sense of dread rising. Her little, innocent brother knew close to nothing about feelings, especially gentle ones like friendship and love. Even if he worked hard to understand them better, he still lacked… experience.

“Back to my original question: What did you write him?”

“What came to mind first. I wanted to start off with a little tease, then complimenting him on his wonderful idea, how I felt when I got the letter, that I was looking forward to exchanging lots of them in the future.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad…?”

“I didn’t come very far before getting called away to a meeting. Then you sent it.”

“How far did you come?”

“Your handwriting is awful.”

“Kami-sama have mercy… that’s your definition of “starting off with a little tease”?! That was outright mean!”

“It’s not that bad… is it?”

Temari almost wanted to laugh at her clueless brother but seeing him anxious and vulnerable like that was enough to make her feel guilty about sending the scroll without checking with Gaara first. It was her fault they’re in this situation after all. She planned on doing whatever she could to fix her mistake. Maybe she should deliver the next message herself, explain the circumstances of the first to Naruto herself. And apologize to both of them. No matter how she hated to do that and how much it would hurt her pride. This was her little brother and his happiness was the most important thing to her. He deserved all the luck and love in this godforsaken world. And she would make it happen! But first things first:

“It’s gonna be fine. We’ll fix this. But Gaara… I need to know one thing before we do that. And I want you to be completely honest with me here.”

Gaara sent her a confused look, but nodded anyway.

“Is there a certain possibility that your feelings for Naruto maybe go further than friendship?”

The confusion in Gaara’s eyes grew with every second his brain had to compute the meaning behind her question. But there was no verbal answer and Temari was sure that was to the fact that her little brother had no idea himself. She had dumped a completely foreign concept on him there, that she was pretty sure of.

“Look, I don’t want to say that-“

“I’m in love with him, aren’t I?”

The way he muttered those words, completely dumbfounded by the revelation, but also with a certain uncertainty lying underneath, took her by surprise. He was not hesitant to say it out loud, it seemed more that it was almost an epiphany to him. That she’d given him a name for all those weird, foreign sensations within him. Those new feelings. But his past had taught him that love was a dangerous concept and it was just natural to be at least slightly scared of it now.

“Well, I can’t look into your head or your heart… but to me it looks like you’re at least crushing hard on him.”

“What should I do now?”

“Up to you. But I suggest that you write the letter you actually intended to send him so I can deliver it.”

Gaara did exactly that.

~*~

Naruto had been inconsolable for the past few days, training without too many breaks, not even once visiting Ichiraku’s for ramen and it was starting to worry his teammates as well as the Hokage. What possibly could’ve happened? He hadn’t left the village and within it there wasn’t too much that could’ve caused this. Time to bring out the big guns: They decided to consult Iruka.

Said Chuunin found his former student at one of Konoha’s countless training grounds. It really spoke for Naruto’s progress that he was spotted immediately.

“Iruka-sensei! What brings you here?”

“Can I not pay a dear former student of mine a visit from time to time?”

“You’re way too busy for that and we both know that.”

Ouch. Iruka never thought that Naruto could be that brutally honest. Seems like his little troublemaker had indeed grown up. And his teammates had been right: He was in a very bad mood.

“But I’m here, aren’t I? So let’s get some ramen and catch up.”

Naruto’s face immediately lit up, causing Iruka to almost sigh in relief. If Ichiraku’s ramen would also have failed here, then he would’ve been in serious trouble. If they couldn’t console him, then almost nothing else could.

With two big bowls of their favourite type of ramen in front of them, Iruka decided to tackle the issue upfront.

“Okay, spill. What’s wrong?”

Naruto’s good mood was gone immediately. Iruka felt a chill going down his spine. He dreaded the words he was going to hear next. What horrible things could’ve happened to this sunshine? A lot of things, that Iruka knew. But whoever it was, there would be hell to pay. Iruka would make sure of it.

“I think I’m in love and I’m pretty sure he hates me. Or thinks that I’m stupid. Same thing. It’s pointless.”

Iruka had expected to hear a wide variety of things… but this? This he hadn’t seen coming.

“What makes you think that?”

“I wrote him, wanted to build a deeper connection, get to know him, become friends…”

“Sounds like a solid plan, what happened?”

“His only response was “Your handwriting is awful.”, that’s what happened.”

Iruka didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t deny that Naruto’s handwriting was awful, he had the “pleasure” of correcting various tests and homework sheets of him before but to get that told by your crush was just cruel. That guy was the worst.

“Forget about him. You deserve better than that.”

“Iruka-sensei… if it would be just as simple to forget someone you love as you make it sound… why are you still in love with Kakashi-sensei?”

This time Iruka had been eating his ramen and promptly started to choke on them. He really hated that observant and blunt version of Naruto. Before he could think of an answer, another blond entered the restaurant, drawing all attention onto them and successfully redirecting it from Iruka.

“There you are! Seriously, was it always that hard to find you in this stupidly huge village?!”

Iruka and Naruto exchanged confused looks before looking at Temari again.

“Why’re you looking for me, Temari-nee-san? I didn’t know a visit was scheduled anytime soon.”

“Yeah, well… it’s a long story… actually no - it’s not. Here.”

She pulled a scroll out of her bag and shoved it into Naruto’s hands.

“I accidentally sent Gaara’s response before he even really started to write it. He was really upset because of it, so I came to deliver the actual response personally. To minimise the risk of further mishaps. I sincerely apologize and hope you can forgive me.”

Temari finished her little speech with a deep bow which caused Naruto to look quickly assure her that it wasn’t necessary.

“Yes, it is. And you better tell Gaara that I did it too. He bullied me into doing it, quote “You better bow to him and apologize properly! No half-assing like you did with me.”, just so you know!”

Naruto was stunned. Gaara had gone through all this trouble? Just for him? But the sentence…

“You’re not gonna read what the Kazekage wrote you?”

Iruka’s gentle voice was cutting through the already downspiralling thoughts. He hastily ripped the seal and opened the scroll, almost damaging the thing in the process. He’d never been a fast reader, but right now he wished he could absorb the whole message at once. He was just too anxious to find out the truth to be patient.

[~Your handwriting is awful.

It took me quite some time to get fluent enough in your way of encrypting your letters so they can stay just between you and me and I apologize in advance that I can’t offer you the same in return.

Joke aside, I really loved to receive your letter and have to compliment you on this brilliant idea. The thought of getting letters from you on a regular basis, getting to know you and get insight into your daily life is filling me with profound joy to the intensity I cannot begin to describe. While my days are filled with almost the same tasks every day, I’m looking forward to hear about your missions and daily adventures.

I actually planned to just send you the letter I originally had intended to write (if it hadn’t been for Temari sending it way too early), but I can’t end it without apologizing. I’m sorry that you had to get such an unpleasant first response from me. I really hope you can forgive me and will send me lots of letters in the future. Otherwise I have to think of ways of making it up to you, because I can’t imagine not hearing from you ever again. You’re way too important to me already. You reaching out to me got my hopes up that the feeling’s mutual.

If you have some freetime in the future, we also can write about scheduling a meet up. You could come visit me in Suna. If you would want that, that is.

Please send your response with Temari, she will stay a few days in Konoha (probably with Shikamaru Nara, but don’t tell her I wrote that).

I’m looking forward to reading from you soon,

Gaara~]

~*~

This was the start of a wonderful friendship even if they just managed to converse via pretty frequent letters. Finding a way to meet up was pretty much impossible, with the world going to shit and all. Gaara was busier than ever and Naruto wasn’t fairing any better. Missions here, training there. New leads on Sasuke, leading to nowhere.

~*~

The 5-Kage-Summit was disheartening, but at least he managed to get a glimpse of his crush friend there. There wasn’t time to talk in private, exchange words that both felt deep in their hearts, but a shared look was enough to know that it could wait. The next letter would come. After everything was said and done there would be a time and place for them.

~*~

To say the war had been the most terrifying thing he’d seen in his life would be the understatement since the founding of the Hidden Villages. Maybe even longer than that. To fight with Naruto side by side was empowering, thrilling, made him want to rip every force that could hurt his beloved one to shreds, with the impression that he could do just that, but at the same time it was the worst. It made his stomach to funny flips, an anxious feeling spreading through his whole existence, to the very point he had to actively not let his sand show how he felt. It was scary. To see Naruto fight, run headfirst into enemies, hordes of them, without the slightest strategy or even the slightest hint of a plan. But so far it always had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

~*~

Sleep was evading him as usual, but now they few hours he got were full of nightmares. The vision of Sakura, with her hand deeply buried in Naruto’s ribcage, trying to keep him alive, was one that had scarred him for life.

Currently Naruto was in Konoha Hospital, trying to recover from his injuries, from losing his arm. It took everything from Gaara to not immediately run there and be with him. He sighed. There was too much work. And now with Naruto unable to write even the letters came to a halt. It was like he’d vanished completely from his life, and it was the most terrifying feeling he’d ever encountered. Now, that they had grown that close, the thought of losing him was unbearable. It caused his blood to freeze inside his veins, his sand to slash around anxiously, resembling an angered cat’s tail. Apparently, his sand’s protection also applied to Naruto nowadays.

Gaara sighed. Being in love was complicated.

“What’s with that sigh, hm? Not like you to be glum like that.”

His sand reacted before his brain was capable of even trying to understand. It shot out and grabbed the intruder, but instead of hurting him, it brought him closer, right into Gaara’s embrace. His body had moved on its own, lifting his arms, catching and pressing him against his torso, never intending of letting him go.

Naruto let out his signature laugh, and it was the sweetest thing in Gaara’s opinion.

“Missed me, huh?”

“What- you… your arm… how?!”

Naruto firstly returned the hug, burying his head into the Kazekage’s neck, before explaining:

“Sakura did a wonderful job at healing all my wounds. They even managed to grow me a prosthetic arm. I can even do signs and cast jutsus with it!”

“How…?”

“I dunno… Sakura tried to explain, but-“

“No! I mean - how are you here? I’m sure you should rest! Not run 3 or more days all the way here! Did you even get permission to come here? I didn’t get any papers! Naruto, you cannot just-“

“Gaara, stop!”

Naruto’s laugh echoed through his office again, causing his heart to flutter happily. He liked hearing it. Never before had his office felt more like he belonged here than now. With Naruto in it. Right here, in his arms, by his side, in his life.

“I’m fine! I got permission. Temari-nee-san helped with surprising you. I also didn’t run all the way here.”

“But how…?”

“You remember the Yondaime being my father?”

Gaara nodded, dumbfounded. What had the Fourth Hokage to do with the fact that Naruto was here?

“You also may or may not know that he was known as the “Yellow Flash”. He was able to just appear out of nowhere. Because he was using a teleportation jutsu. And with me being his son… well…”

“You mastered the jutsu… to be able to visit me?”

“Of course! I mean… it probably has other uses, in battle or so… but it makes seeing you way eas-hmmh!”

His explanation got interrupted by a wonderful soft pair of lips that gently pressed themselves against his own. Too stunned to react, Naruto felt Gaara pull away before he could reciprocate the kiss. A horrified look was showing on the Kazekage’s face, fear visible within his turquoise eyes, mixed with regret and sadness. The sand immediately let go of him, as well as did Gaara, taking a step back too.

“I’m sorry, I misinterpreted, I-“

This time it was on Naruto to interrupt Gaara with a kiss.

“You didn’t misinterpret a single thing. I’m in love with you and learned a whole damn jutsu just to be able to see you.”

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone ever did for me.”

“I aim to please.”

“That you really do. I do too by the way. Love you, I mean.”

A huge, way too bright smile erupted on Naruto’s face, but Gaara couldn’t care less. That was his boyfriend’s (?) face that tried to burn his retinas away after all.

“You wanna try to be in a relationship with me?”

“Whatever my beloved Kazekage wishes.”

“Let’s get married then.”

“Gaara!”

His favourite sound echoed through his office again. He needed to write the Hokage. He couldn’t go for too long without it after he got a taste.

Talking of taste…

Naruto’s laugh got swallowed by their kiss, which caused Gaara to smile into it as well. They held each other close and tried to melt into each other. To never get separated again.

“Expect my handwriting to be even worse now, with my new arm and everything.”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me again.”

[niemernuet]

Mentally I've been stuck here ever since I learnt that Dani had to babysit this ⬇️ Odi through his worst hangover during his very first wc finals in 2018:

The head coach is terrifying to approach at the best of times; today, in his current mood, he looks downright menacing as he drives past the entrance to the parking lot. Neither Daniel nor Justin are deterred though, and hurry across the uneven, icy ground as fast as they can. In their back, the long, drawn out lake lies grey and calm at the bottom of the valley.

They begin to talk at the same time.

“Excuse me, I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Daniel says.

“You can’t do this, Coach!” Justin says.

The coach, still half-way hunkered over as he is exiting the car, stops in his tracks, and glares at them. Both Daniel and Justin are wise enough to stop what they are saying. For a few heartbeats they are both quiet as the coach’s frightening glare rests on them. Daniel is the first to read his expression correctly.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” Justin adds quickly, and they both follow the coach as he walks towards the boot of the car.

“Hello, boys,” the coach rumbles. Justin’s mouth is wide open again, though this time, Daniel shoves his elbow in his friend’s ribs, and takes over.

“I’m sorry but I think there has been a misunderstanding with the allocation of the lodgings.”

“It’s the last race week of the season, you can’t do…” Justin begins but again is silenced with a well-placed elbow to the rib cage.

“I’m just not sure there’s a good reason for your decision…though we fully respect it,” Daniel hurries to add. “But we thought that maybe there are some improvements we could do…and it would be beneficial for the whole team. Also…”

The coach raises a finger, and Daniel stops mid-sentence. Again the coach glares at them for the fraction of a moment too long.

“You will not share an apartment,” he eventually says. Daniel and Justin sputter like stalling snowmobiles in his back while he pulls a suitcase out of the car, and puts it on the ground.

Once more he silences them with a raised finger. “Do you want to know the reason?”

“Yes!” they exclaim.

“You!” the coach says, and points his finger at Justin whose expression immediately turns to utter shock.

“What? I didn’t do anything!”

The coach laughs as he pulls out another suitcase. “But you did! Because of you and your idiotic post on smartbook I had to sit not in one but TWO meetings with our organisation’s president and someone from FIS.”

“It’s facebook,” Daniel says softly, his shoulders now slumped at the sudden realisation of their endeavour’s futility.

“Do you know how much I’ve had it with meetings? Up to here!” the coach barks at Justin, and draws a line across his forehead with his extended finger. “So no, you will not share an apartment this week. You received your flatmates, and I told the team everyone who swaps with you will walk to South America next summer.”

“This is retaliation!” Justin cries out.

The coach laughs, and closes the hatch of the car. “I guess you could say so, yes.”

Daniel grabs Justin by the shoulder, and with a little bit of struggling mangages to push him away. “I understand that must have been annoying but I don’t see how that is a reason to punish me for it.”

The coach locks the car, and grabs his suitcases. “You’re not being punished.”

“You put me in the apartment with the rookie!” Daniel almost shouts, his nerves getting more frazzled by the second  as he struggles to keep Justin back.

“This is so unfair!” he throws in over Daniel’s shoulder.

“Listen!” the coach barks, and both straighten their backs. Again the finger lands on Justin.

“I’m giving you a bit of friendly advice, because I’m your coach, and it’s my job: The next time you want to call out FIS’ marketing strategy, I want you to go to a home-trainer, and I want you to pedal until your tongue touches the ground. Because this will be a much smarter use of your energy than anything else you could do.” Justin throws up his hands but the finger wanders over to Daniel, and he gets no chance to rage further.

 “And you are not being punished. He’s a good kid, and I’m sure you will get along just fine. In fact, why don’t you go over and lend him a hand?” 

Daniel and Justin whirl around. They barely register the coach taking off at a brisk pace as they stare at the bus and Gisin that have arrived on the parking lot while they have been busy. 

“I’m sure you’ve already heard of Daniel and Justin from the slalom team. They’re…well, you’ll get used to them,” Marc says to the young man climbing out of the passenger side of the bus. “Laurel, Hardy, this is Marco.” 

Strands of blonde hair peek out from under Marco’s oversized hat and curl around his shoulder, and even though he is quite tall himself he is so lanky that he could disappear entirely behind Gisin’s large frame. He snorts at Marc’s last remark, and bites down on his lip. From the other side of the bus, their service man appears and opens the back.

“This is all your fault,” Daniel hisses to Justin, and walks over to Marco. “Hi, I’m Hardy.”

-----

Their lodgings take up an entire street of long barracks separated into units, a short stretch behind the main street, and just elevated enough to get a glimpse of the lake through the naked birches. Justin and Daniel take off with Marco’s baggage while Gisin keeps Marco back by the shoulder. They have reached the first doors already when he catches up with them.

“It’s all true,” Daniel says.

“What is?” Marco asks. He is skipping along, only a backpack and his jacket dangling from his arms.

“Any warnings he told you about us.”

Marco laughs. “No warnings, he told me the number of his and Beat’s apartments, in case it gets boring with you.”

“That’s even more insulting,” Daniel grumbles, and fishes the key out of his pocket. They shuffle through the door of the tiny apartment, and drop the bags in the small space between the kitchenette and the rickety table. With a sigh, Daniel turns around to face Justin.

“Is this because…” He breaks off when he realises where Marco is heading. “Excuse me, that one’s my room,” he says loudly.

“I thought so,” Marco says, his feet right at the edge of the threshold, and with slumped shoulders stares wistfully towards the window with the breathtaking view over the lake and mountains behind it. “Pity.” 

Daniel waits until he moves on towards the other room facing the back alley to turn back to Justin. “You don’t need to sulk because I said it’s your fault.”

“I am not sulking!” Justin exclaims. “Because it is not my fault!”

“I told you you’d just stir the pot without changing anything!”

“Someone had to finally say what a clown organisation FIS is!”

“Everyone knows that!” Daniel shouts from the other side of the table. They both pause in their yelling to stare at Marco coming back from his room. He shrugged out of the top layer of clothes, and his hair is standing up in all directions from the static of the hat’s synthetic fibers.

“Oh, don’t stop because of me,” he says, and grabs his bags by the handles. “I just need these here….thank you.”

“Yeah but nobody puts any pressure on,” Justin snaps as soon as Marco has disappeared.

Daniel shakes his head. “Is this still because of your DNF in…”

“IT IS NOT! Frankly, I don’t even know why you had to go and complain. Now the coach will…”

“I?” Daniel barks. “I had to go? I did this for us but okay, I guess you prefer Loïc’s company over mine then…”

“You did it because you didn’t want to bunk with the rookie,” Justin shoots back, and crosses his arms in front of his chest while Daniel furiously tries to shush him. An apologetic smile washes over his face when Marco’s head peeks around the corner of the hallway. He is topless now, and a towel is dangling from his shoulder.

“I didn’t say...it like that.”

“It’s okay,” Marco answers light-heartedly. “I’d much rather be with Thomi too, even though he sounds like a chainsaw when he sleeps on his back. At first I thought the coach hates me but now I’m glad to know it’s because of you.”

Daniel blinks. “Oh.”

Marco smiles at him. “Right. Hey, would you mind if I took some of your soap? I’d like to take a shower before dinner but I forgot it at home.”

“You forgot your soap at home?”

“Well…more like my toiletry bag,” Marco explains, and stares at Daniel with his big, brown eyes.

Daniel needs a few seconds before he can answer. “Sure,” he eventually manages.

“Cool, thanks,” Marco laughs, and disappears in the bathroom.

Daniel chuckles when he turns back to Justin. “This is so much worse than I thought. He’s like you! This week will be hell.”

-----

It is not easy to talk with a pair of lips on his own but Daniel is quite practiced.

“No!”

As if he could convince him if he just pressed against him harder, Justin wraps his arms tighter around Daniel’s neck, and kisses him with even more fervour.

“Please,” he begs in Daniel’s mouth, and grinds his hips against Daniel’s just hard enough to make the narrow bed squeak.

“Absolutely not…not when I’m bunking with the rookie.”

Justin whines, and shoves his tongue even further in Daniel’s mouth.

“He’s not here yet,” he mumbles.

Daniel snorts, and pulls his head slightly back. “He better come back soon, he has a race tomorrow.”

“He’s young,” Justin shrugs, and follows Daniel until his head bumps against the wall and he can no longer evade his kisses. “He’ll be fit enough. Please, Poulette…”

“M-mh,” Daniel answers, and shakes his head so that their lips lose contact. He drags his fingers through Justin’s hair, and smiles at him. “I’m sorry, not tonight.”

“We’ll be quick, come on…” Justin begs, and Daniel laughs again.

“I know you will be quick,” he teases, and silences Justin’s outrage with another kiss until he stops fighting, and melts against his chest. Just when Justin tries another angle by putting his hand over the bulge under Daniel’s sweatpants, something heavy crashes against the front door. At once they pull apart. The noise outside just barely reaches Daniel’s room at the other end of the apartment, separated by two doors and heavy insulation but they still hear the breathless, almost shrieking laughter.

“Jesus, are you alright?” Gino yells.

Again something heavy drops against the door. Justin lifts one leg, ready to slip off the bed but Daniel keeps him in place, and shakes his head.

“I’m okay, I’m okay!” Marco’s voice assures. 

“So…do you want to get up again?” Gino asks after a short moment of silence.

“Uh, yeah…as soon as I know which way is up.”

Again Gino’s laughter reverberates through the apartment.

“Silence!” Marco laughs. “I’m with Yule and he’s already sleeping.”

“Sleeping, right,” Gino grunts. “Which one’s your room?”  Something heavy moves over the floor, and then drops against the wall to Daniel’s room.

“Thank you,” Marco says. “This one there. And it’s true. I saw him leave earlier, so we really have to be quiet now or…”

The door springs open and with a loud bang slams against the wall. Light from the kitchen as well as Marco follow right behind, though Gino can catch him at the last moment before he faceplants to the ground again.

“Wait, no, that’s not my room, that’s…ohhh…” Marco’s voice dies down as he takes in the scene on the bed. Then, a big smile spreads over his flushed cheeks and the blonde hair clinging to it, and he waves enthusiastically at the people on the bed. “Hi Daniel, hi Justin!”

Justin chuckles, and waves back. “Hi, Marco.”

“I was twelfth in the downhill today!”

“We saw. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, let’s get you to your real room,” Gino presses through clenched teeth, and hoists Marco towards the hallway. “Sorry about that, guys.”

“No problem,” Justin says but neither of them is still listening as they shuffle off.

“Told you he’s sleeping alright,” Gino giggles, and another door gets slammed.

Justin chuckles, though he pauses when he looks down at his boyfriend and sees Daniel’s exasperation.

“Come on, he’s endearing,” he says, and kisses him.

“Annoyingly so,” Daniel snorts, and pushes against Justin’s shoulders.

“You used to love it when I did it,” Justin sighs but does not fight as he gets shoved off the bed.

Daniel grabs Justin’s jacket and throws it over his shoulders. “That’s because you used to be much more charming and sexy and handsome and overall breathtaking than him.”

Justin grins and leans in for another kiss. “Used to?”

Daniel smirks, and shoves him towards the door. “Good night, Honey Bear.”

-----

The slats of the bed are groaning almost as shameless as Daniel. His knuckles shine white as he clings to the headrest like a drowning man.

“Fuck, Justin…,” he moans, his legs twitching over the rumpled sheets. “Oh, fuck…”

Justin hums around Daniel’s cock in his mouth, and picks up the pace with his strokes. Daniel does not need more, and with a choked cry comes in spurts down Justin’s throat. He is still riding the wave down from the climax when Justin plops down next to him, and snuggles against his chest.

“See? I told you there’s enough time.”

Daniel laughs softly, still out of breath, and plants a kiss on Justin’s sweat-sheened forehead. 

“Okay, for once you were right.”

“M-hm,” Justin hums with a satisfied grin. For a few moments they lie together in silence before Justin pats Daniel’s chest, and sits up.

“You’re going already?”

Justin snorts, and grabs his trousers from the floor. “I only have the one back with me and I need it in two days…” He pauses, and checks the watch on his phone, “...no, tomorrow. I can’t share this cot with you tonight.”

Daniel sighs, and boxes the pillow under his head a few times. “This week sucks.”

Justin pulls his shirt over his head, and leans down for another kiss. “It’s almost over. Only two more nights with your new best friend.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Considering the way he partied yesterday for a twelfth place I’m sure I won’t see him until we’re on the plane after today’s race. Tell Loïc my regards.”

“No, thanks,” Justin laughs, and softly shuts the door.

The party of the sponsor down in the village is still shooting rays of colourful light into the sky but Daniel is tired enough that he feels sleep crawl over him the moment he closes his eyes. He is almost entirely dozed off when his phone starts to vibrate again. For a second he considers ignoring it.

“Missing me already?” he mumbles as he puts it against his ear.

“Uh…no, sorry.”

Daniel shoots up. “Fuck…I mean, hi.”

Gino chuckles. Thumping bass music fills the background. “Hi. I’m just calling because I was afraid you wouldn’t see it if I wrote.”

“Okay?”

“It’s stupid but could you maybe check whether Marco’s already home? I was just on the toilet and when I came back they told me he left.”

Daniel silently throws up  his hands and rolls his eyes, though he cannot hide the drawn-out sigh when he answers. “Okay, fine. Though I’m pretty sure he’s not here ye…” He stops abruptly as the front door slams shut.

“What?” Gino asks in the growing silence. “Is he with you?”

“Oh no no no!” Daniel cries out at the terrible sounds coming from outside his bedroom. “I swear if you…” He pulls the door open, and stares at the scene unfolding in the small kitchenette.

“What? Daniel, what’s going on?” Gino yells through the phone.

“Everything’s okay,” Daniel sighs, and slumps against the door frame. “He’s not puking on the floor.”

“He’s puking?” Gino echoes, still loud enough that Daniel does not need his phone to hear him from the village square. 

He walks around the table, and steps to Marco who is hanging over the sink, and throws up another part of his dinner from earlier in the evening.

“Oh yeah, like mad,” Daniel chuckles. “But don’t worry, there can’t be much left inside of him.”

“Okay…” Gino answers, and hesitates for a second. “So…could you maybe…”

Daniel sighs again. “I’ll make sure he won’t asphyxiate on his own vomit…wouldn’t want to lose our junior world champion, right?” He pats Marco on the shoulder and elicits a soft whimper from him.

Whatever Gino says next drowns out in a new song and the DJ shouting, and Daniel takes it as cue to hang up. He leans over Marco’s hunched body, and turns on the faucet. While the ice cold water takes care of the worst mess, Daniel flips through the few cupboards until he finds a plastic mixing bowl. In the faint light from Daniel’s room shining into the rest of the apartment, Marco’s face and hair have the same grey colour. 

“If you feel like there’s something else you need to go over in your head, aim here!” Daniel says, and hands him the bowl.

“Thanks,” Marco mutters, and traipses off towards his bedroom. Daniel turns off the water, and follows him. He finds Marco laying on his stomach on his unmade bed, the plastic bowl next to his head.

“I will fucking delete Justin’s facebook profile,” Daniel mutters as he bends down, and pulls Marco’s shoes off his feet. He does not budge even a little, his breath coming slow and steady, and quietly Daniel slips out of his room. His feet have just warmed up again under the blanket of his own bed, when something heavy crashes from one end of the hallway to the other. With a heavy sigh he listens to the hollow, gurgling noises of Marco throwing up into the toilet. He stays put, and without realising that he has fallen asleep, jolts up a few minutes later when the same happens again. The third time he is wide awake, glaring into the darkness around him, too annoyed even to pick up his phone and write an accusing message for Justin to read in the morning. The fourth time Marco’s journey to the toilet wakes him up he notices that the lights of the party have stopped. The silence is heavier now, without the distant noise, and Daniel’s breath hitches when he hears something else between Marco’s retching. With a few whispered swear words he peels the toasty blanket back, and makes his way towards the only illuminated room in their apartment. The sharp, pungent smell of vomit hangs in the windowless bathroom, though luckily, Marco has managed to only stain the inside of the toilet bowl. Marco bites down on his lower lip when Daniel appears in the door but he cannot stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

“Is…everything alright?” Daniel asks even though the answer is apparent.

Marco shrugs, his cheek pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet. He sniffles, and looks up at Daniel with red-rimmed eyes.

“Am I cool?”

Daniel’s brows fold into a frown as he tries to find something to say. “Like…right now?”

He cringes when Marco closes his eyes, and a new flood of tears rolls down his cheeks and into the matted strands of the hair clinging to them.

“I’m so stupid,” he chokes.

Daniel stares at him for a second before he turns on his heel, and hurries away. When he returns with a glass of water, Marco is still hunched against the toilet.

“Drink this!” Daniel orders. “And then tell me what’s going on.”

Marco takes a small sip. He stares at the ground, mute and deep in his thoughts.

Daniel keeps staring down at him until something occurs to him. “Is there a reason why you left the team at the party?”

Marco’s lip wobbles, and quickly he takes another sip. “I feel like I’ll never stop failing and I’ll never be as good as the others.”

Daniel rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “That’s because you’ve slept three of the last 48 hours and you’ve had two races in that time.”

Marco looks up, and blinks at him.

“Not to mention all the alcohol you’ve been putting away,” Daniel adds. “Well…temporarily, at least. Drink up, go to bed and I promise tomorrow everything will be different.”

He grabs the empty glass from Marco, and fills it again before digging a pill out of his almost depleted toiletry bag. Marco is already face-down on his bed again when he reaches his room.

“Do you think I could ever have the same that you have with Justin?” he mumbles from the depths of his pillow.

“Depends who you want to have it with,” Daniel answers, and puts the glass and the pill on the nightstand.

“Gino…” Marco sighs, and groans slightly as Daniel pulls the blanket out from under his body.

“You’ll have to ask him,” Daniel laughs. 

Marco lifts his head, and scans the room.

“Not now,” Daniel adds hastily. “Tomorrow, when you’ll be sober again…and maybe realise that you have terrible taste.”

Marco’s head drops back into his pillow, and he mumbles something inaudible.

Daniel throws the blanket over Marco’s limp body. “Take the pill here first thing in the morning,” he says, and points at the nightstand, but Marco has already fallen asleep.

“Rookies…” Daniel mutters, and quietly slips out of the room.

-----

The ending of the season two days later is sadder than anticipated, with two cancelled races and stormy weather. The teams disperse, washed away by the rain, and one after the other the rental busses stuffed with skis and other equipment leave for the airport. Daniel is checking the sidepocket of his backpack for his passport when Marco appears by his side. He huddles close to get under the open hatch of the bus. The hair poking out from underneath his hat is dark from the rain, almost as dark as the shadows under his eyes.

“Sorry you couldn’t race,” he begins.

“It’s just my luck,” Daniel says without interrupting his search. “One whole week with you and nothing to show for it. You look terrible by the way.”

“I feel terrible too,” Marco admits. “I think I’m dying.”

“It’s called a hangover. You’ll get over it. Okay, all there.” With a satisfied smile, Daniel closes the zipper of the backpack and puts it back with the rest of his baggage.

Marco shakes his head, and stares out into the rain. “I’m not sure…the only thing I know is that I’ll never drink again.”

Daniel laughs.

“Never ever! I don’t remember a thing from that night.” For a moment, Marco stares out into the rain before he dares to ask the question. “Did I say anything about Gino?”

Daniel frowns, thinks for a second. “Not that I remember, no. Why?”

Marco shakes his head. “Just because…not important.”

Before Daniel can prod further, Marco throws his arms around him.

“At first I really did not look forward to living with you but then it turned out to be quite cool. If you ever switch to giant slalom, I’d love to bunk with you during the season. But don’t tell Thomi.”

Daniel chuckles, and hugs Marco back. “And if you ever tried slalom I would gladly lend you my toothpaste and shampoo.”

Marco laughs, and skips back towards the bus where his service man is waiting. Justin rounds the corner, and joins Daniel under the hatch where they watch the other bus jolt over the gravel toward the road.

“He’s in love with Gino,” Daniel explains, and smiles at Marco who is frantically waving at them.

“Awww, Rookie,” Justin coos. “So endearing.”

[blackjackkent]

Well, if there was any hope that Shadowheart's parents are being held in any sort of humane way, it's dashed IMMEDIATELY as soon as we get through the door.

This is the Chamber of Loss.

Oh, gods. o.o;

"I see them..." Shadowheart whispers. "I see my parents. Gods... what's been done to them?"

The room is dim and icy cold. Hector stands a little back from the dais and watches as Shadowheart slowly climbs the stone steps, looking up at her parents dangling off of the device that imprisons them.

The two battered people lift their heads like kicked dogs expecting another blow from a cruel master. The man - an elf with dark, matted hair - stares at Shadowheart through lidded, wary eyes.

"It can't be..." he whispers hoarsely. "Another vile trick..."

Purple light sparks along the runes that bind him to the wheel, and the wound on Shadowheart's hand sparks in answer. Both of them let out matching cries of pain.

The woman - human, aged in comparison to her husband's elven youth - opens her eyes more slowly... and her eyes fix on Shadowheart's like a woman sighting water in the desert.

"No..." she says raggedly. "There is no trick. It's her. Jenevelle. Jen... our little girl..."

The man hesitates, hope flashing into his face for what must be the first time in years. "Moonmaiden's grace..." he says softly. "It is you."

Jenevelle...

Shadowheart swallows, swaying a little on her feet with the enormity of what is happening, and for a moment Hector sees her lower lip tremble as if she will burst into tears. But the rage and the terror at what has been done to her family overtakes everything.

"I'm here to get you out of here," she snaps, taking a step forward, reaching up towards the runes as if to dispel them. "They're all gone. It's over--"

A sudden low rumble like an avalanche overtakes the room, a surge of dark magical energy pouring from the mirror against the back wall. Shadowheart staggers, falls to her knees, crying out as the wound on her hand, which has been dormant for so many weeks, suddenly sparks to life again, enveloping her whole hand in pale purple light. The same light wreathes both rings, wrapping her parents in tendrils of agony.

Everything screams. Shadowheart, her parents, the magic itself, and Hector's own heart, for as he looks around, the magic is wreathing them in darkness on the platform.

"Hec?! HEC!" he hears Karlach shout in panic from where she stood near the door, followed by a swirl of elven invective from Jaheira--

And then, suddenly, silence. Stillness.

Hector feels a sort of primal, visceral dread grip him. This must be the Shadowfell again, or something like it - some fundamental manifestation of Shar's power. Everything is dark. The very stone beneath their feet has shifted into the shape of the sacrificial offering plates they have seen in this temple and in the Gauntlet.

Shadowheart's breathing is shaky, thready; she sits hunched next to him as he looks around. Absently, without even thinking about it, he rests one hand on her shoulder, an instinctive protective motion.

And yet what guarantee of safety can he offer her here? The darkness is absolute. He has been torn, once again, from Selune's sight.

"IT IS NOT OVER."

The air vibrates with the sudden, thundering presence of a new voice. The darkness coalesces around them into a familiar form - the same shape represented in a thousand statues Hector has seen in the dark places he has been forced to walk.

The goddess Shar stares down at him, the dark goddess herself, wreathed in shadow, cold as ice. The form she has taken is enormous, towering, domineering, a hundred-foot-tall effigy of black marble blasted into motion. Hector feels his heart start to race, the sudden urge to panic, to flee. He struggles for a deep breath to calm himself and feels it catch in his throat, choking him.

(A/N: See, Mystra? THIS is how you look IMPRESSIVE. You could have done SO much better.)

"YOU SEE?" The goddess's voice feels like an explosion around them. "IT MATTERS NOT IF YOU RAZE THIS PLACE. IF YOU SLAY EVERY ONE OF YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS. THAT WAS NEFVER WHERE MY POWER RESIDED."

She leans forward, closer to Shadowheart. Behemoth that she is, it seems as if a wave of hot breath should burst across them with her every word, and yet the air is still as death. "EVERY TIME YOU TRY TO STEP AWAY FROM ME - EVERY TIME YOU TRY TO REACH FOR SELUNE - MY HOLD ON YOU BITES DEEPER. IF YOU HAD LEARNED, IF YOU HAD OBEYED, THERE WOULD BE NO PAIN. BUT YOU STRUGGLE ON. YOU MAKE THINGS WORSE FOR YOURSELF."

Shar's head turns just slightly to indicate the two figures hanging from the runed wheels. "AND FOR THEM."

Shadowheart is very still for a moment, her head bowed. Hector can feel her trembling under his hand on her shoulder. But slowly, slowly, she goes still. Her breathing calms, her head lifts. Distantly, Hector wonders if she is remembering the grounding rituals he has shown her in passing, or that she has seen him use in moments of strife. Whatever strength she is drawing on, it works - she slowly pushes herself to her feet at his side. Her eyes are fiery with rage.

And Hector finds himself drawing strength from her in turn; his own panic begins to settle in his chest, and he turns inward, searching for a calm to match hers. We may be beyond Selune's reach, he reminds himself. But I am here. I am her sword and her voice. And we know that what has been done here cannot stand.

"You're a monster, not a goddess," he says. And in spite of the turmoil in his mind, the words are steady, a blow lashed out at the enormous force that threatens to smite them apart.

"I AM NEITHER," the goddess growls. "I AM NOTHING. I AM THE EMPTY ROOM. THE DREAMLESS SLEEP. THE SHADOW'S SHADOW. THERE WAS NO PAIN BEFORE MY SISTER SET THE SUN AFLAME. NOW YOU EXIST TO SUFFER, UNTIL YOU FIND YOUR WAY BACK TO MY EMBRACE."

"ENOUGH!" Shadowheart roars. Her voice sounds tinny in the great emptiness around them but her fists are clenched as if to batter against the prison of fate that holds them. "I'm taking my parents away from here! I'm taking them away from you!"

"You cannot." The voice of Shadowheart's father breaks across the conversation, flat and full of despair. "We are still bound to you. You cannot both free us and free yourself from her curse." He squirms painfully against the runes that bind him, struggling to speak clearly. "The Moonmaiden... needs you more than she needs us. You are the future. You must return to the fold. We are the past... and our duty is almost done..."

"ELOQUENTLY PUT," Shar rumbles coldly. "HIS MIND STOOD UP WELL TO HIS TIME HERE. THE SAME CANNOT BE SAID FOR YOUR MOTHER." The goddess's lip curls disdainfully. "SUCH BRIEF, FRAGILE LIVES HUMANS LEAD."

She draws back, the black marble figure beginning to meld again with the darkness around them. "THIS IS MY FINAL LESSON. I LEAVE YOU NOW TO DWELL ON YOUR MISTAKES... AND MAKE YOUR CHOICE..."

Reality snaps back around them with such suddenness that it makes Hector jump. Shadowheart barely seems to notice. Her eyes are wide and she has gone utterly still, barely breathing.

"Oh, thank fuck. Hec!" Karlach comes crashing down the stairs like a battering ram, landing on the platform with them, one hand fumbling for Hector's arm. He puts a hand over hers, a wordless reassurance that he is here, that he is all right-- but his attention is still on Shadowheart.

Narrator: Shar's parting words make your flesh crawl. There is no lesson to be learned here - only a family's torment, a spiteful goddess's whims, and an unspeakable choice to be made.

"She's gone..." Shadowheart says shakily. "I don't understand..."

Hector frowns. Pulling free of Karlach's touch for a moment, he steps up to Shadowheart's side. Do you really not understand? he thinks bleakly. Or do you simply not want to?

Her father speaks again. With Shar's disappearance and the withdrawal (for now at least) of the pain, he has slumped again in his bindings, his head bowed. "Shar will never admit defeat," he says quietly. "Not until she has stolen one last thinng from you. We cannot allow your future to be his last prize. Not after all your mother and I have endured to see you again."

His eyes flick to Hector, and the two men look at each other with grief-stricken understanding. "Your companion understands, I think," the elf says. "Help her. Please. Help her see what must be done."

Hector closes his eyes and swallows uncomfortably. Yes. He understands, all too well. And he hates that understanding, because in all his years of religious study, he can rarely recall an instance of Sharran cruelty that was so viscerally awful as this moment.

Shadowheart is watching him, like a condemned prisoner waiting for the axe to fall on her neck.

"She wants you to kill your parents," Hector says bitterly. "Her idea of a parting gift."

She shakes her head once sharply, her eyes full of horror. "No. I can't. I came here for them!"

"And you did," her father says gently. "You found us. All these years, that dream kept us going, that you would break free. No matter what they made you do to us, we knew you were still in there..."

"I knew the dark woods wouldn't frighten you," her mother murmurs. Her head is bowed and her voice a little vague, a little distant. "You were always such a brave girl..."

"She was..." her father agrees. His eyes have not left his daughter's face, and Hector can read the relief and exhaustion and pride there as clear as if it was written on paper. "And still is. You've saved us. Now save yourself. You'll be out of Shar's reach, and we'll be at peace."

"But I only just found you again," Shadowheart cries. For a moment she is the lost little girl in the woods again, desperate for her parents, for the words of comfort that will make everything all right. But the wolf is still at her heels, and it was never really a wolf at all. "After all this time... I can't lose you again!"

"We'll still be with you," the elf says softly. "By the Moonmaiden's grace, we'll never be far. Please... Jenevelle..."

Shadowheart flinches away from the sound of that name, turns towards Hector with a mute plea in her eyes. If her parents can't make everything all right, she seems to silently hope, perhaps he somehow can.

But he cannot. He knows no magic, Selunite or otherwise, that would break the curse Shar placed on her without the dark goddess's consent. And Shar has ensured that the curse will not be broken, that she will never be truly free, while her parents still live.

He knows the dogmatic answer, of course - the one that perhaps his brothers in the monastery might give in this moment. Should she slay her parents here, they will be martyrs in the eyes of the Moonmaiden, and Shadowheart will be free and have done Selune a service in the process.

But he does not say it. Because she is his friend and his comrade and he is proud of her and trusts the woman she has become. Because he has learned that to stand at the side of his friends while they make their own choices is the kindest offering he can give them. And because not too long ago he told Wyll to let his father die, and even though Ravengard lived, he does not want to make that choice for someone ever again.

"This is your choice, Shadowheart," he says, meeting her eyes steadily. "You don't need me to tell you what is right."

Shadowheart hesitates. He can see the cogs turning in her head, the implacable process towards the final answer. "Is this truly what you want?" she asks.

Her father nods. "It is what we need. All of us. You were meant to be a guiding light for Selune's faithful, but they robbed you from us. Now that can be righted... and we can rest..."

"Help us, Jen..." her mother whispers distantly. "I can let go, now I've seen your face again..."

Shadowheart's eyes squeeze shut against the sight of what she is about to do, and she lifts her injured hand, which has begun to glow with a pale white light that seems more Selunite than Sharran. "Goodbye..." she whispers.

"Not goodbye... not even close..." her father answers, and then the white light envelops them both.

The light fades slowly, slowly...and where the terrible torture device once hung there are two pale orbs of light now. One for each of the souls that has been released from torment.

Hector moves up to her side, rests his hand on her shoulder again gently. [SELUNE] "They are with the Moonmaiden now," he murmurs.

"In a way..." Shadowheart says softly. "But they're also right here... look..." She lifts a hand, reaching out to the soft balls of light; they dance a little out of her reach, circling around her before starting to move towards the door. "Moon motes. They bring Selune's light to dark places and offer guidance to those in need. My parents are watching over me..."

It is herself she's speaking to, not Hector, for of course Hector knows all this perfectly well. He just listens in silence, letting her take the time she needs to come to grips with what has been done. And he sends a silent prayer of thanks up to his goddess for this gesture of kindness; it does not undo everything that has been done to Shadowheart, but it is a comfort she desperately needs.

"Let's leave this place," she mutters, watching the orbs drift into the distance. "There's nothing more for me here."

He nods. He wants nothing more than to be far away from here. "One thing," he says cautiously. "What should I call you now? Shadowheart? Jenevelle?"

She turns to look at him with an expression that is heavier with exhaustion than he has ever seen from her. But there is a slight smile, too, as if some weight has been lifted from her, some hope renewed that perhaps she will move forward now. "Shadowheart, still," she says with a slight nod. "I can't run away from who I was for all this time. Besides... there's something fitting to it. You can't cast a shadow without some light..."

[aswegoalong72]

31/1/2024 Writing Update

Hey, all! I'm here with another writing update!

First; a special shout-out to my partner, @gr33ngr1zz!! It’s their birthday today, so go and follow them! 💚

Sadly, there isn't much to really update this week; I've been busy and feeling a little under the weather (hooray chronic illness), so I've been lacking unfortunately when it comes to writing. I have something to make up for that though! It'll be under the cut at the end of this update :) Status: Dawn - 6% complete (696 words) Yuniv & Semat - ~1% complete Deep Freeze - ~1% complete To Touch Tenav - ~1% complete Piercing The Veil - ~42% complete (118,325 words) "Book Two" - ~2% complete (483 words) "Book Three" - ~1% complete Universal Ideal - ~1% complete

As you can see, very little has changed. The most work since this last update was in PTV, which was mainly just me editing and re-writing a few chapter titles essentially.

I'm currently doing an art trade with someone, and since art takes a lot out of me, most of my energy will be directed towards that in the coming days. I've been doing a lot of brainstorming when I can though, and have made a lot of decent progress in regards to that!

Now, for those of you who dislike spoilers, you may finish the post here. For those of you who are interested in the plots of the books, stick with me and follow me under the cut; I'll give a synopsis for each one! :)

Glad to see you! This'll be a bit long, as there are a lot of books to cover here. I'll try and keep it brief, but in the future, I'll give a more dedicated look at each one under the cut!

Dawn Dawn is the first book in the series, and will be a collection of short stories. It centers around their early history, ranging from before they discovered fire up until a bit after the first religious wars. There'll be about 8 or so total, as I have mentioned previously. This is one of the prologue novels, and will serve to set up the history and world of the Lyratet much better. Yuniv & Semat Yuniv & Semat is about the titular characters, who were instrumental in opening up Southern Reyal to the North. The book follows them as they depart from their hometown, and begin their treacherous trek up north. Yuniv is a botanist and artist, and Semat is a geologist and good at basic engineering. Together, they work hard to get through the dangers the untamed land has laid before them.

Deep Freeze Deep Freeze takes place a few hundred years after Yuniv & Semat, a bit after the beginnings of pre-nuclear industrialization hit Reyal. It centers around a small group of scientists who embark on the first ever expedition to the North Pole, and the discoveries they make along the way. This book will have more of a focus on speculative evolution, as I have a rich biosphere planned for the exotic poles!

To Touch Tenav To Touch Tenav is about the first ever person to be sent into space, taking place a bit after nuclear industrialization has taken place (they're late bloomers, what can I say?). This book covers more of the social aspects of the Lyratet, and how hard it is for them to not be with family, as well as with the idea of dying in space. This is the last of the prologue novels! Piercing The Veil* PTV is the first "real" book in the series, and documents Sav Rapalla'etka Estras (née Estunyas) and her voyage with 14 other brave souls to Thrallit, the icy moon of Olena, the system's only gas giant. There, they set out in search for signs of life, and are pleasantly surprised only a year into their mission. There, they find the Aulon, a civilization of post bronze age, hyper-aggressive, olm-like beings; a stark contrast to the peace loving Lyratet. "Book Two" Still thinking of a title for this one. This one takes place only a few years after PTV, and centers around another groundbreaking discovery that only takes place a little bit after the discovery of life on Thrallit; life on Earth! Book Two follows the journey of the New Dawn**, which is a massive ark capable of hosting up to 12m people. After the ~148 year trip between the stars, the New Dawn arrives at Earth in 1972, just a bit after the launch of Apollo 16. There, they change the history of the world as we know it. This book features a lot of alternate history, the difference between the Lyratet and Humanity, and how they get along and cope with the differences. Humanity's reaction isn't the best at first, so this will be a bit of a darker book at times. Despite this, it will be uplifting. "Book Three" Book Three, the final of the main novels, takes place in 2003, up until a bit after the present day. After the world has been massively restructured thanks to the friendship between the Lyratet and Humanity, they set forth on their first interstellar expedition together. They make their way to the Alpha Centauri system, doing a survey of all the stars and their respective planetary systems. Upon arrival at Alpha Centauri B, they discover the wreck of a planet known as Delnok Sharr. There, they meet up with the inhabitants by much surprise; the insectoid & voracious Vaurouii. After a bit of discovery, they find that they nearly wiped out the entire population over 20,000 years ago in a massive nuclear war. From there, the three civilizations work together to help each other in every way they can. Universal Ideal The last book in the series, named after a lyric from Todd Rundgren's "International Feel". This covers many topics; from the recovery of the Vaurouii Nomadic Arks that were sent out just before their destruction, to the first interspecies*** child, to the end of it all. A look at how love endures, how we're all not that different, and at the end of the day? We just want to feel safe and loved.

As We Go Along - What If? This is a nebulous idea, and is up for debate if I’ll do it or not. Another short story collection, this would revolve around multiple alternate scenarios in the setting. What if first contact between the Lyratet and Humanity occurred in the present day? What if the Lyratet were aggressive and wanted to kill all carnivores? What if the Vaurouii never destroyed themselves? This and much more would be explored! That's it for now! I'll do some more explaining in a later post, then! *When I started writing this book, I fully intended for this to be the first and only book. As I continued, I was enraptured, and wanted to write more. Much more. This book has recieved the most love out of them all so far, and will probably be the first I finish, followed by Dawn and then the rest. It will be published only after I finish all the other prologue novels though, as I want this to be done chronologically. **Name still up for change. ***Not interspecies as you would think it would be ala Star Trek; I've got this whole concept I'm very excited to share!! And no, it won't be graphically sexual. I don't do that kind of thing. And no, I don’t condone zoophilia. This is love between two advanced societies with language and an understanding of consent and each other.

[pullakori]

Febuwhump 2023

Day 20. Knife wound Alt 4. Experimentation

TW: Implied torture

At first, they had kept him in a cell. Charles didn't know how long, weeks at least, maybe months. His sense of time had been twisted useless with drugs they pumped into him. They had probed him and cut him and most recently, shaved his head. Clearly they were after something, but he had no idea what because none off them spoke to him.

Today, they had moved him in to another room. The drugs in him made his telepathy still numb and his mind little groggy. He was chained to a chair by his chest and wrists. There were strange machines around the room and wires hanging from the ceiling. The five men, that were preapering different tools for something, wore what looked like either medical scrubs or lab coats.

They're going to torture me, Charles thought, surprised how little emotional response it brought in him.

The door to the room opened and someone walked inside, accompanied by a sound of heels clicking against the floor.

"Now tell me, how are things progressing in here." The voice sounded familiar, but Charles had hard time placing it.

"Ms. Frost." One of the men in a lab coat greeted and Charles was left confused. Frost? Shaw's telepath, who had, last he was aware, been working with Erik and the Brotherhood? He craned his neck to the side to see better. The labcoated man was giving the report to the woman in white. "Everything is on schedule, we have located the energy points in the subject's brain and are ready for surgery." That was the most information Charles had heard ever since he had been abducted. None off it comforted him. Surgery? What did they mean? What did they want with him?

Frost nodded at the scientist, who went back to his work, before turning to look at Charles.

"Nice to see you again, sugar. Have you enjoyed your stay?" She asked as she walked gracefully in front of him.

"Ms. Frost." Charles greeted, still unsure what he should think about this situation. Was this a rescue? He hoped so, but Frost's icy smile worried him. "Why am I here?"

"You are here to fulfill your desteny." The woman decleared and smothered any hope that she was here to help. "You are wasting your power, playing school and fraternizing with the humans, when you could make them accept us without a question." She continued, distaste clear in her tone.

"That wouldn't be right. I can't just change someone's mind like that." Charles told her with as strong voice as he could muster. He had set firm boundaries on his morals regarding his power. He knew that he could do terrible things, if he so decided, and those morals were the only thing keeping him from destroying everything around him.

"Not even to save your own kind?" Frost prodded, lifting one of her eyebrows, but Charles just gave her a deadpan look.

"Would you want for me to change completely who you are? Make you think you're a middle aged man who loves to fix cars, perhaps?" He suggested.

"That is not the same thing. This, you will do for the grater good." Frost insisted, but Charles shook his head. It was easy to say that one knew what was best for everyone. Charles knew it was one of his own flaws, hence the boundaries. But in reality, human mind was flawed, its perception limited and it could easily lose its way.

"If I do one, what prevents me from doing the other?" He asked. If he took one step over the line, why stop there.

Frost didn't seem eager to continue that line of conversation, so Charles asked about something else. Now that he was getting answers he needed to keep asking.

"Why aren't you doing it? You're a telepath too." He pointed out.

"You have your tricks, I have mine." The woman smiled again. "Our powers might be similiar, but they are not the same. You are much more powerfull when it comes to influencing and changing one's mind." She ran a nail faintly against Charles' temple, but he dug away from the touch. "And while I am ready to do almost anything for our cause, this kind of sacrifice is a bit too much for me."

"Sacrifice?" Charles parroted the word, dread finally catching up with him and the situation. The other telepath's smirk didn't help.

"A project of this caliber needs a lot of time and contineous work." Frost explained. "And only way to achieve that amount of work, is to connect a telepath in to a machine that will make sure, that the work is done." She gestured around the room with her hand and Charles realised that the whole room was an inside of a giant machine.

"And how have you kept this all from Erik?" This much metal would not go unnoticed by his old friend. This place had to be in some kind of remote location that Frost visited in secret.

"Oh sugar," Frost almost laughed, leaned down so they were face to face and looked at Charles like he was a dumb child. "who do you think came up with the idea?" She asked and Charles' stomach dropped.

"No..." The word escaped his mouth. There was no way this was true. Charles shook his head. "No, you're lying! Erik would never-"

"He left you on that beach didn't he?" Emma pointed out, cutting Charles off. "He thought that he was done with you, that you had no more use to him, especially when you didn't seem too eager to join him." She continued and straightened herself. "But as it turned out, having a strong telepath on your side opens so many doors, that the sacrifice is worth it. One man's pain for the freedom of the others."

Charles didn't want to believe it. There was no way Erik would do something like this! But then again, he hadn't thought that Erik would shut him out. And he hadn't seen the man in almost a year. Who knew what he was up to...

"Ms. Frost, we are ready." The voice of one of the scientists pulled Charles away from his thoughts.

"Good. Proceed gentlemen." Frost nodded and someone grapped Charles by his head, pulling him close to the backrest of the chair. A new metal bond was put around his neck and something was also placed on his head, making it impossible for him to move it.

"Wait! Please!" Charles begged, not sure if he was shouting to Frost or at the scientists, but in the end, that didn't really matter for no one was listening. "Please, let me speak to Erik!"

"I'll report to Magneto that everything is going according to plan." Frost announced, then turned and walked off of Charles' line of sight just as a sound of a drill filled the room.