#and it ended up much longer and graphic than i intended but

[aliteralsemicolon]

I'll wait for your love - 18+

See part 1 | See Part 2 | Part 3 of We can't be friends (wait for your love)

The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want things to go back to the way they were and Spencer agrees that change may be for the best.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions + detailed descriptions of adult content. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact!  You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. 

WARNINGS: Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, case details (barely) mentioned, alcohol mentioned like once. Smut (not the focus at all): making out, nipple play, clitoral stimulation, praise, use of pet names (angel, pretty girl, etc). Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.4K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Avoiding Spencer wasn’t overly difficult on the flight back to D.C. You weren’t entirely sure how to face him after he risked his life for you, so you just pretended to be asleep the whole time. You even took a separate jeep from the tarmac to avoid a car ride back with him, and almost made a clean getaway to your car in the parking lot when Hotch stopped you. 

“I’m sorry to hold you back, but I do need the Anchorage report on my desk before tomorrow morning. It can’t be put off any longer.”

He looked extremely apologetic and you understood. You’re grateful he gave you as much time as he has. That’s how you ended up stuck at work til the later hours of the evening. Besides the few workaholics, security guards and janitors roaming around the corridors, the only other person there with you is Spencer, oddly. Even Hotch has gone home. You’ve spent more time stalking the doctor work through the pile of case files on his desk than you have writing in the one on yours. Only when you're caught do you look away. 

“Everything okay?” The innocent curiosity in his big eyes further reddens the hot embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Fine.” You mutter, dipping your head back down to the open page.

You’re never going to get this damn file done if you can’t get him out of your head, and him being barely three feet away from you doesn’t help. It’s very difficult for you to get your words from pen to paper. Anchorage wasn’t haunting you like it did at first. It was a traumatic event, yes, but alone isn’t the cause of this…block. Obviously the reality that you’re leaving is starting to dawn on you. Somehow your mind has linked this case with your departure and finishing this report makes it more official than your actual resignation. 

Plus, as much as you definitely hate Spencer, you do did care for him. The shock of him almost getting himself killed in front of you is another thing occupying your mind. It’s barely been twenty four hours since then, it’s still fresh. You can see him stand and grab his satchel in your peripheral vision, he’s preparing to leave. There are a lot of memories attached to that brown leather bag. 

Things he would carry in there for you when you forgot your own bag. 

You don’t make it obvious that you’re watching him gather his things in small glances. 

He bought extra hair clips for you to keep in there because you would often forget those too. 

It’s over now. No point in dwelling on it. You shake your head once he’s out of sight, trying to force him out of your thoughts. Now that he’s gone you’re hoping to actually be able to get some work done.

He taught you chess with the mini chess set he keeps in there. You discovered that you actually quite liked chess and would ask to play with him all the time. It was also his ‘secret’ weapon to help you calm down. 

You roll your eyes to push back the tears from the memories that refuse to stop playing. This can wait until you get home, it’s not important. 

It wasn’t the chess set that helped you feel calm. Spencer could win chess against you in just a few moves, but he would deliberately stretch out the game so you could have room to breathe. The longer the game, the more time you had to spend focused on the moves and slow down your thoughts. You could open up at your own pace. He would let you feel in control.

It doesn’t matter if he’s near you or not, Spencer has a way of invading your headspace wherever he is. Your train of thoughts is interrupted with a light thud on your right. You covertly roll the tears away again and turn to examine the source of the noise. A mug of coffee placed on your desk by

“Spencer?” You sputter breathlessly. 

“Sorry. I know you told me to stop. This is the last time I promise.” 

You don’t fully comprehend what he’s going on about, not expecting him to be here at all. 

“I thought you left.”

“I did– was. I was leaving, but I thought I’d make you some coffee before I go. Since you’ve been here a while.” He awkwardly explains. 

You steadily direct your attention back to the mug, reeling in what was happening. 

“Before you get mad, this really is just a cup of coffee from a colleague who thought it might help keep you energised if you’re planning to stay late. There’s no ulterior motive…”

He continues rambling but you’re not mentally present to hear any of it. 

He made you coffee. 

Even though you’ve been nothing short of an absolute bitch. Granted he was a bitch first, but the point is that he’s still thinking of your well being regardless. You can’t hide your tears from him this time. It’s the soft buzz of your name that draws you back to him. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I’ll take the coffee–”

His panicked sentiment is cut short when you jump out of your seat and shove past him. The breakdown you’ve been avoiding hits you like a ton of bricks. You run into the nearest empty office and he runs after you, making it past the door before you can lock him out. 

“Spencer p–please get out! I’m fine.” You’re pacing in the same spot, fanning away the stream falling down your cheeks, hyperventilating.

He doesn’t respond to you, instead cautiously taking your hand in his. You’re in too frenzied a state to care. He guides you to sit on the couch against the wall and you blindly go along with it, still trying to get yourself together. 

You want to stop the tears, but you can’t do that until you get your breathing under control. He slowly wraps his arms around you and you slump into him, head buried in his chest. You should try to fight it, you should push him away, but you can’t. Right now, surrounded by his scent, held in his arms, you don’t want to move. It’s not something you can properly explain, but the feeling is so comforting that nothing else matters. All you know is that you’re safe and that’s enough for you to allow yourself to finally break down. 

The first few sobs are loud, like there’s not enough air in the world to stabilise your lungs. They fizzle out into silent whimpers and you grasp onto the fabric of his sweater, balling it in your fist, just letting yourself feel. Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His right hand is rubbing circles on your back and his left hand is gently scratching just above the nape of your neck. 

You stay like that for a while, even after you’ve stopped crying. It’s been so long since you’ve been in this little bubble with him and you don’t want it to end. You pull away when you feel the strap of his satchel across his stomach as your hand drops to his lap. He visually follows every move you make. 

“You’re still wearing your bag.” You sniffle, leaning back. 

“I am.” He whispers, understanding that you no longer want to be touched. 

He stays in his original position; facing you, but now with one arm resting on top of the backrest and the other idly in his lap. You’ve moved so that now you're facing ahead with your back leaning against the cushions, pulling your knees into your chest. You had never found comfort in silence until the first time you experienced it with Spencer. Staying huddled, you divert your eyes towards him. There’s a distinct wet patch on his shirt. It’s less visible on his sweater-vest, but it’s there. 

“Your shirt’s wet now.” It’s almost impossible to make out what you’re saying with your mouth muffled against your arm, but of course, Spencer manages anyway. 

“It’ll dry.” He smiles, tone delicate. 

“But– germs.” You choke a little due to your previous crying. 

“It can be washed.” He’s using his comforting voice again. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The silence resumes. Neither of you dares to move, trying to freeze this moment. It’s obvious that you didn’t grasp how badly you craved each other’s presence. 

“D–do…” The initial sound grabs Spencer’s full attention again. You take a deep breath, hoping he wants to stay here as much as you do. “Do you still carry that little chess set with you?”

A small, airy chuckle comes out from him. 

“Would you like to play?”

“Please.” 

He creates some more space between you and begins to set up the board once he’s pulled it out of his satchel. You move to accommodate the set up, now facing him with your legs crossed on the couch and shoes abandoned on the floor. You wait for him to make the first move. After the opening moves the game doesn’t seem to get any harder and you know he’s throwing the game. You’re okay at chess, but he’s obviously a lot better. 

“You’re going easy on me.” You mumble.

“Because you’re not even trying.” He replies blithely.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, you’re making it too easy.” He gently teases.

“Not that. Helping me. You hate me, remember?” You say it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“You literally told me that you hate me.” You chuckle, numb to the hurt that sentence once brought you. 

“So did you.” He counters in defence, trailing your hand as it carelessly moves your queen to her demise. 

“I was angry.” 

“So was I.” He spared your queen, in turn leaving his king vulnerable. 

“It doesn’t matter now…” You don’t finish the rest of your sentence but Spencer still hears it.

You’re leaving soon anyway.

“It matters to me.” If he left something unsaid you choose to ignore it. 

“You’re letting me win.” You whisper, feeling the urge to cry some more, but there’s no tears left. 

He doesn’t make a move, bringing the game to a halt. He’s waiting for you to meet his eyes. You know what he’s going to say. 

“Spencer, don't.” You beseech.

“Why?” If you looked at him instead of the board you’d see the way his eyes are pleading at you. 

“There’s no point.” This time it’s your voice that cracks. 

You're looking everywhere else and it makes you too aware of your surroundings. Like how the couch is lined up directly under a window that anyone could peek into. 

“Leaving is not the only option.” He solicits. 

He regards your discomfort and closes the blinds from where he’s sitting, pulling you back into the privacy of your bubble. 

“There’s nothing that you can say to make things go back to how they were.” You bite the inside of your cheek, fiddling with a random pawn. 

It’s not a proper two way conversation. You’re talking to yourself just as much as Spencer’s talking to you. You’re both trying to convince you of what you’re saying. 

“Things don’t have to go back to how they were.” The squeaks in his soothing tone are starting to melt any resolve you have left. 

“There’s no reason for me to stay.” You oppose, trying to make any argument stick.

“I can think of more reasons for you to stay than for you to go.” 

There’s an underlying tension bubbling. Neither of you notice it over your desperate tug of war. 

“I don’t think there’s anything that you can say to get me to stay.” Another baseless sentence meant more for you than for him. 

“Give me one chance. One chance to convince you.” He can see your internal struggle at his request and he throws out one final plea to sway you. “For nothing more than closure.” 

Closure.

You’ve spent months in turmoil over the hows and the what ifs, trying to conjure answers to questions that wouldn’t stop pestering you. You couldn’t turn him down even if you wanted to. 

“Closure?” You repeat, eyes finally latching onto his.

“Closure.” He whispers back in reassurance. 

“Even if you can’t convince me?” You caution, not wanting to give him false hope.

He doesn’t say anything, thinking over the scenario in his head. He simply nods and you mimic the action, blinking away the blur in your vision and dragging around chess pieces. It takes Spencer a second to figure out that you were moving them back to their default places.

“Okay new game.” You announce. 

Spencer blinks in confusion, waiting for you to elaborate. 

“I can ask you any question I want and you have to answer honestly. If by the end of the game I’m not convinced to stay, you back off for the remainder of my time here.” You pause for him to interject, but he doesn’t. “That means we stay away from each other, only talking when needed for work. Even then as cordially and professionally as possible. No more trying to make casual conversation or bringing me coffee or anything like that.”

“Till the end of the game?” He studies you. 

“Yup.” You smack your lips together. “Til one of us checkmates the other.”

“This means you’ll actually give me a fair shot?” 

“Between the two of us, I’m not the one known for cheating at games.” You jab, trying to ease the tension you could definitely feel now. 

“I meant a fair shot at convincing you. As in you’ll seriously take what I have to say into account.” He discards your attempt.

“No, I know. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.”

He can tell you’re trying to hold back a laugh from the small smile on your lips. It’s as adorable to him now as it was the first time he saw it. 

“Any rules before we start?” He asks, unable to hide his own smile.

“Only that we have to be honest.” You answer, immediately dropping your smile.

“Okay.” He agrees, smiling slightly wider.

“Okay.” You nod again.

When he finally makes the first move it hits you that you don’t actually know where to start. Theoretically, you know what you want to ask, but don’t know how to ask. You don’t know if you should jump straight into the questions or start with some ice breakers. Nothing is said for about four to five moves when Spencer pauses the game. 

“Are you going to ask any questions or have you decided that you just want to play one last game for your closure?”

“Huh?” You snap your vision away from the board. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Do you want to return to the game after thinking of a few questions to ask?” He raises his brow and relaxes his jaw.

“No, no, we don’t need to do that. Let’s keep playing, the questions will come to me.” You brush off his suggestion and motion for him to continue with his turn. He doesn’t.

“What?” Your voice raises and you scrunch your nose from perplexity.

“Sorry, it’s just that you’ve put us on a time limit and this is how you’re using our time?” He airs, failing to conceal his amusement.

“Well excuse me if I don’t exactly have a list of questions ready to go for you.” You narrow your eyes in annoyance. 

“Why would you suggest this if you don’t have any questions?” He tries to hold back his laugh and ends up snorting as a result. 

“I have questions!” You jabber, unable to maintain your annoyance. “I don’t know what– where do I even start?”

“Start with whichever one comes to you first.” He shrugs, finally making his move. 

A lot of things come to mind when you think about it. The thing that screams the loudest twitches a nerve and you become instantly irate. 

“Okay.” You nod, tone harsh and flat. “Let’s start with whatever the fuck possessed you on the last case. What was your thought process when you put your life in danger like that?”

He almost gets whiplash from the change in mood, his face literally reads ‘are you serious?’. 

“He was going to shoot you.” He states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I was wearing a vest, I would’ve been fine.” You contend. 

“I wasn’t willing to take that risk.” 

“Risk?! You literally put yourself in danger for no reason!” 

“I think it was a pretty good reason actually!” 

“Spencer that was–” You stop yourself with a grumble, inhaling deeply. 

“It was instinctual, okay?” He softly explains. “I saw him aim the gun at you and I just reacted.” 

“Well it was a stupid reaction!” You whine. 

“I’m not going to apologise for it.”

The glare you give is piercing, you bite the inside of your cheek to hold your tongue before you say something you can’t take back. Spencer throws his head back and sighs. 

“But I will promise not to do it again.” He adds, not fully intending to keep it. 

This was slowly turning into another argument, both of you shooting back too fast with your responses. You aren’t in the mood for another argument. So you redirect your attention to the game. 

“Check.” You mumble, buying yourself time to think of another question. “Why are you here so late anyway?”

“I wanted to finish some work before tomorrow morning.” He replies, moving his king to safety. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that? You could’ve done those tomorrow as well.” Your voice softens out of curiosity. 

“I wanted to get them finished in case there were more tomorrow.” It’s not his best excuse. You don’t know what he means by that. He doesn’t know what he means by that. He’s lying to you. 

You scoff, poking your tongue against your cheek. “Wow. You really can’t not cheat during a game, can you?” 

“Right, sorry.” Spencer clears his throat after the initial confusion clears. Complete honesty, it was your only rule. “I wanted to be here.”

“For…” You egg on, purposely rolling your ‘r’s to prompt him. 

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay.” He admits, looking away from you. 

“Why?” You’re genuinely puzzled at the admission. “You’re the one who almost died. I mean, it was stupid and your fault, but still. If anything I should be checking up on you.”

“Check.” That’s the only response he gives you. He hopes that you don’t push further, but he knows that you will. 

His lack of response only forces you to think about the possible reasons by yourself, using context clues to figure it out. You are a profiler, after all. 

“Is this because of the panic attack?” You note how his jaw twitches when he swallows at the mention. “It is! You seriously chose to spend your night stuck at the office because of that?” 

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s not like you would talk to me, you literally refused to even look at me!” He gripes. 

“Spencer I think anyone would panic if they got tackled to the ground by a six foot man without warning. I’m fine.” You giggle.

“What happened to complete honesty?” It’s his turn to glare at you.

“I am being honest!” You protest.

“Lying by omission is not being honest.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay Mr. know-it-all, what am I lying about?” You challenge.

“Seriously? You don’t remember?” His approach is doubtful and he just stares at your dazed expression.

“Fucking spit it out already, Spence!” 

Any sarcasm he had geared up for a response dissipates at your use of his nickname. He’s heard it plenty in the last few months, but not from you. For a moment things feel like they never changed. It stings in a bittersweet kind of way. 

“You sc–screamed– uh–” He clears his throat and rapidly blinks, his nose twitches in the process. “During that panic attack, you repeatedly asked me to stay with you. Y–you, uh– you said you didn’t think you could li–”

“Stop. Stop. Stop talking.” Your voice quavers and you hold your hand up, ears burning up. “I don’t wanna know.”

You don’t know why it makes your heart race the way it does, you don’t even remember it. He waits a while before speaking up again, wanting to be careful about how he goes about the topic without you shutting down.

“May I ask you a question?” He voices professionally, trying to make the conversation less personal so you don’t feel cornered. 

You nod, moving your king out of check.

“Is there anybody you will talk to about Anchorage? Without pushing them away?” He keeps the game going as he speaks to provide you with a distraction. 

“Woah– Anchorage? Where is that coming from?” You titter.

“I want you to remember that we promised to be honest and I won’t push if you ask me to stop, but I know for a fact that you aren’t okay.” He waits for you to stop him but you don’t, even though you know roughly what he’s going to say. “Panic attacks aside, your avoidant behaviour around the topic, inability to focus, being easily startled, you’re showing signs of PTSD.” 

“Spence, c’mon. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I already passed the psych evals.” You attempt to make light of the situation with carefully chosen words so you’re not lying. It was a futile attempt, you know he’s not willing to budge when he doesn’t give you anything more than a blank stare. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” You sigh in defeat. “Whatever happened…that’s a part of the job, you know that.”

“I also know, first hand, that it takes over your life. You can’t run from it, no matter how much you try to.” His tone is soft as he speaks, yet you feel like he’s accusing you. 

“I am not running! Why would you say I’m running?” You object with a high voice, shrugging your shoulders. “And it’s not taking over my life. Also, check.”

“Because that’s what you do when you don’t want to deal with something.” He states point blank.

“Woah– so– that was entirely unnecessary.” You stammer, unable to deny it. 

“I’m not criticising you. I just happen to know you and I know that you have a tendency to run from your problems. And it is taking over your life.” 

“You’re profiling!” You gasp.

“You know that it’s not something we can just turn off! No matter how much we pretend like we can.” He waves his hands defensively. 

You can’t argue with that, your lips twisting to the side. 

“You want me to be honest?” You murmur sheepishly. 

“Always. Please.” He responds gently, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I spend a good chunk of my day actively avoiding thinking about it, but somehow I always end up thinking about it anyway. At times it’s like I can almost feel…” You breathe in instinctively. “This is the first time in months I’ve been able to do anything without it lingering in the back of my mind. Can we please talk about it another time? I would rather talk about other things…”

Another time. 

“...right now.” 

You’ve implied that there will be another time to talk and he definitely caught it, even if he pretends that he hasn’t. You don’t even know if what you said is true, you got too comfortable with the familiarity of his friendship. It was something you said out of habit from back when you two actually were friends. Not even a full hour's worth of conversation with him and he’s already worming his way back in.

“Um–” You drag yourself further back on the couch, creating more physical distance. 

“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it at all.” Spencer senses your urgency to leave the situation and jumps into damage control. “It’s your turn.”

“No, um, I should– I should go. Thanks for doing thi– helping me.” You turn away from him, aiming for your shoes and ready to bolt.

“The game’s not over.” He points out.

“Yes it is.” You declare, still in the process of putting on your shoes.

“You said til checkmate.” He huffs, shifting out of his seated position. 

“I forfeit!” You throw your arms out in a shrugging manner, standing up after him.

“I can’t believe this. You’re going back on your word!” He doesn’t even raise his voice. He’s just hurt. 

“What’s the point, Spencer? Closure doesn’t mean anything, I’m still leaving! You can’t magically change my mind!” You yell, getting louder with each sentence. 

“I disagree. I think that you’re running again!” He blocks your way and yells back, maintaining his volume throughout. 

“Maybe you should think less!” You suggest, still yelling. Sarcasm is your defence mechanism when you have no actual defence. 

“You know what else I think?” He continues, emphasising the word ‘think’ every time he says it out of spite. “I think that you agreed to this thinking I won’t be able to convince you, but I am!”

“I don’t care what you–”

“I think you don’t want to finish the game that you started, because you’re afraid to ask the harder questions!”

“Stop.” You command, but it doesn’t deter him.

“I think that you’re scared to hear my answers because then it all becomes too real for you–” 

“Stop!” The words almost get stuck in your throat, but you choke them out. “You’re wrong.” 

“If I’m wrong then prove it. To both of us.” He sits back down and motions to the board. “Ask the real questions.” 

“I don’t need to prove anything, you’re wrong.” You uphold.

“So leave.” He challenges, knowing that you won’t be able to. 

If you truly believed that he’s wrong you wouldn’t feel the need to prove it, but you do and he knows that. You walk back over to the couch, head nodding from irritation, tongue poking your cheek. You kick your shoes off with a bit of force and return to your earlier position across from him. 

“Your move.” He reminds you as you settle in.

You don’t reply yet, but move your rook to set him up for the next move.  

“Check.” He smugly states.

“Who was she?” 

You don’t move, examining him close for any change in his behaviour. He obviously didn't anticipate that question first, snapping his sights back on you. 

“Sorry?” 

“The woman who greeted me at your door. That night at your apartment.” 

“Charlotte.” He replies, holding your gaze to show you he’s got nothing to hide. “We met at the library a week before.”

“Are you guys together?” You break away first, diverting your eyes to the chess board and trying to seem unfazed when moving your knight. 

“No, God, no.” He denies immediately. 

“I don’t know, she seemed pretty cosy for someone you met a week prior.” You don’t mean to sound as snide as you come across.

“No, it wasn’t like that at all.” He shakes his head. 

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure I saw her mark you up with a kiss on your cheek before disappearing.” You don’t look at him, examining a captured pawn as you wait for him to make his move. 

“Mark me up?” He cognizes it instantly. “Are you…jealous?”

“What? No!” You vehemently deny, your voice rising in several pitches. 

“You are!” His eyes widen. 

“I am not jealous.” 

His jaw slacks and he lets out an amused scoff. He doesn’t say anything, making you feel the need to fill the silence. 

“I only bring it up because…I know you have a thing with…germs.” Your words falter because of your own uncertainty and you want to dissolve into the fucking floor. 

Spencer tries to suppress a smile by poking his tongue out slightly. If the atmosphere was lighter he’d tease you about it, but he doesn’t want to make you take off again. Still, he feels the need to clarify the events of the night. 

“I don’t know why she kissed my cheek, it was completely random.” He takes his time saying it, still fighting a smile.

You swallow nervously and purse your lips to the side in response. One question answered and you only have new ones in its place. Did she stay the night? Did she sleep on the couch or on his bed? Did he see her again? 

“I drove her home right after you left.” He can almost hear your thoughts. 

“Was it a date?” You softly gulp again, unsure if you even have a right to know.

“Yes.” He hesitates. 

“Oh.” 

“I wanted to try out casual dating for once.” He chagrins. “I honestly don’t know how you did it, it’s not even fun.” 

“No it’s not.” You chuckle dryly. “So no second date, I presume?”

“Definitely not. I was just stressed the whole time.” He chuckles with you. 

“Take a shot of tequila before you go next time, it helps settle the nerves.” You joke, jumping to give him advice you hope he doesn’t take. You can’t help it, it’s what you’ve always done. Even if it goes against what you desire. 

“While moderate consumption of tequila can help relax the nervous system, I will not be turning to alcohol for stress relief.” 

“Then blast classical music while you get ready and give yourself a pep talk out loud, it’s actually really efficient–”

“There won’t be a next time. For a really long time, if ever.” He interjects, miffed at your insistence. 

“You willingly plan on committing to lifelong celibacy?” You exclaim with a puzzled look. “Why?!”

Spencer laughs at how raw your reaction is. He didn’t plan on giving out any more details but, with that prompt he decides that it’s now or never. 

“I don’t think any future dates will appreciate me picturing someone else in their place the whole time.” 

Oh. 

Both of you lock eyes at the same time. This is not a road you’re prepared to go back down, even if that’s literally the whole point of this conversation. You’re too stunned to reply and Spencer uses this as an opportunity to be elaborate. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings this time. 

“I couldn’t stop pictur–”

“Shut up.” You blurt out the sentence in almost one word. 

Your heart’s racing like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. You’re flustered, every part of your body is heated from how terrified you are.

“Y–you don’t have t–t…you don’t owe m–me an explanation.” You try to elaborate, contradicting yourself and stumbling on your words.

“I want to.” He reads that you’re apprehensive but pushes regardless. 

“Please don’t.” The tears that you thought had dried out were building again.

“Why ask if you won’t let me answer?”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Did you want answers? Yes. Still, you didn’t expect how hard they’d be to hear. He whispers your name and you scramble to think of your next move, and not in chess. You’re unable to even think about the game right now. You want to bolt, but you can’t even get yourself to move. So you deflect. 

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.” Although his tone is subdued, the pace of his wording is faster. “I think it does matter and that’s why you’re afraid to hear it.”

He’s right but you can’t bring yourself to agree. This is only going to over-complicate an already complicated situation.

“It’s not enough.” Your voice cracks.

“How can it be if you won’t even give it a fair shot?” 

“Fair?” 

It comes out louder than you intended. His words trigger resentment within you and you snap. 

“Nothing about any of this is fair! I mean, fucking hell, Spencer, four years. That’s how long we’ve been friends. I mean I’ve shared shit that I thought I would be taking to the fucking grave with you! You were my best friend for four fucking years and all it took was like, five seconds?”

You sob, softer than when you were first crying, but the frustration is clear. He reaches out to touch your hand, but you push his hand away. 

“No!” You choke, sobbing harder when you try to compile your thoughts. “Five seconds to destroy all of it! It makes me wonder if everything we shared, our friendship, was it ever even that strong?”

Your anger simmers to sadness, as evident with how your yelling fades into whispering in the last sentence. 

“I can’t even tell you when exactly those five seconds were. I mean, I know…but…I don’t. Where did it go wrong, Spence?” 

“I don’t know.” Is all he can say after a beat of silence.

He knows exactly where it went wrong. 

“Yeah, me neither!” You sniffle, immediately wiping a single tear that manages to escape. “So again, it doesn’t matter.” 

“When you took it back.”

“What?” 

“That’s where everything changed for me. You showed up at my apartment drunk, after your date with Nathan. Your exact words were ‘I mean as an amazing friend’.” His voice strains like he’s forcing himself to speak. 

Your gaze falls, eyes darting everywhere as you try to jog your memory beyond the one sentence you remember. 

“I don’t understand.” You croak.

“You know, if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.” He chuckles bitterly, fighting back tears of his own. “That was– that was, uh, what you said before you took it back.”

“Spence, please…” You whine without sound, tilting your head back and chewing on your lip as a final attempt to stay composed. 

“No, you wanted to know where it went wrong.” He laughs falsely to downplay his tears. “You can say it doesn’t matter all you want, but the fact is, it does matter. It matters to me and I won’t let you run from it anymore.” 

You can’t look at him. Not with tears free falling down your face. You cup your hands together in your lap, pressing your fingers and nails together. 

“You told me that I couldn’t love you.” You struggle to sound your words. 

“I’m an idiot.” Another chuckle, but he sounds defeated. “When you said that, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to say that I do love you.” 

You tearfully laugh at this admission. 

“I only took it back because of what you said. I panicked. I thought I’d ruined things…which I guess, I still did.” Another laugh from you.

Spencer responds with the same regretful sound. 

The irony spurs another fit of giggles amongst you, this one slightly longer and infinitely more rueful than the last. You look anywhere but at each other until it grows quieter. 

“If you loved me, why the fuck would you tell me that I couldn’t love you?” You sound just as, if not more, defeated than him. 

“Love.” Spencer corrects without missing a beat. 

Your brows twitch up and your heart jumps. 

“I was so hung up on every single part of your sentence that I didn’t know what to say first.” He proceeds to answer you without leaving much room to process what he said. “I wanted to tell you that I do love you. I love you as you are. Not as somebody else.”

“But you didn’t say any of that.” You ignore all his admissions, not fully comprehending. 

“Like I said, I’m an idiot. I was in so much disbelief and that was the first thing that came out of my mouth.” He sullenly huffs.

You don’t reply, sniffling with your head down. 

“For like a second, I had everything I wanted. Then you took it back and it was like my whole world had been ripped out from under me. In those five seconds, you’d given me a taste of what I’d spent four years convincing myself I couldn’t have and I just– I couldn’t go back after that.” He adds after a stillness. 

After a short while, your focus shifts from your hands to the board in front of you. The game’s been long forgotten. You’re immersed in the conversation, in spite of how strenuous it is. 

“I understand why you were distant, even mean, at first.” You snivel. “But after a while you just became downright cruel.” 

Spencer doesn’t shy away from your gaze when you do look at him. His skin is as drenched from crying as yours is. 

“I mean ‘I don’t want to see your face’? I know that I don’t really have a leg to stand on anymore, but, what the fuck Spencer?” 

He doesn’t cringe any less with every reminder. He’s truly regretted the words since they left his mouth. 

“I wanted to hurt you.” He reveals. “I thought you were being deliberately cruel and I wanted you to feel exactly how I was feeling.”

“Deliberately?” 

He nods, hanging his head.

“I thought that you knew how I felt and were just trying to be funny or something.” 

“Well I didn’t. I wasn’t.” You cut him off with a constricted voice.

“Even if you did, it’s not an excuse.” His eyes are glistening from the outpour of tears, but he still lifts his sights back to you. “I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know how to acknowledge his apology at all. You’re not even angry anymore, all you feel is sorrow and regret for the way everything happened. An entire friendship down the drain due to an unfortunate set of circumstances. 

“This is so fucked up.” You say with another mordant laugh. “All of this could have been avoided if we just talked about it.”

It stung less when you had somebody to blame for it. Your vision blurs and you make no effort to clear it, letting yourself cry openly. 

“We’re talking about it now?” It’s almost a squeak, the way it’s spoken.

“Yeah, but,” your shoulders slump, defeatedly, and you have to pause to control your sob, “what good does it do now? I’ve already lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me in the most pathetic way possible.”

“I’m right here.” He counters in such a small voice that it gives your goosebumps. 

“Spencer, too many things have been said…”

“When you first joined the team, I instantly knew I liked you.” 

He chews on his lip and darts his eyes around while he contemplates if he wants to continue. 

“I thought it was because of your kind nature. You were so sweet to everybody.” He decides he does, but his voice shakes throughout. “You have this gift…you make people feel so good about themselves. Whenever you spoke to me, I felt like the most important person in the world. It was impossible not to like you.”

You want to pretend like you don’t know where he’s going with this. You want to stop him, but your voice is stuck in your throat.

“It wasn’t until you bought me coffee for the first time that I realised just how much I liked you.” He chuckles again, as he reminisces in the memory. “You didn’t even get my order right until the fourth time, but it was still my favourite cup of the day.”

“You make me sound like a saint.” You finally choke out, attempting to play down the confession so it doesn’t crush your heart. “The only reason I even started bringing you coffee is because you learned how I like my coffee first.” 

“Not a saint, an angel. I’ve fallen so deeply in love with you that there are times where it genuinely feels like I’m in the presence of an angel.” 

It’s stated with such sincerity that it knocks the wind out of your pipes. Your eyes are widened and you’re biting your tongue with your mouth closed, staring at him with your chin tucked. He seems so confident, even with the glistening from previous tears in his eyes.

“I wanted to be in your life in any way you would have me. Even when it meant that I had to accept you with other people. And it was bearable, until…” His reminiscence only ends at the memory of the night that changed everything. “Like I said, I couldn’t go back.”

The last part fades into another whisper, only then do you find the courage to speak up. 

“Exactly.” You stick to your denial. “It can’t go back to how it was before.”

Your heart is so sure of what it wants, but your head is blinded by fear. You’re at a crossroads, except one path, the path that leads to everything you long for, is clouded with a fog of uncertainty. The other path is so painfully clear, you can practically see what’s on the other side. A fresh start, where the risk of fucking up further doesn’t exist. What you don’t see is Spencer.

“Good. I don’t want it to go back to how it was.” 

Spencer’s waiting for you to enter the fog. He’s going to be there holding your hand every step of the way. 

“I’ve already handed in my resignation.”

“That matters less than everything you’ve claimed doesn’t matter.” He leans in, intensifying his eye contact. 

“I’m pretty sure Hotch is really close to confirming my replacement.” You comment half-heartedly. 

You’re trying anything to dissuade both him and yourself from acknowledging the obvious, but he doesn’t plan on letting you avoid it. 

“I love you.” He whispers softly.

“Spencer…” You begin when he takes hold of your hands and whatever you had to say disappears from your tongue. 

“I love you. With every atom that makes up my body.” He repeats himself with further elaboration to instil it in your mind.

“I’m scared.” You whisper back with a sob, finally accepting it. 

“Why?” His voice can’t be any softer, but it still cracks a little.

“Because, you can’t guarantee that it’s going to end well.” You allow your vulnerability to peek through. “And that’s going to hurt more. I’d rather leave now than fall deeper.”

Although you didn’t say it back, it’s an indirect admission that you love him too. And it’s enough for him to fight harder.

“I know that my credibility isn’t the greatest,” he coaxes a small, sad scoff out of you, “but I truly believe that this, us, we’ll work. Because I know that I’m going to do everything I can to make this work.”

He feels bolder when you don’t pull away from his touch, folding your fingers into your palms and cupping over them. You observe the sight as it unfolds in lieu of a verbal response. 

“I’ve spent four years judging any man that comes into your life, wishing I was in their place, swearing I would treat you better than all of them.” 

Spencer feels the need to fill in the silence and he lets honesty guide his confession. He leans in further as if he’s indulging his deepest secret. 

“Four years wasted wondering what could be, cursing out those idiots, but taking no action to make it happen. And that makes me the biggest idiot out of all of them.”

When he speaks like this, with his big, imploring eyes and prayerful tone, it melts your heart to a point where it almost hurts. The more he talks, the more you begin to lean in, opening yourself up to him.

“It took losing you to realise how badly I fucked up and for that I will never forgive myself. I know that I have no right to ask you to waste any more time on me…”

There’s no more resistance against the pull you both physically feel to each other. 

“...but I’m begging you for a chance to do today what I should have done way before yesterday.” 

Your faces grow closer by the second, you can feel each other's breaths against skin.

“And I’m going to spend every tomorrow proving what I said today.” 

The likelihood of him changing your mind with one conversation wasn’t very high, both you and Spencer knew this when you got into it. You’re not entirely surprised when he somehow manages to overcome those odds too. You take the step to close the gap and lightly press your lips to his. 

It starts off soft, there’s no lust, no ulterior motive behind it. It’s a simple confirmation that you’re both present and this is real. Spencer doesn’t shy away from the kiss, not that you’d call this a kiss. It feels more intimate, more unguarded.

Spencer pulls you onto his lap as he shifts and leans back against the backrest to allow more room for you. You wrap your arms around him and the kiss deepens. In the midst of you straddling him, he slides the entire chess board off the couch and the pieces scatter on the floor. It’s only when you feel that the kiss can’t bring you any closer to him does the lust emerge. It fuels a desire to prove that you both whole-heartedly belong to each other. 

There’s no pinpointing when the switch happens. All you know is that the feeling of his lips against yours is no longer enough. You cup his jaw in your hands, swiping your tongue on his lower lip and it causes his grip on your waist to tighten. He parts his lips for you and it starts what you can only call a dance with your tongues. 

Your breathing grows hotter, your hips subconsciously grind against him. There’s a prominent bulge that brushes against your heat and you whine into his mouth. Spencer grunts your name in response and then abruptly pulls away.

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down.” He breathlessly whispers against your lips. 

“What?” You whisper back with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He gazes into your eyes, afraid that you might regret this later.

“I’ve never been more sure, actually.” You’re confident at first but the look in his eyes makes you pull back further. “Unless…you’re not sure?”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I want you.” His tone rises just above the previous whisper with his clarification. “It’s just that the last thing I want to do is take advantage of you when our emotions are running high.”

“Four years, Spencer.” You lean in again, just brushing your lips against his. “The only reason you should be making me wait is if you’re not sure.”

He shuts that idea down by crashing his lips on yours. The kiss is so hungry, so desperate, it’s everything both of you have longed for and denied yourselves everytime you’ve been in each other's presence. It doesn’t take long for hands to start to roam. He traces the curve from your waist to your hips, stopping just at the hem of your shirt, tugging it like he’s asking for permission. 

You rush to undo your buttons and he meets you halfway, starting at the bottom. His fingers brush against yours as you two reach the final button and you pull the fabric off yourself. You do the same with his shirt, lips remaining locked, except for the small gasps of air you take in between. It requires a bit more manoeuvring with him, but you’re both soon shirtless. 

His mouth travels to your jaw and you shut your eyes from pleasure as he continues down to your neck. The stubble on his chin tickles your skin. You cup it, gently pushing him away with a giggle. 

“Forget to pack a razor in your bag, Dr. Reid?” Your voice is teasing, more playful than seductive.

He chuckles, airily, hiding his groan. He knows you’re being sarcastic, but the use of his title, with your voice in this context, catches him off guard. You moan as you feel his growing bulge against your heat when his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you into his kiss. You swiftly undo the clasp of your bra, but before you can take it off, Spencer grabs you from just below the hips and lifts you up off him, gently laying you down on the seat of the couch. 

There’s no room for hesitation as his lips find your neck again and he nips at the skin. Every suckle earns him short gasps and the grip in his hair tightens as he travels lower. He stops just above your breast, pulling himself up to sit on his knees. You stare up at him with a heated gaze, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth with your lips parted to make up for the loss of his lips. 

He reaches for your bra strap and begins pulling slowly, searching your eyes for any signs of you withdrawing consent. All he sees is how beautifully they sparkle when you give him a light nod. It’s been too long since he’s seen the stars that you hold in your eyes, stars he accustomed himself to before he even got to properly know you. 

Gazing into his eyes, you’ve never felt more sure, more safe. You trust him implicitly and you’ve never wanted anything more. His constant need to make sure you're comfortable sends shivers down to your core. He slides the garment off you and Spencer’s beyond grateful that he’s already on his knees, knowing that if he was standing he’d fall to them because of the sight below him. 

His eyes don’t falter once, he’s trying to permanently etch this moment into his brain. He hovers his fingers above your body, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple and you softly whine. He looks awestruck, almost like he doesn’t believe what’s happening. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks your boobs look weird. 

“Beautiful.” The words fall out of his mouth in a whisper, as if on cue. He’s really just thinking out loud.

Before you can respond he lowers down and plants a small peck to your sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth. You gasp again, head lolling back in pleasure. One of your hands goes for his hair, while the other clings to his hand that’s already holding yours. He switches between sucking, pulling and squeezing; rolling it between his tongue and uses his teeth to squeeze ever so slightly.

“S–spencer.” A strangled moan falls from your lips. 

You tug his hair, whining and moaning as your hips roll against the strain in his pants. When your motions become continuous, he lets out his own strained groan and is forced to release your nipple with a small ‘pop’. 

“Angel, I really need you to stop doing that.” He murmurs in your ear with a gentle, gravelly tone.

As soon as the nickname reaches your ears your hips involuntarily buck up again, making his hips automatically push down against yours. His cock presses against your core and you both moan, his head falling against your shoulder.

“Spence, more.” You quietly whine in against his ear. “I need more.” 

“More?” He echoes back, turning his head so that your lips brush past each other when speaking. 

“Mhm.” You nod weakly as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face and weakly connects his lips with yours.

Even when he’s got you vulnerable and at your most compromised, he’s still as gentle as ever. You don’t feel him undo your pants or sneak his hand in them, but you definitely feel him press the pads of his fingers against your clothed clit. Air escapes through your nose in a huff of surprise and you hum in his mouth, hips jolting at his touch. He can feel your slickness through your underwear. 

“Oh, my pretty girl.” He sighs, breaking the kiss and directing his whispers in your ear again. “All wet for me?”

“Please..” Even with your broken whimper you beg him for more. 

“Like this?” His deft fingers swipe your panties to the side, fingers landing directly on the clit this time. 

They feel cold at first. The contrast against your heated body makes you squirm and you groan in a soft, high pitch. 

“What are you feeling right now?” He pries a verbal response from you, circling your bud lightly. “Tell me.”

“Good.” You sigh, eyes shut as you try to savour the pleasure. 

“Good?” His voice is still soft against your ear.

“Mhm.” You nod, one arm draping against his shoulder and the other hand running along his scruffy jaw. “So good.” 

“And this?” He adds pressure to his movements. “Does this feel good?”

Your hips buck again and he feels rewarded when you moan. There’s no doubt that the sound of your voice is his favourite. He especially loves it when it’s directed at him. Whether that be in the form of a laugh or your sweet moans. It makes him somewhat dizzy. His lips attach to the skin just under your jaw in an attempt to coax more. 

It’s very effective. Fingers working your bundle of nerves, circling and flicking while changing the pressure, and mouth kissing and sucking near your pulse. It makes your back arch, hand gripping his shoulder so you don’t float away. He’s careful not to leave any purple traces of him on your neck, mindful of you being bombarded with questions from your colleagues.  

“I love how reactive you are, Angel. You sound divine– fuck.” He can’t help the grunt that escapes him. “You are divine.”

His touch alone is enough to make you feel electric, but the sweet nothings he’s whispering in your ear will be what send you over the edge. It’s a foreign feeling, being reminded that he values you for more than just your body. Just under an hour ago you had incredibly high walls built around you and none of them are left standing as you exposed under him.

Spencer’s not the first man to touch you, but he is the first that loves you. It’s something you’re not at all used to and it feels as overwhelming as it does good. It transcends the want, no, the need for the man on top of you beyond lust or love. You plan to show him just how strong that need is tonight. 

The carpeted floor is littered with your clothes, carelessly thrown around and tiny chess pieces scattered around the abandoned chess board. Spencer’s comfortably lying on the couch, facing the ceiling and you’re lying directly on top of him with your face buried in his neck. 

You run your fingers back and forth along his jaw, scratching his beard in slow streaks. He’s enveloped you in his arms, one around your lower back and the other playing with your hair. It doesn’t feel as peaceful as it seems, both of you are afraid of being the first to speak. You know you can’t stay like this forever and you decide to bite the bullet. 

“Spencer?” 

You only get silence from his end. You know he’s awake because his motions in your hair don’t stop. You push yourself up to face him, trying to study his face. The sudden movement brings him back from wherever he was zoned out to. 

“Hm?” His features jump.

Does he regret it?

“What’s wrong?” Your voice shakes from worry. “You have this look on your face.” 

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.” 

“About…?” 

“How bad we are at communicating.” He chuckles. “It’s concerning when you think about how all we ever do is talk.” 

Hearing this makes you snort and you fall into him again. It sends both of you into a short fit of laughter. 

“Oh that’s promising for the success of this relationship.” You giggle, sarcasm evident. 

Hearing relationship makes Spencer inhale sharply. 

“So you’re staying?” 

“Well obviously, Dingbat.” You scoff playfully at the question and shift upright, straddling him. “But we really do need to get better at the communication thing for this to work.”

Spencer mounts his weight on his hands by either side of him and pushes himself up to you, stealing a deep kiss. 

“Yes, we absolutely do.” He whispers, breaking away for only a second. 

The kisses fizzle in you a plethora of smaller kisses. 

“Spencer, I’m– serious.” You voice in between, loosely draping your arms on his shoulders. 

“I am too.” He says in a hushed tone as he pulls away. 

“I want to take it– this,” you motion between the two of you with your finger, “us, slow. Not four years slow, but, like, by a couple of months at the very least.”

“Okay.” He agrees, his eyes scouring your face with complete adoration. It’s not ideal, but he understands where you’re coming from. 

“That means that we start again. Romantically. We have to talk about a lot of things first.” 

He shifts his body out from under you, resting his back properly against the couch and pulls you back into his lap in one swift motion. Both of his hands graze from your shoulder to your wrist.

“How about…you come over this weekend,” He suggests, wrapping his arms around your waist for a hug, “we’ll do snacks, a movie, maybe an actual game of chess.” 

“That sounds like a date.” You wrap your arms around his neck to return the gesture and lean your forehead against his. 

“It’s not a date. Not yet, anyways.” He whispers. “I’m asking you to come over this weekend so we can talk about things properly, because frankly, I don’t think either of us is in the right headspace for it right now.” 

“Should I be offended at that?” You giggle, not entirely sure what he’s alluding to. 

“No!” He snorts with a high tone. “Dopamine aside, our Norepinephrine and Serotonin levels are too high right now for us to have a proper conversation about this.” 

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, because you’re not, but I also think you’re just using science to try and confuse me, so that I agree to wherever this speech is heading.” 

“It’s times like this where your attentiveness puts me at a disadvantage, because this tactic has a hundred percent success rate on everybody else.” He grins and you chuckle, both leaning in for another kiss. 

“Can we hold off on starting over? Just for tonight.” He reluctantly voices, not wanting to push any boundaries. 

You draw back and raise your eyebrows with your eyes widened. 

“Spence, I have waited for years for this. You’re insane if you think I’m giving that up without relishing in it for at least a night. We’re not starting over until we’re both officially back on the clock.” 

“Okay.” He heaves from relief, leaning in for another kiss, but quickly withdraws with a new question. “Don’t you think the team’s going to be suspicious when we’re not fighting tomorrow?”

“Forget them, what am I gonna say to Hotch when I ask to withdraw my resignation?” You huff out a tiny groan. “He’s gonna hate me for all this paperwork.”

Paperwork reminds you why you’re here to begin with. You audibly gasp, jumping off Spencer and scrambling to put your clothes back on. 

“Fuck! Spencer, get dressed!” 

Spencer doesn’t share your panic, but adheres to your demand. You mutter a continuous line of obscenities as you throw on your clothes and when you don’t seem to be getting calmer, he intervenes. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” He coos as he steps towards you, still undressed on the upper-half. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that we’ve been here for hours!” You shriek, now fully dressed. 

You push past Spencer and grab his shirt, deciding that he was too slow on his own. He lets you dress him as he probes further. 

“That’s okay. No one’s going to notice this late.” 

“No– Spence–” You sigh, throwing your head back. “In less than four hours, Hotch is going to walk into his office expecting the Anchorage report on his desk. I’ve barely been able to get half of it done in weeks, how am I going to finish it in four hours?”

You shake your head and begin working on his buttons. He grabs your wrists, urging you to look at him. 

“You’ll have it done in less than one. I’ll help you!” His voice is light, airy, soft and accompanied with a chuckle.

“Spencer, you’ve already been here later than you need to be. It’s okay–”

“Let me help you.” He resorts to pleading, releasing your wrists and cupping your face.

You don’t have it in you to argue, his eyes staring back at you with sincerity. He wants to help. There’s no point in pushing him away, because as scared as you are about being too vulnerable with your trauma from that case, you trust him wholeheartedly. You know he won’t push for more than what you choose to share right now.

“Okay.” You nod and smile into the kiss he leans in for after the confirmation. 

“Okay. Now, you go and start some coffee.” he instructs softly with a wide grin, waving to the scattered chess ensemble. “ I’m going to clean up here and join you.”

“I love you!” You lean for another kiss and hushedly exclaim as you break away, receding towards the door. 

It’s Spencer’s turn to lose his breath. He’s affirmed his love for you countless times tonight and this is the first time you’ve verbally reciprocated it. He knows that it won’t be the last time either. That, to him, makes him the luckiest man in the world. He stops you from going any further by your arm and gently yanks you in his direction, crashing his lips with yours. 

“I love you too.” He whispers after the kiss, letting you go. 

Heat rises in your face again and you struggle to hide a huge dopey smile, one that Spencer has too. You’re floating on cloud nine, finally out of the blurry hurricane you’ve endured for months. There’s still a lot of things that you need to work out, but the thought of them doesn’t make you feel dread like it once did. 

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love." - Socrates

Spoilers: Yapperoni (so much dialog in this chapter), BAU! Reader, enemies (kinda) to lovers, hurt, comfort, love confessions (they might be a little too sappy, idk, I was sleep deprived), the praise made me giddy at some point, smut but I edge you by not writing out everything, happy ending.

AN - I have a little tiny fear that people (me) will nawt (I don’t) fuck with this monstrosity, but out of all my drafts, this felt like the most natural course of action. I thought it would be really fun to go from friends to enemies to lovers. Now, literally nobody talk to me about writing fics after this. Uni’s started, so I’ll be very inconsistent for a bit. Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

A comment today keeps semicolon away (from showing up to your house and eating all your snacks).

Thank you for reading!

[gaycragula]

Hello, hope you're having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request Ghost x assassin male reader who surprises Ghost with a sweet passionate kiss while hanging upside down?

Spider-Man Kisses

Pairing: Ghost x M!Reader Word Count: 679 Warning(s): Suggestive content, kissing, implications of a boner, descriptions of blood and gore, outright violence for the first 2 paragraphs, blood, assassin reader, assassination, graphic descriptions of blood Masterlist

Extra notes: Intended for m!reader but could be read as gn!reader. also im so sorry it took me forever to get to this </3

You let out a quiet grunt as you yanked your blade from a man’s body, pulling a handkerchief from your pocket to wipe it down. The man clawed at your boots, whatever he was trying to say coming out as gurgles as blood dripped from his mouth. You kicked his hand away, grimacing at the streak of blood he left on you. 

It wasn’t long before the sounds of him struggling stopped and you let out a breath. You removed the ring from his finger and pocketed it, evidence that he was dead. He was a high priority target, you’ll get paid nicely for the kill. 

You made your exit, quick and quiet, making use of the alleyway system to stay out of sight until you were a comfortable distance from the crime scene. Your pace slowed when you noticed a familiar figure appear ahead of you, walking in the opposite direction. 

His apartment was in that direction, you assumed that’s where he was heading. You debated for a moment whether or not to cut him off, surprise him if you will. It wasn’t often you got the chance to catch him off guard. 

It was a quick decision as you rerouted yourself to cut him off in the most convenient manner and you perched yourself atop a fire escape. Not long after, you spotted the outline of your boyfriend in the distance again. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley. 

You didn’t get to see him very often. Both your current jobs keeping you separated most days. He must’ve just gotten back that day, it was rare that he wouldn’t call when he was home. 

As he got closer, an idea popped into your head and you quickly put it into action. You hooked one leg around the railing of the fire escape, making sure it would hold your weight. You waited a little longer, listening to the sounds of his steps before you slipped yourself off the fire escape, ending up a few feet in front of him, upside down. 

“Surprise!” You smile, trusting the punch he threw out of defense would stop before it hit you. 

“Bastard,” you hear Ghost hiss out as he drops his fist. Despite the harsh name, you watched his face soften when he saw you. His usual cold demeanor warming up ever so slightly. You swear you could see a smile dance over his face for a split second before it went still again. 

You chuckle out an apology before gesturing for him to come closer. Once he was in reach, you grabbed his face gently and pulled him into a kiss that quickly turned heated. “Couldn’t help myself,” you whisper between kisses, smiling against Simon’s lips. His lips were rough, as they often were, but you couldn’t help but love the way they felt against yours. “Missed you so much.”

Ghost’s hands found your arms and he mumbled something against your lips before separating. “C’mon down.”

“Right, one moment please, my good sir,” you tease before unhooking your leg and, with the help of Ghost, getting down on the ground. 

You weren’t down for more than two seconds before Simon had you backed against a nearby wall, his lips back on yours. Your hand moved to cup his face while his moved to your waist.  Both of you were breathless when you parted, chests heaving as you looked at each other. 

Ghost leaned into you, placing his forehead on yours. You smile up at him, rubbing your thumb along his jawline before you trailed your hand into his blonde hair, brushing your fingers through it. His eyes lidded as he moved to kiss you again, his hand traveling under your shirt to sit on your waist. “Your place?” You breathe out as he separates and  leans down to kiss your neck. 

He nods against you. “Now,” the desperate tone he had mixed with the roughness of his voice had your heart skipping a beat, your pants suddenly feeling too tight as you grabbed Simon’s hand and tugged him in the direction of his apartment. 

[unearthly-doting]

yandere portrait

a/n: new blog, first post!! it's longer than i intended but in my defense, i wrote this to cope w the aftermath of bugbear's route in saint spell's, so. sorry if it's messy </3

warnings: yandere content, gn reader, male yandere, delusional yandere, i think this technically classifies as stalking, the feeling of being watched, slightly graphic murder, kidnapping, they/them pronouns do get used to describe the reader at the end, no nsfw but still minors do not interact!!

— there's this portrait inside the attic of the house you had just moved into. you had found it while cleaning the place out, getting rid of the belongings of the former owner of the place.

— you had tried throwing it out along with all the other stuff, but there was just something about it that... well... you aren't sure how to describe it, but looking at the man in the portrait, you felt bad for wanting to throw him away. he looked so sad in the painting, staring down at a wilted rose in his hand while being surrounded by a field of yellow chrysanthemums.

— it was silly, to be honest. it was a painting, you aren't sure why you felt bad for it, but you did. so you kept it. in the attic.

— and it was all fine and dandy. you honestly forgot about the portrait after a few weeks since you rarely ever went up to the attic, and you were so busy unpacking and decorating your new home that you just didn't have the energy to think about it.

— but then one night, you heard a very loud thump coming from upstairs. you weren't sleeping, catching up on some work you had put back, but the noise startled you nonetheless. had somebody broken in? the thought made you feel sick as you looked up at the ceiling of your room, waiting to see if you could hear footsteps or anything like that.

— you heard nothing.

— okay... then maybe something fell? you hadn't exactly cared too much about where you put stuff up there, so you wouldn't be surprised if something did. you... should probably go check, to make sure nothing was broken up there.

— when you got to the attic, it didn't take you long to find the source of the loud noise you had heard. the portrait of the man had fallen from where you had placed him and was lying face down on the ground.

— you picked it up with a sigh, only for the frame that surrounded it to come undone in the process. the fall must've broken it. it was old, so you weren't surprised. you're just glad the painting looked okay—wait... was the man always looking at the viewer?

— you're... not going to think too hard on that. you're pretty sure you have a frame that would fit, so you carefully roll the portrait up, making sure to not accidentally bend the corners or cause any tears before making your way back downstairs to begin your search for a new frame

— it was definitely a long search, but you eventually found one tucked deep away in the closet you were using for storage. and it was a perfect fit! and after some debating with yourself, you decided you probably shouldn't put it back up in the attic, just in case it fell again.

— there wasn't any place for you to hang it at the moment, so you just decided to put it in your room for now until you could find space for it. you made sure to face it away from the bed, however. you aren't sure why, but it felt as if the man in the painting were watching you.

— that feeling never really went away, even after the days went by. whenever you would walk by the painting, it felt as if eyes were on you. and you couldn't help but notice little details in the portrait were changing.

— the flower he held was no longer wilted. he didn't look sad anymore. the blooming flowers surrounding him went from chrysanthemums to red roses. it was hard to believe, and you couldn't help but wonder if you were going crazy. maybe the painting was just dirty and you were mistaking the details?

— the painting did look a little dirty, so after doing some research, you bought the supplies you needed to clean it and got straight to it when you had the time to spare. you removed it from its frame and laid it out on the dining table since that was the only flat surface you had that was big enough.

— you were deeply focused, playing music to fill the silence and humming along to whatever song played, tending to the painting as if you had painted it yourself. and you were so caught up in cleaning the painting that you didn't notice that you were being watched. you didn't notice the way the man's eyes followed your every move or the way his lips twitched in a barely concealed smile.

— you did, however, notice some writing at the very bottom right corner of the painting. "aurin, by xxx." so that must be the man's name then, huh? taking one glance at him, it felt fitting.

— once you had finished cleaning the dirt and dust off the painting—aurin, as you now know him as—you put him back in his frame and find a nice spot in the living room to hang him up. he was definitely out of place with the rest of your décor, but you didn't really mind. he added a strange feeling of... life.

— the feeling of being watched never went away, however. even at night, when you were tucked comfortably in bed, you would wake up in the middle of the night feeling as if someone else were in the room with you. it was beginning to make you feel paranoid. maybe the house was haunted?

— not only that, little things would be different whenever you came home from work or an outing. the place would be cleaner, the fridge would be neatly sorted, your clothes would be neatly tucked away in your closet... this was a very clean and friendly ghost if you're house really was haunted. and you really hope it was. you don't want to think of the alternative.

— but it was still weird, and you were starting to lose sleep because of it, hoping to see if you could catch whoever or whatever was doing this. at some point, you called a friend to come over to spend a few nights with you. you felt like you were going crazy, and you needed someone there to keep you grounded.

And your friend did! They came over, promising to stay for the week to help you keep your mind off the weird shit happening in your house. The weird feeling of being watched was still there, but nothing was ever moved out of place anymore.

Tonight was the last night that they'd be staying over, and the two of you decided to make a little party out of it. You both went out and got some drinks and a bunch of snacks and you guys just sat down and watched some shitty movies.

You guys weren't drinking alcohol, but the jokey mood the two of you had going on certainly made it feel as if you were tipsy, collapsing into a fit of giggles at one of their lame jokes as you leaned against them.

The time spent with them this week was fun, tonight being the best of all, but eventually, the two of you had to go to bed. The two of you shared a hug before you left them to go to your bedroom. You went to bed that night with a smile on your face, feeling relaxed for the first time in a while.

...

You startled awake. It was dark outside, and the clock read 4am. A loud noise had woken you up, a thud that sounded like someone, or something, falling. You weren't immediately concerned, thinking that your friend might've fallen off the couch while sleeping.

You should probably check on them to make sure they aren't hurt. With a tired sigh, you climb out of bed and make your way to the living room, stumbling a bit in the dark as you rub some sleep from your eyes.

Your hand roams against the wall for a moment before finding the light switch and flicking it, opening your mouth to speak but your words get stuck in your throat.

As soon as the light fills the room, your stomach drops.

You had been expecting to see your friend on the floor, probably still sleeping, but...

You weren't expecting to see someone on top of them, some sort of blade in hand, stabbing into their neck multiple times. You just stood there, frozen as you watched the mystery man stab your friend. They were already dead, not moving, eyes staring up into nothingness. You had only spoken to them just mere hours ago, and now they're on your living room floor, covered in their own blood as the man continues to stab them.

He seemed so caught up in the act that he hadn't even noticed the lights were on, or that you were watching. You should run. You should get as far away from here as possible, but it's like you were frozen in place. Your legs felt weak, and they gave out on you before you could even try running.

You fall to the ground, hands shaking, tears running down your face, bile stuck in your throat as you force yourself to not vomit.

The squelching sound of stabbing stops, and the man turns his attention to you. It was Aurin. Aurin, the man from that damn painting. Your gaze snapped over to said painting, thinking that you must be going insane, but no.

The painting was vacant. The man inside of it was gone. What the fuck.

His expression was vacant, and you stared at him like a deer in headlights, wondering if you were going to be killed next. Ha... killed by a weird supernatural entity that shouldn't even exist... maybe you are going crazy. Maybe this is all just one really bad nightmare.

You'll wake up any second now and see your friend's smiling face as they drag you out of bed so you can help them pack their stuff. You'll wake up, and he'll be back in his painting again. Everything will be normal. This isn't real.

It's not real. It can't be. This is just some fucked up—

Cold hands cup your face, and the feeling of blood smearing on your cheeks is enough to snap you out of your thoughts. You hadn't even noticed when he approached you, or when he crouched down to your level.

The vacant expression was gone, replaced with a quiet, guilty one.

"I apologize, my love," He speaks, his voice sending a shiver down your spine, "You weren't supposed to see such a..." He trails off, a brief look of annoyance crossing his features as if remembering something he disliked, "Mess."

You were too stunned, too scared, to sick to speak. You just stared.

Aurin sighed, looking genuinely ashamed of himself, "I hope this doesn't make you think any less of me, my darling rose. I just couldn't... I couldn't stand the way they were looking at you. The way they were touching you. The advances they were making on you made me feel so angry," His nails dug into your cheeks as he spoke, and you wince slightly at the feeling. He took notice immediately, easing his grip on you as an apologetic smile appeared on his face, "I suppose I lost myself for a moment when taking care of them."

You struggled to process his words. He... he killed your friend because he thought they were making a move on you? Because of jealousy? That just... what the fuck...

"You..." Your voice cracks a bit as you speak, a wave of nausea hitting you as the taste of the blood in the air coats the inside of your mouth.

"Shhh..." He gently shushes you, running a hand over your hair. You cringe knowing there was blood sticking to the strands now, "Don't say anything, darling. I'm sure this is all a very big shock to you, but it'll be okay. I'll take care of you, the way you took care of me."

Your confusion only grew when he gently helped you off the ground, his grip on your arm was tight enough to keep you from running away but gentle enough that it didn't hurt, "But I haven't..." You trail off, going to deny his claims of you taking care of him, only to remember that you technically have.

He merely smiles, "But you have. I was so alone, up in that dusty attic. And then you came along, and you showed me a love that I hadn't experienced in decades. You took care of me. It's only natural that I take care of you in return, isn't it? That's what lovers do, after all."

"Lovers?!"

Aurin paid no mind to your shock, seemingly not even registering how odd and deranged this situation was, acting as if he hadn't just murdered your best friend in a fit of supposed jealous rage.

"I wasn't going to take you home so soon, trust me. I was content with helping you out around the house and making everything easier for you but..." He trails off, gaze wandering away from you to stare at the corpse on the ground, "Things happen. I don't think I can leave you to your devices here anymore. Someone may try to steal you away from me again, and I would hate for you to see another mess like this."

What the hell is he talking about?

You opened your mouth to argue with him, but you couldn't get a single syllable out before he was speaking again.

"Don't worry, it'll be a harmless trip. You'll just feel tired, but you can lean on me for support! Trust me, my love, you'll adore your new home." He says, excitement lacing his words.

It was a little scary, how you instantly began to feel tired after he finished talking. You're not sure if it was his doing, somehow, or if your body just couldn't handle the situation anymore and wanted you to sleep in hopes that everything would be better once you woke up.

Your eyes closed against your will, and you could faintly make out Aurin's soft humming as he held you close against him. You were too tired to fight against him, almost as if some sort of pressure were weighing you down.

Maybe everything will be better when you wake up...

A few months later, a couple had moved into a new home. The price had been on the cheaper side due to a fairly gruesome unsolved murder and kidnapping that took place there. They were determined to make a home out of it, even with its dark history.

"Honey, doesn't this painting feel a little off to you?" One of them asks, staring up at a painting that was hanging on a wall in the living room.

The other shrugs, moving boxes around and momentarily pausing to glance at the painting, "Just looks like a painting to me. Take it down if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Hm..."

They stare up at it, arms crossed as they take in the details. Two people were dancing together in a field of red roses. There was nothing wrong with that, it was rather romantic, to be honest. The man in the painting was normal as well, eyes closed with a serene smile on his face as he held his partner close. He looked as if he were in love, in all honesty. The part that unsettled them was the distraught look on the face of the man's dance partner, as well as the chains that tied their wrists to his, roses weaved into the chains as if to try and hide them.

It was a breathtaking painting, sure, but...

"Let's just put it up in the attic, that way we won't have to see it."

[gleamingyu]

anti-hero.

part II of the midnights series. inspired by taylor swift’s midnights. part I

pairing: music-producer!seungcheol x lawyer!fem!reader [exes-to-lovers]

genre: angst. fluff.

warnings: she/her pronouns for reader (but no specific physical characteristics). a bucketload of angst (i'm so sorry). light cursing. terrible knowledge of law stuff. so much crying yikes. miscommunication & misunderstandings. mentions of drinking and allusions to driving under the influence (do not do that ever!!). reader might seem a bit unlikeable in this chapter, but it's all part of the plot, okay?? she's trying her best. mentions of intimacy and sex (??), nothing graphic tho. slow burn. alternating povs. jihan as my lovely, beautiful, in love babies (yes they're a couple). some petnames (baby, babe). flashbacks are in italics. lower caps intended [if there’s anything i missed, please let me know!]

word count: approx. 8.1k (idk what happened)

notes: finally managed to work on my baby again. i'm sorry for the long wait but i had a lot of shit going on :/ thank you to everyone who showed love on the first part, i love each and every single on of you!! once again, likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated :)

summary: seungcheol wants to fix things; you want to avoid him at all costs. one thing is for sure, though. neither of you will have closure until you talk.

four months ago

the silence ringing inside seungcheol’s ears was even louder than the ambient noise of the restaurant he found himself in.

he genuinely couldn’t believe you were doing this to him again. the time was nearing 8 p.m., almost an hour later than when you were supposed to be here, and seungcheol was trying very hard to ignore the pitiful glances the waiters were not-so-subtly throwing him. he didn’t know what frustrated him more; the fact this was the seventh date you were clearly canceling on, or that you hadn’t updated him on your whereabouts in almost half an hour. if you weren’t going to show up, the least you could do is call and let seungcheol know you were gonna meet him at home.

home. funny how the word no longer brought a sense of peace in seungcheol’s heart.

just as he was about to get up and leave, seungcheol felt his phone buzz in the pocket of his pants, and his heart soared when he saw your name displayed on the screen. maybe you were going to make it after all, maybe you could still enjoy the nice evening he had planned, maybe…

“cheol… i’m so sorry.”

you were not coming.

seungcheol could tell from the apologetic tone in your voice. he didn’t even hear the next words that came from your end, whatever excuse you had to offer getting lost in the sound of his heart breaking. the grip he had on his phone was the only thing anchoring him in that moment, his eyes closed as he was trying to push down the tears that were threatening to spill out. he could hear you calling his name, are you there? but all he could offer was an “i’ll see you at home” before ending the call.

there was no part of you that was ready to face what awaited you on the other side of your apartment door.

the day hadn’t gone as you’d planned. you knew seungcheol had plans for the two of you that evening, so you had decided to wake up and go to the office earlier than usual in order to finish what you were working on in time for your date. but when you woke up that morning, you found seungcheol in the kitchen, diligently trying his best at making breakfast for the two of you. you melted at the sight of your boyfriend wearing your peach-colored apron – and nothing underneath but a pair of sweatpants – and you didn’t have the heart to turn him down when he oh-so-gleefully presented you with what could only be described as an admirable attempt at pancakes. moments like these were rare in your lives, with both of your hectic schedules and whatnot, so you sat down and enjoyed the warmth that came from the food, the sun coming in through the curtains, and seungcheol’s smile.

the sense of peace that came with spending the morning with seungcheol quickly dispersed once you arrived at the office and realized you were late, which gave your boss – mr. moon, a pathetic, greedy, and cruel excuse of a man who lived to make the lives of his employees a living hell – the perfect excuse to make you his target of the day. in addition to the case you were supposed to work on, mr. moon decided to dump on you stacks of paperwork that apparently needed to be taken care of by tonight, a task that normally a damn paralegal could take care of – no offense to paralegals.

normally you wouldn’t put up with this type of behavior. you weren’t raised to let people just walk all over you as they damn pleased. but around the office, there was one unspoken rule that everyone learned as soon as they started working here; ‘whatever mr. moon says, goes.’ besides, moon was the only person on the board of directors that could veto promotions in the firm, so until you could see the words senior associate inscribed under your name on the door of your office, you’d have to shut your mouth and take whatever was thrown at you with your head held high.

that isn’t to say that sometimes you wished mr. moon would get hit by a bus, ‘mean girls’ style. today had been one of those days, as the hours trickled by, closer and closer to when you should leave for your date with seungcheol, and yet mr. moon seemed to have a continuous stream of tasks that needed to be done, by you specifically. you realized you would never make it in time to see seungcheol, and so, tonight marked the seventh date you had to cancel because of work.

now, with the time on your phone reading 22:32, you were standing outside your apartment, bracing yourself for the talk you knew you were going to have with seungcheol. letting out a big exhale, you punched in the door code and let yourself in, the quietness of the apartment immediately enveloping you.

for a split second, you thought seungcheol might have gone to sleep already, but the faint sound of glass redirected you towards the kitchen, where you found said man standing by the kitchen island, nursing a glass of wine. you recognized the bottle mingyu had gifted him on his birthday that year, some fancy brand you’d never heard of before. as you stepped closer, the dim light of the kitchen finally illuminating you, seungcheol turned towards you, an inscrutable look on his face.

after four years of learning, knowing, loving seungcheol, you prided yourself in being able to discern what he was feeling at any given moment. but now, standing in front of him, you were scared to admit that you couldn’t read whatever feelings his eyes held. it made you feel uneasy, the way it seemed like he was looking through you, into you, and you wished you could come up with something to say to disturb the uncomfortable silence, but saying i’m sorry seemed redundant in that moment.

“a bit late, isn’t it?” seungcheol spoke up, and your heart clenched at the cold, almost mocking tone of his voice.

“i know, but i couldn’t get out faster. no matter what i said, my boss kept piling up my work and i just… i couldn’t. i’m so sorry… you know i wanted to come, more than anything. i really did,” you said, silently pleading that seungcheol would forgive you.

“i’m sure you did,” seungcheol gruffed, turning his attention back to the wine before him.

“cheol… don’t be like this, please…” you tried getting closer to him, but his body whipped towards you, his eyes narrowing at you.

“like what, exactly? angry? frustrated? sad? disappointed? i can be like that, actually, seeing as this is the seventh time in 3 months you’ve ditched me for work, apparently!” seungcheol spewed, making you take several steps back. your body tenses.

“‘apparently?’ what is that supposed to mean?”

“i don’t know, it just seems very unlikely that you’d have to sometimes spend more than twelve hours at work. i mean, you’re a lawyer, aren’t you? surely, you should know everything about workplace laws,” seungcheol bit back. he’s never spoken to you like this before, ever, the mockery in his voice surely aimed to hurt you. you felt anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach, but you tried your best to stay calm, for the sake of both of you.

“seungcheol,” you said, and you couldn’t help feeling a twinge of satisfaction seeing his eyebrows raise in surprise after hearing you use his full name. “if you have something to say, i’d rather you just do it, instead of insinuating it.”

seungcheol fell quiet for a moment, glancing down at his feet. “i meant it when i said i was held back at work, cheol. why would i lie about that?” you continued.

“for the past two years that you’ve been working there, you know i never once met any of your coworkers? i’ve never even stepped foot into your office, for god’s sake! you’ve been to my studio countless of times, you know the people i’m closest to, i’ve invited you to all the events the label organizes, so i just can’t understand! i don’t understand why you’re dead-set on keeping me away from that part of your life! and it makes me think… it makes me feel like i’m not enough, like you’re ashamed of me–”

“that’s absolutely not true, cheol!” you jumped in. you couldn’t even entertain the thought of seungcheol feeling self-conscious because of you, when it was the furthest thing you wanted. “i think you’re the most talented person i know, the most passionate, hard-working, smart… beautiful… i could never be ashamed of you.”

unshed tears were clinging to both of your lashes, heavy breathing echoing around the kitchen. how could you let things get so bad?

“it made me think there was someone else,” seungcheol breathes out.

the air gets stuck in your throat, the tears brimming in your eyes finally sliding down your face. “cheol… how could… there never was anyone! i swear, all the nights i would come home late, it was because of my work! i swear, i would never… you’re the only person that’s ever on my mind…”

silence fell over you and seungcheol, the words thrown between you slowly sinking in. seungcheol sniffled, taking a seat at the round table in the middle of the kitchen; you wished you could go to him, gather him in your arms, even though he’s too big to fit in completely, but you knew that this was probably the last thing seungcheol wanted from you in that moment.

“why don’t you quit?”

seungcheol looked up to you, the sadness in his gaze so intense it made you look away, knowing you’re to blame for it. “you complain so much about it… the hours, the work, the boss, the people. why can’t you just leave?”

you breathed in, thinking over seungcheol’s words. “because… because i love doing what i do. i feel about law the way you feel about music. it’s just the environment that’s shitty. but it’s something… that’s mine. and the kind of opportunities i got at this firm… people just starting out, like me, don’t come by them very often usually.”

there was a pause as seungcheol mulled over your words. a part of you thought, hoped, that the way the conversation was going would lead to fixing things, but then seungcheol spoke up again, and you knew. there was no fixing, not anymore.

“i was yours, too. and i would’ve never chosen music over you.”

“you say that now, but if you were put in a situation where you had to choose, i don’t think you’d have as easy of a time as you say.”

“i guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

and that was the end of it.

three days after your unexpected reunion with seungcheol, you find yourself back at PLEDIS, ready to tackle jihoon’s case.

the morning had gone on normally enough, with people coming in to give their testimonies regarding jihoon, his work and their relationships with him. as expected, no one had come forward with any potentially harmful or negative remarks about him, everyone applauding him for his tireless dedication to the label and the artists he worked with, as well as marveling at his seemingly innate musical talent and creativity. this was no surprise to you; having known jihoon for almost as long as you’d known seungcheol, you witnessed first-hand jihoon’s mastery of his craft, on multiple occasions. and now, with all the information you had gathered in the past three hours since arriving at PLEDIS, you were starting to feel more confident about winning this lawsuit.

initially, you had no intention of taking on jihoon’s case. the previous weekend, when mr. moon had called you in, you arrived at the firm with your mind set on demanding a break. in the past months, you might as well have changed your home address to the office, seeing as you had been working non-stop on one case after another, pulling countless sleepless nights and taking on extra paperwork as favors to some of your coworkers. and after finding out what the case was actually about, you were even more adamant about turning it down. but all the excuses you offered mr. moon were effectively shut down, leaving you almost begging the man to pass the case to someone else.

before you could use your past relationship with the other in-house music producer working at PLEDIS as an excuse, mr. moon delivered the lowest of low blows. “you know, a high profile case like this could attract lots of new clients for the firm… and put you right on the track for senior associate.”

there was no use arguing anymore after that. moon knew how much you wanted that promotion, and you were honestly not surprised to see him using it against you in order to force you into doing whatever work he wanted you to. so you shut your mouth, took the case, and then went home and cried.

yes, you cried. moving on.

seeing seungcheol again, and unexpectedly so, definitely set you a few steps back in whatever emotional healing you had done in the past few months. and it definitely made you doubt your own abilities as a lawyer. if you couldn’t put aside your personal feelings and instead focus on helping a guy who was being wrongfully accused, were you even meant to practice the law? but you had worked far too hard and sacrificed far too much to let these thoughts cloud your judgment and confidence, so you told yourself that even if you had to be in seungcheol’s proximity for the foreseeable future, your main priority was winning this case. for jihoon, and for yourself.

of course, planning to ignore the obvious feelings you still harbored for your ex-boyfriend was way easier than actually ignoring them. now, as you were gathering your things to meet wonwoo in the conference room he was stationed in, you were also mentally preparing yourself for the off-chance that you would bump into seungcheol again. considering how your luck’s been going in the past few weeks, you think the chances are pretty high.

walking through the halls of PLEDIS felt oddly familiar, and yet strange at the same time. when you and seungcheol first started dating, the label was just starting out, carrying all its business in a measly two-story building on the outskirts of town. you felt a tiny knot forming at the back of your throat, thinking how crazy it was to have witnessed the immense growth that seungcheol went through as an artist and a person, and now, to be walking amongst the fruits of the labor of his work, and so many other people’s, who built the label from the ground up.

as you grow nearer to the conference room where wonwoo was most likely waiting for you, you suddenly catch a whiff of a scent all too familiar to you. musky notes of jasmine and bergamot fill your senses, and for a brief moment, you feel an almost supernatural pull urging you to follow the indistinguishable fragrance.

you know exactly where it leads. but now is not the time.

before you can push the door open and walk into the room, your phone’s screen lights up with a text message. ‘hey honey. can you call when you have the time? she’s not having a very good day…’

you sigh, before dialing your mom’s number.

four years ago

seungcheol always smelled divine.

over the years, you’d heard so many of your friends go on and on about their boyfriends’ perfumes, and how once they found the right scent, they could charm the pants off of them with just the smell of their cologne. to you, that idea seemed entirely far-fetched, because, after all, people aren’t dogs. who in their right mind would base their selection of a partner on something as feeble as smell? even more so, an artificial smell, that didn’t even last forever.

clearly, since a few weeks ago, you haven’t been in your right mind, because you swore there was nothing better in this world than the way seungcheol smelled.

all your friends kept telling you that they’d never seen you act like this before. the honeymoon phase of your relationship had hit you pretty hard, and you were completely smitten with cheol. his smile, his eyes, his dimples, his laugh, his hair, his charm… and his scent, you couldn’t get enough of him. and now, as you were making your way towards PLEDIS together, you couldn’t help but wish you could nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck and stay there forever.

it was your first time seeing where seungcheol worked. you had been wanting to see his studio ever since he had first told you about his job (and proved that he wasn’t one of those wannabe soundcloud rappers or whatever), but considering the label wasn’t exactly in a central location, getting there proved slightly difficult. not to mention that most days, your classes ran pretty late, and seungcheol shared his studio with jihoon, the other music producer at PLEDIS, which meant you couldn’t pop in whenever you had a window of free time, so as to not disturb them.

that night, however, seungcheol decided you deserved a break from your studies, and since your midterms were coming up, it might have been one of the last times you could afford to go out before getting swept up in the craziness of exam season. so after your last class of the day, seungcheol picked you up from campus and drove you outside of town, where PLEDIS stood.

“are you absolutely sure it’s alright for me to be here? i don’t want you to get in trouble with your… superiors, if that’s what you call them,” you said, walking up the stairs closely behind cheol.

“i already told you, it’s fine! besides, you’re not planning to steal any confidential information and spread it online, are you?” he teased, stopping in front of a door that you assumed was his studio.

“hmm, i don’t know… what makes you think i’m not secretly working for one of your competitors?”

seungcheol chuckled, shaking his head, before looking back at you. “oh, baby, you and i both know you like me too much to hurt me so,” he said, finally unlocking the door and letting you step inside.

well, he wasn’t wrong.

to most people, seungcheol and jihoon’s studio might not have looked like much. it held all the standard recording and mixing equipment one would expect to find there, along with personal touches from the boys, like pictures with their friends, some posters, a couple of cd racks, as well as a couch and two huge leather desk chairs. one the other side, inside the recording booth, you could see a keyboard, a couple of guitars, and a drum set, as well as some microphones, of course. to someone who’s never stepped foot in a recording studio before, like you, the place was amazing. and not just because cheol worked in there.

“i know it’s not a lot…” seungcheol mumbles, moving besides you, his arm stretched out in a way that said you could walk around.

your hands grazed the equipment on his desk, holding yourself back in fear of breaking something. “i like it, cheol. it’s homely, and cozy. definitely a good space to get those creative juices flowing,” you gave him a genuine smile, which you could tell instantly put him at ease from the way his shoulders visibly relaxed. he grinned at you, pulling up next to you by the sound board.

“you wanna see how the magic happens?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows. you couldn’t help but groan, rolling your eyes.

“cheol, that was so cheesy… but yes, i do. please,” you said, giddy smiles taking over both of your faces.

“okay! come here,” he said, pulling you into his lap as he sat down in his desk chair. you felt your cheeks heat up at his actions, so natural and nonchalant, totally unaware of the effect he had on you. how could he be so oblivious, and quite literally torture you so? being so close to him now, his cologne starting to overpower your senses, you were sure to go dizzy.

“i’m gonna use one of the demos i have here, but for the record, i did not play anything for you while you were here, got it?” seungcheol said, opening an audio file on his laptop.

“yes, sir!” you gave him a wink, his ears turning red. cute.

for the next couple of minutes, seungcheol gives you a rundown on the soundboard, showing you what goes into recording and mixing a song, and even letting you play around with the different settings for pitch and autotune. even though it was all very interesting, nothing compared to just watching seungcheol’s excitement and passion while talking about music. every time your conversations would somehow turn towards music, his face would light up like a kid’s on christmas morning, his whole body animatedly gesturing while he rattled on about his favorite artists and composers, whatever new album came out that week, and even why a song with a good bass line is guaranteed to become a hit (yes, that was an actual discussion the two of you had once). seeing the obvious love he harbored for this art form made you ten times more enamored with him. you could already tell his passion and hard work were going to take him places, and you couldn’t wait to see it all.

“cheol? how did you know you wanted to do music?” you asked, turning to look up at your boyfriend.

“oh, wow, we’re going for the deep stuff, huh?” he laughed.

“you don’t have to share if you don’t want to, i was just curious… you always talk so passionately about it, i could just tell it means a lot to you.”

seungcheol sighed, leaning back into the chair. “it’s alright. i really don’t know how i got here, to be honest. i’ve always been interested in music, and found myself writing and experimenting with sound. one day, i just knew that i couldn’t really picture myself doing anything else. so i focused on that and worked my ass off, i guess.”

“well, clearly?! we’re sitting in your own studio! i’d say you’re doing pretty great,” you exclaimed, smiling at seungcheol’s blushing cheeks. “you should be proud of yourself, cheol, really.”

seungcheol can’t even look at you right now, too overcome with giddiness at the onslaught of compliments you’re suddenly throwing his way. instead, he shoves his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks.’

“is it hard to come up with new music?” you continue, playing with the strings of the hoodie he was wearing.

“hmm, it depends,” his voice is muffled, and you flinch at the ticklish feeling of his breath fanning on your neck. “there are days when i can put down a whole song and melody at once; sometimes it takes me weeks to be satisfied with a song i’m working on. but lately i’ve been feeling more… inspired than usual, so it’s been going pretty well.”

you turn your face towards him, a teasing smile stretching across your lips. “oh, really? how come?”

seungcheol returns your smile, his fingers pressing slightly harder into your skin where they sat on your waist. “just someone i met recently… they’re really nice and beautiful and funny and smart,” now it was your turn to grow shy, feeling your cheeks and chest grow warm at the implication of his words. “but i think jihoon is growing tired of all the ballads i’ve been writing.”

you both fall into a fit of giggles, your faces so impossibly close, your noses brush. “poor jihoon… whatever will he do?” you whisper, and before you can breathe in again, seungcheol’s lips fall against yours.

the air in your lungs dissipates in seconds. your entire body is ablaze, and you swear your hearing no longer registers the music playing from seungcheol’s laptop, instead becoming attuned to the sound of cheol’s soft sighs. you want this moment to last forever, to melt into his embrace, ingrain yourself into his very existence. his lips grow more and more fervent against yours, and you swear your mind goes blank, the only thought even going through your head in that moment a chant of his name. cheol, cheol, cheol, cheol…

later that night, once you’re home, getting ready for bed, you catch a whiff of seungcheol’s cologne again, the scents of his perfume imbued into your sweatshirt. you can’t help but smile like an idiot.

you didn’t wash that sweatshirt for a week after.

no matter how much seungcheol loved his friends, he couldn’t go on another second hearing jeonghan and joshua discuss whether they should choose lilies or hydrangeas for their wedding (because the good ol’ rose is too much of a cliche, apparently, according to joshua).

an exasperated sigh escaped him, his whole body slouching from the weight of the gloom he was carrying. jeonghan and joshua, who had been animatedly bantering over wedding preparations, suddenly go quiet, their heads snapping up to look at their friend. if this was a cartoon, they swore you would see a huge, gray cloud hanging above his head.

“alright, you gotta tell us what’s got you all pouty and gloomy, because this? this is just sad, cheol,” said joshua, gesturing at seungcheol’s crouched figure.

he sighed again, but straightened his back this time. the truth was, nothing particularly bad had happened today. but the day hadn’t gone as seungcheol had initially planned.

that morning, seungcheol had arrived at work determined to talk to you. seeing you again earlier that week had broken down the walls seungcheol had put up in the months following your breakup, and all the emotions he had tried pushing behind those walls – anger, sadness, frustration, yearning, love – were slowly, but surely, seeping back in. there was no point denying it anymore; seungcheol was not ready to let go just yet.

taking jihoon’s advice to heart, he decided to ‘grow some balls’ and initiate a discussion with you, one that you probably should’ve had before any of the shit that went down between the two of you could’ve gone down. seungcheol knew, deep down, that you were hiding something, and thought that once both of your cards were out on the table, you could either work on fixing what’s been broken, or you could both gain some closure and move on with your lives.

seungcheol was desperately hoping for the first option.

either way, whatever plans seungcheol had made were quickly put on hold when he arrived at his meeting and only found your colleague, jeon wonwoo, waiting for him in the conference room. he’d made himself look like an idiot, bluntly asking about your whereabouts, disappointment clear on his face at your lack of presence, which only got him an inscrutable look from wonwoo (who made a mental note to check in with you about this little outburst, for safety reasons). wonwoo hadn’t mentioned anything about you throughout the interview, which in retrospect, seungcheol realized, was more than normal, considering wonwoo probably had no idea that the two of you even dated before. if anyone at your firm would’ve known about your previous relationship, he imagines you wouldn’t even be here, working on this case. conflict of interest and all.

in the end, seungcheol had no idea whether you were even at PLEDIS at all, and didn’t even have time to ask around for you, having a number of recording sessions planned for the rest of the morning. it wasn’t until jeonghan called and invited him out for lunch with him and joshua, that seungcheol left his studio again. when his friends greeted him outside the restaurant they decided on, they held back from commenting on his sulky expression.

seungcheol didn’t tell them that he had half a mind to turn down their invitation when he heard where the couple wanted to meet. IL GRATO was your favorite place in town (you used to say because it was where seungcheol had taken you on your first date), and the restaurant held plenty of the many happy memories you and seungcheol had made over the years. obviously, seungcheol wasn’t particularly keen on revisiting them today, but he didn’t want to seem more pathetic than he already felt, so he shut up and pretended everything was fine.

that didn’t last long, evidently.

“why don’t you just call her? she’s obligated to answer, now that she’s working on jihoon’s situation, right? ask to schedule a meeting with her or something,” jeonghan said, sipping on his glass of prosecco.

“and what reason could i give her for a meeting? that jeon dude already asked me anything he could about jihoon, so i can’t use anything about the case,” seungcheol mumbled. “and saying i wanna discuss the clear unresolved feelings left between us is guaranteed to get her to hang up on me.”

joshua, who had been intently listening to seungcheol’s whines, suddenly perks up, grabbing seungcheol’s shoulder. “cheol, didn’t you mention jeon said he still had some interviews lined up after lunch time?”

seungcheol frowned. “yeah? what difference does it make?”

“well, dumbass, if Y/N was in fact at PLEDIS all this time, that means that she’s probably in one of the conference rooms on the same floor as him. and since most staff clock out at 5 p.m., i’d say you still have about half an hour to go back, find her, and talk to her. like you said you wanted,” joshua explained pointedly, giving seungcheol a look that screamed you have to do it or else i will hurt you.

joshua was right. how could he have been so stupid, to completely overlook what wonwoo had mentioned off-handedly at the end of their meeting. he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you and wonwoo had split up to cover more ground in collecting testimonies, and now he was at risk of completely missing his chance to see you, unless he hauled ass to PLEDIS immediately.

seungcheol shot up from his seat, quickly gathering his things and throwing his credit card on the table, before dashing for the front door. “you guys are the best! lunch is on me!” he shouted, before taking off running.

jeonghan and joshua look at each other, before bursting into giggles. jeonghan sighs, “i need them to resolve this issue before the wedding, really. i won’t be able to handle it if seungcheol mopes around during the whole ceremony.”

joshua cooed, rolling his eyes. “you simply can’t rush love, babe,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to his lover’s cheek.

jeonghan rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the spreadsheet full of wedding prep details laid out on the table. a mischievous glint gleamed in his eyes, as he turned to look at joshua. “so, my dear joshuji, how about lilies for the flower displays?”

“JEONGHAN, I SAID NO!”

nine months ago

when you and seungcheol arrived at IL GRATO, jeonghan and joshua were already inside, patiently waiting at the table they had booked for your party of four, wearing two oddly calm smiles on their faces.

to say you and seungcheol weren’t suspicious at all would be a lie.

jeonghan had called earlier that week to invite the two of you on a double date that weekend – which wasn’t unusual, since the four of you had been going on dates like these since forever  – but what had put you and seungcheol on edge was the ‘news’ jeonghan mentioned he and joshua had to share.

you and seungcheol had been going through a rough patch in the past two weeks, and this fact wasn’t unknown to your group of friends. the two of you were not the type to air out your dirty laundry, so for your friends to notice the growing tension between you meant that things were truly going badly. even though neither you or seungcheol had verbalized this to each other, you were both worried that tonight’s double date was just a cover up for an intervention, aimed to make you and seungcheol work through whatever it was bothering you two. jeonghan and joshua were seungcheol’s oldest and closest friends, and they never shied away from confronting seungcheol (and you, after you were welcomed into their friend group), especially when it came to his well-being, both physical and mental. you had been preparing your defense all week, just in case they decided to bring the situation up (and you also realized how desperately you needed a break from work).

after settling in and exchanging common pleasantries about your lives and work, the four of you put in your orders (jeonghan ordering the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu, much to yours and seungcheol’s surprise), and after the waiter brought the drinks along, you decided to bite the bullet and ask the question that had been bothering you all week.

“so, you two said you had some news to share, right?”

jeonghan and joshua exchange a secretive look, and you only just notice the blush that seems to grace their faces. they looked like teenagers in love. you couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of envy.

“i guess there’s no reason to beat around the bush…” joshua said, looking again towards jeonghan.

“we’re getting married!” the other continues, leaning back into his seat to throw an arm around joshua, grinning from ear to ear.

silence falls over the table, as you and seungcheol drink in jeonghan’s revelation. you jump out of your seat, genuine excitement and joy overtaking you, as you walk around the table to hug and congratulate the two men. a string of high-pitched ‘oh my gods’ leave your lips, gaining the attention of a few other restaurant patrons, but you honestly couldn’t care less, too happy for your dear friends to pay attention to them.

as you make your way back to your seat, holding tightly onto joshua’s hand, you notice that seungcheol was eerily quiet, silently watching his friends, his eyes wide and unblinking. you lay a hand onto his arm, squeezing. “cheol… aren’t you going to say something?” you whisper.

that seems to snap him out of his daze, a gasp escaping him, before his hands come up to cover his face. you, joshua, and jeonghan exchange a concerned look, completely blindsided by seungcheol’s unexpected reaction, since he was as one of jeonghan and joshua’s loudest supporters (he had been betting on the two of them getting together since they were teenagers). but before either of you can say something else, seungcheol looks up, unshed tears swimming along his lash line.

“i’m sorry, i just…” he pauses, as if trying to find the right words. “i just can’t… believe… that neither of you told me! you traitors! you were planning to get engaged and i just find out at the same time as everyone else?” seungcheol pouts, his dramatics leaving the rest of you in tears.

“hey! what is that supposed to mean?” you tease, trying to calm your laughter down.

“no offense, baby, but me and the boys? we have history,” seungcheol winks, before turning back to his friends. “which means i should have priority to all life-changing news in your lives!”

the table falls into laughter once again, before jeonghan and joshua proceed to give you and seungcheol all the details he was claiming they had been keeping away from him. the rest of the evening goes like this, drinks and food shared around, and you almost forget about whatever problems your own relationship has been having, too busy reveling in the love radiating from the couple in front of you.

that night, on the drive home, you and seungcheol fall into comfortable silence, a first in the past weeks. you don’t know if it’s the buzz from the alcohol you drank, or the crooning voice of whatever singer was playing on the radio, but you can’t help but look over to seungcheol’s side, your eyes glancing over the side of his face. he was so handsome, cheeks blushed and hair messy from tonight’s laughter. you wanted to lean over and run the tips of your fingers over the edges of his face, pour everything you couldn’t say into just one touch. please forgive me, just trust me…

“what’s the staring for?” seungcheol speaks, and you whip your head around, looking out the window on your side.

“ah, i wasn’t staring!” you mumble, feeling your face grow hot. “was just thinking… about tonight.”

he smiles, briefly glancing your way. “me too,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

a beat passes before seungcheol speaks up again. “when we get married, what would you want our wedding to be like?”

your heart swells when you realize he said ‘when’ instead of ‘if,’ but you can’t help but tease him a little bit. “‘when?’ i haven’t even said ‘yes’ yet, cheollie,” you smirk, turning your face towards him again.

evidently, seungcheol catches onto your little joke, but he plays into it. “emphasis on ‘yet’, baby. now answer the question!”

“okay, okay,” you chuckle. “well, i think i’d like something small… just our closest family and friends… maybe somewhere outside the city, like in the countryside, something like that,” you say decidedly, already daydreaming about all the possibilities.

“what about the beach? i think a beach wedding would be so cool… do you think your mom would let us have it at her beach house?” seungcheol says, an excited glimmer evident in his eyes.

he completely misses how your face falls at the mention of your mother, but you quickly mask it by nonchalantly agreeing with him. “i don’t see why not, she would probably love that…”

the rest of the drive goes by fast, the two of you bantering over silly wedding things like flowers, color palettes, and music selection (obviously), before you finally arrive home. inside, you both move lazily, drunk on love – or the leftover champagne in your systems – slowly undressing, stealing kisses, exchanging giggles and tantalizing looks… for the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of peace cover you, a quiet voice in the back of your mind assuring you that everything was going to be alright, and you embrace the feeling, falling into seungcheol as he whispers sweet nothings into your ears.

just as you’re about to fall into bed, your phone starts ringing from the floor of the bedroom, and at first you ignore it, too caught up in the feeling of seungcheol’s mouth against you, but the noise is insistent, and cheol detaches from you with a groan, urging you to see who’s bothering you in the middle of the night.

seungcheol can’t see the name on your screen, but when you tell him it’s your mom, he motions for you to take the call – she wouldn’t call this late unless there was an emergency, after all – but much to his surprise, you shuffle to find a shirt to put on, before you leave the room to take the call. from the bedroom, he can only hear muffled snippets of your conversation, and the tone of your voice is too ambiguous for him to guess how the talk is going.

when you come back, he doesn’t bring up the fact that you’d never gone to another room to take a call before. ever.

as soon as the clock on the wall reads 5 p.m., you bring the final interview you had scheduled for the day to an end, and as you say your goodbyes to the woman from the marketing department, wonwoo walks into the conference room, struggling to balance a stack of papers in his hands. you rush towards him, picking up part of the papers.

“woah, are these all the testimonies from your part of the staff?” you question, marveling at the size of the stack wonwoo brought in.

“yeah, crazy, isn’t it? i still can’t believe so many people came forward for this guy,” wonwoo replies, setting down his shoulder bag on the table. his shoulders seem tense, a whole day sitting at a desk clearly taking a toll on him.

“well, he’s clearly appreciated. everyone who i talked with only had good things to say about him,” you say nonchalantly, flicking through the papers, trying to pretend like you weren’t already aware of jihoon’s stellar reputation. each piece of paper seemed to be a reformulation of what the previous person mentioned, everybody mentioning similar qualities and compliments regarding him.

after you and wonwoo go over the information you both collected today, making a game plan for the next steps that needed to be taken, you both gather your things to finally go home for the day, exhaustion setting in. although the day hadn’t been particularly stressful, the possibility of bumping into seungcheol had caused you much more anxiety than usual, and you honestly couldn’t wait to get out of here and finally be able to breathe normally.

as you wait for the elevator – which seems to be taking its sweet time, moving in slow motion to the seventh floor – you hear wonwoo mumble under his breath, before he lets out an “oh, fucking hell.” ever the proper gentleman, he catches himself, and swiftly apologizes for his choice of words.

you chuckle, waving your hand to dismiss his unnecessary apology. “what’s wrong?”

“i’m missing some documents… i think i left them in the room i was in this morning, i’ll go after them. you go ahead and get going, i don’t want to hold you back any longer,” he explains, already turning around to head for the conference room.

“are you sure? i don’t mind wa–”

“i’m sure! go, you deserve to rest,” he shouts, disappearing around the corner of the hallway.

you sigh, shaking your head, but appreciating the gesture nevertheless. the elevator bell dings, and the doors open to reveal an empty cabin. you breathe out a sigh of relief, thankful for the silence. you press the button for the ground floor, and close your eyes, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, hoping to ease the sting that came from staring into a computer screen for a whole day.

your peace and quiet is short-lived however, as the elevator only manages to go down to the sixth floor before stopping again. you sigh, preparing yourself for the onslaught of tired employees who were most likely rushing to get home as well. however, when you open your eyes, there’s only one other pair staring into yours, and you feel all the air inside your lungs dissipating, leaving you breathless.

seungcheol is standing in front of you, wearing an equally speechless look on his face. the two of you stare at each other, almost as if you’re scared to move, in fear of disrupting the karmic force that brought this moment upon you even more. you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole, feeling completely unprepared for this situation. you’d thought you were finally out of the woods, that you’d be able to go home in peace and not think about the case, about cheol, about anything anymore, at least for tonight.

clearly, the universe had other plans for you.

seungcheol seems to snap out of his daze when the doors of the elevator start to close again, his arm shooting out to stop them and finally stepping inside. as the doors close behind him and the elevator resumes its course downwards, you suddenly feel like the cabin is ten times smaller than it was a few moments ago, your body instinctively moving to one of the corners of the elevator. seungcheol naturally takes over the corner opposite from you, and you can feel his eyes on you with every step he takes.

you can’t fucking breathe, and you can’t believe he still has such a hold over your body.

“hi.”

“hi.”

you both say it at the same time, and under different circumstances, the two of you might’ve erupted in giggles at the coincidence. in this moment, however, the tension between you is so palpable, it’s almost constricting.

“how’s jihoon’s case going?” seungcheol asks, and you feel almost grateful for him taking the initiative to fill the silence.

“it’s good, yeah. we had a productive day, gathered a lot of info,” you say, clearing your throat. why were you being so goddamn awkward?

seungcheol nods, humming, silence filling the space once again. you dared to sneak a glance in his direction, noticing his furrowed brows and pursed mouth. four months could not erase everything you learned about cheol in four years, and you immediately recognized his ‘i’m trying to find the right words’ look. you sigh, knowing exactly what’s inevitably coming, so you decide to put seungcheol out of his misery.

“seungcheol,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. your eyes meet in the quiet of the elevator. “just ask me. just ask me what’s bothering you. at this point, should we even beat around the bush with each other anymore?”

seungcheol opens his mouth, then decides against it. he shakes his head, sighing, before looking back at you. “i’m not ready to let go yet,” he murmurs.

your voice trembles as you try to keep your tears at bay. “cheol… why are you doing this? i mean, why are you doing this to yourself?! things haven’t been working out between us for months, and i– i was terrible to you! you should let me go, why can’t you just… leave me alone?”

seungcheol’s eyes widen, an almost crazed glint appearing behind them. “leave– leave you alone? are you fucking kidding me?” his voice rises in volume, as he takes a few steps closer. “i can’t leave you alone, because i gave you four years of my fucking life, yeah? and in those years i learned all there is to know about you. unless everything you’ve ever told me was just an act, i’ve learned how to tell when you’re lying, and i’ve learned how to tell when you’re struggling, and you know what? you’re doing both right now!”

your hands start shaking, frustration bubbling inside your chest. “i don’t need you looking out for me, alright? i can take care of myself! and i’m fine, for your information!”

“bullshit! you’re not fine, and you know why? because for three years, everything was perfectly fine with us, and then all of a sudden last year, something happened, yeah? i don’t know what exactly, because you won’t fucking tell me, but something happened that made you squeamish around me, distant, paranoid, and– and careless! you stopped caring about me, about us!”

“i didn’t stop caring!”  you croaked, your throat raw from holding back your tears. seungcheol’s eyes softened slightly at the sight of your tears finally let loose on your cheeks. “i just… i…”

seungcheol closes the last of the distance between you, standing right in front of you now. “Y/N… baby… if you’re in some sort of trouble, please… just tell me. there’s nothing you could say that could scare me or drive me away. i know you can take care of yourself, but you don’t have to! please, just… no more lies, please…”

your eyes meet his, the sincerity and love swimming in them bringing even more tears to your eyes. you could just tell him right now, let everything that’s been weighing down on you for the past year spill out all at once… but you can’t. you would never forgive yourself to come in between seungcheol and his work, his dreams… your burdens couldn’t be his burdens. you just can’t allow it.

“cheol… i ca–”

“okay, i need you to take five steps away from her, or i will physically remove you, hyung. no matter that you are older and stronger than me,” comes a voice from your right. in your fight-induced stupor, neither you nor seungcheol had realized that the elevator had reached the ground floor, the doors opening to reveal one of your favorite people on earth.

thank god for boo seungkwan.

[snapscube]

Are the old graphics options going to be available? Im gonna be so mad if I Literally Cannot Play FFXIV ever again because people spent two years complaining about those goddamn grapes.

No, the base system requirements/recommendations are changing, they’ve talked about this a lot. The minimum specs are actually still pretty generous though, it’s still required to run on PS4 after all. And while I do understand the frustration if u still don’t meet the minimum specs, I promise it’s not just because of shit like the grapes lol. They’ve talked about literally needing to change intended story beats/shot composition as recently as Endwalker specifically because foliage quality looked distractingly bad during what were meant to be emotionally resonant scenes. The game absolutely could use a boost in fidelity if it’s meant to carry on for another 10 years. Sure there are a ton of people who don’t mind the visuals of the game now, I still think it can look quite nice in many areas and I think the strength of its story and overall art direction carry even the bad parts, but for years now they have been building off of a foundation that was notoriously compromised and rushed to ultimately save the game in the long run, and it shows. Texture quality in particular has been absolutely dire for way longer than it should have been. I’ve seen so many people distracted by how pixelated the Crystal Exarch looks near the end of Shadowbringers and it’s entirely understandable. I personally can’t help but notice how muddy hair and gear look when a cutscene decides to close-up on a character’s face, which is just not at all what should be running through my mind, but I can’t help it. I’m not a graphics SNOB but I do think that a games visuals really do matter, especially for an MMO like this where so much of its appeal is carried by your attachment to your character from a role playing and aesthetic perspective. Glamour is endgame after all, and that is ALL visual. This stuff is important to people, making it better is a net win.

[railingsofsorrow]

Countdown

[s.reid x reader]

summary: Blood and wine were indistinguishable. You couldn't move, you couldn't breathe, the world was giving up on you (or was it the other way around?). You had to keep fighting. If there's one thing you are sure of is that they would find you. He would find you. You just didn't know how much longer you could take until then.

pairing: s.reid x f!reader

w.c: 6.7K

warnings/content: mentions of freud regarding complex mother/son relationships; tw!aggravated assault; tw!coercion caused by substance use; tw!mentions of child abuse, physical and emotional abuse; very tw!graphic violence be aware; tw!blood; tw!descriptions of injuries and scars; cursing; tw!suicide ideation; mentions of hallucinations, tw!abduction and tw!death of a relative; heavy descriptions of losing sense of time; crying; cm usual stuff; poor analysis of a profile cause I'm no aaron hotchner; in resume there's angst; mc cannot get a break. (tell me if I forgot anything plz)

A/N: oof that's a lot of trigger warnings. if you don't feel comfortable, feel free to leave, this isn't a light fic, quite the opposite. mc goes through a LOT. btw do you like wine? I do. (no pun intended) enjoy the reading!

navi

masterpost

follower celebration

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“Suffering is a terrible fire;

it either purifies

or destroys.”

[Oscar Wilde]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

According to Sigmund Freud, there’s a theory called “the Oedipus complex”. It happens when the child develops a sexual attraction to the opposite-sex parent, meaning that they wish to replace his father to possess his mother, from whom he craves affection. 

Spencer’s voice rang through your head as you observed your surroundings. Your hands weren’t tied anymore but the red marks around your wrists made you feel as if the ropes were still there.

There are five stages in this condition, the fifth being the hardest to overcome, but not impossible. However, when the Oedipus complex is not resolved it could lead to an unhealthy attachment towards the opposite-sex parent in adulthood, besides the commitment issues and trouble involving same-sex rivalry. 

You also recalled the Doctor detailing statistics about the topic, wildly gesticulating with his hands. But your head was fuzzy and you didn’t know whether your memories were true or if you were making them up anymore. Just as a means to bring you some type of comfort in that endless torture.

He was drugging you. 

Paul Knox, the UnSub, was a white male in his mid-forties. Lived alone for most of his life, except for when he married Martha Moore; they stayed together for one year before the marriage ended. Paul worked on a construction site and was described by his coworkers as quiet, “always kept to himself”, and responsible. He always made sure his task of the day was completed before he went home. 

His past wasn’t the easiest one. And it seemed as if he couldn’t get away from it. Paul spent his entire childhood being abused by both of his parents, his father, a strict man, sexually abused his wife, who would later take out her anger on her son, by wrapping a belt around his neck and squeezing it until he passed out — This was the signature behavior they found on the crime scenes. 

Victimology told you and the team something as clear as day: every woman he murdered was a surrogate to his mother. 

And you concluded you had pissed him off enough for him to abduct you and keep you the same way he was keeping his victims. 

When you woke up, the only thing you could see was blood.  

Blood whenever you stepped.  

On your hands. 

On your arms.  

On your lips.  

You could even taste the metallic liquid. And that made you terrified. Not more terrified – of course – than being locked up in a place for god-knows-how-long without a sense of reality. There was a physical fight hours before—or was it days? You couldn't know, time was different where you were. You had a slight chance of speculating if it was day or night due to the minimum crack on one of the walls. Your pinky would fit if anything.  

You succeeded in breaking a plate of food he had brought at the back of his head; which barely confused the man as you attempted to sprint towards the door. Well, You did try. Right as you reached the gate, he yanked your hair back and knocked you out on a solid surface.  

When you woke up, the first thought that crossed your mind was I'm dead. 

You weren’t. 

Thankfully, you had just passed out. Again.  

Letting out a painful breath, you forced your eyes to stay open. You had to keep trying, you weren’t about to let him win that easily. Before your team found you — if they hadn’t already — you had to buy yourself some time. Once his obsession exceeds its peak, you wouldn't stand a chance.

The sound of another shard of glass clicking against the floor disturbed that deafening silence. Although, no more than actually taking a piece of glass out of your flesh.  

You moaned in pain when it was finally out. Maybe being shot would hurt less because I'd blackout. But this hurts like a bitch.

Your breathing was unsteady and you were hyperventilating. There were at least five breathing exercises running through your head as you surveyed the room, looking for a way out. You had been placed in another corner. It was still the same room, but you were seeing it from another angle. This time you could walk; barely, but still. You refused to look at your feet with the trail of blood it left as you walked. 

Focus. You need to find a way out.  

You're a profiler. Profile him.  

Forty-five.  

White male.  

Abandonment issues caused by his mother leaving him at the age of nine years old. 

Each victim was a surrogate to his mother; he kept them for two days and then wrapped a belt around their throats to slash it postmortem. That's his M.O.

You had none of the victim characteristics. You were only unfortunate to be in the right place at the wrong time. 

Emily and you were sent to investigate the supposed location the UnSub took his victims to; an old apartment downtown. However, he was onto you as soon as you entered the place. In a moment of distraction, you had been swiped with a chloroform wipe before Emily could blink.  

What a cliché way to abduct someone.

On the first day, he covered your mouth with a dirty blanket but kept your hands and feet tied up tightly around a chair. You complied with everything he said, claiming you understood him and that he was so much better than his mother. Wrong move. At the mere mention of her, the guy completely lost it. 

You could still feel the slap that made your head turn. No doubt his fingers were marked on your cheek.   

Then, radio silence. Your brain worked wildly as you started to analyze your surroundings with undivided attention. There were two dark shelves a few meters away from you and a few boxes scattered around. The room was extremely dark, no windows, and carried a bitter smell. The floor was a blur to you, you didn't know were you were stepping.

Countless bottles on the shelves. It almost reminded you of—

Wait.

There was barely any light in the room, only through that tiny hole in the wall. You assumed it was around evening because of where the angle the shadow was reflecting upon. 

1978. Read on the bottle.  

This is a wine bottle.  

I'm in a wine cellar.

Your happiness was short-lived as your vision blurred, causing you to stumble back slightly. 

The bottle slipped from your fingers.  

Your mind goes into wildfire when your feet stepped onto something sharp and, immediately, the familiar sensation of it deepening into your skin. You never realized your body was falling, the only thing you could actually grasp onto was the pain, the agony you felt. Your screams echoed through the walls, then your tears joined as a company.

Blood and wine were indistinguishable. 

Your vision begins to gloss over, dark spots covering your eyes from reality. It would be only a matter of time until you drifted off again. Was it sad to say that the sensation was becoming familiar? It shouldn't be. You should be fighting for survival.

But your legs had pieces of glass sticking out and your left hand throbbed from an open wound from another piece you had pulled out. 

You heaved a shaky exhale, grunting as you tried to step back from the broken bottle. Daring to take a look at your legs was the last you did before the door creaked open, a bitter smile spreading on your dry lips. 

“Shit.”

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

The BAU’s technical analyst typed fast on her computer, her eyes quickly swapping between each screen. She was checking into possible locations Paul Knox could've taken his victims, excluding where the last body was found. His M.O. changed drastically from one night to the other, which meant he was escalating. And angry, extremely angry — Garcia couldn’t imagine something else after hearing the news you had been taken. 

“As if this couldn’t get any more creepy…” The blonde mumbled under her breath, eyes scanning over her newfound footage. It was a big house, colonial style colored with a pastel yellow on its walls. The picture showed the Knox’s posing for the camera; mother, son, and husband. Left to right. Something irked her in that image and that’s why she hadn’t dwelled on it when they were looking for the prime suspects’ background. His first home wasn’t relevant, he didn't take his victims there. 

They had been so wrong. 

Her server picked up on a distinct signal. One that shouldn't be there in such an old building. 

“He films it. Everything.” Emily handled five of the eighteen tapes they found in the UnSub’s apartment. Derek shook his head as he saw many names written on each of them.

“There’re eighteen here.” You frowned, counting for the third time. “It’s supposed to be seventeen. We found seventeen bodies.”

“We haven’t found the last one yet.” 

And this is how you disappeared from their radar. The eighteenth woman was not found and you were abducted from right under their noses the night after you figured he kept souvenirs from his victims. Necklaces, earrings and those awful recordings. 

When Penelope succeeded in hacking into the system, a camera was functioning properly. Just one. The place was dark, but the camera provided a poor lightening and from that, her breath caught in her throat. 

“Oh, my god.” The technical analyst covered her mouth in astonishment. There you were, on her computer screen. There was no doubt. She's worked with you in the same environment for nearly five years. You were friends, coworkers, partners in crime. She knew you. And that was breaking her heart.

You were thrown over the floor against a shelf, your head lolling to the side as if you were too weak to lift it. “No, no, no,” Garcia exclaimed, tears trailing down her cheeks and ruining her make-up. The floor was damp with something and she can't even imagine what it was. 

“Garcia?” Hotch's voice spoke through their connected microphone. “What is it?”  

She had completely forgotten she was in a connected call. 

The team was in the round table room, trying to figure out your whereabouts with the help of the clues they had until now. Which were minimal. They were very behind in the UnSub's game.  

Garcia's gasp made everyone quit their work, to simply stare at the machine anxiously and wait for the woman's next words.  

“We have to find her. Now!” Nothing else can stand out through the line like Penelope's frantic fingers typing fast.

Derek is the first to ask for clarification, “Baby girl, give us something. What happened?”  

By now, everyone was on the edge of their seats with the tension. 

The line pauses, and before anyone could complain, Penelope interjects in a weak voice, “Come to my cave. You need to see this.”  

Once they arrive in Penelope's office, the sight is more than they expected. Way more.  

The door opened and a figure walked into the dark room. They all watched with bated breath as Paul Knox crouched down to your weak body, drawing a hand to run through your cheek. 

“That son of a—”

“What is that?” Spencer cut Derek off, eyes glued to the man's pocket, something was sticking out of it. His mind works faster than any other, the likelihood of the team having a breakthrough during a case because of his inputs is huge and he's quite proud of that — even though Spencer doesn't give himself much credit. 

He feels the dumbest in the room right now. 

Not only did he lose you the night you were taken but he couldn't find you. The geographical profile was redone five times by him, he analyzed every detail over and over again, his brain was on fire. But he failed. He failed. How could he do that when you needed him the most? Where was his knowledge and IQ of 187 when he needed it?

Penelope turned off the screen on an impulse, earning discontent reactions from everyone else. She didn't answer them as lots of things started popping up on the other computer screen. 

“Garcia.” Spencer presses, jaw clenched. He was really trying to not yell at the technical analyst to find a location fucking faster or else instead of a living agent they would find a body to bury.  

No. No, that wouldn't happen. That couldn't happen.

“I'm trying!” 

“Try harder!” He yelled, causing every eye to give him impressed looks. Spencer Reid doesn’t scream, he doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t lose his cool. But he had never seen you in a pool of your own blood in an unknown place as a hostage before. He had never been so powerless. “He's gonna do something!” He reasoned his outburst with the team. How weren't they desperately losing their minds? Was this what they were like when he had been kidnapped by Tobias Hankel? Extremely collected and calm, just like in any other case? “Are we just going to sit here and watch? This is Y/N!”

The sound of the footage suddenly burst through the cave, causing everyone to freeze up. 

“Stop. No, n— what is that? Get the fuck away from me— No!”

“Oh, my god,” Emily mumbles with a hand over her mouth. They weren’t able to see the footage, but hearing your screams was just as painful.

“Reid,” Hotch warned, knowing how hard this was being on him. He shouldn't stay there, it would only make things worse, as much as it pained Aaron what was happening — he was your friend before he was your boss — the situation required him to be the levelheaded one. He couldn't jeopardize your safety because of emotions. “Go take a walk.”

“No.” was Spencer's reply. Before he could snap at anyone else and make the tension in the room increase, a hand squeezed his shoulder.  

“C'mon, kid.” Derek tugged his forearm.

“I'm not going anywhere—” 

“Yes, yes, you are.” Derek sends him a pointed look, pushing him out of the room “C'mon, let's take a walk. Being like this isn't gonna help us find her.”

“Look,” JJ points to the moving image, Penelope had turned it back on due to Hotch’s request. They were too close to figure out your location and they needed to grasp every detail of wherever that room was. “It’s that a… needle?” That can’t be happening. Not again. JJ flinched back as the syringe was pressed against your neck and your cries started to quieten up. She had seen that film before, it was just a continuous nightmare by now. Spencer’s limp body flashed through her mind, a terrible flashback. Now, you. It wasn’t fair. Hotch took her out of her inner turmoil to say they had found her location. Emily was already out of the room.

“Find our girl. Please, find her.” Penelope gave her a pleading look, her glasses were smeared with tears.

Jenifer didn’t need to be told twice.

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

Next time you woke up you saw metal bars. There was a steady dripping sound resonating around. You didn't know where it came from, your senses were compromised by your dizziness; sometimes it was distant, sometimes it was right by your side. 

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Always three times then a pause. 

Paul had put you in a cage. That much was clear, the quadrangle shape along with the metal bars. You could barely stretch out your legs all the way due to the limited space. 

Something stirred in your sight and you realized you weren't alone in the room. He's still here.

Where are your instincts? Where are the tactics you use to save someone almost every day? And why aren't you making use of them right now?

The dripping stopped. 

Something creaked and your face was being touched. Feeling the familiar reaction of a panic attack approaching, you tried to regulate your breath. This was not the time. You thought. But again, have you had control over anything over these past few days?  

“Don't cry. I won't hurt you.”

When you got out of the high of whatever substance he had injected into your system, you winced at the numbness in your left foot. You moved your limbs around, attempting to sit down. He had cleaned you up. You were in different clothes, too. And the blood was gone. 

He touched me.

Hetouchedmehetouchedmehetouchedmehetouchedm—

Stay focused.  

“13…11…9…7.” You started counting in the odd-numbered pattern you learnt calms you down. “5…3…1…13— What is—” a red light in a corner of the room glinted at you. “Are you recording me?” You exhaled harshly, squinting your eyes. No, that wasn't the dizziness. The red light was probably there the whole time, but it remained unnoticeable. A wave of drowsiness almost knocks you out again but instead, you squeeze your nails against your tight to prevent sleeping — pain was better than the unknown. You didn't know what he did when you were out of it, though you had an idea just a minute ago. “You enjoy your souvenirs, don't you? Sick bastard!”  

You're losing your temper, control yourself. 

I can't.

I need to get out of here. I need to GET OUT.

“Let me out.” You whispered to nothing. 

What takes you to a breaking point? Being held captive by a sociopath maniac or not knowing what to do to escape it? 

All of your qualifications went down the drain. Suddenly you didn't have a PhD in Biopsychology.

Survival mode originally evolved to help us handle threats and situations that activate our stress-response systems. When the alternative does not involve escape or fighting, we are wired to freeze, a state of hyperarousal. 

It's always better to go ahead with the instructions, otherwise, you might touch a rough spot and their only response will be to eliminate their target. 

Your friends’ voices rang through your brain as if they were supposed to help you somehow. 

The walls were closing in, rationality was out of the picture.

“Let me out of here, please!”

“Stop screaming. No one will hear.” 

You turned towards the door, jaw clenching. You weren't just weak, you were angry. That shouldn't be happening to you, you were just at the wrong place at the wrong time and he took advantage of that. 

“They will catch you.” You spat out. “You don't have a chance once they find you, Paul.”

He nodded, crouching down in front of the cage, hands gripping the sidebars. “I'm aware of that.”

That made you freeze. 

So it was an all-or-nothing situation? If your probability of getting out of that alive was slim, now it was just ridiculous.

“You need to learn a lesson.” He said, unlocking the cage and crawling in. As much as you tucked yourself in the corner, he was still able to touch you, he was still able to be desperately close. “Beautiful, beautiful, Daisy... Why'd you hurt me like that?”  

Daisy. 

Daisy…

“Daisy... I did everything you asked me too. Why'd you leave me with him? The bad man? Why?”

The bad man.  

Daisy and Caleb Knox, those were Paul’s parents. 

At the age of nine Daisy left Paul to Caleb's care and ran away. She was never found.

It's always better to go ahead with the instructions. Play into his fantasy. 

“I'm— I'm sorry,” you croaked out, testing the waters.  

“Are you really?”  

“He made...” Taking a deep breath You felt your tongue heavy and your head spin. You would pass out any minute. How much longer would you handle without food? You can't remember the last time you ate. “... he made me— do that. I wanted to protect you. I did. But he didn't— he didn't let me,” your breath was shallow and you felt yourself floating.   

Stay awake.  

“Liar.” He mumbled after a while. “Liar!” You didn't expect the slap when it came. The force made you stumble back, pressing your eyes and groaning in pain. “How can you keep lying to me after all these years? You slut! I was alone! With him!”  

“I understand,” you replied, shakily, licking your lips as the copper taste filled your tastebuds. “But— but you love me. Don't you?” Opening your eyes, you realized he was a little farther than you expected. His eyes stared right into your soul with a kind of regret and disgust you had never seen. “You were always a good kid, Paul... Would never hurt your mom. Because you're good. Aren't you?”  

A lot of things were at stake there. your life, mostly. If you as much as stepped into his anger then you would be done for.  

In a blink of an eye he was in front of you again, “I am. I-I I am, mom.” Mom. That's good. He's falling for it. You could save your vomit for later. 

Then, you saw the belt. The same one he uses on the victims for the final kill. 

Death wasn't a thing to be afraid of. It's simply another part of life. Or, for the believers, eternal life.  

You have never been scared of death in your twenty-five years of living. Not when the situation was related to you, at least. Which was completely different if someone on your team got injured badly, let alone your boyfriend. You didn't know what it was that whenever you were in danger's ways, no fear would kick in, only the nice feeling of adrenaline running through your veins.  

However, this wasn't like most cases. You knew this one would break you to the core. You would never be the same after that. If you even get the chance to say after this case. Spencer had this experience. He had been abducted and tortured by Tobias Hankel; you've seen how the trauma affected him till this day.  

You wondered if Spencer thought if he would get out alive. You wondered if, at some point in that cabin in the woods, he contemplated death as an alternative. Because God knew you were considering it.  

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

Aaron Hotchner marched forward to the backyard of the Knox Mansion as Derek Morgan went in through the backdoor. Spencer Reid and Jennifer Jereau were ordered to enter through the front door.

The two-story manor carried a sense of luxury, although the smell was of something rotten from years back.  

It was clear that the inheritance Paul Knox gained from his father had vanished as it had come. The house was almost in ruins, the strong smell of mold all around the walls immediately hit the newcomers. Derek and Aaron met inside close to the living room.  

“It's all clear around the kitchen, Rossi,” Derek said, looking around and studying his surroundings. He quickly covered his nose when the smell reached his nostrils. “What is that smell?!”  

“I don't know,” Rossi replied, kicking a knocked-over chair. “ There's been a struggle.” 

Derek nodded, pointing towards a line of blood leading to the kitchen. It ended there.

“We're running out of time.” Spencer walked in the kitchen with JJ on his trail. “This is useless. She won't be up here. The camera Garcia hacked showed a dark room and it pointed to a door. Possibly the only way in and out.”

JJ nodded in affirmation, shoulders tensing. “Maybe a basement? There's no guest house, right?”

“There's a basement outside.” Rossi clarified. “Hotch is searching there. JJ and Reid search the second floor, Morgan and Prentiss you take the attic. I'll check that ridiculously big greenhouse outside.”  

“It's not a basement,” Spencer said, cursing under his breath. Everyone stared at him confusedly. “That was not a basement. It—It looks like one. It's supposed to look like one but didn't you see the bottles and the shelves in the footage? And the liquid when she—” he sucked in a breath. “That's a wine cellar.” He concluded. How couldn't he have seen it before? It was being thrown at his face.

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

Hotch stepped towards the wood doors, drawing out his gun to tear apart the locket.

He tried as much as he could not to make a sound as he walked down the basement doors. If the smell in the house was bad, down there was suffocating.

“Paul, Paul listen to me! I'm sorry that I left, I'm sorry!” 

He halted, surveying the area carefully. It was dark, but his weapon light helped him have a grip on his surroundings. That had definitely been your voice. 

“Is Carina here?” 

There was a pause.

Carina Grace. One of the missing girls, probably the eighteenth victim of Paul Knox.

“You told me I wasn't alone before, is she here, too, Paul?” 

That was a bold move. Hotch knew what you were doing, despite the situation you were still doing your job, but this wouldn't end well.

“You have never been alone.”

Your crying out made him approach fast as he followed the sound. That place could fool anyone by the sight of it before you entered. The wood doors made it look like a small corner, but Hotch could see it as a masked labyrinth. 

He kept aiming his gun ahead, entering a room of what he supposed was a wine cellar. Slow and steady steps guided by his instincts; his eyes surveyed every corner of the room until three tall shelves came into sight— and a shadow reflected by the sunlight that entered the only small window in the room.  

His eyes narrowed when he saw it move and the silhouette of a gun was pressed to its hand. Hotch swiftly hid behind a near concrete pillar just as the man shot twice in the previous direction he had been in.  

Idiot. Aaron mentally cursed, eyeing the only part of the room he hadn't checked yet, behind the shelves.  

He saw a glimpse of metal. The UnSub was armed. 

“Found her badge and bullet proof vest up here, Hotch.” JJ's voice rang through the radio. Loud enough for only Aaron to hear, thankfully. “The perimeters are being checked but I don't think—” He could hear the strain in her voice.

“The wine cellar isn't clear, yet.” Hotch said with his tone contained, eyes glued to the UnSub's shadow. He hasn't moved. What was this asshole planning to do? “He's here. Block all exits.”  

“What about her?” 

“She's here, too,” Hotch replied to Reid, squinting at the moving silhouette.

“You're in the basement, aren't you?” He breathed out at the sound of Emily's voice. 

“Yes.” 

“I'll meet you there.”

“There's another body here and he's armed.” Be careful. 

Emily spoke to someone else and then he tuned everything out. 

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

“Spencer!” JJ tried to pull him back but he yanked his arm out of her reach, sprinting towards the backyard. “Would you calm down? You can't barge in like this!” She hissed in frustration. 

He turned back and said through gritted-teeth. “If it were Will, would you be calm?”

She blinked at him, opening and closing her mouth in shock. “I—”

“You know how I feel, you've been there, so why do you keep asking me to calm down?” Spencer spat out. 

JJ silently approached him by the entrance, swallowing the guilt her whole body was drowning in. “I'm sorry. I'm just trying to make you think, alright? Spence, she needs all of us. She needs you, so we need to think straight. Our goal is to get her out.” Alive.

“Do you think we can?”

He asked softly, voice small. 

She squeezed his shoulder and widened the basement opening. “Yes, we can.” She stepped in, turning to him before he could enter. “Don't step away from me. We don't split up, ever, deal?” 

That was something she always said whenever they were paired up in a situation like that. And that's when Spencer noticed that what he suffered didn't just affect him, but everyone else around him. 

“Okay.”

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

Hotch had finally caught sight of you. He could see your frame in a corner of the wall, the sunlight didn't help him visualize anything, it was too minimal. He didn't know whether you were awake or— he couldn't see. “Paul, do you think your mother would be proud of that behavior? Killing women? Hurting them?” He needed to get closer and for that, he had to get inside his mind.

“You don't understand,” Paul said calmly. Hotch hears beneath that contained tone, he was a walking time bomb. But they were on countdown before your location was even found, the team knew who Paul was, they knew how he escalated in the last weeks, and they knew his weak spot, too. 

“You're right,” Hotch said, craning his neck to the side when he saw your voice. More like a whimper. Low, discreet, but there. You were alive. And he intended on keeping that way. “I don't understand. I didn't go through what you did. I was not left in a house by someone that's supposed to care for me. I was not left to a parent that never loved me.”

Silence. 

“Paul. She deserves everything you did to her. Every beating. Every truth spat out on her face. Every day locked up here. She was supposed to be a good mother back then, why is she trying now, after all.”

“She never loved me.”

Bingo.

“Is that what you think?”

There was shuffling around and then a gun was pointing directly at him, but Hotch had a shelf to cover behind. Paul was finally in his aim, vulnerable. Not yet.

“Do you think people change, Agent?” Paul asked him, cocking the gun at him mockingly. He then looked back at you, tongue moving across his lips slowly. “I don't think so. That's why I didn't kill her. Yet.” 

You said something else but Hotch couldn't hear. He wasn't close enough. You weren't safe yet. Not yet.

The clock was ticking. 

“For some people, death is just another way out.” 

Everything happened so fast his mind didn't grasp it until it happened. 

He heard a click. Then the sound of gunfire exploded through the wine cellar. 

Paul Knox was on the floor, his head had two gunshot wounds on the forehead and blood leaked through it. Eyes wide open. He didn't see it coming. 

Quick and effective. 

A perfect aim to kill. 

He thought it would be Emily at the entrance, gun pointing right at Paul's head. He's seen her frustration at herself for losing you that day, it was a matter of time until she snapped. 

But he was met with Spencer Reid barging into the wine cellar instead. A stunned JJ frozen at the entrance.

Reid's movements carried no hesitation as he dashed towards the body, snatched the keys out of his pockets and stepped back to unlock the cage you were in. 

It was foolish to check if he was still alive. Two shots to the head -  that was the outcome Hotch didn't want. Paul Knox was supposed to go to jail for the rest of his life. Because of the victims he terrorized, because of the days he stole from one of his own that she would never get back. 

“We found Carina.” Derek told him as they watched you being pulled into the ambulance. He didn't need to be told that they only found her body. Carina Grace had been missing for a month. “Same way as the other girls.”

“Safe to say he won't be dreaming about hurting anyone else.” Rossi made the comment as a body bag was transferred out of the wine cellar.

Hotch glanced towards Reid, who had just entered the ambulance by your side. 

He would lecture him later. The only thing that mattered now was that you were safe. 

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

When you fluttered your eyes open, you quickly shut them again. The lights were strong and forceful. Light. Was this the sunlight? Had he dumped your body somewhere? Were you finally dead and this was your spirit floating over what was left of you?

You hadn't felt that cool air in days. It almost felt like air-conditioning. A soft fabric wrinkled between your fingers and your leg… you could move it. You could feel it. There was no numbness.

“Take a deep breath. It's okay, you're safe.”

You're hallucinating. Because what you were hearing didn't make any sense. It couldn't be. Your head was searching for ways to bring your relief. That's the only reasonable answer. 

Reasonable. What about this situation is reasonable?

“You're safe,” He repeated. 

You forced your eyelids open, despite the bothersome whiteness. The first thing you saw was Spencer, his honey brown eyes with heavy bags of sleepless nights around them, his soft smile that threatened to spill the sadness hanging over him. 

You could touch his hand. 

But the calm doesn't last for long. 

“You're not here.” You snatched your fingers away. 

This is not real. I'm dreaming again.

Hurt flashed through his eyes. “I am.”

“That's not you.”

“That's me, sweetheart. This is real, we got you out—”

“No!” 

He flinched back, watching as the heart monitor went off. A group of nurses entered the room to check the commotion; it took five people to hold you down. He never saw you like that. That's anger, that pain. He'd never seen it in your eyes. JJ had to pull him out of the room otherwise he would stay there, frozen. 

You weren't seeing him. 

He provoked that nervous breakdown. 

“Stop. Hey, don't do this,” he could feel air entering his lungs but his chest hurt. “Spencer, this isn't—”

“Don't.” He said shortly, shaking his head. “I shouldn't have…” He stared at his hands as if they had committed a crime, trying to blink away his tears. 

“This isn't your fault, Spence.”

“I should've figured it out sooner.” He said, burying his head between his hands. “I do it all the time. Why couldn't I do it now, why couldn't I find her sooner?” 

Sobs racked through his body and he felt arms wrapping around him some sort of comfort. He didn't feel it. He wanted you. He wanted to make you feel better, he didn't need to be taken care of. He didn't deserve it. 

“It wasn't your fault,” JJ repeated, tightening her hold on him. “We were all in this. And she's fine now. She's safe.”

“She'll never be fine again.” He mumbled through her shirt. It physically pained him to see you like this, as if your mind was playing you. The worst was that he knew what that felt like. He wished he didn't. Actually, he wished that it was him instead. He'd go through it all again just to spare you of that trauma. That haunting pain that would follow you and make you doubt everything. 

He didn’t mean that he didn’t want you to be fine, of course, he wanted it. That kind of trauma, however, doesn’t just let you go, it’s like a shadow looming over you, a tall ghost. 

I should've found her sooner. He couldn't stop thinking that. I should've found her sooner.

An hour passed and nobody moved from the waiting room. They were anxious and on edge waiting for an update. Penelope had drifted off on Derek's shoulder a few minutes ago, Emily had bitten all of her cuticles as much as Rossi reprimanded her on it, Hotch would leave and come back with coffee refills and JJ had left a while ago to speak to Will and her kids. As for Spencer, he was just there. Not mentally, just physically. 

He needed to see you okay to function again.

“She'll need you.” He snapped around to Hotch's voice. At some point, his feet reached the end of the hall, a cup of water in his hands. He wasn't even thirsty. “She'll need you when she wakes up. More than anyone else.” His boss added. 

Spencer knew what he meant by that. It wasn't just in the literal sense. 

“I know.” He responded.

“Then you need to be there.”

Get a grip on yourself. 

“I will.” Spencer swallowed hard, looking up at him. “I will.” He repeated, throwing the cup on the trash can and taking a deep breath. Hotch squeezed his shoulder reassuringly on his way back. 

When the doctor called him back to the room, you were already awake. 

✫・゜・。✫・゜・。

“Spencer?”  

You croaked out, blinking multiple times to undo the blurred image of the long-haired genius. 

“Hi,” he replied, lowering to the seat beside your bed. You oversaw his movements carefully. He looked shaken up but he mustered one of those smiles you were done for from the first day you walked in the Bureau.

“Can you tell me something?” You requested, clearing your throat. You didn’t trust your senses, but it sounded and looked like your boyfriend. Your mind couldn’t play sturdy tricks like that, could it? 

Outsretching your arm long enough to reach him, you nudged his hand. He pulled the chair closer and intertwined your fingers. That was the first time you felt warmth in days.

“What about?” 

“Something only you would know.”

Bring me back to reality.

He sighed, lifting your palm to his cheek. “You hate the color gray,” his eyes locked into yours as he recalled your words from a few months ago when you had revealed this to him. “It was your brother's favorite color. He wore it all the time. When he died, you could never look at anything gray because it would remind you of him.”

You stayed quiet. 

“You hate when people keep telling you to wear your hair down because it looks pretty. You know it does, but you feel uncomfortable with the strands touching your neck. You love sunlight the same amount you love cloudy days – not thunderstorms, you’re scared of those. Especially lightning.” You let out a tearful chuckle to which he grinned. “You have a tattoo on the inner side of your left thigh, it's the page number and the line order of your favorite Norwegian Wood edition, your favorite book. You had a secret obsession with the theme from that animated movie…” his voice trailed off, a crease between his brows. 

“You mean Let it go from Frozen?”

Spencer’s lips twisted in a pout, “Sorry if I don’t know that much about pop culture.”

“You’re hopeless at it, Spence.”

“I’m not that bad.” He rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How are you feeling?” He asked, eyes softening. You traced the tip of his nose, eyes scanning his features so you’d cement it to your brain.

“Better,” you replied. It was the truth. He nodded, brushing a strand behind your ear gently. “Thank you.” 

Spencer lifted his chin to glimpse at you, disappointment draping over his gaze. “I didn’t do anything.” Disappointment at himself. The failure that he was during the case when you needed him the most. You furrowed your brows at the tear trailing down his cheek, drying it with your thumb. Reaching for his arms, you waited until he adjusted enough at the edge of your bed so you could rest your head on his chest. His heartbeat rang through your ears like a long-awaited tune.

“I know you did, Spencer. All of you did. Hey,” you tapped his chin so he could meet your eyes. “I'm here, aren't I?”

He frowned. “You almost weren't.”

“But I am,” you insisted. Your gaze darkened and you shifted on the bed causing the thin blanket to fall off one of your legs. You were all bandaged up, literally. “You know, I… I lost track of time. After the first two days I nearly went crazy. I knew you'd find me but I— I—”

“You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready.” Spencer reassured you softly. He saw the way you stared at your legs, it was the scars beneath the bandages that you were seeing. And the ones beyond your body. “I love you,” he mumbled against your hair, caressing your arms and cradling you into his hold. “We got you out. You're safe now, alright? I promise.”

You resigned with a long breath, burying your face in his shoulder. That heaviness brewing over your thoughts vanished under his touch, wrapping safety around you instead. 

“I love you too, Spencer.” You said, curling into his side. Now that you knew you were safe, you could feel the exhaustion weighing down your eyelids. “Can you stay?” 

He hummed, tucking his chin above your head and shifting on the bed for a better position. It wasn't the most comfortable setting and you two would probably — certainly — wake up with your backs hurting. But Spencer would do anything for you.

“I won't go anywhere, don't worry.”

That was what comfort felt like. You weren't dreaming. That was real. 

The nightmare was finally over. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Isn’t it funny how day by day

nothing changes,

but when you look back,

everything is different. ”

[C.S. Lewis]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sources used: [1]; [2]; [3]

taglist: @lilyviolets

[citrus-moonlight]

Danger Starts the Sharp Incline

Fandom: MCU - Age of Ultron, Black Panther Pairing: Demon!Klaue x Fem Scientist Reader Chapters: 1 of 1 Word count: 4.5K Rating: Explicit

Summary: At your scientific organization the study of demon energy output has become no less mundane than it would at any other research facility. That is until you find yourself trapped with the demon who has recently shifted in your thoughts from an idle curiosity to a distraction.

Warnings: Explicit Rating!, No Age Specified, PWP, One Shot, Smut, Let Me Be Clear: This Is Absolute Filth, Monster Fucking, Demon Fucking, Could be viewed as Dubcon, Implied Mind Manipulation, But to be clear reader is Into It, Pet Names, Touch Starved Demon, Oral Sex (Fem Receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Big Hands I Know You're the One, Unprotected PIV, Size Kink, Squirting, A Lot of Demon Cum, Like A Lot, Cum Marking, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms (both), Overstimulation, Possessiveness

A/N: Once again, this was supposed to be a quick little smutty thing that ended up getting very, very away from me. This honestly could have been even longer (it was over 5.5k and counting at one point!), but I managed to reign myself in, lol. I almost feel like I have enough for a part two, so who knows, perhaps I'll revisit this AU one day in the future!

This was inspired by the first bit of this absolutely incredible demon/scientist blurb* by @biscuitdragonwithastick, which you should definitely read first (thank you for the ok to go ahead with this!). It fully dug its claws (pun intended?) into my brain and refused let me go. I couldn't stop thinking about a Demon!Klaue AU, and thanks to some lovely encouragement, this is the result!

Please, please mind the tags, my dears, and thank you for reading!

*Demon's name has been changed here to fit the AU

Dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics ❤️

UPDATING TO ADD PLEASE GO CHECK OUT THIS DEMON!KLAUE FANART BY MY INCREDIBLE LOVELY TALENTED FRIEND, truly I have not stopped screaming! 😍🥹💕

Work title is from "All Mine" by Portishead

AO3 Link

Make no mistake You shan't escape Tethered and tied There's nowhere to hide from me All mine You have to be

Klaw’s reaction continues to be noted by the higher-ups, and eventually it’s decided that they want to conduct an experiment, using you.

The next time you’re scheduled on the cleaning rotation they want to take the opportunity to determine if there’s a measurable difference in output and chemical composition - before and after you’ve been in the room with him.

“Just consider what it might mean to the future of energy research”, they’d said. “It could lead to the discovery of a demon-sensitive pheromone additive that boosts energy output across the board.”

Although you flush at the outward acknowledgement of what’s been happening, you can’t deny that it intrigues you.

Especially since you had started dreaming about him.

Since you’d stopped being able to control how wet you got when you observed him.

Since the self-consciousness you’d felt at the sidelong glances of your colleagues had started feeling like something else. 

Something like pride.

* * * * * *

Two days later you’re scheduled for the night shift alone, with not much else to do but make the occasional note in the shift log and wait for the alarm that indicates the mare’s collection tank is full. So you wait. 

And watch.

For the first time you have a chance to really just look at him, and you’re finding it difficult to pay attention to the instruments that you should be monitoring. Your eyes instead are continually drawn back to the observation window and the thick mop of black curls that falls across his forehead where his horns emerge, sharp features are framed by the scruff of a dark beard, and an intriguing mix of tattoos, brands and scars play across the planes and curves of his body.

Although his muscles aren’t as chiseled as many of the demons you've observed in this facility his shoulders and arms are thick, and you unconsciously lick your lips as your eyes follow the dark hair that covers his broad chest and abdomen down to where it meets the wiry hair at the base of his cock.

A slick warmth has been slowly pooling between your thighs since you settled into your chair at the beginning of the shift, but as you watch the bored pumping of his hips fall into a smoother, swaying rhythm, that warmth ignites.

Widening his stance, hooved feet brace on the floor as he pulls out further before thrusting back in, letting you watch his cock slide slowly back into the machine’s opening, burying himself with a jutting roll of his hips, over and over. Almost teasing. 

Almost taunting.

This could be you.

It’s only when Klaw drags his hands along the metal “body” of the mare that you notice it: The claws of the first three fingers of his right hand seem to be…gone? 

With a flicker of concern you flip a switch on the console, using the camera to zoom in. 

Ok, no, they’re not gone per se, but they’re definitely shorter, nearly down to the quick. Was it an accident? Did they break in a fervor as he fucked the contraption? 

Frowning at the screen your mind turns over the possibilities, but before you can think to add the peculiarity to your notes your thoughts fizzle away when you glance back up to the observation window and see that he’s watching you.

As soon as your eyes meet his the tease in his movements falls away and he’s bottoming out hard against the opening in a rough, stuttered rhythm as his eyes cloud over, and you know from past observation that he’s nearing the edge.

Your inner muscles clench and the ache that’s been building since you walked in here swells and overlaps with a flaring jealousy when Klaw shudders and growls, filling the receptacle with another thick load of his seed.

You don’t even realize that you stood up until you feel the cool glass of the observation window beneath your palms, your breath fogging the surface as you press yourself against the barrier.

There’s still a slow, uneven cadence to the demon’s thrusts following his climax, but his gaze swiftly sharpens on you again when one of your hands drifts idly across your stomach, then lower, fingers brushing over the top button of your pants-

-and then you jump when a shrill sound interrupts you, nearly growling at the surge of frustration.

The alarm is piercing and incessant and won’t stop until you enter the demon’s room, so you return to the control panel to activate the sigil that will keep him contained while you clean and recalibrate the machine - tests having shown that a laser projection of the correct wavelength of light is just as effective as a physical binding.

Once you’re through the airlock you quickly set to working through the checklist, unhooking the mechanism that feeds into tanks in the floor and connecting it to a fresh one. You move on to cleaning the unfeeling hole that the demon fucks into day in and day out, your breath going shallow at the jealousy that continues to singe your nerves. 

His gaze stays entirely focused on you as you move around, cock swaying heavily in front of  broad thighs - still hard, always hard - the still leaking head so dark it’s nearly purple. 

The slick between your thighs has only increased since you started to work, fairly certain that you’ve soaked through your panties at this point, and when you have to pass closer to his “cage” he leans forward, nearly pressing himself against the barrier as he follows your path.

Inhaling deeply his cock twitches, more cum dripping from the tip as he ruts at the air, and you can't help but wonder if he’s picking up your frustrated arousal.

“Hurry up.” you chide yourself. “Stop getting distracted. Just finish your shit and get out.”

Kneeling down behind the machine you open the access panel and flip through the menus until you find the one that will complete the calibration, and while you’re focused on watching it cycle you don’t notice the outer door open from the hall into the observation room. 

The intern who enters must not see you where you’re kneeling on the floor, and evidently thinking that the trap has been left on in error he flips the switch to deactivate it.

When the light from the beaming sigil goes dark you pop up in alarm, the face of the intern frozen in an almost comedic grimace of horror when he finally registers that you’re staring back at him from the wrong side of the glass. 

The man reaches for the switch again but Klaw’s reflexes are faster, and before the trap can be reactivated the demon rushes the door. Slamming his shoulder against it he jams it so thoroughly they'll need to bring in special equipment to get it open again, but at this time of night it'll be hours, if you’re lucky, before a crew gets here.

Then he rounds on you.

With an oddly warm sense of detachment you think that you should feel fear as you watch the slow grin spread across his face, but the only thing you feel is a surge of hot, aching desire. 

He rumbles something you don’t understand, though the rough texture of his words is still intoxicating, and before you realize what you’re doing you’re walking towards him, pulling your shirt over your head as you move. 

Because right now you find that you want - need - to bare yourself for him, the sensation of it intense that your skin feels like it’s going to scald if you don’t get your clothes off now, and your shoes, pants and underwear quickly join the discarded pile on the floor.

Stopping in front of him you reach back to unclasp your bra, but your arms pause mid-way when Klaw’s hand reaches out, your breath hitching when he hooks a large, clawed finger beneath your chin, tilting your head up so that your eyes meet his.

You’d always assumed that his eyes were black, but this close you realize that they’re actually an impossibly deep blue, a blue that only resides along the penumbra of light and shadow where the last rays of sun reach into the depths of the ocean

You stand mesmerized as his hand dips lower, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh as a claw trails gently down the delicate skin of your neck and chest, and then with a flick of his wrist the last scrap of fabric covering you gives way, exposing your breasts to the cool air.  

You’ve barely shrugged off the ruined garment when suddenly you’re being picked up - so, so easily - and placed on a table, swiftly reminded of how much larger and stronger he is than you, and once again dimly aware that you should feel fear, or dread, or some instinct telling you to run.

Not of the shiver of anticipation that leaves your breath hitching in your chest. 

Definitely not the wild need blooming in your core as sharp teeth ghost along the place where your blood thrums, his breath hot and his skin hotter.

His mouth continues its path downward, pausing to lick at the soft swell of your breasts, taking a moment to pull and pluck at your nipples with his lips. A pleased growl vibrates against your skin when you lean back onto your hands with a moan, arching into the swirl of his tongue around your pebbled flesh. 

It’s not long, though, before he can no longer ignore the way this increases the heated musk between your thighs, leaving behind a wet trail of saliva as his mouth travels down, seeking the place where you’re already dripping for him.

The demon's hands nearly wrap entirely around your thighs yet his touch is almost cautious as he presses you open, mesmerized by the way you unfold for him like the petals of a flower, slick and shining.

HIs eyes are heavy lidded as thick fingers begin to tease through your folds, toying with your clit, surprising you with how softly he rolls it between thumb and forefinger, a grin curving the corner of his mouth when your hips buck into his touch.

Noting your reaction he repeats the motion, gently pinching and rolling the sensitive bud until your mouth drops open and your breath is coming in sharp gasps, his dark eyes staying fixed between your legs as thick fingers coax a warm, honeyed orgasm from you, leaving you keening and startled by the slow intensity of it.

You’ve barely caught your breath when you feel his mouth suddenly envelop your mound, lapping eagerly at your release as you whine and writhe beneath his tongue, overwhelmed at the stimulation.

It’s too much, all of this is too much, but as he continues licking and suckling at your sensitive flesh you find that you’re no longer fighting it, the hum of bliss that hadn’t yet faded already building to a fresh swell, and when his lips capture your clit with a sudden fluttering pressure your body stiffens as your second orgasm flares through you, sharper and brighter than the first. 

When he finally releases you he speaks again, but through the haze of afterglow it takes a moment for it to register that this time you think that you understand him, the word seeming to appear within your mind at the same time that you hear it from his glistening lips.

“Sweet.” 

With a start you look down at him and he pauses, head tilting, curiosity knitting his heavy brows. 

Not moving his eyes from yours, his voice is a low, tentative purr when he speaks again.

“Would your sweet cunt like..more?”

Holy fuck. You can understand him.

Your thoughts spin as the shock works its way through you, the analytical part of your mind attempting to parse what the fuck is happening. Is it the increased time in his proximity? The physical contact? Whatever the mechanism, you can suddenly hear- or perhaps more accurately feel - his words, somewhere deep in your conscience.

A firm nod, then, in answer to his question, a responding pull of his lips into a slow, pleased grin.

Dipping his head Klaw licks a broad, wet stripe up your cleft, and then he’s devouring you, slavering hungrily against your sex, drool mixing with your arousal as his lips and tongue work your aching bundle of nerves until you’re gasping shallow breaths, every muscle strung taught as you hover on the edge once more.

Seeking for an anchor your hands find his curved horns, warm and leathery beneath your scrabbling fingers, and then with a rasping cry you’re coming in long, surging waves, your entire body trembling as your hips chase every flutter of pleasure on the tip of his tongue. 

Dimly you think that he must be satisfied now, that you must be satisfied, yet it seems as though with every climax you only hunger more intensely for the next. 

Once your hands release his horns and fall limp at your sides Klaw straightens up, and then wrapping his hand around his cock he starts roughly stroking himself. 

Almost without thinking your legs fall open, shaky arms pulling your knees back to expose yourself to him, knowing he can see how your soaked cunt still clenches through the last waves of your orgasm, and it’s only a few more strokes before he’s coming with a rough jerk of his hips and you gasp at the heat, thick ropes of cum streaking across your slick folds and the insides of your thighs.  

Still breathing hard, the pumping of his fist gradually slows, a hand drifting along the curve of your inner thigh as his focus comes back to you. Gathering some of the sticky mess he left between your legs he drags it through your folds, and then suddenly a thick finger is sliding into you.

Even as you gasp at the intrusion you begin to understand that he had actually done it on purpose: Biting down those claws himself because, it seems, he had been thinking about this.

The realization that it was for you leaves your entire body humming, and as your hips cant up to meet the slow, almost teasing thrusts, there’s only one word that swells and ripens in your mind, uncertain whether it’s your word or his even as it falls from your lips.

“More.”

A knowing glint flashes in his eyes at your soft plea, and almost immediately you feel a second finger slipping against you. Just teasing his fingertips at your entrance at first he lets your juices slick them before pressing into you, both fingers together nearly as thick as a human cock.

You moan as he continues to slide them in and out of you, and just as you begin to sink into the ache of it, you moan low in your throat when suddenly he’s adding a third.

The heady pressure of him working three fingers into your already stretched hole is overwhelming, and you’re unsure whether you want to throw yourself towards the sensation or resist it, your body arching into him, yet tensing and pulling away at the same time.

But then he’s pressing you down onto the table, his hand nearly spanning the width of your chest to hold you in place as his fingers continue nudging deeper.

“Where are you going, little one? Going to have to take it if you want my cock." 

As if to emphasize his words he drags his erection against the inside of your thigh with a grunted sigh, a fresh streak of precum adding to the mess that he’s already left on you.

Because of course you do, and he knows it, has known it since you stopped being able to look away from his hunched form as he fucked into his mechanical mate, a warm curiosity growing into a distracting need.

And you know that he could have taken you at any time, could have forced himself into you as soon as your clothes were a forgotten pile on the floor. But instead, he’s been preparing you to take him properly, making you come until the only thing you know is his mouth and his fingers and you’re soft and trembling and ravenous.

“God yes.” You spread your legs wide again, giving him an obscene view of where his fingers are sinking into you, slick sounds filling the room as they pump faster now.

“There you go.” He croons above you. “Made for this, hmm?" 

Any attempt at a response trails into a choked cry when he finds that soft, needy spot deep inside you, a fresh, pulsing heat spreading through your already exhausted body as he takes you apart once more. Still pinned beneath his hand you’re unable to do anything but allow it to wash through you, shaking and whimpering as he continues to drag firm, curling strokes against your clenching walls.

Leaning down Klaw presses his face into your heaving chest, and your nipples tighten and ache as he licks languorously between your breasts, his huffed breath is hot against your skin.

As your senses filter back in your hands slowly begin to move, exploring the corded muscles of his neck and shoulders, trembling fingers tugging and sliding through his hair, and then up and over his horns again.

Letting your eyes slip closed you take in the ridged curve of them, a velvety pleasure blooming in your chest when he inhales sharply, cock throbbing against your thigh when your fingers wrap around the base of them.

Finally pulling his fingers out of you he tugs you up, turning around and repositioning you so that you’re straddling his broad hips as best you can. Strong hands support you, encouraging you to slide your slick folds along his shaft, a giddy sort of panic stuttering in your chest at the sudden awareness of the size of him where he twitches between your thighs.

Desperate whines that may as well be prayers slide from your throat when he lifts you higher and you feel the thick, bulbous head of his cock nudging against your entrance, the only words falling from your lips a whispered litany of “Oh my god oh my god oh my god."

“I’m not your God, little one,” he growls softly, words distorted as if you're hearing them through a sediment of granite and blood. "But you will worship me."

“Yes. Yes..Oh fuck, please.” 

Beneath your lilting plea you dimly hear gritted curses and words of encouragement as you circle your hips, your arousal making a slick mess of his cock.

You can't help how eagerly your hips rock down, seeking more, so lost in the sensations that you're unprepared when a hard press of your hips matches his upward thrust, and the thick head of his cock suddenly ruts up into you, and when he slips past the tight ring of muscle the feral sound from deep in your chest nearly matches his.

Panting open mouthed you hold him there before rising up, slowly, slowly, letting him slip out of you before sinking down to take him back in. You feel weightless beneath the obsidian glint in his eyes as he watches you repeat the motion again, and again, his arms helping you move as you start to shake from the effort of riding just the head of his cock.

Even now there’s something warm and urgent drawing your hand lower, and you’re unable to help feeling pleased when his eyes go heavy as his gaze follows your fingers down to where they press against your clit.

“So..needy.” he rumbles. “Better than I imagined.”

“You..imagined?” You pant, attempting to sound coy, but your words are thick with lust as you continue to roll your hips, forcing yourself down further down his length. 

Your movements are becoming less controlled now, and when your fingers slip and brush against his shaft you whimper at how fucking big he feels where he's stretching you open, and how much of him is still outside of you.

You can feel every slick ridge and vein beneath your hand, and as you slide it along his length the muscles of his thighs tense and flex beneath you, his breathing going rough as your messy strokes continue.

“Look at you taking my cock,” Klaw grits, the demon’s hips beginning to stutter up in short, sharp thrusts. “Such a good little pet.” 

His words trail into a low growl that vibrates through your body as you feel a hard throb beneath your hand, and then heat.

You gasp, continuing to writhe as he spills into you, coating your inner walls with his thick seed, and almost you feel as though you could come again just from the heat of it.

Fuck, you need more of that.

Need it deeper.

Even as the pulsing beneath your fingers slows he doesn't stop moving, finally coming inside of you seeming only to have tipped his need to fevered desire. Holding you in place he thrusts up harder, dislodging your hand, and you can feel his spend leaking out of you, dripping down the insides of your thighs and slicking his still hard cock as he continues to drive deeper, no longer letting you set the pace. 

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” He taunts, voice still a rough half-whisper after his orgasm. “Could feel it when you watched me. Wanted me to fill your little cunt, hmm?”

“Yes.” You let out a growled sob, jealous anger surging through you. ”That..thing, doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

A flame crackles in Klaw’s eyes at your heated words, and you wonder with a jolt of awareness whether he hasn’t been just as desperate for this as you have, longing for you as he remained trapped in the torment of a cold, unfeeling machine. Driven purely by instinct, chasing his release over and over again but never being truly satisfied.

The sudden realization that you could give that to him floods you with almost as much pleasure as the agony of being filled with his cock.

You’ve barely processed the thought when you suddenly find yourself with your back once again pressed against the cool metal of the table, Klaw only pulling out of you briefly before thrusting back in, harder.

He continues a slow, controlled rhythm, both of you panting hard as you feel yourself softening around him, becoming more pliant as your body relents to every stroke until with a final arching rock of his hips your cunt is completely stretched and full, everything so impossibly tight that you can’t even clench around him.

He's never felt anything quite like you, the achingly tight grip of your pussy leaving him nearly breathless as he holds himself as deep as he can, huffing and grunting like a bull while he watches you writhe and spasm beneath him.

Then he starts to fuck you.

He tries to keep his strokes firm and measured at first, but he can’t hold back anymore and it's not long before his chest is heaving, lips curled in a snarl, and it feels as though you're being split open as he pulls you back onto his cock in time to meet every thrust. 

A scarlet thread runs through every cell of your soft animal body, stringing tighter and tighter as pleasure builds to the edge of breaking but then surging higher, a fresh ecstasy building on every peak. 

The tightening grip around your waist signals the absolute loss of his control and when you hiss at the sudden piercing bite of his claws he moves his hands to brace on the table instead, his broad body forcing your legs back towards your shoulders as he leans down over you, driving his cock as deep as he can get into your willing heat until he’s grunting and drooling above you. 

A divine bliss slides through your veins as you lie beneath him, caught between the trammel of his arms, and as you watch his base instinct take over you begin to understand that only fools could believe that lust is a sin. 

And even if it was, even if you were offered perfect grace in this moment, you know with absolute certainty that you would refuse.

An infernal dam is finally swelling to breaking as you surrender to every relentless thrust of his cock, your wailed sobs the only sounds you can make as an impossible pressure ripples through your core, and with a deep throb you suddenly feel a drenching heat as your release washes over his cock and your thighs. 

“There you go.” Klaw growls. “Make a mess for me, little one.” 

This seems to be his final undoing, and as you continue to soak his cock his thrusting goes ragged until with rough groan he’s coming deep inside you, stilling himself to keep the head of his cock pressed against the deepest part of you, making sure that you feel every hot, throbbing pulse of his cum as it fills you.

Keeping himself seated deep he rocks slow grinding thrusts into the slippery mess he’s made of his you, the lust that’s had no real outlet finally finding satisfaction in the way your clenching cunt is milking his cock, in the gentle swell of your belly as he pumps you full of his seed.

You’re a sweaty, twitching mess beneath him, and as much as you wish you could you’re unable to take all of it, can’t help how it spills out around his cock where you’re stretched and sore, how his cum and yours drips down your swollen sex to pool beneath you on the table.

His hands don't stop moving over your body, cupping your breasts, grasping at you hips, sliding over the ripe swell of you where he can feel you filled with his cock and his cum. Vaguely aware of soft grunts mixed with mumbled praise, you don’t register what he’s saying at first through the haze of euphoria.

“Going to be mine.” he rumbles, between languorous strokes. ”My little queen.” 

“Mine.”

* * * * * * *

The room is warm and flickering, silken sheets decadent beneath your fingers, your body thrumming with a heated anticipation that never seems to fade, now.

Rough hands lift your hips as your demon mounts you from behind, a hand placed firmly between your shoulder blades, pressing you down into the mattress.

A panting whine slides from your throat as he spreads you open, the thick head of his cock prodding your entrance, pleased to see you’re still dripping with his seed from the last time he filled you. And he doesn’t like leaving you empty for very long.

“Say it again, little one.” Klaw growls softly, holding himself still. Waiting.

“Yours.” 

You sigh, a smile curling around the word as he pushes into you.

“I’m yours.”

A/N: As ever, thank you for reading! This was definitely a bit outside my comfort zone, but I hope you enjoyed this filthy little foray into monster fuckery. 😊

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 6: The Secrets of The Red Keep (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 6: The Secrets of The Red Keep 

In the Red Keep, it’s not just the rats that creep, but secrets too. And in the game of thrones, secrets kill as much as rats carrying plague do.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Lots of stuff happening, Viserys being an L as always, Y/N being kind of an ass, slow burnnnnnnnnnn

Word Count: 7.7k words (so. much. is. happening.) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: Here it is, you guys! I’m so sorry it came later than expected 😭 and that it is much longer than expected too. But I snuck in a Daemon cameo at the end so 😁 I hope you guys enjoy! 

lovely dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​ !

It was drawing nigh six months since Prince Daemon’s disinheritance and subsequent departure to Dragonstone. All across the realm, winter had reached its end, and flecks of green have begun dotting the bare trees once more. The smallfolk’s chatter and laughter grew gradually in abundance, as with spring always comes the promise of new beginnings. 

The nobles too, harboured the hope for new beginnings. Gowns and coats of fur were swapped out for attire of lighter fabrics, and the misery caused by the chill of winter were replaced with eager ambition to propel themselves into the centre of power. And no one seemed to exemplify that more than the Lady Y/N Tyrell. 

Gone was the devoted, yet somewhat prickly and brash lady-in-waiting of the late Queen. In its place, was someone much changed. Where in the past she had served Queen Aemma, these days, she was akin to a second shadow to the Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, even moreso than her usual companion, the Lady Alicent. The kinder whispers expressed gladness that the Lady Y/N had taken pity on the Princess, who had lost her mother at such a young age, and had stepped up as a maternal figure in an act of benevolence. The more vicious gossips, however, sniggered that mayhaps Lady Y/N had been possessed by the spirit of a particularly determined leech. “The rose sinks its thorns into another dragon after one passes,” they mocked. 

All these whispers you heard, but you simply did not possess the means to care. ‘Words are wind,’ you scoffed to yourself. Although…Tis’ true you were leveraging on your close connections with the Princess…but it was for self preservation. With Aemma and Daemon gone, you had gotten close to Rhaenyra, becoming something akin of a mother figure to her, which made your influence at court grow exponentially. Having the favour of the heir to the throne was a powerful thing, and you intended to use it to serve your own means. However, you couldn’t shake off your feeling of guilt for using Rhaenyra this way. You oft wondered if Aemma would approve of you doing so if she was still alive. But if she were…then there would have been no need for you to do this. You swallowed down the painful lump in your throat. It doesn’t matter now, you told yourself sternly. The dead are the dead, as Daemon said, and as long as you were alive, you would do whatever it takes to make sure you stayed at the Red Keep. 

You arrived at the castle sept, where Rhaenyra was standing to the side while Alicent was kneeling in the midst of prayer. You curtsied to Rhaenyra, whose face lit up as soon as she saw you, though it did little to lighten the visible gloom on her face. 

“Your Grace,” you greeted softly. “I told you so many times that you should call me by my name, Y/N,” Rhaenyra chided softly. You smiled apologetically, “Apologies, it is a force of habit.” Rhaenyra smiled wistfully, “You always called me by my name when Mother was…” her voice trailed off and her head drooped. You tilted your head in Alicent’s direction, “You’re not praying?” Rhaenyra hesitated, “I must confess that I’ve never really prayed before..” 

You smiled, guiding her to where Alicent was kneeling. “Well, no time to begin like the present, then.” You took notice of the figure she was praying to: The Mother. How fitting. 

Kneeling down next to Alicent, you felt Rhaenyra tentatively do so next to you. Alicent offered the both of you candles, and you showed Rhaenyra how to light them. The three of you knelt there in silence for a while, minds occupied with your own vastly different thoughts. “I find…” Alicent spoke gingerly, “That this is a way to be with my mother. Here in the quiet of the sept.” She hesitates, looking back at the statue of the Mother. “Does it sound foolish?” 

“I don’t think it sounds foolish,” Rhaenyra piped up next to you. 

Alicent smiled at that, before turning to you, observing how your eyes were watching the figure of the Mother pensively. “Do you pray often, Y/N?” You smiled wistfully, “Piety was never one of my stronger suits, I’m afraid. But I remember…when I lost my lady mother, I prayed day and night that I wouldn’t be sent back to Highgarden.” 

“You disliked your home?” Rhaenyra asked softly. You pondered over her question, before shaking your head slightly. “To me, Highgarden never really felt like home. Perhaps it was because I had been born and raised in the Red Keep for most of my days, but I consider King’s Landing to be my only home.” You didn’t tell her that it was the looming threat of your duties as the sole daughter of House Tyrell that kept you from recognising Highgarden as your home. Rhaenyra nodded sagely. 

“I’m…I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what to pray to the Mother for,” Rhaenyra hesitantly says, “Should I pray for anything specific?” You smiled wistfully, “You only need to follow your heart. The Gods will listen to you if your sincerity can be felt.” Alicent nodded in agreement, and the three of you lapsed into silence once more, praying on your own. You closed your eyes, and Aemma flashed into your memories. She was always smiling at you then, and your heart ached deeply whenever you remembered her. 

“...the day of the tourney,” Alicent and Rhaenyra turned to you inquisitively, as you took a deep breath, letting the scent of the smoke sooth you, “I told you I was never religious, but that day…I prayed to the Mother fervently. For your mother, for Aemma to have a smooth labour.” You smiled bitterly, “But it seemed, the gods had a different plan for your mother.” 

Rhaenyra sniffled softly. “It feels refreshing to hear you talk about my mother,” she admits after a pause. “No one, not even Father, seems to want to talk about her. They always change the subject. It’s like her memory is something unpleasant. Something to be avoided..” 

You took her hand, feeling as though you might cry yourself. “The subject is painful,” she continues, “But I don’t want to forget. I don’t want anyone to forget. I cannot bear for my mother to only be spoken about in riddles and hushed tones. I want to remember her…I just don’t understand why Father doesn’t seem to want to.” 

Alicent glanced at the both of you, biting her lip softly. “When my mother died…my father and brother wanted to forget about her too. And admittedly, I did too.” You put your other hand on Alicent’s, and she smiled ruefully at you. “I hid my grief, trying to continue with my life with the same bravery my father and brother had…but I found myself unable to. So the sept is my refuge. It’s where I can express my grief without feeling like it’s something to be ashamed of.” 

“Grieving is nothing to be ashamed of,” you told her gently, “Grief is what keeps the memory of a person alive, even if they’ve long passed. To remember what kind of person they were to you, and to honour how they made you who you were now. Grief does a service to our loved ones who have passed.” 

Rhaenyra smiled bitterly, “I think Father needs to hear that.” You smiled at that, patting her hand softly, “Everyone grieves in their way, Rhaenyra. You might not see it, but I’m sure your father mourns your mother too, though it may be in a way different to yours.” 

Rhaenyra pondered on that, turning her gaze back to the candles. “...mayhaps you’re right.” You squeezed her hand, and she squeezed it back. You turned to look at Alicent, and she grasped your hand tightly in hers, her expression warm. Though getting close to both of them was naught but a political machination initially…you found yourself growing to care more and more for these two girls everyday. So different we all are, you thought to yourself, yet so similar we are too. You turned back to the Mother, as you said one last prayer to her, “I hope…that the three of us can always be like this. That no matter what, when the world seems bleak…we can all be truthful with one another, and depend on each other.” 

It has been six months, but you find that you are still unable to school your features into absolute indifference as you watch Viserys digging into his meal with a notable lack of enthusiasm. 

Pursing your lips, you focused your attention back onto cutting into the veal on your plate. Ever since Aemma’s death, you had been hesitant in seeking out Viserys’ company voluntarily, despite Daemon having advised you to take the opportunity to get close to Viserys for protection. Out of all of Daemon’s advice you had reluctantly heeded, this one unsettled you the most. But as it turned out, you had not needed to make the first move. Viserys had (quite unfortunately) taken to summoning you to his apartments more oft than not in the past six months for meals, or even just for idle conversation. And the usual topic of conversation? The late wife that Viserys had cut open. You would find it funny if the topic itself did not constantly make you want to hurl something at Viserys. Viserys seemed determined to cling onto the vestiges of Aemma’s memory through you, Aemma’s cherished companion. Although after today’s conversation at the sept, you found it strange that Viserys seemed reluctant to broach the topic of Aemma with Rhaenyra, but with you, it was different. Why exactly was it so, you did not know, but…as long as it kept you at the Red Keep, then you would stomach as many conversations as Viserys wanted to have about Aemma. 

Which was why you nearly dropped your fork when Viserys asked you if you knew about Daemon’s current occupation of Dragonstone. Clearing your throat, you deliberated on the reason for the sudden change of topic, but quickly answered, “It would be a miracle if someone had not heard about that.” Viserys chuckles, a rare deviation from his usual melancholic mood during your dinners. “As always, you are unfettered in your nature of speaking. I only wished more people would be like you.” 

You were unsure on how to respond to that. Viserys sighed, “It would not be such a bother if it had been only Daemon on the island, but he had to take nearly half the City Watch with him as well. Does he truly desire to wage war against me, his own brother? With that meagre army of his?” You recalled Daemon’s words that fateful night, and bit your lip. So this was what he meant. You knew that with Daemon’s abscondence along the City Watch, King’s Landing had became more susceptible to looting, raping and other violent crimes. The Small Council was oft engaged in heavy debate as of late on how to tackle this problem, and that must have been Daemon’s plan all along. To sow chaos in King’s Landing. You sighed, cutting into your veal. Daemon…he may not look it, but there is always a certain calculative edge to his seemingly impulsive actions. The promise to make a point. 

“I’ve half a mind to go to Dragonstone and confront him myself,” you snapped back to reality when you heard Viserys bang down his cutlery frustratedly. “If the Small Council had not dissuaded me otherwise, I would’ve done so.” You grimace, “Viserys, that would be unwise. You and I both know more than anyone of Daemon’s nature. He means to continue throwing this…tantrum so that he may garner your attention. You shouldn’t pay heed to his antics. Mayhaps he will come to his senses sooner or late.” 

“Mayhaps is a strange word for never,” Viserys muttered, picking up his fork and knife again. You stifled a laugh by lifting another spoonful of soup to your lips. “Regardless, it would not be fitting for you to go to Dragonstone. What would the realm say, seeing their king having to go and plead with his brother to curb his foolishness? The dissenters will see it as weakness, as they did with Aenys and Maegor. You should listen to your advisors’ counsel, Viserys.” Viserys sighed, leaning back against his seat. “I suppose you’re right. However; this leaves me at a bind on what to do with him. Lord Corlys has been singing this wretched tune for nigh six months, and he will continue to do so if I do not act soon to put Daemon in his place.”

The two of you lapsed into silence. You picked at the remaining veal on your plate anxiously. “And other than the mounting pressure to deal with Daemon, the Small Council, in particular Lord Corlys, has also been pushing me on the subject of remarriage.” You froze. “...remarriage?” Your heart was pounding furiously, having not expected this sudden turn of events. You knew it would be expected of Viserys to do so, to secure the line of succession, but he always seemed so catatonic in grief over Aemma that you thought he would never take a second wife. Moreover, should his new wife sire him sons, Rhaenyra’s claim would surely be disputed by the lords of the realm. Viserys nodded wearily, “Lord Corlys has even nominated a candidate, his own daughter, Lady Laena.” 

You wrinkled your nose, “Isn’t she naught but a girl of 12?” Viserys sighed, “Indeed. Much too young…though it seems not for Lord Corlys’ ambition.” You felt your appetite slip away at that. “And what do you think of this match?” Viserys smiles ruefully, “I was actually looking to hear your opinions. You always speak with unbridled truth, and it would do me good to hear from an unbiased perspective.” 

You purse your lips, surprised. He was asking for your opinion an awful lot these days. “If you’re seeking counsel on the qualities of Lady Laena, I must confess I do not have a clearly formed opinion. But speaking from a political perspective…it would be an advantageous match for both houses. It would join both of your houses of Valyrian blood in one once more.” Viserys lets out a soft snort, “Advantageous? Lord Corlys and my cousin only proposed this match to put their own blood on the throne. They care not for the unity of our houses. Lord Corlys only wishes to see a king of Velaryon blood on the Iron Throne, and to correct the slight that Rhaenys faced at the Great Council.” 

“Be that as it may,” you interjected, “You cannot deny it is a brilliant match. Is it not better to join the blood of the dragon in one single line again? This will prevent any more dragonriders from emerging from House Velaryon, and consolidate the power of House Targaryen in a single bloodline once more.” You were startled when Viserys suddenly let out a bark of laughter, “You know, you sound exactly like Daemon. With how the both of you are constantly stressing about the importance of retaining the power of House Targaryen.” You froze, feeling offended, but then the indignation fades away. It wasn’t entirely a bad thing, after all, Daemon was the person who had opened your eyes to the naivety that blinded you from seeing reason in your grief. Instead of feeling insulted, you felt like you should feel…proud? You shuddered, the thought of being proud thanks to sharing qualities with Daemon fucking Targaryen of all people being too much to bear. 

Viserys lets out a slow exhale, looking regretful. “All this talk of remarriage sickens me,” Viserys mutters. “Because despite all this quibbling, nothing will ever come close to Aemma. I do not wish to replace her. I imagine she will be deeply upset at the thought of it.” 

You frowned, holding back the urge to shout at Viserys why he had chosen to cut Aemma open if that were the case. But alas, the truth oft can never be expressed freely. You took several deep breaths, formulating a response in your head, as you spoke gently, “Remarriage may seem daunting, Viserys, but it is inevitable. It is your duty to the realm, and I’m sure Aemma will understand that.” Viserys sighs before laughing softly, “I suppose you’re right, Y/N. Duty is inescapable, especially when you’re a king. Very well, I shall arrange to see Lady Laena to discuss a possible betrothal as soon as possible.” 

You did not know what to feel about that, happy? Aggrieved? Angry? “That reminds me,” Viserys spoke up, getting out of his seat and walking to you. You watched him curiously as he fumbled in his pockets to draw something out. “I…think that you should have this.” Your eyes widened when you saw that he was holding the ruby falcon necklace that Rhaenyra had gotten Aemma. “The Silent Sisters retrieved this from Aemma. I’ve held onto it for the past six months but,” Viserys smiled bitterly, “I felt like it would only be right for you to have this. Aemma was as dear to you as much as she was to me, and with my remarriage…I do not think it is right for me to hold on to it anymore.” You took the necklace gingerly and cradled it in your hands, feeling torn. Viserys put a hand on your shoulder gently, “Let this serve as not just a token of remembrance for Aemma…but also as one of gratitude. From me towards you for your counsel, steadfast loyalty, and friendship. I want you to know that despite how bereft I am over Aemma’s passing, I am thankful that you have continued to stay by my side.” Conflict consumed you as you looked up at your old friend. You thought you hated him for doing what he did to Aemma, but it seems your old friendship prevents you from detesting him completely. It was so difficult to completely hate someone who you've known your entire life, and has only looked out for you, despite his position of power. 

You rested your hand atop his and smiled tentatively, “Thank you, Viserys. This gesture means a lot to me…and I want you to know that I am grateful for you too. I will always be by your side, no matter what” Viserys flashed you a genuine smile for what seemed like the first time in months, “Thank you, Y/N. Truly.” 

Two weeks later, you were striding towards Viserys’ solar, a book in your hands, a smile on your face. Viserys and you had been discussing about the structure of a temple of a Valyrian deity for the past few days, and you were delighted when you found a book that contained descriptions of how temples of that particular deity were constructed in the empire of Yi Ti and the Old Empire of Ghis, immediately setting off to Viserys’ chambers to share it with him. You also remembered that today was the day that Viserys was due to walk with the Lady Laena to discuss the marriage pact between their houses. You had no doubt he would be feeling discouraged after that, and you hoped the book would lift his spirits.  

You nodded at Ser Steffon Darklyn, who was standing guard outside the King’s solar, and bustled into the room like you did many times before. What you did not notice however, was the man’s panicked look as he remembered the King was busy with another visitor when you entered. 

You swept into Viserys’ solar, a grin on your face, “Viserys, I found something of interest-'' But you nearly dropped the tome as you came to a dead halt, staring at the dismayed figures of both King Viserys and Lady Alicent - who were far too close together for your liking - in shock. A dead silence blanketed the room, before Viserys began appealing to you, “Y/N, this is not what it looks like-” 

Suddenly, Ser Steffon’s voice came from the door, “Your Grace, the Hand is requesting for an audience.” Viserys sighed, looking between the door and your accusatory expression. “Let him in, Ser Steffon.” 

The Hand entered the room, bowing to the King. He didn’t seem surprised to see Alicent here, you realised with growing indignation. Otto Hightower, that cunt, looked a little taken aback at your presence, however it was quickly smoothed over by his grim expression. 

“Your Grace, I’ve called the Small Council to an emergency session. An incident has-” 

“Can the matter wait?” Viserys demanded, walking over to you, but you backed away, unable to look him in the eye as you tightened your grip on the ancient tome. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. There has been a problem,” Otto paused, eyeing you and Alicent, clearly unsure whether he should say it in front of the both of you. “At Dragonstone.” 

Daemon, your heart thudded in your chest. What did he do now? 

“Gods be good,” Viserys muttered. “I understand. I will be there shortly. I have a pressing matter at hand.” With that, Viserys turned to you, his expression becoming sombre as he murmured, “I think I owe you an explanation.” 

“You don’t,” you whisper, a betrayed look on your face. “You owe one to Lady Laena. To Rhaenyra. To Aemma.” 

Viserys sighed, suddenly looking like he aged five years in an instant. You were aware of the Hand’s heavy gaze upon you and Viserys, as well as Alicent’s anxious one. “I swear to the Seven that it is not what it looks like, Y/N.” 

“Then pray tell, whatever good reason can there be for this…gathering?” you whispered harshly. “This does not seem like a one-off incident, am I right?” 

“It is true this was not…a first occurrence,” Viserys looked nervously at Alicent, who was picking at her fingernails again. He placed a hand on your shoulder, causing you to flinch. A sadness dawned in his eyes at your reaction, “I…I will explain it all to you later. But I need you to swear to me that you will not tell Rhaenyra. I’m afraid she will misunderstand-” 

“Your Grace,” Otto speaks up, causing the both of you to turn your gazes to him. You felt queasy when you saw the intrigued look in his eyes. “I’m afraid your conversation will have to wait. This matter is truly urgent.” Viserys sighed, looking at you pleadingly, “Please, Y/N. I promise, I will tell you everything later. Just…help me keep this secret, just once, alright?” You couldn’t do anything but press your lips into a thin line. Seeing there was no use begging you anymore, Viserys only lowered his head shamefully, patting your shoulder before leaving the room. Otto gave you and Alicent one last look, one that you returned with a glare, before he inclined his head and turned to follow the King. 

As the door closed, you and Alicent stood there, an uncomfortable silence blanketing the room. You were the first to break it, “How long has this been going on?” 

Alicent cast her eyes downward, “Nigh six months, my lady.” Her voice was quiet, timid. You crossed over the room to her, arms crossed in disapproval. “Your father ordered you to do so, didn’t he?” “...yes,” Alicent whispered tearfully. Your heart twists. As angry as you were, it was not directed to Alicent, but to Viserys, and the Hand. For once, you finally understood Daemon’s intense dislike of the Hand, and how appropriate it had been when he called him a leech. ‘Yet again, Daemon is proven correct,’ the bittersweet thought caused your lips to quirk upward. ‘Who knew he was such a patron of wisdom.’ You were silent as you let your thoughts deliberate the information you just learnt, before you spoke up once more. 

“Speak truthfully with me,,” your voice was firm, demanding, “Does the King intend to take you as a bride, instead of Lady Laena?” Alicent was silent for a moment, before she spoke in a trembling whisper, “It would appear so.”  

You massaged your temples. Gods be good. “And is that what you desire?” Alicent hesitates, looking torn. “It would be a great honour,” she murmurs, although her voice was lacking in conviction. “It would mean I would be Queen. There is no greater way to bring honour to House Hightower.” You waved your hand in the air dismissively, “Aside from honour, I’m asking you if this is what you want. And do not tell me that it is, just because your father or your House wills it. What I want to hear is if you, Alicent Hightower, want this marriage.” You lowered your voice, demand turning into solemnity, “The path of marriage…it is no easy one, Alicent. And you are still young, there is much of life you have not yet experienced.” You took a deep breath, voice shaking slightly, “You saw…what happened to the late Queen. The pressure to produce an heir…and eventually, she gave her life for it. Is this the sort of life you want to resign yourself to?” 

Alicent bit her lip, a tear trickling down her face. “I do not have a choice, do I?” You were aghast, “Of course, you have a choice. Everybody can dictate their life the way they choose. You need not resign yourself to the will of others. That is no way to live, Alicent.” 

Alicent gives you a bitter smile, still not meeting your eyes. “It is fortunate that you have the liberty to think so, my lady. But it is a concept I am unfamiliar with, and one that I can never grow to fully experience.” You wanted to protest, but you kept silence as you watched Alicent blink back tears, “I’ve learnt from a young age…the inevitability of duty. Run as you may, in the end, this freedom you speak of…it can never be ours. Everyone has a role to play in life, and the women are expected to play it exceptionally well. Noblewomen especially. We were born in this life to serve our fathers, our lords, our husbands, our houses. The thought of freedom is wonderful yes, but you soon realise, it slips through your fingers slowly, until all that is left is duty. Since duty is inescapable, no matter how reluctant I may be, I have learnt that accepting it earlier will cause me less hurt, instead of thinking foolish thoughts.” She finally meets your gaze, eyes filled with solemn determination. “Thank you for your concern, my lady. But this is a choice I have made. You would not change my mind, and I suspect I will not change yours. However, I hope you will respect my opinions on the matter.” 

You face was impassive, but your eyes were filled with sorrow. How wise she was for a girl so young. And how crushing the weight of knowledge can be. You continued to say nothing, instead gently prying apart Alicent’s clenched fingers, examining the wounds on her fingernails. “Come, let me help you put some ointment on them. I got some from the Maesters after the tourney.” 

Your mind was in a haze as you departed the King’s solar. Alicent’s words struck a deep chord in you. You always assumed that everyone would want the choice to pursue the life their heart desires, regardless of their sex, but you never stopped to consider the people who didn’t have the chance to. You had flouted the idea of duty for years, despising it, but seeing Alicent, who willingly embraced the burden of it…it made you feel ashamed. 

Consumed with your thoughts, you didn’t notice a hurried figure approaching until you both collided, nearly knocking each other to the ground. The other person grabbed you to steady you before you fell. Your eyes widened with shock at the guilty figure in front of you. “Rhaenyra?” The princess shushed you, pulling you to a dark corner. “What are you doing?” you whisper furiously, upon noticing her dressed in her dragonriding gear. “Are you sneaking out? At this hour?” 

Rhaenyra was bouncing on her heels impatiently, looking like she might take flight herself at any moment. “To Dragonstone. Daemon has stolen my brother’s egg, he intends to gift it to his mistress’ bastard child.” You were startled, and outraged at that. He would go to such great lengths just to get his brother’s attention? Sometimes you wonder if being a cunt was just in Daemon’s nature. “Please help me keep it a secret, Y/N,” Rhaenyra implored. If it weren’t for you gripping onto Rhaenyra’s forearms, you suspect she would have fled a long time ago. “Father shot me down when I suggested I fly there to retrieve the egg, and sent the Hand instead, but I have to go get it. It was my brother’s egg, I picked it out personally, Daemon has no right-” she struggled to find the words amidst her anger. 

“I understand, go. I won’t tell a soul.” Rhaenyra looked at you with wide eyes. “Are you…serious?” You nodded, letting go of her. “I think you will be able to get through to Daemon. I believe in you. Now go, before your uncle decides to take the Hand’s head off with a sword and cause a war between House Hightower and House Targaryen.” Rhaenyra laughs, before unexpectedly pulling you into a hug. “Y/N…thank you. It feels nice to know that you have faith in me” You were startled, but you hugged her back, and patted her hair soothingly, a gesture you’ve seen Aemma do with Rhaenyra. “You’re more capable than you think, Rhaenyra. Now go,” you pulled away, eyes fixed with hers. “And make Aemma proud, Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra nodded, a fierce look coming into her eyes. She shot you a brief smile before looking around furtively to make sure that no prying eyes were here to witness her escape, before sprinting away to the stables. You watched her go, biting your lip. Your conversation with Viserys and Alicent crossed your mind, and you felt a little regretful that you didn’t manage to tell Rhaenyra. But Viserys had begged you, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to say anything. You turned away, walking to the godswood, intent for some air. You had a feeling in your gut that sooner or late, all these secrets would culminate in an unpleasant ending.

Your words were proven true enough a few days later. You were reading a book in your chambers, when Rhaenyra burst into your room, nearly giving you a heart attack. You were ready to reprimand her, but one look at her furious, betrayed face, and you already knew. “He-” Rhaenyra bit out, “My father just announced he’s taking a new bride. Alicent.” 

You leaned back in your seat, your heart sinking. So Viserys had gone with it after all. You felt disappointment dawning on you, as well as guilt as you watched Rhaenyra pace around the room frustratedly. “I just don’t understand, how? He was going to marry Lady Laena, he swore it to me yesterday, when did he even get acquainted with Alicent?” Rhaenyra swung back to face you again, but she froze when she caught sight of your guilty expression. “Seven hells,” she breathed out, “You knew?” You closed your book, standing up, “I did, but I didn’t expect-” Rhaenyra let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Save it, Y/N. I do not wish to hear it now. I thought I could trust you.” “Rhaenyra-” you beseeched, but she had already turned her heel and left, slamming the chamber door shut behind her. You sunk back down in your seat, your heart pounding. By the gods, what a mess. 

Your chamber was once more the recipient of another visitor, though it might not have been the one you hoped for. “Rhaenyra?” you called out hopefully, only to be surprised when the timid form of Alicent appeared instead. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and you noticed fresh wounds on her nails once again. “Alicent…” you walked towards her, taking her hands in yours. Alicent began to cry then, and you drew her into your embrace, closing your eyes as you felt Alicent’s tears staining the front of your gown. 

A while later, you had seated Alicent on your bed, observing her as she cradled in her hand the cup of tea a servant had fetched for her. “I thought I knew how heavy this burden was,” she spoke, her voice barely a whisper as she looked despondently into her cup. “But I wasn’t expecting it to feel so painful.” You chewed your lip, as you focused on applying the ointment to the fresh wounds on her left hand. “I thought I was prepared, but I did not realise this would mean I would lose Rhaenyra.” 

Your heart was pounding as well, though not for the same reasons as Alicent. Rhaenyra’s backlash towards this announcement didn’t just signal an end to her ties with Alicent, but also with you. You remembered vividly how betrayed she had looked when she came to realise that you had known, and you had not told her. There was no coming back from that. Apart from your guilt however, you also felt a steady sense of despair building up in you. You had spent the past six months relying on the favour of Rhaenyra to prevent your expulsion from court and back home, how was that to go about now? 

“Oftentimes, life changes in ways we cannot anticipate,” you began quietly, trying to think of your next steps. “But it is best not to dwell on it, to move on and adapt.” Alicent looked distraught at that, but she kept silent, save for the tear trailing down her cheek. You finished applying the ointment to Alicent’s left hand, moving onto her right hand. Suddenly, an idea struck you. “Alicent, I know this is a bit sudden,” you said gingerly, “But if I may…I would like to request to serve you as your lady-in-waiting.” Alicent looked surprised, though there was no anger in her expression, much to your relief. You were worried that you might have overstepped, but Alicent only put down her cup of tea and squeezed your hand, “I would be honoured to have you as my lady-in-waiting, Y/N.” 

You had to refrain from sighing with relief, pleased that your gamble had worked out. You were banking on your close ties with Alicent now, and a queen’s power was surely more reliable than a princess’. At least, good enough to keep you at the Red Keep. Once again, you felt guilty for using Alicent this way, but it was not out of malicious intent either: you truly did care for Alicent like a daughter, much like you had with Rhaenyra. Besides…you realised that Alicent’s current predicament was much like that of your worst nightmares. The realisation left a bitter taste on your tongue. Alicent was everything you vowed you would never end up being, and watching all this unfold in front of you while you were powerless to stop it - it felt gut-wrenching. 

“Y/N,” Alicent’s soft voice snapped you out of your reality. You looked at her questioningly, seeing hesitation in her eyes. “If I may ask…why did the King never choose to marry you?” You felt an initial urge to cringe, but then you realised it was a valid question, and a good one at that. “The King clearly cares for you, and values you greatly. And not to mention, you are the sole heir to Highgarden,” Alicent looked unsure, “It would be a prudent decision to marry you, a brilliant match, even. Far eclipsing the advantages of a union with the daughter of the Hand of the King. Why has the King never considered that?” 

You fell silent, deep in thought. The points she made were excellent, and even though you felt discomfited by it, you were curious to know as well. In the end, you could only reply, “I do not know, Alicent.” 

“Your Grace,” you greeted stiffly, curtsying to Viserys, much to his distress. He reached out to you, trying to help you up, but you only stepped away. The hurt on his face almost made you feel guilty for your coldness, but you couldn’t stand to look at him right now. If it hadn’t been for him summoning you to his solar, you would’ve continued giving him the cold shoulder. 

Viserys sighed, giving up as he turned towards his model of the Old Valyria. His next question made you raise your eyebrows incredulously. “How is Rhaenyra coping with the news?” Unease grew in you, “Shouldn’t you be asking about Alicent instead, Your Grace?” Viserys grimaced at your use of formalities. “Alicent seems perfectly content, does she not? It is Rhaenyra whom I should be concerned about now.” 

You frowned, “It is quite the opposite, actually. Rhaenyra is angry, but I’m sure she will calm down sooner or late.” Viserys seems assuaged by that, retreating to take a seat at the armchairs before the fireplace. “I am thankful to hear that.” You took a seat next to him, levelling a hard glare at him. “And what of Alicent?” Viserys looked surprised, “What of her?” “She seems distraught over this match.” Viserys furrowed his brows, “This union brings her more benefit than it does me, what does she have to be distraught about? She will be Queen.” You finally exploded, “And so?” you demanded, rising up from your seat. “It is clear that she is unhappy with this match. She came to me crying today, Viserys. She’s frightened by the prospect of this marriage. And it is clear that she is  being used as a political pawn in her father’s games. How can you say she will not be distraught by this?” You half expected Viserys to get up and order you to leave, but he only sighed and washed a hand over his face. “Y/N,” he began slowly, gesturing for you to sit down. You refused, staring at him with defiant eyes. He sighed, sometimes you reminded him so much of Daemon that it was a wonder you were not a Targaryen yourself. That stubborn persistence and fiery temper…

“Alicent may be unhappy now, but I did not force her into this match.” He sighed again at your disbelieving expression, “Think of it this way, if she had vehemently opposed this match, she wouldn't have willingly visited my chambers every night without fail for the past six months. It was a scheme engineered by Otto, that I can see, but even so, Alicent wanted this. If she had been unwilling, she wouldn’t have taken the initiative to get closer to me, to indulge me in my interests.” 

You were still frowning, but you slowly lowered yourself back into your seat. You didn’t want to believe in Viserys’ words, but he had no reason to lie. “Ambition is a fickle thing, Y/N,” Viserys turned his gaze to the fire. “Some men choose to deny it, to preserve the illusion of their humility. But the truth is, every man is akin to a starving man when he sees a banquet when it comes to power. Do not underestimate the temptation of power, Y/N. Many men claim they do not desire it, but no one can resist it. Alicent is no different. She may feel uncomfortable with this match at first, but there is a small sliver of her that covets this position, and the power she can wield with it.” 

You chose to say nothing, but you tightened your grip on your armrests as Viserys spoke. Viserys sighed, turning his gaze back to you. “I have to be frank with you…my ideal match when I first heard the topic of remarriage being brought up, was you, Y/N.” You finally met his gaze again, mouth agape. “What?” 

Viserys nodded wearily, “It would’ve seemed natural. After all, we grew up together, and you are one of the people I hold dearest to my heart. I would have been happy to take you as my wife.” Your stomach began to churn. “But, I knew…with your temperament, you would never be happy in this marriage with me.” Viserys smiled ruefully at you, “I knew Aemma would have never wanted me to trap you in an unhappy marriage, and I don’t either.” 

“But you’re alright with trapping Alicent in an unhappy marriage instead?” you snapped. Viserys looked resigned, recognising that he would not be able to get through to you. “Alicent’s…distress over this match would fade sooner or late. Furthermore, I genuinely do care for Alicent’s wellbeing, and I will see to it she lacks for nothing as my queen.” “Material possessions do not equate to happiness, Viserys,” you said angrily. Viserys finally slams down his hand on his armrest, shocking you into silence. It was in rare moments like this where you are reminded that Viserys was still of the blood of the dragon, and that he was still your king. You grimaced, realising you might have spoken too carelessly. 

“What would you have me do then, Y/N?” Viserys blustered angrily, “Do you think getting remarried brings me joy? Every time I think about it, the thought sends me into a spiral of despair. That I would have to take a new wife, sire new heirs, with someone whom I might not love. Alicent may not be Aemma, but I care for her a great deal, and I will not have you deny it.” Viserys sinks back into his seat, his rage slowly turning back into that resigned, mournful look you’ve seen him wear so much lately. His voice cracked a little as he spoke, “I’m just…so tired, Y/N. You are my closest confidant, and even you can’t seem to understand how I feel, what I’m going through. After Aemma, I find myself losing the will to go through my days more and more with each passing day. It feels like my life has been drained out of me. I never liked partaking in the intrigues of court either, and without Aemma, it has only grown harder to bear. Alicent lessened the burden of grief on my shoulders. When I was with her, it felt like I could just…be. No kingly duties, no responsibilities, no Small Council on my back, nitpicking my every move, scheming to consolidate power. She made me feel like I was just Viserys, a feeling I only experienced with you, Aemma, and Daemon.” 

“...you really do care for her then?” you asked quietly. Viserys nods, looking earnest. “I do. Trust me, Y/N, I would not do anything to cause her unhappiness. And I believe as time passes, I will grow to feel love for her.” You played with your fingers uncomfortably, not knowing what to make of this conversation. Your insight into Viserys’ thoughts only sowed more conflict into your already torn feelings towards him, and you didn’t know what the right thing was to do anymore. The two of you stared into the roaring fire, as the solar was enveloped in a thick blanket of tense, pensive silence. 

On Driftmark, there was silence as well. But this silence felt more taut, more dangerous, like a provoked beast who was readying to strike. 

At least that’s what Daemon Targaryen thought as he took a swig of Arbor Gold from his goblet, taking in his surroundings. The Velaryons had a strange taste for decor, which he assumed was an acquired taste. 

Lord Corlys sat from across him, a surly expression on his face as he spoke. Daemon couldn’t find it in him to pay attention to the man’s incessant complaints. His mind kept wandering back, much to his frustration, to his conversation with Mysaria a few days ago. Her words, her caution, her fear…so unlike a certain someone he knew.

His mind couldn’t help but chase thoughts of her wellbeing. Had she heeded his advice? Had he gotten through to her, even with her stubborn insistence? Surely she must know that he only wished for the best for her. She was like family to him after all.

Lord Corlys clears his throat, and Daemon slid his focus back to him, a bored look on his face. “You are aware the King has taken Alicent Hightower to wed?” Lord Corlys asks, a shifty look that Daemon couldn’t quite place filling his eyes. Daemon shot him an irate look. It was hard not to know, particularly since this matter was what led him to be sitting in this exact chair, listening to Lord Corlys blather about angrily. 

“I heard that the Hightower girl has announced Lady Y/N as her chief lady-in-waiting.” This snapped Daemon back to attention. He took another sip of his wine to hide his smirk, ‘So she is cleverer than I gave her credit for.’  

“I don’t see how that relates to why you asked me here, Lord Corlys,” Daemon’s voice was annoyed. Lord Corlys’ expression turned sly, “In all honesty, I had expected that the King might have taken Lady Y/N to be his bride instead. He gave off the impression he might.” Daemon’s eyebrows shot to his forehead, and he nearly choked on his wine. “I can assure you, Lady Y/N would never let that happen,” Daemon told Lord Corlys, voice dripping with amusement. “But he is the King. It is quite impossible to refuse an order from the King. And besides,” Lord Corlys’ lips quirked upwards, “I have heard that Lady Y/N is rather fond of your brother herself. She has been dining with him each night since Queen Aemma’s passing.” 

Daemon tried to keep his expression impassive, but his grip on his goblet tightened. The thought of his brother taking Y/N to wed…it sent an odd, visceral feeling through him. Something that was akin to possessiveness and…jealousy? Mayhaps he was drunk. There was simply no way. No way at all. 

Lord Corlys smirked, the Prince’s dark expression told him that he had been successful in inciting some anger in the Prince against the King. Which was exactly all he needed. And soon enough, it was official: Daemon Targaryen had just agreed to wage war on the Stepstones.

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A/N: so if you made this far, bless you. This was a very long chapter, so hats off to you for finishing it 💗 the next chapter will be much shorter, I promise, although it might take longer because i’m going on a short trip. hopefully i can get it done by next wednesday! 

as always, if you loved this chapter, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! thank you for your support 💗 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Count to Three

Emerie x reader

a/n: only a short piece since I haven’t written for Emerie before and I’m a little unsure about this?

warnings: uhhh…lesbians?, fluff, sexual undertones…

word count: 1,425

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She had been so reserved when you first met her.

Having moved to Windhaven along with your brother and being tasked with getting new leathers in, you had sought out her shop, intending to purchase, and had exited having sewn the seeds of a deep companionship. Perhaps deeper than you had anticipated, but that doesn’t bother you any longer.

What you hadn’t been prepared for, however, was her quietly lascivious nature. The calmly stated, erotic book recommendations; the out-of-the-blue fantasies she would occasionally recall for you after a shared meal; the deadpan comments she could murmur to you in the dead of night, the both of you pressed a little closer than appropriate under the guise of keeping out the slight chill. She sends shivers up your spine.

“So, what did you think?” She’d asked you one evening—one you’d remember well.

“I liked the writing style very much,” you replied sincerely, “I enjoyed the small details littered throughout the story, and how they accumulated in the end when they were all audibly noted and repeated back to her, as though he could actually see her—I thought that was wonderful.”

“Mhmm. And the scenes?”

“Oh…uh, I liked the scenes where they were together a lot, but that part where he was speaking with one of her friends and—”

“I mean the scene where they fuck.”

Your face burned at her corse choice of words. “Oh…well, I thought…” you paused, swallowing the lump in your throat. There wasn’t even the faintest flush on Emerie’s cheeks, and yet you felt like your skin was hotter than the sun. You cleared your throat. “It was certainly intense…” you hedged, “surprisingly graphic…”

“Did you like it?”

“Oh—uh, me personally?”

Her lips curved faintly, eyes twinkling. “Yes.”

“I suppose it was…” you struggled for words, “…it showed they loved one another…a lot.”

She had hummed, an amused expression on her features as she pulled a book from her shelf, walking back over to her bed and returning to her seat beside you. “Try this one next.” You took it from her, fingers brushing along the spine, opening up the first page a little hesitantly, “what’s this one about?”

“Women.”

You glanced at her sidelong, “they’re all about women, what’s different about this one?”

Emerie smiled. “It’s only about women.”

Your brows rose, lips parting on a shaky inhale before you glanced back to the book. “Why do you have something like this? We aren’t even…the books you manage to get anyway—we aren��t supposed to read things like that.” Let alone this, is what you didn’t need to say.

“Aren’t you curious?” Emerie murmured beside you, a few candles on her side table the only light in the room, save for the faint silver glow of the moon. “Don’t you want to find out what’s being kept from us? What they think is so bad about these books?” Your eyes scanned the first page involuntarily, curiosity indeed sparking.

But, you closed the cover, keeping it placed in your lap, fingers latching over its edge. You couldn’t look at her.

“Why do you think I would like something like this?” You’d whispered, voice trembling. A faint fear running delicately beneath your skin. It’s not unheard of for people to tell on one another, luring someone into revealing an unacceptable truth, then having that trust dashed upon the rocks.

“I like it.”

Your head snapped to her, eyes wide. Speechless. “You aren’t— Emerie, what if I told someone? Why would you say something like that?”

“I trust you.” She’d replied solemnly. “And I think you might like it, too.”

Then before you could form a defence, she’d leaned forward, slightly roughened fingers sliding beneath your jaw, pressing against your cheek to direct your head to the side as she’d brought her lips to your own.

You’d been momentarily struck dumb, paralysed with shock as the feeling of her mouth had sunk into your skin, the warmth from her touch irrevocably ingraining itself in your memory.

She’d pulled away, but her palm remained searing into you, your heart pounding against your ribs, swelling in your throat. You thought she was going to kiss you again, but she hadn’t, simply running her thumb across the crest of your cheek. “Will you read it?”

You couldn’t look away. Fingers trembling over the forgotten book. But you’d nodded your head. “Okay.”

And the rest was history.

————

A warrior’s body presses itself between your wings, calloused palms sliding appreciatively around your waist, squeezing. A face presses into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

You’d heard the door shut, but not her walking up behind you, her footsteps having grown significantly quiet over the past year. Unless you’re actively listening for her, it’s usually the case she’ll be able to sneak up on you.

“How was training?” You ask, liking how her palms fit around your body, how her arms squeeze at your waist. “Good. Tiring.”

“Go lie down for a bit if you’re tired,” you murmur back to her, halting the slicing of your knife as you tilt your head, trying to see her. Emerie raises from your shoulder to meet your eyes, pressing a kiss to your lips that you hadn’t expected but lean into. Your grip grows loose on the knife, and it takes little effort for her to pry your fingers from the handle. “Come with me?”

“I’m making lunch…” you hedge, finally glancing back to the food.

“I’ll help. Afterwards. So will you come with me?”

“For what?” You asks warily, having grown familiar with her appetite.

Emerie’s hands splay across your lower abdomen, fingers ticklishly tracing across the homespun gown. Her lips curve, eyes twinkling. “To relax, of course.”

“Relax how?” You push, narrowing your eyes on her.

Emerie’s touch trails lower, her head dipping to return to your neck, lips ticklishly grazing the length of your throat before pausing at a spot just shy of your ear, beneath the hinge of your jaw. You pull an inhale into your lungs when her hand slips between your thighs, still so unfamiliar with such feminine sensations. Even her lightest touches completely overload your senses. At your back, your wings twitch involuntarily, stuttering helplessly with stimulation.

“Like this,” she whispers, laying small, feverish kisses to your throat, fingers pressing to a spot between your thighs that causes your hips to shift, languidly rolling over her palm. “Emerie…” you whisper, hands flattening over the table, fingertips pressing hard into the surface. Heat beginning to simmer.

“Come with me,” she whispers, the promise so alluring when spoken from her mouth. “Why hold back?”

“Because…lunch…”

“Lunch can wait,” she assures. “This, however…?” Her fingers slide lower, finding that dip between your thighs, applying a gentle pressure, beckoning her fingers to invite you forward. “I think we should have it right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.” Her palm shifts, rubbing between your legs, and you have to drag in a shaky inhale to steady yourself.

You manage to push yourself upright, turning around to face her, already missing her touch. Your hands find place in the crook of her elbows, her own hands returning to lightly grasp your waist, her preferred place to hold you. “Bedroom?” You ask, a note breathless.

“Why not here?”

“Because it’s the kitchen,” you scold, skin flushing.

Her lips curve. “Perfect for food.”

You pin her with as fierce a look as you can manage, putting your foot down, “bedroom or living room, or it’s not happening.” Emerie smiles, squeezing your waist, leaning forward to brush her nose against your own. “You’re so arousing when you try to be stern.” She presses a kiss to your lips. “Bedroom. Do you mind being on your back this time?”

“For what?” You breathe, close enough to feel the flutter of air her lashes bat your way. Emerie smiles, her somewhat crooked teeth tugging at her lower lip. “What do you feel like? Mouths, or…” She trails off, liking the way your skin heats at the unsaid words. “Or,” you answer, eyes locked with one another, “I want both of us.”

“Might take some warming up,” Emeries murmurs, a wicked gleam in her gaze. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“I blame your books,” you whisper, a smile playing on your mouth. “Putting all sorts of ideas in my head.”

Emerie smiles, her eyes sliding shut as she basks in your presence, a contented sigh falling from her lips. “I knew you’d like them.”

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[agentmarvel]

Ooooh, this is exciting!!

I'm challenging you to write... (For the theme, I don't know if I'm allowed to choose more than one, but if not, you can choose between the two). The theme is angst to smut. The character is John Price. The 2 - 3 words are 'broke down car', 'forest' and "I've love you for ten years..."

Anyway, I love your writing, and I can't wait to read this!! ❤️❤️

Nella x

nella! thank you so much for sending one! 🥰 i had fun with this one! v dramatic and got a lot longer than i intended. lmao. i went with angst + happy(ish) ending bc i have so many requests for price + smut.

john price x fem!reader

cw: graphic description of injury, death

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

When John comes to, his head is pounding, and he can taste blood in his mouth. A sickly iron smell floods his nose, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from retching in the dirt. His vision is blurry still, but against a sable sky, he can see a thick pillar of stark smoke and glimmering fragments of glass blinking at him from the asphalt as he struggles to stand.

Finding his footing, his vision comes into full focus, and he feels sick to his stomach.

His car, upside down in the ditch.

The windshield is smashed to bits. One headlight flickers while the other stays dark. Everything around him is silent, save for the sound of his own racing heartbeat.

He doesn’t quite recall what happened entirely. Last he knew, he was cruising just a hair above the speed limit; the windows were down, radio on, and he had been looking forward all day to a peaceful night drive through the backwoods with… you.

You.

You were in the car with him. Pretty thing in a sundress, his fingers tracing a familiar path on your thigh, your eyes lighting up as you recognize a song and start singing along. But the sun set, and your sunny gaze turned cloudy. You were in the passenger seat, arms folded across your chest, tears streaming down your face as you screamed at him. An ache in his ribcage murmurs a reminder that he was screaming at you, too.

A fight. He doesn’t remember what it was about, but it was ugly. Terror grips his heart with ice cold hands, panic spreading through his bones like a suppression system. What happened? How did it happen? What did he do?

It doesn’t matter now. Whatever it was, he’ll concede that you were right. He’ll do anything. Anything at all as long as it means you’re safe, you’re okay.

You aren’t anywhere in his line of sight. He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but he knows damn well that no matter how angry you were at him, you’d never leave him to the elements. Not even to get help; no, not his girl, a world class combat medic.

He opens his mouth to call for you, but the only sound that comes out is a broken croak. It burns his throat. Limping, sparks of pain shooting through his legs, he staggers around the front end of the car. Only a moment does he pause in the fulgurating headlight. He knows the odds aren’t good, judging by the state of the wreckage, but he refuses to allow himself the courtesy of preparing for the worst.

His joints scream at him as he crouches down beside the passenger side, shards of the since-shattered window digging into his skin like razor wire. John Price has never been one for cowardice, but it takes a solid few seconds for him to convince himself to actually look.

The moment he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

You’re still in the car. Suspended by your still-fastened seat belt, you dangle there. Gravity has drawn the flow of blood into your hairline, matting the strands in crimson. Your beautiful face borders on unrecognizable through the injuries. The dress you wear is stained with gore. The sight makes his stomach turn, and this time, he can’t keep it down.

A wail of agony is followed by a gag, bile rising in his throat and spilling before he can react. He doesn’t even spit on the pavement before he’s reaching in through the gap and trying to pull you free. It’s a struggle, but John manages to pry the belt just enough to shake you loose.

He pulls you into his lap, carding a hand through your hair as his crackling voice tries to wake you.

“C’mon, dove. Open those pretty eyes for me, yeah? You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright. Come on, please.”

You’re still breathing, a ragged rise and fall of your chest accompanied by a sharp wheezing in your throat. You’re alive, thank Christ, but for how long?

It feels like an eternity before your eyelids flutter open. He can see you struggling, but he begs you to focus on him. You look up at him. Something is off. It’s like you’re looking through him, not at him.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart, I promise. Just look at me, okay? We’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be alright.”

“John,” you whisper, the vaguest semblance of a smile settling on your lips. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. M’not goin’ anywhere, okay? Gonna stay right here with you.”

You lift a hand, but he can hear the bones in your arm popping and cracking in the process. John catches your hand before it can reach his cheek and presses a kiss to your palm. You mutter something. He’s not sure what. He’s more focused on the way you seem to be going in and out of focus, unable to hold on to consciousness without waver. 

A beat passes where your gaze finally meets his. You look surprised for a moment, sigh his name like a question. He just nods, reaffirming that he’s got you. You smile again, a little wider this time.

Suddenly, you cough. Blood splatters across your face, the force of your lungs pushing out the liquid. There’s a gurgle and another small cough before your expression softens and you go entirely limp in his arms.

He panics. The first four stages of grief hit him like a freight train, all at once and with no warning. He’s screaming, sobbing, begging, bargaining. All he needs is a few more moments with you, enough time to tell you how much he loves you, how sorry he is, to beg for your forgiveness.

But he won’t get that. Any of it. It’s something he knows all too well.

A glint in his periphery catches his eye, and he can’t help but look. 

The reflection of the moon beams off a watch. Attached to the watch is an arm, one that looks awfully familiar. He leans forward a bit further, pressing you into his chest, and sees something that he never could’ve fathomed had he not seen it with his own eyes. There, in the driver’s seat, sits John. He’s beat to shit, covered in blood, eyes vacant below an open mouth in the invert. He’s… He’s dead, too? 

There’s really no time to dwell on it before a call of his name from the darkness draws his attention from his body, the horror not subsiding. But the voice sounds an awful lot like yours. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear footsteps pounding the dirt, a cadence echoing between the trees. His eyes dart around, trying to locate the source. He scrambles to his feet and calls your name in return, hearing your voice again.

“John? Where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

His mouth goes dry. This is impossible. You’re dead. He watched you die.

But he’s dead. And he’s here. And you can hear him.

A flash of color at the treeline finds you emerging, and relief washes over John. Even with the aches and pains in his legs, he runs to you. Scooping you up in his arms, he holds you tightly to him. You’re real, real enough for him. Corporeal enough for him to wrap you in his arms and never let you go again.

“How is this possible?” he whispers into your hair.

“I don’t know,” you answer.

It’s quiet now, though John’s mind is racing. None of this makes sense. Do you remember dying? Because he sure doesn’t. Why did you appear so far away when he stayed right beside the car? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense.

“I look awful,” you finally say, leaning back and looking up at John. “Can you still love me if I have to look like this for all eternity?”

He huffs out a laugh, kissing your forehead.

“Darling, I’ve loved you for ten years… Nothing is going to stop me now.”

pick your prompt here!💌

[tragedysorbet]

Beautiful With You

A Malstarion Story

So, this is the first post of something I've written I've made in, well, years and I actually kinda like it so I'm feeling brave enough to post it.

Most of my stuff is one off stories, so, I may post more if I'm feeling braver after posting this.

CW: Mentions of enslavement and sexual assault, no graphic depictions. Just to set up parts of Malvaeryon’s back story.

Tags: Astarion x Male OC, Astarion X Male Tav. Boys kissing. Mal's terrible self image. Fluff.

The face that looked back at him in the mirror was a stranger sometimes. A person he knew was himself but had been changed so much by pain both physical and emotional that who he once was seemed unrecognizable.

His eyes mismatched, one pale amethyst the other a baleful, bloody red. His once flawless complexion maimed with a large, three pronged scar across his cheek that creeped over the bridge of is nose. Lips cursed to carry the spider-legged mark of the Goddess who haunted his mind.

The face of someone else. Someone who was beautiful once and had been rendered ugly as a punishment. For being born wrong. For daring to dream of a life that they felt was outside of his station. For trusting someone he should never have trusted in the first place. For having the gall to take a hand offered in help to put an end to being tortured and humiliated until the end of his life.

For simply wanting to live.

For so long, he believed he would never see his real face again. The young prince with the sly smiles and glittering lavender eyes. Who looked at the world with bored indifference and who’s eyes never held the manic gleam of an unhinged fury.

Even now, he knew that man had died in the boudoir of Lolth’s High Priestess. Chained and blindfolded and used by Matron and Acolytes alike until no semblance of that young man remained. To resist was to welcome the bite of their snake headed whips, the sharpness of their knives on his skin to drain his blood if he wouldn’t give them what they wanted, their mind altering spells to force him to give that anyway. All that was left when they finally left him alone was shame, agony and fury.

Malvaeryon endured it as long as he could and finally gave up hope. Retreating into himself and disappearing to survive. Even after he was free from one captor, he fell into the web of far worse. No longer the plaything of her priesthood, he became a pawn of the Spider-Queen herself and lost more of who he was as a result.

It all served to make him feel far smaller than he knew he was. He felt undeserving of things such as love and friendship because who would ever want someone so broken? Who could trust him when he didn’t seem to trust himself?

Yet, somehow, some way, he’d managed to do just that. By the sheer luck of having been captured by mindflayers and infected with an Illithid tadpole, he managed to find himself at the heart of a group of people just like him. Each struggling against a blow fate had already dealt them, yet united to each other whether they liked it or not.

Suddenly, without realizing it, he was forming friendships.

Even more suddenly, he’d fallen in love.

He had never intended to fall as hard as he had. His questionable sanity aside, he always felt unworthy to even think of wanting to love someone let alone be loved in return.

Yet Astarion had found a place in his heart so quickly that it scared him. What started as purely physical had deepened into a love so fierce that it was terrifying. Brought together by forces they could not control, they had forged a bond that was unshakable even after confessing that their demons still haunted them.

Astarion everything to him. He loved the way he smiled and the high tittering sound of his laughter. The sight of his face each morning when they woke up in his tent, his head resting against his chest as he mumbled a quiet “good morning” to him made him smile and then lean down to kiss him, whispering the greeting back. His heart full in a way he never expected it would ever be.

He would kill for him. Die for him. Lay the corpses of his enemies at his feet with but one word from him.

He wondered every day why someone like Astarion wanted to be with someone like him.

As he stood waiting for his companions to finish getting ready to set up camp for the evening, Malvaeryon found himself in the familiar position of looking at his reflection in the mirror by his beloved’s tent. Taking in what he felt were his ruined features and wondering once again how Astarion could bring himself to kiss that face or look at those scars.

Compared to the otherworldly beauty of the vampire himself, he felt that he was somehow less than what Astarion deserved. He needed someone strong and beautiful at his side. Not a broken, maimed wretch like him. And yet the thought that one day Astarion would realize that terrified him far more than any nightmare or vision he’d ever had.

He frowned at his reflection, thinking of ways he might change his appearance to look less like something from a nightmare when the feeling of arms encircling his waist and the icy touch of cold lips pressed softly to his cheek pulled him from his thoughts. He was startled, but didn’t flinch as once he might have. Instead, he could only smile and turn his head to catch those lips in a soft kiss.

“Hello, beautiful.” Astarion purred, a sly grin on his face when he pulled back from the kiss and nodding towards the mirror. “Enjoying the view, I see.”

“More like staring at the wreckage.” Mal admitted with a small smile in response, turning away from the mirror to fully face Astarion. His arms draping over his shoulders as he leaned in to press another kiss to his forehead. “I much prefer this view. It’s prettier.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow at that and glanced from Mal to the mirror and back again. He knew he was trying his best to keep a playful front, but Astarion had the most uncanny knack for seeing straight to the heart of him. He could fool anyone on or under Faerûn but he could never seem to fool him. Not for an instant.

When he looked back at him, his hand lifted and touched the Drow’s cheek, his thumb tracing one of the three lines of the scars on his face as he looked at him thoughtfully. Despite himself, Malvaeryon’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the cold touch of Astarion’s hand. Loving any affection given to him, no matter how small.

“Don’t close your eyes, Darling. Look at me.” Astarion said with a slight tut, smiling when Mal’s eyes blinked open in surprise. There was a warmth in his gaze that he had only recently began to show him and it was there now. Soft. Loving. Accepting. Looking at him and seeing him as he was.

“Hmm. You know, that mirror’s not a very good one. I think the silver in it’s warped.” Astarion said, tilting his head to once side as he let his gaze wander from Mal’s face to look at the rest of him. “You’ll need a better one if you want to know what you really look like.”

“Oh?” Mal asked with a faint laugh, his own gaze reflecting back adoration as he watched the vampire looking him over. “I don’t suppose you know where we can find a better one, do you?”

“My love, why ever would you need one when you have me? Follow me and I’ll be your mirror.” Astarion asked with a laugh, slipping out of his arms and taking his hands. He tugged gently, stepping backwards to guide him away from the tent and to a part of the camp that was a little more secluded.

Mal couldn’t deny feeling a little amused. It hadn’t been that long ago that Malvaeryon had done the same for him. He recalled telling him about his piercing eyes and his dangerous smile. When really his heart had been focused on the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed or the way his hair curled around his ears.

He allowed himself to be lead away from the tent, passed the others and up the stairs of the ruined tower they’d decided to stay at before making their way into Rivington in the next day or so. Ravens scattered away in a flurry of dark feathers as they reached the top. The light of full moon shone that night, bright and clear, chasing away any shadows Mal might try to retreat into.

“Perfect.” Astarion said as he looked up into the cloudless night. The light of the moon making the silver of his hair seem like starlight, giving Mal the sudden desire to run his fingers through it if his hand wasn’t firmly held in Astarion’s. It was such a shame that he couldn’t see how truly breathtaking he was. If he could, he’d give up his own reflection just so the man he loved could finally see his own.

“Now. Shall I tell you what you want to hear or would you like the truth, my darling?” Malvaeryon’s attention was once again pulled from his thoughts by the sound of his voice and the question posed go him made him blink. His tone was light but the words made him unsure.

“Because if I tell you what you want to hear, I would say that the scar on your cheek is hideous. Your eyes unnerving. The mark on your lips inspires fear and distrust and makes the whole camp question every word that comes out of your mouth.” He continued, waving a hand dismissively as he spoke.

Mal couldn’t help but flinch as his every negative thought was laid bare. It was strange to hear it out loud. And to hear it all in his lover’s voice made it all the more difficult to listen to. He knew it was what he wanted to hear, according to Astarion. But his self-doubt made it feel as though it were all the truth.

“Not exactly nice things to say about someone I happen to care a great deal about, Malvaeryon.” Astarion tutted, giving him a look as though he were scolding him. Wagging a finger at him disapprovingly. “They’re lies, if I’m being honest. Complete slanders, really.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask the truth.” Mal replied with a faint laugh. Not quite sure if he could handle more after that when the hand that held his pulled him close. The other cupped under his chin and pulled Malvaeryon into a soft, slow kiss. The kind Astarion had begun giving him entirely of his own accord each morning and night.

A promise, he’d said, that he would be there while he dreamed and would still be there when he woke up. A reassurance to the both of them that what they were was real. And that what they were was real.

Malvaeryon’s eyes closed slowly as he let himself relax into it. Kissing back gently, his hand reaching up to hold Astarion’s wrist while the other gripped his shoulder.

“But. That is not what I see when I look at you.” The high elf breathed softly as he pulled back slowly, his lips still brushing his as he spoke. With one finger he traced the lines of the scars on his cheek then trailed it slowly underneath his jawline. The action making him sigh and tilt his face in the direction of the touch.

“What do you see, Astarion?” He asked quietly, letting the words leave him. Lulled into a sense of calm by the touch of his finger tips along his skin. His eyes opened, half lidded, to look at him. His heart and all his hope in his eyes. Suddenly needing to know more than he realized.

“Why, the man I love, of course.” Astarion replied matter of factly. “You should see him. He’s got the face of an angel. With skin the shade of wisteria in perfect sunlight and soft as silk.”

He caressed his cheek with the back of his hand as if to prove his point and it made Mal shiver just slightly. Surrendering to Astarion’s affection. Feeling lucky to be the recipient of something he gave to nobody else but him.

“You make him sound so handsome.” He said with a slight shake of his head, speaking of himself as thought they were discussing someone else. Finding it not the least bit strange. It was no different than the silly hypothetical questions they’d ask each other in bed each night. Asking each other would they still have fallen in love if they knew each other before, when Astarion was a magistrate and Malvaeryon a prince. Wondering what it might have been like if they’d never been on the Nautiloid. If Mal was still an assassin for hire would he kill Cazador if Astarion asked him to.

Would you still love me if you knew how beautiful I used to be?

“He’s so much more than that. He’s an absolute vision. His eyes are like two gems glittering in the dark. One the pale amethyst of a summer twilight. The other a bright red, like blood on fresh snow.” Astarion replied, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Mal’s face before threading his fingers through it. “His hair is like a stream of starlight. Silver with streaks of ethereal blue catching when the light hits it just right. And his lips… oh, his lips…”

He sighed and kissed him again. It was as if he’d been waiting the whole time they’d been together to kiss him as often as he could. There was no over the top theatrical passion to it as it had been at the start. No need to lure Malvaeryon in. Not when he surrendered his mouth eagerly, his arms wrapping around him, hands gripping lightly at the back of his shirt as he kissed him back. Astarion’s kisses had become soft and slow and lingering. Full of love as much as desire. There was a need to them that was just as great as when he fed on him each evening.

It was as if he needed those kisses in order to live, too.

They were both dazed and smiling when they pulled apart. Astarion giving a short little laugh as he trailed softer kisses along his jaw to his neck.

“You are perfect. Every time.” He said softly nuzzling into his neck. “I’ve completely forgotten what I was talking about.”

“You were telling me about how much you liked the love of your life's lips.” Mal replied, tilting his head back. Exposing his throat almost on instinct after so many nights of being Astarion’s favorite midnight snack.

“I do. They’re soft and oh so kissable. His neck, too.” Astarion’s teeth nipped lightly over the two puncture scars on the prince’s neck as his hands slid from his hair, his arms draping over his shoulders. He reluctantly leaned away from his neck, a hungry look in his eyes that was unmistakable, but there was another deeper meaning in the dark scarlet of his gaze. A sincerity that cut Malvaeryon to the heart.

“You’re beautiful, Mal. One look and anyone with eyes can see that.” He said the faint teasing tone fading from his voice. The look in his eyes commanding Malvaeryon to meet his gaze and not to look away, no matter how much he wanted to blush and look down at his feet.

“Nothing that they did to you could ever change that for me. Because they also could never change what’s truly beautiful about you.” His right hand slipped from his shoulder to rest over Malvaeryon’s chest. His heart beat beneath it as strong as ever. Perhaps it was racing from all the kisses and attention. His gaze fell to where his hand came to rest and it only fluttered all the harder.

“This. Right here. This precious heart that only I get to hold.” He closed his eyes and bent to kiss just over his heart beat then kissed him lightly on the lips when he came back up. “I can’t say that I’ve had much luck at anything in the last two centuries. But every night hold you and hear the sound of your heart beating, I consider myself the luckiest man in the world. Because all of this, inside and out, is all mine.”

“I love you.” He said after a moments thought, as if finally able to say the words after holding them back for so long.

The words seemed to stop his thoughts in their tracks. They were ones they’d said before, half serious. Said only in playful tones and thought over obsessively later on when they were alone. Neither of them brave enough to actually say it.

And Astarion just said them without a shred of irony. No little laugh to say he was joking. No quick change of the subject. He said it first. And the look in his eyes said that he meant every word.

“I… I love you.” Malvaeryon whispered so softly he almost wasn’t sure he had spoken at all. His gaze falling once more to the hand on his heart as he moved a hand to hold it. He lifted it to his lips and soft kissed Astarion’s knuckles. “I love you, Astarion. More than anything.”

There was a tremble in his voice and a sting in his eyes. He felt as if he’d just spoken a long held secret and now he was bracing for the inevitable betrayal. The cruel laughter. The mocking words.

Yet none came. Instead the hand he held only tightened it’s grip and he found himself kissed again. And again and again. Until all that frightened tension left him and he kissed him back. Lost in him. His mind forgetting all about his past and about mirrors and scars.

He thought only of him. Of a future they would share together once all was said and done. He finally allowed himself the luxury of hope. Allowed himself to feel worthy of being loved. And of loving Astarion in return.

When they pulled apart again, Astarion stepped back and pulled him along with him once more. Back to the camp where his tent awaited them both. A promise in his eyes that that wasn’t the last kiss they’d share that night.

Nor the last time he’d whisper those three little words to him.

And as Malvaeryon allowed himself to be lead back to the place they both currently called home, he finally felt beautiful.

Because Astarion loved him.

[multimystica]

Card of the Day!

So, I'm not great with editing/design or with running social media but this is honest work so let's go! Take a deep breath and pick a card. If you want a personal reading message me here, leave an ask, or message me on my ig @multimistica (beware of spelling, it's spelled like that because my ig page is in portuguese) This reading is much more intense than I intended it to be, it may help to mentalize what you need advice on today to narrow down the meaning of your chosen card from the descriptions I've made below so your reading can be more precise.

Card 1 - X of Swords

Defeat. Peak of despair. This is pretty much rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. You might suffer some sort of tragic event today in which you feel defeated, like a martyr, broken beyond repair, or something of the like. It's like when something goes wrong in the worst way it possibly could. The message of this card is it can no longer get any worse than that, pick yourself up and move on. Dwelling in that is no use, move on (as hard as it may be). The depiction of this card is quite graphic, for those unfamiliar with it, here it is:

So help yourself, remove the swords, tend to your wounds and move on. Biggest advice with this card is to move on cause it's literally the worst it can get. The worst that could happen did happen, so after this it can't get any worst at all, and that's what brings relief about it. If this is rock bottom, and you're there and still alive, things can no longer get any worse, and it is in that you must find your peace and fucking FINALLY start healing and moving up, after this defeat things can FINALLY start to get better, even if a small bit at time. You've survived the worst, now you live on to see the best start coming.

Card 2 - II of Pentacles

Multitasking. There may be a lot on your plate right now, as you're dealing with lots of things. It's the kind of day where you're in a rush with a long list of tasks to finish, you have to get things done and you wish the day extra hours to accomodate all of that workload. This is also true in a figurative way, you might be having to deal with lots of emotions all over the place. The depiction of this card is literally a juggler:

It's certainly hard to deal with such workload, so if one or two tasks go unfinished today, that's okay, just keep doing your best at it. If this card speaks to you in the emotional sense, dealing with ups and downs or with indecisiveness, the advice is to try and work through said emotions in a healthy way as they come and go. Be it work-wise or emotionally wise, the biggest advice of this card is to set your priorities and work through them in order from the most important to the least. This card may also refer to financial decisions, in this sense it is imperative you pay attention to how you're spending your money, make sure you don't spend more than you earn, if you're already doing so, then it can mean one of two things (or even both): Be careful on your financial decisions (if you're investing in something rn it means a high risk), that is the first thing. The second thing is you're going to have to work hard. Remember, hard work is highly rewarded.

Card 3 - VII of Swords

Doing what serves your own ends, often in unethical ways. This card can mean a fuckaton of different things depending on your life's context right now and in a collective reading like this it might be hard to tell in which sense it applies to you, but I'll do my best. First of all, are you being unethical, sneaky, or dodgy in any way? If so, the message is simple, stop being a bitch and go look for a ethical way to get what you're going for, seriously. Be conscientious, do no harm, if you're dead set on something by unethical means there is certainly a better, more ethical way to get it and you must find it. If you're about to do harm to someone seeking justice, don't, let divine justice take place instead. Take a good look at this card:

With that out of the way, if you're not doing any sketchy shit right now, then BEWARE.

If you're in a relationship - Beware of cheating, betrayal, mind games, a stab on the back, broken trust, going behind your back, that kind of stuff coming from your partner.

If you're in a bad friend group - Beware of being backstabbed, of negative gossip, people betraying your trust, taking things from you, going behind your back or fucking you over somehow.

In the work/academic context - Beware of people stealing your work, stealing your ideas, erasing your name from a paper and putting theirs in, plagiarizing you, backstabbing you via the HR, planning a coup, or anything.

IN ANY CASE - Beware of two-faced people. Keep your guard up, protect your secrets, don't let anyone fuck you over in any way, beat the enemy at their own game.

It's really hard to see any positive trait in this card, the whole damn card is a huge red-flag for unethical stuff, and the worst part of it is that in the case of this card the asshole at hand is usually able to get away with it. You must stay alert and be smart.

Other than the whole vitriol of warnings this card brings to stay alert to those surrounding you is, if you have to make an escape out of something, this is the right time to do so. It's the time to take a risk. It's the time to be resourceful, to plan out your strategies, to be self-reliant, and to beat your enemy at their own game, really.

[valeriefauxnom]

Yo, since you brought it up, what's the interpretation of Abyss's ending you like the most?

Going for blood, huh, anon? I'll bite!

I'm on the side of 'technically I think it should be Asch in Luke's body' side even if I acknowledge it's ultimately ambiguous.

The Contamination sidequest, of course, is the principle foundation for this argument, as it spells out pretty clearly: Asch will die, but Asch will assume Luke's body as a backup. Luke will remain in body but not spirit, further twisting the knife to Jade, who no longer would want his dream of 'replicas as a replacement body' to come true as he wished for Nebilim.

We also see an example of the effect with Star in Ortion cavern. The group comes back to see that the original cheagle has died, and the replica remains. But when Jade interviews the cheagle via Mieu, he finds out that it is the original in the replica's body, who felt weak, passed out, and woke up in another body.

More arguably, but I also might look to Jade's immediate response after he learns of Asch's death. He starts asking Luke about how it feels and all that, likely trying to get a gauge on what's happening, if there's any chance Luke is escaping the Big Bang, etc. He wants Luke to escape this with his life, no matter how dismal the odds even without Asch's death.

...And he doesn't seem pleased with the response he gets.

There's also his response at Tataroo itself, which, okay, very arguable, but to me is not a pleased look from Jade. I'm not claiming to be any kind of expert on reading emotions, but Jade's to me looks like one more of grief and/or disappointment than of happiness, especially in the anime, which could have more expressiveness than the original PS2 graphics in a game that had some notably poorly cutscenes.

And while yes, the mysterious figure does have more visual hints to Luke than Asch, and does reference a 'promise', I will say that to the latter both of the redheads were chucking around promises to everyone and is ambiguous. Luke's promise to Guy, to Tear, Asch's to Luke, etc.

Also, I just think it could be a unique and sad ending if Asch, who has utterly loathed replicas and the concept of one, from Van's grooming and his own trauma regarding Luke's replacement, finds himself a 'replica' in the new world, in his counterpart's body, and has to start trying to figure out what to do and who to be in the new world while puppeting around what's effectively the corpse of another person. It's just uniquely horrifying a concept that I would have loved to see explored. Heck, maybe even a postgame or game about the Jade Gang dealing with the impending fonon crisis while maybe trying to find a way to get Luke back and all the drama that could result would have been fun.

...But, as always, this is a very cursory summary of some of the most common arguments for Asch. We could dissect the Contamination Effect and Big Bang and all that all day, but to me, I personally don't see any evidence that it is not working as prescribed on Eldrant, or 'reversed' as some people argue. The one example we see is it working as intended, and Jade doesn't seem all that pleased when it seems like it's starting to kick up with Luke.

However, I'd like to throw a much rarer argument into the works as a thing to consider, just for fun.

What if it's not Asch in Luke's body or the reverse, or a merging of the two into one mind/body...But Lorelei?

To this, I'd like to point out that Lorelei has a sworn duty to answer the Grand Fonic Hymn of Yulia. And what was Tear signing right before this mysterious person popped up randomly in a field when Luke nor Asch show a particular skill in stealth? Well I mean Luke says he's good at hide and seek but still

Uh-huh, Grand Fonic Hymn. This could also explain the 'promised' quote. Lorelei is fulfilling its covenant with Yulia in heeding her descendant's call.

The mysterious person's speech and behavior, for however short we see it, is...ethereal? For lack of a better word? Detached? Both Luke and Asch are very emotional people and don't tend to speak in such a even, neutral tone. Lorelei, however, is a fonic sentience (well, so is Luke, but Luke is a mini chunk of Lorelei) and is not human at the end of the day. What few lines we do get from it in game are 'indirect' and otherwise formatted in a manner humans don't usually use when speaking. To me, the more detached 'This place has a nice view of Hod' compared to anything Luke or Asch might have said normally, even a greeting, is more aligned with Lorelei's potential behavior.

So yeah. Perhaps it's Lorelei, come to Auldrant after heeding Tear's call, perhaps in its' scions' visages, attempting to honor them both by assuming elements of both now that they (or at least Luke) have re-assimilated into the greater whole of Lorelei. Lorelei certainly seems to like its scions.

In the end I can just summarize: scientifically, I think it's Asch, canonically, it's ambiguous. No matter what side of the debate one is on, I dislike people trying to insist that it is absolute fact that x happened. I think part of the ambiguity is intended to reflect the fact that the Score is gone, the future is no longer set. Notice also how all the text boxes are gone after the Score is repealed. What they're saying- what's happening is no longer has a single canonical answer. So even if I do think more of the rules of the Abyss world point to Asch, it's ultimately up in the air.

[xalygatorx]

Unbound | Chapter 8, "Áine's Favorite Princess"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Astarion assumes that Áine and Shadowheart are an item after their outing the night before. Astarion’s angry (jealous) behavior triggers Áine and bears unforeseen consequences. Astarion goes hunting and finds time to clear his head and worry about Áine out scouting with the others. Karlach is brought to camp and confronts Wyll. Áine and Astarion make amends and get cozy.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic fantasy violence (more mention of it than description); angst; fluff; suggestive dialogue & content; Astarion being a shit; primarily from Astarion’s perspective; lightly proofread and a little struggled through writing-wise tbh

Word Count: 8.9k

Listening to: Daylight - David Kushner

Astarion was disturbed to realize the next morning that he’d underestimated the Sharran cleric. At least it certainly seemed as though he had, seeing as she and his intended target for a manipulative seduction all but had flower crowns after their little date the night before.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. They weren’t doing the sorts of romantic things that he’d be doing in their positions and weren’t exactly showing public affection toward one another in his learned sense of what that should look like. But they were affectionate—there was an obvious shift in their comfort in one another’s proximity and something unspoken that it was killing him not to be privy to. 

Why? he wondered about his own volatile feelings. This changes nothing. If anything, I now get to steal her away from that smug little cleric. 

It was a pleasant thought, but he still felt a bit poorly. It was a small wrench in a still-turning wheel, but something about seeing Shadowheart so comfortably settle right next to Áine at the campfire that morning set him on edge. Her cheek was all but resting on the bard’s shoulder. 

His nerves started to knot in his chest. He did not doubt his abilities and proficiency in the carnal arts—he couldn’t afford to—but what he did doubt was Áine’s willingness to stray from Shadowheart if they were, in fact, together now. And they had to be! Friends didn’t act like that. Not that he’d experienced anything remotely close to a friendship for the better part of two centuries. Not only would a friend have both been a liability for him while in Cazador’s clutches—the sick bastard would’ve likely forced Astarion to kill said friend himself upon finding out that he’d developed a new attachment to exploit—but friends also took much longer and more work to secure, and you could do so much less with them. There wasn’t much point in them at all, he told himself.

Something akin to anger roiled in his stomach when he heard Áine giggle at something Shadowheart said near her ear. He was not jealous. This didn’t change a damn thing. He just needed to understand what he was dealing with before he proceeded. It was possible they’d simply had a fun tryst in the woods last night—Áine didn’t seem the type, but perhaps she’d given it a try and realized the fun in it—and if that was the case he didn’t have much to alter in his approach. If they were emotionally attached, then this would be more difficult to influence and he may have to resort to trickery to separate them.

The perturbed vampire saw his opportunity to get some answers when Áine finished her breakfast and returned to her tent to organize things for their jaunt today. 

The decision had been made earlier that morning to leave their camp set up in its current spot while they explored the branching roads past and near where they’d fought the gnolls. Given the breadth of the area and the likelihood that they would retreat to the same clearing that night, it just made more sense than setting everything back up again later. 

Wyll and Gale had volunteered to stay behind and watch over their tents and supplies while the rest of them went scouting. Astarion didn’t know for sure, but he suspected that they were both still recovering from the gnoll attacks—they were both the only humans in the group and while humans were hardy, recovery time seemed to be extended when they truly overexerted themselves. Another confirmation that friends were often more trouble than they were worth.

He tried not to linger overlong on the fact that he’d just thought of his traveling party, his unpaid bodyguards, even his companions, now as his friends while approaching their also-unofficial leader at her tent. “You look refreshed,” he commented as he stopped, leaning against one of her tent posts. She didn’t startle, so she’d either heard him coming or had anticipated his arrival.

Áine looked up at him and gave a friendly smile before looking back down at her bag. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “But thank you? I think.”

Astarion’s eyes settled on Áine’s hair, neatly braided again by Shadowheart’s doing similarly to one of their first nights as a smaller group. It felt so long ago somehow. His jaw set a little as the image of Shadowheart’s hands running through Áine’s hair flashed through his mind, artificial scenarios that may or may not have happened or may be yet to happen. Burying her fingers in those shiny tresses as she stole a kiss. Pulling it to force the bard’s head back and expose her neck. Better yet, pulling it to force eye contact while he—

“Did you want something?” Áine asked, snapping him out of his lewd thoughts. 

They were welcome little notions, there was just one problem—where he should’ve been in his own godsdamned fantasies, he could only see that cleric getting everything he wanted. Everything that could come as some sort of unintended bonus to securing her loyalty and, in turn, his security. Yes, he wanted something.

Aloud, he said, “Of course I want something. Many things actually. Blood, revenge, gold, sex, a nice vintage… Not even necessarily in that order.”

Áine gave him a peculiar look as if she were trying to parse what he’d said in more than the only way he’d intended. It wasn’t an uncommon expression for her whenever they spoke, but it ticked something off in him this time. Perhaps because he was tired of her trying to find something deeper in their dynamic. He wasn’t a fool, he knew she’d looked for it more than once and had likely come up empty because he had nothing he was willing to give her. He was willing to bet that Shadowheart hadn’t needed to pass such scrutiny.

Based on the way her lips pursed, she’d come up empty again. No surprise to him. “That’s quite a list. But I meant is there something you want from me? You seem upset.”

Astarion’s hackles went up as she presumed that he would deign to be “upset” over her. They’d had some cute moments, sure, many of them orchestrated by him, but she thought herself too highly in his estimations. She thought she could hurt him? Upset him? Laughable, he thought as he crushed any feelings that rose to the surface and contrasted his mind’s claims. She was a means to an end and he’d gotten too swept into his narrative. She was strong enough to aid him and yet easy prey enough to require minimal effort. The ones that just wanted to be loved were always the easiest to lure in, break, and then build up again.

He lowered his voice. “You think you have the power to upset me?” 

Áine’s brow furrowed and she looked at him like he was mad. “Clearly,” she said flatly, “but I didn’t ask if I’d upset you, I asked if you were upset in general. But sure, my question’s since changed. Have I upset you?”

Her challenge just stirred his ire. Ire that he was sure had to be directed at Áine, or even at Shadowheart because otherwise that just left the possibility that it was anger he had toward himself. “I would have to care what you do for you to have the capacity to upset me,” Astarion snapped, his words biting.

To his dismay, Áine snorted. “Astarion, come on. Drop the mask and just talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you,” he scoffed, a cruel smile splitting his face as he shifted away from the tent pole to step closer. He saw her demeanor respond in kind with hesitation and it felt gratifying. He was the one in control of their little dance, not her. 

Áine didn’t move, her feet planted against his attempts to cow her with his stature. This felt a little too familiar and her mind began to fill with unwelcome faces from her past, all above hers as their bodies stood looming to intimidate and dominate. She tightened her grip on the straps of her bag when she felt her hands begin to tremble. “You’re too close,” she warned him, dropping her voice to a murmur. 

The memory of Shadowheart sitting almost pressed against Áine’s side flashed through his mind and he sneered. “I’m too close… Of course,” Astarion gritted, giving a mock bow as he placed space back between them. “My apologies.”

“What has gotten into you?” Áine asked, trying to understand where his attitude stemmed from. It wasn’t for show, he was clearly upset, but she didn’t know why. And if he wouldn’t tell her, then she couldn’t help, if she even wanted to after the way his body language had just triggered her. “You know what, no. This isn’t productive.” Before he could ask what she was on about, Áine had turned her attention toward the other side of camp. “Gale?”

“Yes?” the wizard answered, just finishing scrubbing their cooking pot clean from breakfast.

“Feel like scouting today instead? Astarion’s going to hang back,” she said. 

Astarion’s temper flared dangerously, the shock and hurt that lanced through him like oil dumped on an already crackling fire. Somehow over the roar in his ears, he heard Gale’s surprise mixed with an affirmation, and then receding footsteps as he went to get his things. 

Áine returned her gaze to Astarion after she braced herself for the anger she knew she’d meet. Lowering her voice again, she said, “Whatever you need to do—rest, hunt, stir up Wyll and take verbal jabs at each other, I don’t care—focus on that today. You’re hereby relieved from dealing with me for several hours.” 

With a flourish akin to the sarcastic bow he’d given her, she turned her back on him as one last show of confidence and left her tent to meet Shadowheart and Lae’zel lingering in silent proximity near the road. Astarion felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and snatch her the moment she dismissed him and their little spat, but he resisted. His teeth ground together as he tore his eyes off her and stormed back to his tent.   

Astarion spent the better part of an hour brooding in there before he slunk back out to regard the empty camp, save for Wyll who’d given himself the job of cleaning up some assorted armor and sharpening his rapier. Scratch sat near Wyll’s side, panting contently and looking over at Astarion when he emerged from his abode. The dog’s wagging tail increased its tempo. 

Wyll followed Scratch’s gaze and met Astarion’s eyes, offering him a nod and a hesitant smile. “Have anything you want sharpened?” he cautiously offered. Astarion couldn’t decide if Wyll seemed nervous because he was picking up on his mood or because he’d been unexpectedly left alone in the camp with the local vampire.

Astarion started to dismiss his offer when he caught himself and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sure. Thank you,” he gritted, removing his shortsword and dagger from his hips, where he’d left them even after being replaced for scouting duty. He approached Wyll and set the blades were directed, one now-empty hand patting Scratch’s head when the dog whined for his attention.

“Going hunting today?” Wyll asked, trying to sound as casual as if Astarion was a ranger instead of a vampire. Astarion gave him a curious look, wondering how he knew he was thirsty until Wyll motioned toward his own eyes and added, “Your shadows have returned.”

Astarion’s hand rose to brush the underside of his right eye. “That happens regularly when I’ve not fed?”

Wyll was confused until he remembered Astarion wouldn’t know this about himself without a reflection. “It seems to,” he said. “They don’t look bad, but it is the only thing I’ve noticed personally that tells me you’re wanting for blood. I’m not offering, just to be clear.”

The vampire smirked and dropped his hand from his face, pocketing the small revelation. The featureless plane of his own forgotten face in his mind had occasional dark shadows beneath where its eyes should be now. It was something at least. “Didn’t even cross my mind, darling,” Astarion said honestly, glancing toward the woods. “But I should see what I can find. I will be back.”

“Happy hunting,” Wyll said, his attention returning to his sword.

Astarion took his thirst and his irritation out on the first handful of forest creatures he came across, likely being a little too violent in his hunt or at least more feral than he needed to be to take down a couple of rabbits and another boar. He’d hoped for something a little more substantial after having his first few swallows of fresh blood and realizing just how thirsty he’d become. His agitation did lose its jagged edges once he felt more sated, but there remained some pieces of his earlier mood that no amount of blood was going to shake.

The first and most present of those pieces was lingering irritation. At Áine for dismissing him so easily. At Shadowheart for intercepting his advances. At Gale for being his unwitting replacement in the scouting party. Which wasn’t exactly Gale’s fault, but why was it always fucking Gale?! The majority of his irritation was directed inwardly though, now that he’d had time to think it all over. Not only had his reactions been over the top due to his thirst and, fine, jealousy as well, but it also hadn’t solved anything regarding getting Áine away from Shadowheart. He’d probably just made things harder for himself.

Sitting atop a sunbathed rock beneath a break in the canopy and letting the light warm his skin, Astarion ran his tongue over a lingering trace of blood on his index finger, crimson eyes pensive and faraway. Irritation was a familiar sensation, but the lurking variables under that layer weren’t as easy to parse at first blush. Whether the feelings were new or simply boxed up for so long while he’d existed in environs where feeling anything was a hazard to his survival, that just meant that it took longer to comprehend his reactions to things and usually only after he’d already reacted. 

Luring targets to the Szarr family castle had been different—they were calculated efforts, his successes necessary to avoid punishment. Forced feedings of rancid, decaying rats and roaches. A year of uninterrupted entombment in a moldering casket. Commands to torture himself with special, specific directions on how he should do it and with what implements but never harshly enough to scar save for the poem Cazador had decided to compose on his back. His old master had always said that his body was his only source of usefulness, and find use for it he did. Disfiguring Astarion, he’d said, would only give him a reprieve from his work that he didn’t deserve.    

Astarion’s mouth twisted downward at the knots he felt prevailing in his stomach. They’d had nothing to do with his thirst, which led him to his only other theory and one that troubled him more deeply than he cared to admit. He was worried. About her.

There was no denying it—they’d spent the majority of their time together fighting as a unit and through that, he’d learned a lot about the way she fought. Áine often took on a supportive role in the offensive if Lae’zel was present to take the frontline, but if the githyanki for whatever reason wasn’t in the mix, Áine was that frontline fighter. When they were at an advantage, she almost looked like she was dancing, gracefully weaving amongst blades and arrows to deliver her blows with equal precision and style. What could he say, she was fun to watch when she knew she was winning because she was having fun in battle—they were alike in that way. 

When they were losing though, like yesterday with the gnolls, it was as if a switch flipped inside her. Áine became grounded and heavy-hitting, she became a powerhouse that wasn’t just fun but fascinating to watch. And that was where she made all her mistakes. Scared for her friends, Áine was quick to bite off more than she could chew and draw the enemy’s attention to herself to give the rest of them time to reset. Her attention divided as well, narrowing into what was in front of her and the status of her allies, which meant he’d taken to picking off enemies coming up on her flank before she even saw them. Sometimes he’d take out a threat without her noticing even after the fact, which he tended to prefer. It was something he would feel sheepish about if she realized how often he looked for her on the battlefield, how much he instinctively prioritized her over the others, even their healer.

Their hellion of a bard was, in those times especially, a force to be reckoned with, but she became reckless in that and missed minor things. When he was in the fray with them all, this didn’t worry him. Now that she was out of sight though and he knew there was a high probability that they’d find something to scrap with on the roads around them, he felt the dread creeping in. Shadowheart would be too focused on healing—which she should be instead of moving in on his damn territory—and Lae’zel was a frontlines gal like Áine who would operate in much the same way but somehow even more singlemindedly. 

And then there was Gale. Gale would be left to watch Áine’s back and Astarion simply didn’t trust him to do it properly. It was a strange feeling, at least from the hellish landscape of his vivid memories that seemed to rot away any earlier than his rebirth as a vampire spawn, to be angry with someone and still worry for them. Because he was still upset with her, namely for making him stay behind after his temper had waned with his thirst finally quenched. His closest line of comparison was the vague sense of pity he felt for his siblings still under Cazador’s thumb back in the city, as he had to assume they bore the brunt of whatever punishments Cazador could no longer reach him with. But he didn’t truly care what happened to them. They were simply all similarly wretched victims of the same monster of a man. 

Perhaps because he still had a use for her or because to some degree he depended on her, he was worried about Áine’s safety. That was the line he tried to feed himself. The truth of it was that when he visualized the potential disasters they could find in their patrol, when he imagined Lae’zel struggling and needing Shadowheart’s clerical attention while Áine plunged to take on the enemies’ pressure and leaving her flank wide open…

His stomach turned. 

The sun slipping past the canopy and canting toward the horizon line wasn’t the only thing that sent a ripple of cold through his already icy bones. What if she died out there? Shadowheart surely wouldn’t let that happen, and even Gale had some healing ability in a pinch. But if they all fell and no one was left to heal her…

Astarion didn’t quite register when he got to his feet and started loping toward camp. It was nearing twilight, surely they’d be back by now. If they weren’t, he could safely assume something was wrong and go track them down himself with little to no suspicion or pushback from Wyll. He could swing it in the direction of curiosity instead of concern. He could—

—bleeding Hells, he could smell her blood.

He picked up his pace to a run, only slowing back down when he reached the trees that lined their camp. At first, he thought that he could’ve imagined the scent for all his fretting, but he was proven wrong as it only grew stronger the closer he got to camp and those earlier imagined scenarios started to claw their way back into his head. There was no question that it was hers either—he knew her particular bouquet anywhere.

Astarion walked out from between his tent and Lae’zel’s and into what appeared to be an argument with a brand new, bizarre person in the mix. It was only after his eyes devoured every face in the camp and confirmed one of them as Áine’s that he let his attention deviate to what appeared to be Wyll squaring off with a fiery tiefling who looked like she could easily snap him in two. He was grateful for something else to focus on, especially a potential fight, while he shelved everything he’d uncovered about his foolish little attachment that day. 

She was there and she was alive, upright even. She was bleeding or had bled at some point that day, but whatever it was must’ve been minimal. Astarion allowed himself to shift his gaze from Wyll and the tiefling over to Áine, who looked focused on but fatigued by whatever confrontation was taking place. 

“—you don’t know what you’re asking me to do!” Wyll was saying to both the tiefling and Áine. Something shook in his voice. What in the Hells was going on? As Astarion scoped out the newest, towering face in the clearing, his gaze fastened on her broken horn. Was this the “devil” Wyll had talked about being tasked with killing back in the Grove?

“I’m asking you to live, Wyll,” the tiefling said. “I don’t want to hurt you. And to be frank I’d rather not find out how the Blade got his name.” Eyes as fiery gold as a dragon’s turned pleading. “I swear to you, on all that I am, that I’m not what you think.”

Wyll looked at the tiefling and then at Áine’s steely gaze. Then at others, all standing nearby and wearing similar expressions of muted hope that he’d back down. “Shit… Shit!” he finally gritted and there was something cathartic to Astarion about hearing the usually quite poised and smoothly operating Wyll just swear up a storm. “You really are no devil, are you? I’ve… I’ve been deceived.”

The red-hot tiefling sighed her relief. “Thank the gods… Thought I was going to have to take your head.”

Astarion was disappointed in not at least seeing the onset of such a fight, even if he’d rather it didn’t finish. Aggravating as he could find Wyll, he was growing on him and the tiefling seemed too good a potential ally to lose. 

Wyll smirked. “You would’ve died in the attempt, but…there have been enough threats today.”

The tiefling smiled. “Truce then, hey?”

“Aye. Truce,” Wyll agreed with a firm nod. In a heartfelt tone, he added, “I see the good in you, Karlach. I promise not to lose sight of it, even when the Hells burn hottest.” It was his form of an apology that well surpassed the superficiality of the average apology. 

Ah, Karlach. That had been the name Wyll had mentioned at the Grove. It had been on the tip of his tongue for the past few minutes Astarion had been spectating and bothering him all the while. 

His eyes once more found Áine, who finally seemed to feel as though she could let her guard down with Wyll and Karlach, her frame relaxing now that there was no longer a need for her to run interference. She started toward her tent and their eyes met. For a split-second, he feared what he’d come to learn he deserved, what he’d anticipated in their first spat that had also taken place back at the Grove. Dismissal, rejection, hatred… A roulette wheel of equally devastating outcomes. This was why it was better to remain indifferent. He wished he knew what had gotten into him with her so he could amend it and have the situation on lock again.

The rate at which his mind raced made that instant feel like an eternity, but it truly was only an instant. He realized that when Áine’s expression finally adjusted to acknowledge him, which was already an improvement on the possibility that she could just ignore him. Her eyes darted meaningfully toward the cluster of companions behind her before they returned to his and widened with cartoonish exasperation. Astarion couldn’t help the smirk that curled his lips, dropping his head to hide his amusement, but not before she saw. He could hear her quiet giggle from where she crouched by her tent, sliding her bag off her shoulders and then slipping into her canvas curtain abode to change clothes. Astarion still wondered why he’d smelled her blood on returning to camp, but at least she seemed fine. More than that, she didn’t seem mad at him anymore.

He only cared about how it affected his plans for her. He would lie to himself until he believed that.

Astarion settled into his usual spot on the pillows outside his tent, idly listening to the bustle of the camp while he parsed through one of his books. Even the most basic tomes they’d found so far in their travels intrigued him, doing well to stir his mind back to life after being deprived of anything but the few faded, crumbling volumes he’d scrounged up in the Szarr dungeons. His occasional run-ins with anything of interest during his outings to find prey for his master had either fallen into the realm of crusty copies of A is for Azuth, and Other Gods, specifically the first volume, stuffed in the inn room nightstands where he sealed the deal with his targets, or a fleeting glance of something genuinely new and interesting that he’d spot and covet in a bookshop window or the arm of a passing student. Bringing something like that back to his little rathole with him would only result in the intriguing new material being snatched up, mocked, and then burned by Cazador or Godey before they began burning him too. 

The first book he’d picked up in the crypt where they’d found Withers had felt like a precious little sin, like something he still needed to hide. But the longer he was away from Cazador’s influence, the more that reflex had slowly waned and he’d made a habit of reading his findings outside where he could be seen. It was preferable, comfortable even, and it was a sort of middle finger toward his old master and the gods who’d turned their backs on him in his cell. Astarion would sit comfortably and absorb as much as he could, and maybe discover something to prolong his freedom and increase his power in the process while learning anew about the world he lived in.

Still, when he heard footsteps heading toward him, his fingertips gripped the binding just a little tighter, as if tensing for the little reprieve to be ripped from his hands. His reaction lasted only a second as the trauma response slipped and also as he recognized the footsteps drawing nearer.

“Can I disturb you for a few minutes?” Áine asked, seemingly trying to be mindful of interrupting him. Always a new experience with this one.

“Seeing as you already have, my dear,” Astarion playfully pointed out, “I would be most disappointed if you didn’t proceed.”

“I don’t know why I ask,” Áine murmured, but she was clearly amused. The bard sat down across from him on the rug, looking more comfortable now that she was in the soft leather pants and ruffled shirt that she frequently wore and fell asleep in on at least one occasion when they made camp. 

With a curious expression on her face, she leaned forward and reached toward the book he held, pausing when she noticed his grip tighten this time. Her eyes met his and she dropped her hand, instead tilting her head to see the cover without encroaching on his activity. “Fables of Faerûn… Volume five?” she read, guessing at the volume number when she couldn’t crane her neck enough to see it.   

Astarion felt silly for being so on edge about anyone touching his things. But he’d never really owned anything since before he could remember, he’d never had anything to call his own. And it felt nice, but also too easily lost. He tilted the book so she could see the cover without straining herself, showing her that she’d guessed correctly about the volume number. “It was in that apothecary cellar we looted,” he admitted, “and my options were limited.”

Áine smiled. “You don’t have to justify what you’re indulging in,” she said. “Fables are nice. Wyll brought one up in conversation just the other day.”

“Of course he did,” Astarion said, dogearing the page and closing the book. He knew he needn’t be sheepish about what he chose to read, especially when pickings were slim, but he did still feel a bit hyperaware of how he came off. “My guess is that you didn’t want to discuss children’s tales in coming here though?”

“I could be swayed, but you’re right,” Áine said, subconsciously picking at the braid that fell over her shoulder. It was messier than it had been this morning before they’d set out and its loose starlight-colored tendrils did make the style more her own. He still felt a pang in his chest at the thought of Shadowheart with her hands in Áine’s hair again, this time under new intentions. He could only assume that this feeling would go away after he managed to bed her—after he’d worked his way a bit further into her feelings, into her needs, she could do the same with anyone else she wanted. The threat of her entering an exclusive relationship with someone and feeling bound to them before he could get there would make his scheming moot before it even had time to execute. “Wyll mentioned that you went hunting today?”

Astarion’s brow furrowed. “Yes… And?”

“And do you feel any better?” Áine asked, a tiny frown on her lips. He’d already started to form a retort that he was fine in the first place when she disarmed him. “I’ve been worried.”

His jaw set, her words making him both falter and further withdraw from what he felt. She was worried about him? In the same sense that he was worried about her? Or was she worried that he was thirsty for her own and everyone else’s sake? Did she think him a monster? 

Astarion frowned. “I’ve already said that I would not try to drink from you without asking again, and I meant it,” he said, going with the latter of his assumptions that she was just anxious about a hungry vampire in her camp.

Áine immediately looked distressed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. He remembered how those hands had felt in his when he’d been holding them the other night while trying to convince her to take their discussion about his vampirism back inside her tent following their tumble out through the door flap. “I’m worried about you, not the fact that you’re thirsty. Wait, that didn’t come out correctly either. I’m worried about you being thirsty because I don’t want you to be thirsty, not because I feel threatened by—”

“I get it, I get it,” he mumbled, waving her off and swatting away the sensation her words gave him as well. “I’m fine. I did hunt and I did drink and I’m just peachy now.”

Áine sighed. He wished he could read her mind to understand what it meant. Technically he supposed he could with the parasite, but not without her knowing. Distantly he remembered both occasions that their minds had connected, and still felt violated by it as he was sure she did as well. Now that he thought about it, he was surprised she hadn’t pressed about anything she’d seen in his memories that second time it had happened in her tent. She was either keeping her cards close to her chest in that regard or she didn’t think it was her place to ask. Or perhaps she didn’t care. Just looking at her though—her compassionate nature, her round sweet amber eyes—he knew that the last possibility he considered wasn’t the case at all. Poor thing cared too much for her own good, in his opinion.

Her features twisted and she seemed to be conflicted about his answer or perhaps what she wanted to say in response. Whatever it was, she pushed it down and decided not to say it. His curiosity became increasingly difficult to ignore. Unnerved by the silence, Astarion asked, “So, it seems that the scouting trip today was…eventful at least?”

“Eventful is a word for it,” she agreed, seeming grateful for his intervention. “We found Karlach down by the riverbend and helped her get rid of some fake paladins that were tailing her for Zariel.”

Astarion’s brows rose. “Zariel? Why?”

“She was apparently one of Zariel’s best, as she said it, ‘attack dogs’,” Áine explained, quickly adding, “not by choice though. Karlach was on the Nautiloid too and that got her out of Avernus and the Blood War frontlines for good…we hope.”

“And Wyll was hunting her when they both were taken?” Astarion clarified. When Áine nodded, he asked, “For whom?”

Áine shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me then and he’s not told me now. He seems to think he’ll have a reckoning for not killing her though.”

“Great,” Astarion sighed. “Well, I suppose as long as the reckoning doesn’t have a blast radius, we should be fine.”

Áine snorted. “That would be the last thing we’d need, a godsdamned bomb dropping on camp.” 

Around them, their companions had started to retire to their tents, tossing goodnights their way in passing and leaving them in a more private setting for their conversation. Astarion’s gaze flitted over the last two of their travel party still up and chatting across the clearing while Scratch kept them company, Karlach and Wyll. They were too wrapped up in their own conversation to be paying any attention to theirs. 

He returned his gaze to Áine, the tickle of her blood’s scent still teasing his senses. “Did you get hurt out there today?”

Áine was equally zoned out, it seemed, his question causing surprise to blossom on her face. “Hm?” she wondered bemusedly. “Why do you ask?”

Astarion gave her a scolding look. “Because I smell your blood,” he said as if it were obvious. 

It occurred to him after he pointed it out that she could also very well be having her monthly bleed, but she seemed to remember something then and adjusted her hair off her shoulder to show him a scratch that was already on its way to healing. “Karlach had a bit of a rampage through the tollhouse the ‘paladins’ had taken over, and I took a bit of shrapnel to the shoulder,” she explained. “It’s fine, it just caught somewhere my armor didn’t cover because of course it did…”     

Satisfied that it was minor, Astarion nodded. Áine surprised him yet again by asking, “Is it bothering you?”

“Is what bothering me, darling?” Astarion asked.

“The smell. Or the sight, too, I guess,” she asked, giving a polite smile and wave to Wyll as he bid them goodnight and walked past them into his tent. Karlach had retired to the tent they’d set up for her as well and Scratch was curled up by the campfire, his head rested contently atop his paws. “I can—”

“Sweetheart, you always smell enticing,” Astarion informed her, smirking when that drew a blush to her cheeks. “I can control myself just fine though. I’d hardly be a useful ally if I started salivating every time you or someone else here got hurt.” Áine went quiet, staring at him as she warred within herself. He tried to read her expression, disgruntled when he couldn’t. “What is it?” he asked at last.

Áine drew in a deep breath and swept a fleeting glance around camp before her eyes returned to his and she said, “You…can, you know. If you want. If the animals today weren’t enough.”

Astarion’s brows rose, his throat prickling with want. He swallowed against it, wondering about a motive. Was this some sort of trick? Even if it was… “Are you sure?” he asked, expressing interest to see what she did next.

“I think so,” she said, almost seeming a bit shy about her offer. Gods, if she afforded the same demeanor to when he managed to get in her bed, the experience would be even more delicious than expected. He might even enjoy their sex, a first for him in the better part of two centuries. Better to not get his hopes up, he decided. Astarion’s eyes followed her hand as she reached up to tug an amulet from beneath her shirt, the golden one that the tiefling child had tossed her after they’d saved him from the harpies. “Gale told me that this has a lesser restoration spell inside it. Which might make these situations easier to recover from. For me, I mean.”

“I see,” Astarion said, still not completely understanding where this was coming from. “Worth a try, of course. Although I do wonder where this generosity is coming from.”

Áine blinked. “You asked about the blood because you’re still thirsty, no?”

No, I was worried about you, little fool. “Well, of course, but that doesn’t quite answer my question, dearest,” Astarion said.

The bard looked down at the amulet she still toyed with between her fingertips as she said, “I just want you to be okay, alright? I told you, I was worried. I still am. And if this is what helps…” She lifted her gaze back to meet his and presented her wrist. “Then I’ll do it.”

Astarion eyed the pulse point of her wrist. He could hear its little flutter from where he still reclined against his cushions. He really did have her wrapped around his finger, didn’t he—the realization eased his nerves around ensuring he stayed protected, but that came with the slightest sliver of guilt that he snuffed out as soon as it surfaced. 

His crimson eyes dragged from her wrist to her eyes, which watched him anxiously. Astarion set his book aside and reached forward with this other hand, his fingers wrapping around her offered wrist. The warmth that leeched from her skin into his palm was intoxicating. Gently, he pulled her toward him, his hooded red eyes moving lazily back to meet hers when he felt her resist. 

Astarion nodded toward the scratch on her shoulder. “No need to make a fresh wound, darling,” he said. A playful smile curved his lips, all the guile of a wolf luring in a lamb. “Come here, my little treat.”

Áine groaned and rolled her eyes, but let him tug her in closer until she sat on her knees between the frame of his long legs, their faces just inches apart. “Please don’t make this weird,” she mumbled, but her face was burning hot and he could hear her heart picking up its pace under his attention. He chuckled and she gave him a withering look, seeming to know he could sense, in full, her body’s reactions to him.

Her blush deepened as he traced his thumb over the inside of the wrist he still held, his free hand adjusting her hair away from the minor injury she’d shown him before. He let his hand linger against her braid, his eyes devouring the sight of her sitting in front of him offering him her blood. 

Astarion traced his fingers from her hair down to her collar, adjusting it so he didn’t get blood on her shirt, and drew her in even closer until her warm, tense frame was pressed against him and the sealed wound on her shoulder was perfectly at his lips. Her hands were planted against his chest, her spine rigid as she tried to maintain some distance between their bodies. He inhaled deeply, the lingering scent of her blood and sweat on her skin mixed with the faint spice of mint leaves created a heady concoction that made him subconsciously tighten his hold on her. 

He heard Áine’s breath hitch and he smiled before dropping his head down to her shoulder, her muscles tensing when his lips grazed her wound. “I will be gentle,” he murmured against her skin and used the razor-sharp edges of his fangs to quickly slice the scratch back open. Áine jolted faintly but stilled when Astarion’s lips closed around the wound and he began to suck the blood into his mouth in long, languorous pulls. His lashes fluttered—like the first time, she was pure ambrosia on his tongue.

As he drank from her, he felt her slowly relaxing against him and he welcomed her in. His hands rested against her waist and the small of her back, his senses comfortably cocooned in her scent and warmth. Astarion eventually licked her wound closed when he decided he’d had a sufficient taste, but grew a little concerned when she didn’t move from his chest. There was no way he’d drained her, he wasn’t even sure he’d had as much as he’d taken the first time. 

He wasn’t able to get a look at her face, which was nestled against his shoulder, so he murmured into her ear instead. “Have you perished?” he asked her teasingly, knowing she was fine as he could feel her heartbeat reverberating through his own chest.

“Quite tragically, I’m afraid,” she mumbled. Her warm breath permeated the fabric of his shirt and met his cold skin, sending a delicious little chill through him. 

Astarion chuckled and glanced down as she fumbled for the amulet around her neck, a faint flash of green pulsing from the gem on the pendant when she used it. “Well? Was the wizard correct?” he asked.

“It seems like it,” she said. “I do feel better, but I also didn’t feel as lightheaded as the first time. Certainly can’t hurt to keep.”

Amused, the vampire noted that despite her claims that she felt more or less fine, she still hadn’t moved off of him. “Are you sure, you seem a bit faint, dearest,” he teased her.

“Oh, quiet,” she mumbled, finally moving her hands off his chest and sliding her arms to rest around his shoulders instead. Some of her blood rose to flush his cheeks, much to his dismay. “It’s a rare opportunity I have right now, I intend to savor it.”

Astarion’s expression became bewildered. “Trust me, darling, being bitten by me isn’t a rare opportunity at all if you enjoyed it that much this time around…”

“I’m not talking about that and you know it.”

He did know it, but instead of admitting that, he sighed against her hair and gathered her closer as he eased further back into the pillows until he was lying down with Áine curled on top of him. “I thought I said I would find us another moment,” Astarion murmured, one arm wrapped around her waist while the other toyed with her braid.

“You did, technically,” she murmured, settling in with a contented sigh. The sound made him smile. “Although if I get the credit for this, then I’ll say you were taking too long.”

Astarion snorted. “My apologies, my sweet,” he mumbled and he felt her quiet laugh shake her body. He hesitated but then allowed himself to broach the topic that had been burning in him from sun-up. “I must admit I was surprised to find you injured after your adventure today… I would’ve thought your lover would’ve fixed it right up for you.”

That got her attention. Áine lifted her head just to turn herself to look at him while they snuggled. Her cheeks remained flushed as she looked up at him, her expression confused. “What do you mean, my ‘lover’?” she asked and her mystified question planted something disgustingly like hope in his dead heart.

His expression smooth, Astarion met her eyes and said, “The cleric, of course. Didn’t you have a nice rendezvous last night? You both seemed awfully cozy this morning.”

Áine’s face went red anew and it told Astarion what he needed to know. She still seemed to have interest in him though as well, so this was still feasible. Then why did his chest ache? It was surely just the weight of her creating a sore spot. He almost rolled his eyes at his own thoughts—he’d never before fed himself such a stupid lie.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Áine said, interrupting his thoughts, “but I didn’t realize it was a date until it was almost over. We came to an understanding that we were strong in our friendship and that was as far as it needed to go.”

“Poor dear,” he tsked, although inside he was preening to know that there was nothing between them. “Then is it simply out of pity that you were letting her hang all over you this morning?” Is it out of pity that you’re hanging onto me now?

Áine frowned. “Of course not. Last night simply made us more comfortable with each other. You needn’t be romantic with someone to show affection,” she reasoned.

This was unheard of by Astarion’s knowledge of the world and all the scummy ways in which it worked. The only kind touches he’d received in as long as he could remember were tainted by hidden agendas and greedy, careless lust. They were given as if he were an object, not kind in their treatment of him, but kind so he wouldn’t break before he could be used. Frowning back at her, Astarion ventured to ask, “Is this also something you would seek from a friend?”

She nervously bit her lower lip, holding it between her teeth. He wanted to incline his head and steal it from her with his own. “Do you want that to be why?”

Astarion scoffed. “Since when does it matter what I want?” he asked rhetorically, a question meant to dismiss hers and encourage her to answer with a statement instead. 

Áine just, as ever, surprised him with what she said. “Since always,” she grumbled, causing that sting to return to his chest. Bless her, she had no idea.

Outwardly, he just smiled and shook his head at her. “Answer my question, darling.”

Áine hung onto her silence for a long agonizing moment before she exhaled the breath she was holding and muttering, “No, I don’t only have friend-based feelings for you, you absolute shit.” That caught him off guard enough to make him laugh out loud. She was massaging her temples when he looked back down at her. “But those friend-based feelings are there if that’s preferable. We don’t need to discuss it now, I just want to make sure you know that. Okay?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Astarion admitted.

Áine thought about her next words before she said them. “I mean that this doesn’t only mean something to me if it goes a certain way,” she said. “It means something to me regardless of whether it becomes a friendship or something more than that…or even less, too. I’m just grateful I’ve gotten to meet you. Even if you’ve threatened my life…is it twice now?”

Astarion chuckled. “Technically only once as I didn’t intend to kill you the second time, but sure.”

Áine smiled, her dark honey eyes drinking him in. “Hmph. Well, my apologies, my sweet,” she said, mirroring his earlier tone and making him chuckle again. Her eyes became speculative by the time he looked at her again. “...Wait, were you jealous? Was that what this morning was about?”

Shit. “Hush,” he grumbled as she read his reaction, and a bemused but entertained expression brightened her face. He was still reeling a little from the agency she’d just handed him in deciding where their “perhaps” of a connection would go as if it were simple for her to do so. She didn’t realize what it meant, what it felt like, to have that offered autonomy for the first time. He focused on what he did know how to handle instead for the time being. “Seeing you frolic about with Shar’s favorite little princess was a bit disconcerting. That’s all.”

Áine was the epitome of smug and he noticed it gave her usual smirk an even slyer, feline edge. It was unbearably sexy. “Astarion, look at me please,” she chided him after he’d rolled his eyes away from her. 

He sighed and leveled his most exasperated gaze at her, one eyebrow arched high. “What is it?” Astarion asked, practically daring her to tease him.

“This is important, so I need you to listen carefully,” Áine said, her features becoming quite serious as she spoke. He didn’t trust it, but he paid attention. “Shadowheart may be Shar’s favorite princess, it’s true… But you’re mine, okay?”

“Fuck off.”

Áine fell apart with giggles while Astarion stared at the sky, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath. Through her laughter, she managed an apology that was the opposite of sincere and he noticed that small beads of tears had sprung to her eyes. He swallowed the smile that threatened his own features to save face.

Her smile lingered as Áine started to pick herself up from her spot against his chest. She stood up and the night felt suddenly chilly without her. “I’ll let you rest now, thank you for indulging me,” she chuckled, straightening her shirt and pulling her sleeve back up over her shoulder. 

When she was smoothing out her pants, her hand suddenly paused against her hip. “Oh, I almost forgot again,” Áine said, reaching into her pocket and extracting something small that she offered down to him. 

Hesitantly, he reached up to take whatever it was, thinking perhaps it was another joke until he saw what she’d handed him—a little spool of golden thread. 

He froze. 

“I found it in one of the chests we looted the other day and kept forgetting to give it to you. I don’t know if it’ll exactly match the embroidery on your doublet, but hopefully it’s close,” Áine was saying. “Anyway, goodnight, Astarion.”

Astarion was still staring at the thread in his hand, something in the walls he’d built up starting to disintegrate no matter how much he tried to stamp it back down. It was something so small, so simple, it was thread, but it was also much more than that. She’d noticed. She’d looked at him and seen him, even just for a second. She thought of him as more than a body, more than a means to an end. Her words had told him that, her demeanor told him that, but now this act of thoughtfulness told him that, too. Every time he found ways around believing it, around leaning into it, she gave him something else to dodge. Something else he didn’t want to dodge.

The vampire surged to his feet stuffing the spool into his pocket as he pivoted and followed after the bard—his bard—who hadn’t yet made it to her tent. He hated the desperate edge he heard in his own voice as he spoke her name to get her attention. She stopped and turned around, straight into his arms as he pulled her against him and branded her mouth with his.

Her surprise didn’t last long. It melted under their heat and his entire body responded when she kissed him back, her arms returning to wrap around his neck and one of her hands running through his hair and eliciting a soft groan from the back of Astarion’s throat that was lost between their lips. He only drew back when he felt her grow breathless in his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. 

Astarion inclined his head, skimming his nose gently against Áine’s. “Your ‘friend-based feelings’ would be better reserved for someone else,” he murmured, his eyelids heavy with lust as he looked at her. He needed to come to grips with himself before he took her. It couldn’t happen tonight, as much as his body disagreed with that sentiment. In fact, his body and its response to her was his primary concern. 

This was new and felt very much like a lack of control. The feelings he’d had that morning—the contempt, the thoughts of dominating her and manipulating her with his sexual prowess born of innumerable encounters’ worth of practice—were what he was used to when it came to bedroom activities. What he felt now, what he’d felt building ever since he’d noticed his fascination with her, was explosive. He still felt the urge to dominate, but for the sake of both their pleasure, to bring her to her knees because her knees were shaking with ecstasy. His base instinct was to be gentle with her, to lo—

He needed to reset before this went any further.

Astarion smirked at the dazed expression on her face, placing a hand on the back of her head to draw her against the kiss he pressed to her forehead. Out of her line of sight, he looked down at the top of her head with mixed adoration and fear. By the time he stepped back, the expression was smoothed away. “Sweet dreams, lover,” he purred and sauntered back to his tent, leaving Áine bewildered and wanting in his wake.

Next chapter: Chapter 9, "Bear With Me"

lil update notes: My fiancé is visiting for the next two-ish weeks, so updates either will wait until after then or be sporadic in the meantime.

Thank you for reading! I hope Unbound has been enjoyable so far. It's been very enjoyable for me to write. :) BG3 has been a godsend to my brain in general, so I hope I'm doing it some measure of justice here.

I hope everyone had, is having, or will have a safe, comfortable winter holiday season and that 2024 greets you kindly. x

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Masterlist

Read on AO3 here (18+):

Summary: A lot has changed since the revolution. Crimes against androids are now being treated with greater severity, with many being subject to the same penalties as crimes against humans. While anti-android attitudes are on the decline, transforming the mindset of an entire city is no simple task.

A reluctant Gavin Reed and his new partner RK900 have been assigned to investigate a string of disturbing murders. Despite the shift in Detroit's social climate, Gavin still holds reservations about whether or not androids are truly alive. Will his developing feelings for 'Nines' prompt a shift in perspective?

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Smut

Word Count: 3.3K

Arriving at the apartment, they were greeted almost immediately by a needy chorus of mewls coming from the bathroom. Upon registering the noise, Nines' head perked up with interest. His feet moved reflexively, trailing towards the source, when a hurried hand shot out to stop him.

"Oh no, you don't. No goddamn cats, they can wait."

"I did not intend on staying for long," the android replied, briskly defending himself. "Just a quick hello. I've missed them."

As endearing as the response was, Gavin was in no mood to exercise patience. He kicked the front door shut with enough force that he almost broke it. Then he pulled Nines around, propelling him into a swivel until their bodies faced each other. 

There was a modest distance between them, but it didn't stay this way for long as the disgruntled man quickly advanced. Bunching his hands into the front of the android's black undershirt, holding him firmly in place as he pinned him against a nearby wall. "Yeah, well, I've missed you too, and I take fucking priority." 

It was a completely superfluous gesture. Nines could have easily broken the hold had he wanted to, but he seemed willing to humour him. Allowing Gavin to savour in his fleeting moment of victory. 

Revelling in their closeness, the man glanced up at his former partner and greedily surveyed his features. Taking in the freckles and moles he had come to love so much, wondering just how far they spread across his body—and if it would be possible to count them all using his mouth. Focus shifted to his neck, seeking a preview, when he was hit by an unwelcome blockade. The obnoxiously high collar of a CyberLife jacket. 

The garment covered far too much, to the extent it seemed genuinely criminal. He wanted nothing more than to crumple it up and throw it in the trash. Allowing it to end up in a landfill somewhere—decomposing, forgotten to time.

"We needn't rush things," Nines whispered, leaning in close. "I think both of us have waited quite eagerly for this."

"Exactly, and I'm not waiting any longer." One of the hands that had been bunched in the android's shirt moved to cup his jaw, thumb trailing across his lips. "I want you now asshole."

Nines hummed against the digit as though the suggestion was something that required genuine consideration. The longer he remained silent, the more Gavin began to wonder if he was toying with him or if he'd actually changed his mind. Then, with a firm sweeping gesture, his hand was smacked away. 

The android captured his lips in a slow, indulgent kiss. Gavin offered little resistance when his arms were grabbed and firmly pinned above his head. If anything, he encouraged the action with a shameless roll of his hips. 

The taller man shuddered, making no secret of how much he had enjoyed the friction—before responding in kind, moving their bodies together with fervid intensity.

"I thought you wanted me to take you to your room?"

"Changed my mind," Gavin clipped back. "Couldn't give less of a shit where you fuck me, as long as you hurry up and do it…"

Nines pursed his lips, seeming to deliberate on the invitation. Then, without warning, he reached down—scooping a strong arm beneath the man's legs and effortlessly hoisting him into the air. Gavin yelped in surprise, hooking onto his neck in an effort to avoid tumbling backwards. 

He knew the android had made some strides in his social capabilities. On his own admittance, he had been practising, but being quite literally swept off his feet was something that had caught the detective off guard. Glancing up at his former partner, face burning with embarrassment, he noted how thoroughly pleased he seemed with himself.

"While I'm sure we'd both enjoy exploring the numerous places I could fuck you, I think that the bedroom would be the best place to start." Nines planted another kiss on his lips, ensuring there would be no room for debate. "Let me take you there."

It sent shivers down his spine as it struck Gavin just how attractive he found the current situation. Nines holding him up like a prize in a flagrant display of dominance, having done so with zero exertion. His mind flooded with scenarios of how that strength could be put to use. All completely depraved, and none of which he thought would be entertained given his current condition. 

"My legs still work, dickhead. I can walk", he grumbled in a weak attempt to save face. 

"I do not wish for you to strain yourself preemptively. Not with what I intend to do to you."

Any further protest died on his tongue as the excitement coiling in his stomach amplified. The air around them felt hot, almost stifling, exacerbated by the warmth that radiated off the android as he carried him through the apartment. 

It was something that Gavin had more idly noted back at the hospital. Just how warm he was. The heat seemed to be mounting in the wake of their current situation, leaving him wondering what Nines might be feeling. Questioning if he felt any of the same burning, carnal excitement currently raging within himself. 

His speculation came to an end when one of his dangling legs brushed against the android's crotch, striking the telling firmness that strained the front of his pants. He wanted nothing more than to rip them off—most practically with his hands, but more alluringly with his teeth. Desperate to see what he was hiding within the confines of the increasingly taut material. 

As they entered the bedroom, Nines took great care not to trip on the multitude of discarded clothes littering the floor. It was hilariously transparent just how desperately he wished to clean the mess, coupled with a vehement desire to resist the temptation—not wanting to get distracted from the task at hand. 

With gentle consideration, Gavin was set down on the sheets, disappointed by the sudden absence of warmth. This disappointment was only fleeting, as in a fluid motion, the android had joined him. Crawling onto the bed, caging his body with powerful limbs. He leaned in closer, wasting no time in claiming the man's eager mouth once again.

As they kissed, wandering hands searched his body. Starting at his neck and moving down his arms. Ultimately, they fanned inwards, melding to the firm contours of his stomach.

Nines played with the hem of his shirt, teasing the fabric, before pushing up and slipping his palm along the expanse of newly exposed flesh. He moved slowly, ensuring that every inch was searched with carefully applied weight. Fingertips flitted curiously, interspersed with firmer presses—as though he were seeking to map out a template. 

Gavin was struck by two things. The first was excitement, speculating on what Nines intended to do with such a vividly constructed image. The second was jealousy, as he cursed the limitations of his own imagination. His fantasies could never lend themselves the same degree of realism, something he had longed for immensely during his many lonely nights. 

Except now, he reasoned, that he didn't need a more distinct manifestation. The Nines in front of him was real—touching and holding him, as though his body were the only thing that existed.

"Remember what I said", he whispered, the smooth resonance of his voice complimenting the gentle strokes of his hands. "I'm going to do the work. Do not move unless I say you can." 

In the past, Gavin would have levelled some form of resistance. If only to goad a reaction from whoever he was sleeping with—but there was something about the juxtaposition between Nines' featherlight touches and the heady dominance of his command that compelled him to relent. 

This was clearly a good decision, as the android allowed his hips to drop, rubbing against him in a sensual motion. Regrettably, the action never lent itself to any increased weight or force, as he seemed displeased with how Gavin's jeans sought to minimise the friction.

"You are wearing too many clothes."

The matter-of-factly way he said this elicited a scoff from the detective. He gently shrugged his shoulders in a show of false commiseration. "Can't get undressed if I can't move, genius."

Nines sought to remedy the situation immediately. Toying with his belt before unfastening the buckle and smoothly sliding the leather from the loops of his pants. The sight of the android brandishing the item left his mouth dry. 

Fuck, wonder what he could do with that.

He continued to undress him, taking his time as he fussed with his clothes, folding them neatly to one side. The strange behaviour proved difficult not to laugh at, but Gavin was distracted from his amusement as the final item of clothing, his boxers, were unceremoniously ripped away. 

He was left to lay bare across the sheets. Painfully hard, chest heaving in anticipation. Nines stared down at him, trailing every inch of his body with shameless indulgence. 

Then, a sound escaped his throat. Almost like a growl, but underscored by harsh, metallic twangs. Without warning, he dipped forward, and Gavin watched on in giddy delight as a head of meticulously styled hair slipped its way between his thighs. 

He explored the tender flesh, leaving marks with his lips and teeth. His intent to chart his course seemed mingled with a hint of possessiveness, as though he were trying to establish a claim. 

His wandering mouth swept inwards—as a curious tongue ran a stripe along the bottom of his length. Gavin shuddered in disbelief, pulling his head forward as he struggled to get a better look. From the fleeting glance he was permitted, he concluded that he'd never seen anything more arousing:

Nines knelt between his legs, greedily lapping at his cock. Bright eyes stared at him, trained intently on his face. He started at the base of the shaft before running his way up. Swirling an enticing wetness around his tip before capturing it with a teasing suckle. 

The captivating show was taken far too quickly, as Gavin felt a weight on his chest, pinning him to the bed. 

"I told you not to move."

He whined in protest, but the noise lodged in his throat as a tight heat promptly engulfed him. The android hummed around his arousal, low and throaty, sending vibrations throughout his body. 

Holy fucking shit—

Gavin was forced to bite the back of his hand lest he find release there and then. It had been a long time since he last shared this sort of intimacy with someone—and even longer since it had felt this good. He didn't want it to end pre-emptively, wishing to revel in the sensations for as long as possible. 

With every bob of his head, Nines inched further down his length until his nose was brushing his stomach. He allowed the erection to strike the back of his throat with repeated vigour. 

Staving off release became increasingly difficult as Gavin groaned in appreciation, head flopping against the sheets. His hand fisted its way into the back of the android’s hair, tugging encouragingly. An action which, in all technicality, required some movement—but Nines neglected to complain.

Then, his hand was forced upwards as the seal around him was removed with a sinful pop. Cool air struck his skin unpleasantly as he made a heated sound of protest. "What the hell, why did you stop?"

"I don't want you to finish. Not yet." Nines quickly pulled himself up, pressing his mouth against the sensitive crook of his neck. Skilled lips sucked and teased, eliciting a shiver. "I want you to come with me inside of you. Would you find that agreeable, Detective?"

The way the title was practically purred—the fact he knew to say it at all—was a testament to just how observant he had been in studying Gavin's responses. Understanding all the tiny nuances that drove him completely insane. 

All blood rushed from his brain, promptly heading south. He'd never wanted anything more. It pained him just how deeply he desired Nines to have him. Taking everything he wanted, ruining him for anyone else. 

"Very," he growled, voice like gravel. "I need you to fuck me. Please."

Nines pulled away and swiftly began removing his clothes. Gavin was starting to question whether he would—or if he was enjoying the dynamic of still being dressed whilst the other was left completely exposed. 

His jacket was removed first, much to the detective's overwhelming delight, before skilled fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his black undershirt. The sleek material parted, revealing a growing margin of skin. 

The freckles, Gavin soon discovered, were everywhere. Flawlessly distributed, dotting the pale canvas in just the right amounts. Nines' body was the perfect balance of enticing softness and lithe muscle. Without any exaggeration, he was a masterpiece. It left him feeling woefully inadequate in comparison, but overwhelming desire quickly circumvented any envy. 

"Did they use my wet dreams as the fucking template when they built you?" His appreciative gaze trailed the marks, tracing patterns. "Because whatever they paid the perverted bastard who was in charge of designing this, it wasn't enough."

The android chuckled at the strange compliment, planting a firm kiss against the base of his neck. "The admiration is mutual; I find you equally appealing." 

He had no doubt Nines meant this, the weight of his desire permeating every syllable. Despite the assurance, he snorted, struck by the absurdity of someone so perfect being anything but underwhelmed by his appearance. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

The affectionate kisses stopped. Nines reeled back at alarming speed, features tensed and eyes blown as though he'd been struck in the face. "You’re beautiful," he said quickly, almost like a reflex.

The abrupt sentiment had caught the detective off guard and proved enough to tip him over the edge. He laughed, loud and unrestrained, unable to suppress it any longer. The android looked entirely crushed, a sharp burst of red casting over his increasingly forlorn expression. 

"I’m sorry, just—that wasn't what I thought you were gonna say," Gavin explained, interspersed by lingering wheezes. "No one’s ever called me that. It’s not something you really expect to hear. As a guy."

The LED faded into a contemplative yellow, as though he were committing the information to memory. "I fail to understand why not. It seems to be a fairly apt descriptor." 

Before Gavin could seek to protest this, hands were on him again. Carefully avoiding the sights of his most recent injuries, paying special attention to his scars. Nines traced each with careful precision as his synthetic skin retracted, revealing the white tips of his fingers. 

"Your body tells a story that mine never could. I find it fascinating." As he spoke, his skin continued to fade until the entirety of his hands were exposed. "I could spend all day here—looking, touching, studying every detail."

Overwhelmed by the unabashed admiration, Gavin held his breath. Something swelled inside his chest, seeming to grow in intensity with every second shared between them. Maybe he understood what he was feeling better than previously assessed.

Then, a knee brushed the neglected ache between his legs, promptly derailing the sentiment. Reminding him of other, more urgent concerns. "You gonna keep waxing poetic like that, or are you gonna fuck me already?"

"I think you'll find I am capable of doing both."

His pants were finally removed, revealing a pair of dark boxer briefs. Perplexingly, they appeared to be CyberLife branded—with the company's name on the waistband, alongside a small triangle marker. Gavin was about to make a joke about how closely they resembled the uniform of a certain club when the garment was silently slipped away.

Suddenly, he had no idea what he had been thinking about. Instead, he was focused entirely on the junction between the android's thighs, taking in the sight hungrily. 

Nines brought a set of fingers to his mouth, flicking the ends with his tongue before slipping them past his lips. His head tilted back as he sucked, eyes subtly lidded—an action that seemed almost effortlessly sexy. As he pulled the digits out, they were coated with a thick, jelly-like substance. 

Gavin could have easily fainted from excitement upon realising what it was. "You produce your own lube?" 

"...Is that a problem?"

"I mean, no, obviously not—but damn, Nines. You sure you don't moonlight as a Traci?"

"Lubricant can be used for an array of purposes. I don't think my designers had this situation in mind when they implemented the feature."

Before the man could respond, slicked fingers brushed his opening, applying pressure to the tight muscle. He bit the inside of his cheek, stifling a whine. Then, the movements stopped, just shy of breaching his warmth. 

You've got to be fucking kidding me.  

He was about to bombard Nines with a series of suitably impassioned grievances when he noted the subdued vulnerability in his eyes—and halted himself immediately.

"I've never done this before, so I apologise if my performance fails to meet your usual standards."

Oh…

Oh.  

Truthfully, Gavin already suspected this was the case, but he was uncertain how to proceed upon receiving confirmation. Understanding just how significant this moment was, and not wishing to take the privilege for granted. He knew he needed to offer Nines some form of reassurance. Lest he go down as one of the biggest assholes in history. 

"You okay if I move now?" He asked playfully, motioning to the covers beneath him. "Or am I still on bed arrest?"

The troubled expression relaxed a bit as the android let out a small huff of amusement. "I think that would be okay, provided you take it slow."

In compliance with his wishes, Gavin reached forward slowly until his hand had brushed the side of his face. He trailed the length of his defined jaw before gently cupping it. "If you last longer than two minutes, you'll meet my standards. Hell, you'll exceed them."

The response to this was mixed, with Nines appearing both saddened and relieved by the revelation. He leaned into Gavin's touch, turning his head and pressing his lips to the heel of his palm.

"I'm sorry to hear that your previous partners did not set higher expectations. My stamina greatly exceeds that of a human. I also do not have a refractory period, so we can go for as long as you feel comfortable."

Fuuuuck. "Okay, so that's sounding really great. Before we start, though, mind if I ask you something personal?"

The android glanced down between them as though making a point of their shared undress. "I suspect we’ve passed modesty at this stage."

"Right, yeah, so… shit, are you going to be able to feel anything?" 

As soon as the words left his mouth, the detective flinched. He had wanted to approach the subject as delicately as possible and was unsure if he was already botching his efforts. If the perplexed expression that had greeted him was anything to go by, he likely was. 

"Like, I'm assuming it's all functional down there..." He made a loose circling motion towards the android's crotch and immediately regretted it. You're making it worse, you stupid asshole, "but does it come with any sensitivity?"

"I have indulged in the feature many times and can confirm it is very enjoyable."

Nines said this with an air of casual finality, as though he expected the conversation to tidily breeze along. Needless to say, this did not happen.

"Oh yeah?" Gavin replied, trying his best to downplay his interest but failing miserably. He smacked his rapidly drying lips, seeking moisture. "Wouldn't have pegged you as the type to jerk off. Seem a bit uptight for that."

Evidently, the android was not about to let the joke slip by without consequence. The fingers that had been left to trail idly against the man's entrance suddenly pressed forward, breaching the first ring of muscle. He gasped at the sudden intrusion—a sound which quickly transitioned into a low, appreciative moan as he shamelessly arched towards the digits.

"It is an unsavoury habit for which you are entirely responsible," Nines informed darkly, finding himself at the shell of his ear. Gently blowing into the canal with targeted synthetic breaths. 

The fingers continued to tease him, working their way skillfully through his body. Brushing the sensitive walls, pushing and spreading in line with his eager responses. 

"You saying you think about me when you touch yourself?" Gavin asked, surprised that the words were even coherent amidst a series of husky pants. 

"Who else would I think about?" 

The sound that escaped his lips could barely be considered human, not helped by the fact that the fingers had brushed a bundle of nerves before steadily retracting. 

"Easy", he warned, his voice strained by the increasing weight of passion, "If you say, or do, anything else, this is gonna be over pretty quick."

There was a moment where it appeared as though Nines may comply as his fingers continued to recede. When suddenly, they pushed forward, and curled, striking the nerves full-force with targeted precision. 

Gavin almost screamed as his vision filled with stars. He was helpless to do anything but writhe against the sheets, bathed in a growing sheen of sweat. The high of the sensation peaked and tapered, allowing another string of garbled words to escape his lips. "Jesus fuck—you sure you've never done this before?" 

"I watched an extensive catalogue of pornography, as well as conducted several pre-constructions, in preparation for this moment—" 

Nines skillfully changed the angle. Teasing him through his dipping high, building it up again in a way Gavin didn't think was possible. He balled his hands into the covers, trembling as he did so. 

"I then learned that such material is riddled with misinformation and cited some more credible sources." 

"Well, they were good fucking sources because you're about to make me come without even touchin’ me."

The android withdrew his hand, seeming intent on keeping true to his original promise. The fingers continued to stroke and massage as they left his body, and the man beneath him groaned in a confusing mixture of pleasure and exasperation. 

If this bastard doesn't let me come soon, I'm going to riot. 

"So it feels good?"

"More than good", he grunted back, disliking how empty he suddenly felt. "Would feel even better if it was your dick instead of your fingers."

Ever responsive to the man's needs, Nines quickly repositioned himself—until his hips were pressed against his opening, rubbing against it. 

He entered him slowly, controlling the movement as he firmly gripped his hips. His LED was going crazy—a frenzied light show that seemed to worsen with every inch that disappeared into the willing heat beneath him. 

The thrusts started shallow and testing as his thumbs traced loving circles against the man's skin. He seemed lost entirely to the sensation, his pupils blown and lips parted, as wisps of styled brown hair cascaded down his forehead. 

Gavin bucked forward, encouraging Nines deeper inside and causing the android to tremble. It sent vibrations through both of their bodies as his eyelids fluttered open and closed. Garbled static leaked from his lips, mingled with throaty moans, as his head rolled back appreciatively. 

"You feel incredible."

"So do you." He bucked his hips forward again, with greater zeal, desperate for more. "Now go faster. This is torture, I can’t take it."

There was hesitance as the android's eyes surveyed the scattered bruises that marred his chest. Streaks of black that were fading into sickly shades of purple and green. 

"I don't want to hurt you", he said softly, planting a kiss against each of them as though willing them out of existence. 

"You won't." He reached up, draping his arms across his shoulders. "If I need you to stop, I'll say. Promise."

Taking advantage of how the man had sought to crane forward, Nines shifted his weight back, ensuring their bodies stayed connected. Their positions had changed, with Gavin sitting in his lap, straddling his hips. "I will allow you to set the pace." He suggested, holding him close, burrowing his face into a mess of tousled hair. "And then I will take over."

Gavin groaned brazenly before bringing his hips up—and firmly thrusting down. He repeated the motion several times, steadily building in intensity before his weakened muscles started to ache. Nines, sensing his mounting exhaustion, was quick to take over. 

The pace was fast, in seamless rhythm with what the man had sought to establish. Their bodies were pressed firmly together, trapping his hardness between them. It rubbed against Nines' taut stomach, creating a delicious friction.

"Yes, fuck—just like that—"

It wasn't long until the android lost any semblance of self-control. The movements became desperate and unorganised. With their current proximity, Gavin could hear the sounds of his inner components, building from a steady hum to a fierce rumble. 

His skin was hot—almost burning—as patches faded in and out, revealing shifting blotches of white. Unlike the action performed on his hands, this seemed entirely involuntary. Gavin couldn't help but find it mesmerising, as well as inexplicably attractive. 

A hand snaked between them, capturing his hardness in a tight fist before moving it in measured strokes, matching the rhythm of the thrusts. 

"Oh my god." The additional stimulation proved more than Gavin could take. A rising heat coiled in his stomach, begging for release. "Shit—I'm so close—don't stop."

With his available hand, Nines pulled him into a firm embrace, nails digging sharply into his shoulder. Gavin clung back, body arching, as he panted into the crook of his neck. 

With a final, targeted thrust, his vision went white. There was a rush of heat, filling him up until it dripped in rivulets down his thighs. His hold slipped from the android's neck, and in the loss of the support, his body flopped unceremoniously to the bed. 

"...Nines, did you just come?" He reached between his legs, testing the theory. His eyes lit up in disbelief as he examined the opaque material coating his fingers. Almost indistinguishable from the real thing, save for a subtle blue tinge. "Fuck me."

"I believe you'll find I already did," Nines said back, smirking coyly at his stunned expression. "My sexual components are designed to simulate human intercourse as much as possible. The release is optional, but I thought you might like it."

Gavin hummed in distant acknowledgement as he tried to establish some control over his increasingly debauched thoughts. Wondering if the substance was safe for consumption. How it might feel and taste filling his mouth—

"I can refrain from doing it again in the future if it is not in line with your preferences."

"Don't you fucking dare", he shot back, wiping his fingers off on the bed. "If that wasn't already the best sex I've had in my life, you filling me up would have tipped the scales." 

He rolled to his side, body limp, as he made a clumsy gesture for Nines to join him. The android slipped into place, ensuring they were face-to-face, as he trailed a languid path up and down the length of his arm. 

"Are you satisfied, or do you wish to continue?" 

The question elicited a greedy moan from the thoroughly spent man. "Fuck, I’d give anything to say yes… but I won't be able to do that again for a while. Everything hurts."

The delicate trails paused as Nines gripped his forearm, fingers tensed. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?" 

"Because I didn't want you to, dipshit." Gavin chuckled to himself before the added exertion it placed on his chest caused him to wince. "The mind is willing, but the body is weak. Stupid flesh prison."

"Nothing about it is stupid", came a stern correction as the android took one of his hands and placed it to his mouth. Sweeping the fingers across his lips, peppering each with gentle kisses. "It will be well worth the wait until I can have you again."

Gavin hummed contentedly as he closed his eyes, indulging in the pleasant sensations. "Looking forward to it."

"Do you want me to get you anything?" 

"Not right now, just…" The sentence hung suspended in the air, waiting for elaboration. Casting aside any lingering concerns of pride or fear, he committed himself entirely to the simple bliss he was feeling. Choosing to trust in it.

"Stay with me."

As he opened his eyes, an adoring gaze stared back at him—wide and searching—before being accompanied by a comforting smile. Their foreheads were pressed together in an action that promised love and security. 

"As long as you want me to."

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hey, today I got around reading your surprised by a storm series and it's so cute I loved it!

If you don't mind, id like to request Fuegoleon finding out they're having twins (one boy one girl) as his wife is in mid delivery and him holding his children for the first time please ?

Hiya!

Okay, so I love y'all for wanting soft Fue!! He really should have a family! I decided to combine these 4 requests, because I felt that they flowed together so nicely, and it means that the fic is slightly longer than... usually, but I do hope that you guys will like it!

Summary: Reader is afraid about the pain of the delivery, especially because she's having twins. Fue comforts her and offers to take her to Owen's office the next day to discuss more about the delivery. There both reader and Fue try one of Owen's spells that mimics the pain of delivery. And he's very much in pain (but there's no graphic depictions of the pain; the intended tone is slightly humorous). And at the end there's a successful delivery, and mom (reader), dad (Fue), and the kids (twins; one boy one girl), are laying in bed together, and Fue is just in awe.

Fanfic type: Oneshot Pairing: Fuegoleon x f!reader Length: ~2.6k Genre: hurt-comfort, slight comedy, family fluff (in that order) Warnings: obviously pregnancy, labour (no graphic depiction of labour though), fear of the delivery being painful, depictions of pain, I haven't actually given birth myself, so what's written here is to be taken lightly in that aspect; I don't actually know how it feels, possible typos so apologies for that

It was one of those nights where you simply lied awake and stared at the ceiling. It seemed as if the closer you came to your due date, of giving birth, the more anxious of it you grew. But it wasn’t about not wanting to be a mother, though it was scary too. You were told that nothing could quite prepare you for the task of being a mother, but it’d be a feat which you welcomed with open arms. Because you loved your children, even before they were born, and you knew that your husband would love them just the same.

It was more than clear from the way Fue stroked your stomach during the evenings, and spoke gentle nothings to them even if they couldn’t hear him. You were… almost sure, that they couldn’t hear him.

But your fear, uneasiness and anxiety had to do with the pain of giving birth. You had had horrid period cramps already, but you were told that giving birth would be much worse than that. And that… you couldn’t imagine a pain that bad. It had already been bad enough with dealing with being emotional and in pain during your periods and this just would be worse and it…

It was getting overwhelming. Especially because you knew that you’d be giving birth to twins.

So, you sat up and started crying as the emotions were just becoming too much. They were spilling over, and you just… sat there, sobbing. You hid your face into your hands and just… let it out. Because it was just too much.

“Honey…?” You heard the tired, muffled voice through the darkness. “What’s wrong..?”

There was a passing sense of guilt in you, since you knew how tired he must’ve been from work as well. And you didn’t want to bother him, burden him. But still, there was a hint of relief, of a wish to talk to him about it. And that wish soon silenced the guilt.

“I’m…” you begun, but still there was something in you holding back. Because, you also knew that despite the fear of pain childbirth would bring, it was too late to turn back now. So, the idea of grimacing over a fear that was inevitable felt… senseless? “I’m just… afraid of… how much giving birth will be…” you finally admitted while turning your face to the side and wiping tears from the corners of your eyes.

He sat up next to you, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the ruffling of sheets, as he, most likely, was thinking about what to say, what to tell you? Of course it’d hurt, he knew as much. And, if he was quite honest, he didn’t know how women could do it. Of course, he had read about giving birth and could site the stages of labour along with any other information he had managed to find, but… still, childbirth was no short of a miracle to him.

So, he placed one hand onto your shoulder, and wrapped the other around your middle, the bets he could. “I’ll be there, by your side through it all,” he assured you. “I understand that you’re afraid, and… though there are medicines and spells that can ease with the pain, I hear that it’s still quite the ordeal,” he was trying to reason with you. But he was also a problem solver. It was his love language. “Many women have gone through it, and thus there’s no reason why you couldn’t do it either,” another logical statement. “But I promise that I’ll be there with you through it, and I’ll do anything I can to assist you.”

He was trying. And he was being realistic.

The fact that he assured you that he’d be there for you, made you feel better, but it didn’t quite succeed in ridding you from all the fear you still held in your heart.

“If you wish, we may go to Owen to discuss about our options in more detail?” He suggested.

And you loved it when he said ‘we’.

“It… sounds good,” you told him, because it did sound good. It felt like you were being heard, and he really was there for you.

“Then we’ll do that as the first thing in the morning,” he told you.

“Don’t you have a meeting?”

“I can reschedule. There’ll be many more meetings, but I shall not be an absent father.”

There it was, that stubborn pride of a lion. But honestly, it made you love him even more.

“First thing in the morning,” you repeated with a subtle smile, after which he pressed a kiss onto your temple and pulled you back into the bed, holding you close.

His broad chest was pressed against your back, and you could feel it rising and falling as the sound of his breathing rang through the silence. Steady, soft, and secure. To the melody of which you drifted off to sleep.

---

The next day, as promised, you were at Owen’s office to discuss your options about pain relief during labour. And not many of the options presented were new to you. But, you supposed, you had forgotten about how many there were, while even Owen did admit that they couldn’t do miracles, and labour would still take a toll. It was a long ordeal, after all. And he was quite honest with you, when it came to admitting that it would still be painful.

He wasn’t going to lie, which… in a strange way made you feel a little better too. Because you would rather have him tell you the truth, rather than have him lull you into some idea of a painless childbirth, only to then be in agony during labour. At least you could mentally prepare yourself that it’d be like experience the worst cramps you had had, and then a little bit of extra.

But you could do it. You were sure that you could. And they would give you something for the pain to ease it. Warm baths, and walking supposedly also helped, so there were options.

“How painful will it be?”

You were a little surprised to hear Fuego ask that question, if you were honest. Because you had assumed him to focus more on the remedy. But you were even more surprised to hear Owen tell him that he had recently learned to use a spell to mimic the amount of pain a mother experiences during childbirth, in a way of allowing fathers to experience the feeling too.

“May I try?”

That was another question you certainly wouldn’t have anticipated while coming here. But as the initial, split second surprise faded, it did make sense. Fue would be the type of a person to try and understand your predicament, and this would be a good way of doing it.

But still you felt inclined to ask: “are you sure that you want to try?”

“Of course,” he replied while looking at you. “It allows me to connect with you, and understand what you’ll endure.”

“Mmm…” you uttered, first thinking about how you’d react if he went first, and it’d be horribly painful to him. Because the fact of the matter still was: he wouldn’t need to bear through it, while you did. “I’d like to try. First, if that’s okay.”

“If that’s what you wish,” he nodded to you, and then looked at Owen expectingly.

While Owen simply sat there, looking at the exchange, letting you have the discussion, before nodding to you, and instructing you to take a comfortable position before casting a spell.

“Alright, so this mimics the pain of a contraction in the early delivery,” he explained.

You took a deep breath and readied yourself the best you could. Okay, okay, I can do this… you encouraged yourself as Fue took your hand.

“It’ll be alright, my love. You’re strong,” he encouraged as the spell begun to take effect.

And it… it did hurt yes, but it wasn’t much different than a period cramp.

Your eyes shifted from side to side, expecting it to grow worse, but after a while it was gone.

“That’s… it?” You looked at Owen with a frown.

“A contraction in the early stages of labour yes. The few next ones will increase in pain level, much like they would during delivery, and the last that you’ll experience is equivalent to the pain you’d feel during delivery. But I’ll try to keep the last one brief.”

“Okay,” you said with a nod, while again readying yourself.

And Owen continued with the spell.

The next one was worse. And the one after that was even worse. Actually, it reminded you of that time you were on your period and you had had to run and do sit ups. Which had been awful. Horrible. Gut-wrenchingly painful. Just as was your expression and reaction this time.

But honestly, you had expected much, much worse.

And that came with the last stage. Your body curled around itself out of impulse, and your breathing was heavy and deep.

That was when Owen stopped the spell.

The pain faded, but you still sat there, hunched over yourself with a frown on your face.

“Are you alright, my love?” Fue asked, while still holding your hand.

“Mhm?” You hadn’t intended to hum it out as a question.

“Yes?” Owen replied with a question of his own while sitting there with slight concern on his face.

“I’m… not sure?” You said. “I was expecting something… worse?”

Owen gave you a slow nod while choosing his words. “I have to emphasize the fact that it is only a simulation, and what you’ll experience may differ drastically. And. This time the amount it took for each pain impulse to be in effect was considerably shorter than what it’ll be during actual delivery. Exhaustion and the fact that you’ll experience the pain for longer periods of time, do amplify the pain experienced in actuality.”

“Hmm…” you hummed.

“So, you still should do your best to prepare for the delivery.”

“Oh yes, of course,” you replied. Because… of course you would. But you also supposed that it was a good thing that he said it out loud.

As you fell in thought Fuegoleon asked if he could try it out now that you seemed to be alright, to which Owen agreed.

So, Fue took a comfortable position on the chair, as Owen again cast his spell.

Fue’s eyes opened wider, and his body hunched forward as he looked at you with a frown on his face, as if he was asking a question with his expression alone. During the pause, he took a few breaths, slightly deeper than usually.

“Regular… period pain?” He asked, this time managing to voice the question.

“Quite close yeah,” you replied. “Not as bad as being on your period while having to exercise,” you continued right before the second wave hit him.

This time his teeth clenched together, as he leaned forward, even if only a little again.

“This… cannot be,” he managed.

And the came the third wave.

And a fourth. And fifth.

 Sweat dripped down his face, and his breathing was ragged from the pain. His face was pale, and his arms were wrapped around his stomach as he still tried to maintain his composure.

The pride of a lion.

But by the time the last wave came, he was on the floor, growling while grinding his molars, fingers trying to dig into the floor without avail.

And then the pain ceased.

But the sensation lingered. Just as with you. And again his head turned towards you with a frown and a wordless question, which this time around was mixed with a profound sense of awe.

“Does sting a bit, doesn’t it?” You smiled.

And you could have sworn that you heard Owen chuckle under his breath ever so slightly.

---

The weeks rolled past as the due date came closer. All the way until it arrived. And the delivery was without complications.

If you didn’t count Fue stressing more than you would have expected. In fact, you didn’t think that you had ever seen him so on edge than on that day. It was almost like he was angry, angry about your pain, angry about you having to endure something with which he couldn’t help you.

He was helpless. And he hated that.

But by the time the delivery was done, and you were so tired that you couldn’t lift your arms anymore, silence settled into the room. Just... silence, and awe and bliss that you couldn’t describe even if given all the time in the world.

Your first born was by your side. He had cried so much at first, but now it seemed like he had realized that it was alright.

Everything was alright. Mom was there… dad was there… and it was… alright.

Somehow you found the strength to turn onto your side and look at him… His hands were so small… his nose was so tiny and he was… just perfect.

You reached closer to him, placing your arm around him, as if to protect him, without putting the weight of your arm onto him.

“They’re perfect…” Fue whispered while cradling your daughter in his arms, without breaking his gaze from her.

“They are,” you agreed, while looking at your son again.

He placed a kiss onto your daughter’s forehead before turning to you, and placing her next to your son before climbing into the bed himself.

His movements were careful, soft, almost hesitant.

..Yes hesitant.

His eyes were looking intently to your children, as if he was afraid of looking away, as if he was afraid of something happening to them if he dared as much as look away. He might have just met his children, but it was evident that he was already filled with nothing but love, support and devotion to them. They’d be his world. Along with you.

You, and your children were his world.

As simple as that.

And as he laid in bed next to you, wrapping his arm over yours, as if to protect you and the kids now sleeping in between you two, you couldn’t see any fatigue in him, despite having been awake with you throughout the delivery. But there was also a sense of… wonder? The question of if it was real, that moment, was reflected from his eyes. The sheer disbelief if the happiness of that moment was real.

Which it was.

It was…

Your daughter let out a babble in her sleep, and you could have sworn, that even through your tired state, you could see a tear of joy collecting into his eyes.

“They’re perfect…” he whispered, with soft, tender syllables again that flowed through the tranquil silence of the room.

“They are…” you agreed again with faint amusement in your tone as your eyelids begun feeling even heavier.

“Thank you…” he still said.

But you weren’t quite sure what to say, because a ‘you’re welcome’ seemed… out of place, somehow. So, you simply nodded, and it was enough.

It was more than enough.

He was thankful of you, of your kids, of your family, and he didn’t need you to say anything.

He didn’t need you to say anything.

It was enough for you four to simply be there; exist, as a family. The little, perfect family that you couldn’t have dreamed of even in your most wonderful of daydreams.

But the thing was, you didn’t need to dream about it, because it was right there, in the waking world.