#but it's so blessedly quiet here

[isfjmel-phleg]

It was wonderful to see my family this week but what a relief to be home.

[grandlinedreams]

|| i regret nothing I need Cooper Howard viscerally both pre and post Ghoulification

|| notes: semi Canon compliant, spoiler-ish for end of s1, semi-shifting pov, Lucy is adorable but baby girl you will be chewed up and spat out pls grow more spine, Dogmeat has never done anything wrong ever, godbless Cooper having a southern accent bc that's my accent, yeah, gonna do a sequel to this and a prequel on Coop and reader's first meeting, ok bye

|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, couple of allusions to cannibalism, reader is not specifically gendered, NSFW ㅡ fingering/touching

“Where are we going?”

Not for the first time today, or even the last week, Cooper questions why he's letting the Vaultie (“Lucy,” she informs him primly, “my name is Lucy.”) tag along. The dog, at least, is a good, reliable companion. Dogmeat trots dutifully at his side, her tail wagging as he stops to glare at Lucy.

“Supplies, Vaultie,” he tells her, relishes the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Need supplies or we'll both be knee deep in shit.” He pauses. “More than we already are.” 

She mumbles something he doesn't care to catch as he resumes walking, rolling his eyes as he adjusts his hat. He knows he could stand to be a little more sympathetic with the bombshell she's still dealing with, but he can't bring himself to ㅡ not when his daughter might still be alive out there, somewhere. (And his ex-wife, who he's pointedly trying to not think about too much.) 

Lucy is blessedly quiet for a good while, all the way until they get closer to where they're going. Cooper doesn't need that piece of shit vault-tec device on her arm to know where he is, but Lucy says it anyways.

“It's a town,” she mumbles at the cluster of ramshackle buildings, surrounded by the clustering of trees so much like Filly ㅡ but isn't. “Is thisㅡ”

“Yes,” he answers, “now shut it and walk.”

Lucy huffs. “I don't know if you've realized neither of us have means to pay for anything,” she protests, “but the general rule ofㅡ” 

“Vaultie.” If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under. He's never had much patience, but she’s already reached the bottom of it and keeps digging. “Shut the fuck up about your goddamn rules. If you haven't noticed, nobody up here gives a damn about playing by what's wrong and what's right.” He gives her a meaningful look. “Now if you don't want me to leave your ass to whatever comes along next, you'll be quiet and let me handle it.” 

Lucy's mouth shuts with an audible click, and Cooper turns on his heel to resume walking, Dogmeat at his heels. 

Like Filly, the center of buildings bustle with the day to day of so many others, the cacophony of animal sounds along with chatter ㅡ Cooper spares Lucy a brief glance to watch her struggle to keep up and scoffs to himself, shaking his head as he continues.

He knows where he's going, a little shop shoved between two others, narrow but deeper than the other two, because he's been here before. Several times, actually. Which accounts for the familiarity with which he strolls over the threshold and leaves Lucy and Dogmeat to follow. 

There's the jingle of what might be a bell over Lucy's head when she follows, blinking at the interior. Neat and tidy, or at least as much as can pass for such things on the surface ㅡ rows of weapons and other assorted things on shelves and stands. 

Lucy watches The Ghoul rap his fist on the counter. “I know you're here,” he calls, “you never leave this damn place!”

She expects whoever it is to come scuttling out with the tone of voice he uses and being as accustomed to his rougher attitude, and she listens to the clatter of something further in the shop.

“If that's your greeting nowadays,” comes the answer, “you can fuck off.” 

To Lucy’s surprise, The Ghoul husks a laugh instead of offering another threat. Footsteps approach, and Lucy blinks at the person who rounds the corner. 

“You,” you accuse, finger almost into his chest, “thought I told you I was done dealing with you if you couldn't work on your manners.” 

Lucy stares, and watches as you turn towards her and raise an eyebrow, eyeing her with unrestrained curiosity, then at Dogmeat. “A vaultie and a dog,” you say, then glance back at The Ghoul. “So, taking in strays, huh?”

The Ghoul grimaces. “Guess so.” He clears his throat. “Need supplies again, sweetheart.”

“Figured as much,” you say, arms folding across your chest. Lucy decides she likes you, because you're standing up to him ㅡ and he's letting you. “Take it you have no way of paying, again.”

Lucy wants to tell The Ghoul I told you so, because he can shit on all her little rules all he likes but the surface still deals in keeping the scales balanced. You have to eat too, so it's fair that you're expecting payment in the nonexistent caps they have. The Ghoul, on the other hand, tries a different route. 

“Oh come on now sugar,” The Ghoul wheedles, tone almost what could be considered as sweet. Playing at a gentleman for the way he leans against the cobbled together counter, even goes as far as to take his hat off and place it down. “Don't be like that.”

“Don't you sugar me,” you counter with an attitude that honestly startles Lucy for both the lack of genuine bite or answering hostility from The Ghoul. This isn't the first time you've met, she realizes, and is also quietly a little horrified to register that this almost sounds like flirting. “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

The Ghoul almost grins. “At least I'm consistent. Besides, you know you miss me when I'm gone.” 

You snort, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. Lucy feels a tiny bit uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like she's watching something she shouldn't be privy to. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you answer, bustling around to shove several fabric wrapped packs into his chest and giving him a meaningful look. “You owe me.” 

It's definitely flirting now, Lucy notes as The Ghoul's face lights up in a way that's still entirely human, tracking your movements with something far softer than anything she's ever seen from him. 

The turn towards her and head jerk to her and Dogmeat is as clear as dismissal as she's ever seen, to make herself scarce ㅡ so she does, but not before she catches the peripheral glimpse of the way you let him reach for you, almost melting into him for the way he moves to undoubtedly murmur something. 

That something is not the sweet words of a long time lover, but it's probably about as close as you're going to get with things the way they are.

 

“Anyone causin’ you trouble lately?” 

You roll your eyes. “Besides you?” He gives you a look, and you shake your head. “No, and even if there was, you know I can handle myself.” You turn to throw him a teasing look over your shoulder. “Don't tell me you're getting soft on me, old man.” 

It's Cooper's turn to snort, even as he moves to follow you. There's a sort of peace to watching you sort through boxes of shell casings and bottles of powder, letting his gaze drift over your body. 

When you turn, he doesn't even bother to hide the way he's watching you, and you arch an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he returns. “Can't I admire you?”

You roll your eyes. “I'm too expensive for you, Cooper.” It's a playful taunt, one that incites a little flare of something in his eyes as he approaches, the jingle of his spurs as he comes to loom over you, cages you in against the shelves of “inventory”. 

“Really now,” he drawls, leans in, eyes predatory dark. A lifetime ago, you might have been scared. But the wastelands made no qualms about beating fear out of people just as quick as it snuffed out life all together. “Here I was thinkin’ I might get a discount.” He reaches, thumbs at your bottom lip with his gloved digit. “What's the askin’ price, sweetheart?” 

This close, he smells like the wastelands and sunbaked leather, with a little bit of blood ㅡ but you don't mind. Never have, not sure you ever will. Not when it comes to him, anyways.

He's a dangerous man. A man with a reputation that's well-earned, spoken in hushed whispers and anything but nice. But you let him slot a leg between yours, lean in, press his lips to your hair. You smell like gunpowder and hot metal, grease stained fingertips and more than a couple bruises and scars for your efforts. 

Sometimes Cooper contends with the idea he might need you just as much as he needs that chem that keeps him sane. Admits it here and there, quietly to himself when he wanders in, squashes it down that he makes the trips sometimes just to make sure you're still alive. Not like he'd know if you were, till he sees you. Not sure what he'd do if he someday came up and found you gone. No note, no goodbye ㅡ quick and quiet, the cruelty of the wastelands.  

“Didn't answer my question, darlin’.” He mumbles, lips to your cheeks now. Soft skin, kept carefully with rationed doses of radaway and a healthy heap of keeping your cute little self out of business that doesn't involve you. “Come on, I asked you real nicely.” 

You hook your fingers in the loops of his belt, pull him closer. He can feel the jump of your heartbeat under his lips, now at your jawline. A soft, shaky inhale. Selfishly, he wants to keep you. Steal you away, greedy to keep you for himself. Hates the idea of whatever scum that rolls in that you have to deal with on your own. You can handle yourself, he knows that. 

Doesn't stop that little piece of him that's still truly Cooper Howard from worrying. But he knows better than to think he can protect you, because he can't. So he does what he can.

Your skin is soft under his teeth, forgiving to the nip of them, the blooming blossom of pink that reminds him of strawberries. The noise you make is just as sweet, and he wonders if you'd taste like that, too. 

“I'm waiting,” he prompts between little nips, mouth curving against your flesh when you grip at him tighter. There's a lot he could do to you, and not a lot you wouldn't let him. “Don't tell me this big ol’ cat’s got your tongue, little songbird.” 

Your lips part, and he expects either a sparky response or a soft plea for what this is tilting towards, partaking of something far softer than anything he's used to nowadays ㅡ  but you’ve always had a taste for throwing him for a loop, and you do it now. 

“Take me with you.” 

That snaps him out of his little hazy, touch-greedy daze, enough that he pulls away to look at you properly. “Repeat that?”

“You heard me.” You tug at the loops of his belt, eyes steely, expression firm. “Take me with you. Tired of this shitty little outpost. Figure it's time to move before I get myself into trouble I can't get out of.”

Cooper laughs. “Think you're runnin’ straight into that fire by askin’ what you're askin’, sweet thing.” A warning and a plea, mixed mish-mash in his words. Part of him wants you to stay here. Concrete, much as it can be, where he knows where you are. Other part says it'd be easier to watch your back if he saw it all the time. 

“That's not an answer, Cooper.” 

He snorts, softens at the edges again, a little sadder as he reaches to stroke your jawline, leans to bump his forehead to yours ㅡ radiation warm against radaway cold. “Wanna make sure you know what you're asking for, darlin’. I ain't your babysitter. Got my own shit to do.”

“I know.” There's that fire in your voice, the kind he loves and hates at the same time. “Wasn't asking for you to babysit me.” 

He swallows roughly. Lets his hands drift up your sides, tug at the tuck of your shirt, underneath to drag sun-worn leather against the soft skin of your abdomen. Relishes the way you shiver, leaning into his touch. “Can't promise nothin’, you know that.” 

Your smile promises the same kind of heartbreak his own words do, the kind rooted in the reality that the world doesn't deal in any absolute but death, and sure as shit won't give happy endings. Not anymore. “I know.” 

Cooper can't think of what to say to that, at least anything he's ready to, so he kisses you. Your lips are too soft against his, the warmth of your mouth reigniting that greedy, needy, human thing inside him. He pulls, digs his fingers into your soft, pliant skin, and he takes.

Takes what you willingly give him, hand over hand with nothing but that pretty little smile of yours. He muffles your gasp as he wedges his leg a little firmer, coaxes the part of your legs with a rough husk of, “just like that, dollface,” and delights too much in the sound of you moaning for him.

Hushed, quiet enough that there's no reason for Dogmeat or Lucy to come back yet (he doesn't know what they're up to nor does he really fuckin’ care at the moment), he lets himself indulge in the pleasure of your body against his. The sweet little sounds, half-gasped as he mouths at your neck, hitched to something almost like music as his hands wander. 

Pauses long enough to bite at the tip of his glove and tug, one then two, the bare, radiation scarred wander of his fingers over your body. It's selfish, the way he covets every little twitch and jump of your muscles, the choked gasp as he guides you into rocking against his leg. 

“You're so sweet for me, sugar,” he coos, syrupy as he picks you apart meticulously, piece by piece. Fingers still far too good at what they do when he replaces his leg with the press of them against you, remnants of a past life for how well he gets you to whimper his name. “Like ambrosia.” 

His fingers stroke, deceptively gentle, working over your slick, too-hot, achy skin until you’re panting and gripping at him, pleading for a relief only he can give you. And that’s exactly how he wants you, where all you can see and think of is him. 

The expression you make when he finally lets you come might truly be the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very long time. Headier than the Jet, dizzying and making him swear as he jerks his clothed hips against yours, breath sharp in his chest. 

“Gonna be the death of me, I swear.” He bites at your neck, digs a little harder, scrapes his canines into your sweet, yielding flesh. He could devour you, take bite after sweet, sweet bite and actually test that theory about the strawberries. Crack the cage of your rib, feast on that beating yolk of heart that thumps so hard in your chest. 

“Gonna let me do it, sweet thing?” He rumbles against your ear. “Let me have it all?” 

Your eyes flash, lips pretty and swollen as they part to answer ㅡ and the bark of that damn mutt ruins it all. At least it's a warning for you both, because he's stepping back and letting you fix yourself with surprising speed as Lucy and Dogmeat return, an expectant look on the fuckin’ vaultie's face. 

“Well? Got what you need?"

Cooper snorts, tracks you instead of answering as you press your hand to his for a second, gone around the corner. Lucy frowns when you return, pistol strapped at your hip and a bandolier slung over your shoulder like his, broad pack strapped to your back. Like you planned for this.

And you did, he notes, but it hadn't been contingent on his agreement. Idly, he notes he never did answer you, not really. But he just hums, then turns towards Lucy, who looks between the two of you, confused. 

“Yeah,” he finally answers, “got what I need.”

[hyunsvngs]

𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 - bang chan x gn!fem reader

wc: 4k

cw: bang chan being sexy frat president, sex with no strings attached, mc being a self proclaimed whore, smut 18+ MDNI.

synopsis: the party was boring. thankfully, the frat president who you hadn’t spoken to for a while offers you to go on a drive.

a/n: ITS HERE! part 7 of hot bitch summer. ENJOY:3 smut warnings under cut as per!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

sw: daddy kink, car sex, pube descriptions as per usual, blowjob, unprotected sex, having sex while someones on the phone, dirty talk

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The bass of Hands Up by 2PM reverberated through your skull. Chan was usually in charge of the music, and was completely devoted to this responsibility, but he’d relinquished this authority to Minho, for one night and one night only. You loved 2PM as much as the next person, you weren’t an idiot, after all. But the late nights and parties were catching up with you, and you really felt the need for a quiet night. Although, you’d come to find that a quiet night was hard to come by around here.

You’d poured yourself a drink, but had been sipping at it for the last forty minutes and had barely made a dent in the liquid. You were considering just sneaking away to Minho’s room, crawling into his bed and scrolling through TikTok for a few hours until he joined you for drunken cuddles and/or sex. You just needed Jisung to be distracted enough so that you could evade him - your clingy bestie wouldn’t be very happy if he caught you abandoning the party.

The speakers began to blast ADTOY and Jisung fell to his knees, belting out the lyrics, and you thought you may have found your moment - when somebody sank down onto the couch next to you.

Chan. Smiling at you gently. You were thankful that it had been one of the calmer members of the frat. Or one of the more sober ones, you should say.

"Hey, Channie."

"Hey," he replied, nudging you gently with his elbow. "Not feeling it tonight?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me, I think." He leaned in close to whisper, as though he were telling you a secret. "I'm not feeling it either."

You smiled, appreciating the company of someone who wasn't desperate for you to partake in their drunken fun, whilst painfully sober.

"C'mon," he said. "Fuck it. Let's go get burgers."

You glanced over at him. "Are you paying?"

Chan laughed, shaking his head. "Brat. Sure. Let's go."

The two of you crept out of the room, blessedly undetected. If anyone had noticed the two of you hurrying out of the room, they’d surely assume you were sneaking away to fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d dragged a member of the frat away from a party for sex. It was business-as-usual, really.

You only breathed a sigh of relief when you collapsed into the passenger seat of Chan’s car. “Okay. Where to?”

“I know a place,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. “It’s a little way out, hope that’s okay.”

You nodded. “It’s a nice night for a drive.” You rolled down the window, letting the summer evening breeze wash over you.

You hadn’t been in Chan’s car for a while. Come to think of it, you hadn’t really spoken to Chan since everything started happening between you and the rest of the frat. It wasn’t an awkward silence, definitely comfortable - it was nice to just chill, especially when you weren’t feeling a party at all.

The drive was silent other than soft music coming from the radio. You thought you could recognise it as The Neighbourhood, a band Chan loves and plays on the regular. It was softer than anything you would’ve expected him to play, the singer crooning over the speakers and filling the car with a pleasant noise. It was almost disappointing when you both arrived at the diner and the music switched off.

The diner was cute, retro almost. There were only one or two people inside, sipping on coffee and doing some work on their cheap laptops. It was comforting when you and Chan entered and sat across from each other in a creaky, red leather booth. Chan even ordered some fries and two milkshakes for you both, insisting that the fries in the diner were the best you’d ever had. It was familiar, comforting to be with your friend after not speaking to him for so long.

“God, this is so much better. Thank you for rescuing me, Channie.”

Chan picked up a napkin, dabbing at his mouth. "I'd been wanting to catch you alone for a while, actually."

You fake gasped. "Bang Chan, are you trying to become my next conquest?"

Chan began to panic, cheeks flushed red, waving his arms wildly. "No, no, I swear! I just wanted to chat! The house can get pretty hectic, it's difficult to get a quiet moment alone, I'm sure you know that-"

"Relax." You patted his forearm, laughing at him. "I was joking. What do you wanna chat about?"

Chan shrugged, still looking a little abashed. "I just wanted to check if you're okay, really?"

"Oh." You took a sip of your milkshake. "Yeah, I'm fine. Never better. Why do you ask?" Had you given the impression that you were struggling? You were thriving, in all honesty.

Chan's eyebrows were furrowed, and you could tell he was trying to find the right words. "Listen, I'm not trying to swoop in as some male saviour or anything. Power to you, as long as you're having fun. I guess I just wanted to let you know… there are no expectations, or anything. It can be easy to get stuck in these situations. If you ever wanna stop sleeping with the boys, we'll still want you around."

You smiled at him. “Chan, that’s really sweet. And I really appreciate you checking in. but, truth be told, I am a gigantic whore and I’m having the time of my life.”

Chan blushed at how direct you were being, but laughed. “Okay, as long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

You patted his hand on the diner table. “If that ever changes, I'll let you know.”

Chan nodded, and returned to munching on his fries. "Y'know, I've never really done the whole casual sex thing. What's it like?"

You paused. That was a big question to answer. It was… well, it was incredible. Exciting. Empowering. It had given you a big confidence boost, having all these gorgeous men interested in you. First you’d been walking around the frat house like you owned it, which led to you walking around town like you owned the goddamn world. You may have been developing some sort of complex, but fuck, it felt good. And, honestly, on a more trivial level… you were just having a great time.

“It’s a whole lot of fun, I guess that’s the main thing. Fucking different people, exploring different dynamics. Doing it all in a safe and comfortable environment is a big plus, too. It’s not that I’m against monogamy, but it’s nice getting to have all this fun without being tied down.”

Chan nodded, taking this in. "I don't know. I guess I'm not sure how well I'd fare. Sex without feelings… I don't know if I could do that."

"Well, it's not exactly sex without feelings. More… sex without romantic obligations. There are feelings - I love the guys. Felix and Jisung are my best friends in the world, and obviously Minho and I are… close. Just because I'm not dating the entire frat, doesn't mean there aren't any feelings there."

"Hmm," Chan mused, thinking things over.

"All I'm saying is, don't knock it 'till you've tried it." You sat back in your seat, shooting the man a wide grin. "And if you try it? Try it with me."

Chan's cheeks flushed redder still. "Well… maybe. I guess I wouldn't be opposed. You make it sound like a pretty good set-up."

You simply looked at him expectantly. You could offer it to him, of course. But you wanted him to ask. "Yeah. It's pretty good."

"So…"

"Be brave, Channie. Say whatever you want to say."

"You're killing me, y'know that?" he groaned. "Do you want to… you know…"

You stirred your milkshake casually with your straw. "Hmm… I don't think I do know."

“Jesus, Y/N. Do you wanna fuck?”

You gave him a saccharine smile. “Now, was that so hard? Of course I do. You wanna do it tonight?”

Chan frowned. "I don't know. There isn't a whole lot of privacy back home."

You nodded. "You're worried Minho will hear us and turn it into a full-blown orgy?"

Chan hid his head in his hands with a groan, hiding his red cheeks. "Oh my god, don't say that."

You laughed. "You get so flustered, Channie, it's so sweet. Anyways, my place is out of commission right now, they're in the middle of fixing the AC."

Chan pouted. "Don't say we're out of options - you kinda got my hopes up here."

"Got your hopes up?" you raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean…?" You let your shoe fall to the floor and extend your leg beneath the table, pressing your foot into his bulge. Just as you thought. Hard. What was it with these boys? Ready to fuck, wherever and whenever. Not that you could talk.

Chan looked like he was about to explode. You smirked, knowing that he was unlikely to decline whatever you proposed. “So, my place is out of action. Your place is sorely lacking in privacy. Good thing you have a car, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Car. Right.” He patted his pockets, pulling out his keys and sliding them over the table. “Go, wait for me there. I’ll pay.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his desperation. There was nothing you loved more than a sweet, desperate, horny boy.

The subsequent car journey was indescribable. You could feel the tension between you two, despite Chan only driving for a few minutes before he seemed to notice a prime location.

The car slowed, as Chan turned down a narrow lane. “Here - here should be okay, right?” It seemed secluded enough. There was a row of trees obscuring the car from view. You were hidden in plain sight.

“Wait right here, okay?” Chan got out of the car, and you heard him open the trunk. It was getting late, but the sky was still golden, in that perfect August night way. The air was warm, heavy, but cooling down as the sun sank further into the horizon. Cicadas were croaking. You wondered if you’d even be able to hear them over your own moans.

“Ready for you now, babe, come back here,” Chan called.

You didn’t have much prior experience, but you knew that car sex wasn’t typically the height of luxury. Fogged up windows, leg cramps, banging your head against the window. But this? This set-up was nice. Leave it to Chan to make car sex more comfortable than sex in Jisung’s room. At least here there wasn’t a stack of monster cans by your head and a lighter digging into your back from under the duvet. He’d even laid out pillows and blankets.

“You had all this stuff on standby? Damn. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been waiting to fuck me in this car.”

“I like to be prepared, okay? Not for car sex,” he quickly clarified. “For road trips, and whatever.”

“I have to hand it to you, Channie, this looks very cosy.”

He nodded. “Sure does. Now, are you gonna lie down and let me fuck you?”

You grinned. You knew he’d lose that shy boy energy, when it came down to it. “Yes, daddy.” Your tone had been mocking, but you saw the way his eyes widened. Okay, you noted mentally. Daddy kink.

The trunk wasn’t the biggest; there was space for you to lean back against the pillows he’d arranged, but your legs were still hanging out of the car. Chan wasted no time, wrapping your legs around him and touching his crotch to yours, ever-so-gently.

“You’re sure you wanna do this?” he asked, looking you straight in the eyes.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

Before you knew it, Chan’s lips were on yours, his hips grinding into yours. You moaned against his lips, plush and warm. You’d been wanting to kiss him for longer than you’d realised, and it was better than you could’ve hoped. He tasted slightly like the vanilla milkshake he’d been drinking not long ago, but mainly like Chan, a brand new introduction to your taste buds, and a very welcome one at that.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close. His dick was rock hard, and it felt fucking huge, pressing against your clit even through the layers of clothing. You felt like a feral animal, so horny already. Your right hand went down to squeeze his ass, round and firm, pulling him impossibly closer to you.

You reluctantly pulled away from the kiss to whimper at him needily, “Please, Chan - please.”

“Please what? Use your words, baby,” he smirked as he threw your own words back at you.

“Fuck me!” you whined. “I want it inside me, please!”

“You do?” he asked. “Call me - call me that again, baby.”

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you crooned with a pout.

He pulled back, pulling off his shirt. “You want it? You really want it?”

“No, daddy, I need it,” you insisted, taking your own shirt off in turn. You tugged down your trousers, taking your underwear with them, needing to be ready for him immediately.

“Such a good baby for me,” he praised you.

Golden hour had descended, casting a glow upon you both. He was a Greek god, abs glimmering under the sunset. His hip bones were sharp enough to cut, diving under his waistband. You wanted to lick him from head to toe.

“I wanna see it,” you whispered, eyes focused on the tent in his jeans.

“You do?” he asked, as he slowly unbuttoned his jeans. “Is that all you wanna do with it, baby?”

“No! Wanna feel it.” You fought not to make grabby-hands at him.

He pulled his jeans down to his thighs, before toying with the waistband of his boxer briefs. It was so close, so close, yet so far.

“Stop teasing me!” you demanded with a huff.

He gave you a grin, looking mischievous. “Are you getting grouchy? Do you need it that bad?”

“Yes!”

Chan snickered. “Alright, alright. I’d say don’t get your panties in a twist, but you’ve already torn them off. So desperate. Here you go, okay? Here it is, baby.”

His dick snapped up as he set it free, sitting tight against his abdomen, with a prominent curve to the left. Soft curls spread across his pubic bone, decorating his heavy balls, spreading down his thighs. You wanted to choke on it, wanted to bury your face in his pubes, wanted to feel his balls slapping against your chin. But you couldn’t - there was no way you could even contemplate waiting. Maybe later, but now - now, you needed him inside you. You needed your pussy filled. Now.

“I won’t make you wait much longer, baby, don’t you worry,” he spoke gently, taking his dick in his hand and stroking it. “We need to stretch you out, though, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No - I don’t care - hurt me, I can take it-”

“Shh,” he hushed you, thrusting two thick fingers deep inside you.

“Oh - fuck,” you gasped. He scissored them, spreading you open in preparation.

“That good? Daddy filling you up nice and good?”

“Yeah, daddy!”

You clenched tightly around his fingers, watching as he jerked himself off slowly. He squeezed, and a bead of precum dripped from his slit, landing directly on your clit. God, you’d had a lot of sex in the last few weeks, but that could possibly have been the most erotic sight to ever grace your eyes.

“I think you’re ready for it, baby.”

“I am! I am, I’m ready daddy!” you babbled, cock-hungry.

“Here it comes. I’ll be gentle.”

He pulled out his fingers, but you barely had a second to moan out a complaint before his cockhead was pushing into your entrance. His pace was slow, unhurried. He eased himself into you, gradually, taking his time. He looked like an angel, sunlight spilling into the car from behind him, bestowing a halo upon his blessed head.

“Oh - oh, my God - daddy, it’s so big,” you breathed.

“I know, baby,” he cooed, stroking your cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I’m not even all the way in yet.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re not?”

“Almost there, don’t worry,” he reassured you. His eyebrows were knotted together, and he hissed as he forced the last inch inside you. You let out a weak moan, pathetic-sounding even to your own ears. Chan leaned down, kissing your lips gently. “There you are, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

“I did it,” you mumbled. Your brain felt hazy, eyes seeing stars at the stretch. “I took your whole giant dick, daddy.”

“Yeah, you did,” he beamed down at you. “Gonna start fucking you now, okay?”

You nodded. Somehow, you were completely and utterly fucked out already. His hands gripped your ass, supporting your weight as you hung off the edge of the trunk. He began to thrust slowly, sliding his dick all the way out, before forcing it all the way back in. You grasped at his upper arms, his shoulders, his neck, the warmth of his skin making your fingertips tingle. You felt so full.

Chan started to thrust faster. The pace increased slowly, picking up little by little, as did the pitch of your moans. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulder, as he slammed into you with a groan.

“Daddy! Fuck, fuck, no- no, I can’t take it-”

Chan didn’t slow. “If you want me to stop,” he grunted, “Tell me to stop. But I know you can take it, baby. I know you don’t want me to stop.”

You shook your head. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, don’t stop, daddy!”

Chan let out a strained laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’ll fucking die if you stop, please-”

“Relax, babe,” he said, laughing once more. “I’m not gonna stop, okay? Promise.”

Chan’s dick had you in a daze, your surroundings fuzzy, though you distantly heard your phone go off - the ringtone you’d assigned to Minho’s contact.

“Minho,” you mumbled.

Chan didn’t stop fucking you, not for a second. “I’m surprised it took him this long to notice you left,” He fumbled with your jeans, next to you in the trunk, pulling your phone from the pocket. “Go ahead, answer it.”

You looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

Chan nodded. “Do it.”

You swallowed a moan, and clicked accept.

“H-Hey, Min,” you greeted him, your voice wobbly.

“Hey, angel. You think I wouldn’t notice if you sneaked off?”

You gasped as Chan hit your g-spot with a particularly ecstatic accuracy. “Sorry-”

Minho chuckled down the line. “Is Chan fucking you good? That’s who you snuck away with, right?”

You couldn’t help but let out a whine. “Yeah, Minho, fuck! He is, he really is.”

“Glad to hear it, baby,” he said, and you heard the smirk in his voice. “Tell him to have you back by midnight. I want to have a go next.”

“Minho,” you moaned, almost incoherent.

He laughed at you once more. “I know that sound. Go on, baby, cum on his dick.”

That was all it took. You came undone, flooding Chan’s cock with your liquid arousal, crying out, “Daddy!” as your nails scratched lines down his pecs.

“Have fun with your daddy,” Minho snorted. “See you later, baby.” With a click, the line went dead. You dropped your phone beside you.

Chan leaned down to kiss you, and you welcomed his tongue into your mouth, sucking on it with a whine. You swallowed his spit gratefully, wrapping your arms and legs tightly around him, keeping his dick buried inside your pulsating pussy.

He pulled away, stroking back your hair and kissing your forehead. “You did so well, baby. Can I cum in your mouth?”

You nodded, smiling dreamily. “I wanna taste daddy’s cum.”

Chan grinned, climbing into the trunk with you, straddling your chest. “Suck on my balls, baby, yeah?”

You didn't hesitate for even a second, taking one into your mouth and sucking on it gently. It was sweet with the tang of his sweat, and it tasted like ambrosia to you. Chan moaned loudly, stroking his cock as you sucked, his balls bouncing on your tongue. You ran your tongue around them, humming contentedly.

God, they're so fucking heavy, you thought. You wanted him to drain them, cum all over you. In your mouth, preferably, although you wouldn't complain as long as you got to feel those hot white ropes somewhere on your body.

You needed it. desperately. It wasn't unusual for you to be cum-hungry, not at all. It felt as though your default state these days was begging for a man's cum. But now, laying beneath Chan in the trunk of his car, it possessed you. You'd do anything to make him cum, immediately.

Your hands reached around, palming his juicy ass. You'd been wanting to get your hands on it for longer than you could remember. He groaned beautifully when you squeezed it, a deep, guttural sound. You opened your eyes, looking up to find him gazing down at you, a starry look in his glossed-over eyes. He was close. You just needed to push him over the edge.

You spread his cheeks, finding the pucker of his asshole. You would never force it in without lube - you'd had way too many inexperienced dickheads try this on you to count. But just a few strokes of your finger, teasing the rim… you knew that would do it.

"Oh, fuck, babe, f-fuck!" Chan stammered. He pulled back, swiftly forcing the tip of his cock into your mouth. You took it in your stride, suckling on it until he erupted. His cum was salty on your tongue, thick and hot. You swallowed it gratefully, continuing to suck him through his peak, and he steadily pumped the rest of his shaft.

You watched as Chan flopped beside you, chest heaving. You were out of breath too, face warm and blushing as you looked at him. The cold air of the night was now welcoming on your body, calming down your extensively heated skin.

A beat passed, and then Chan spoke, running a hand through his hair. "Let's clean you up and get you home to your man, yeah?"

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Nobody took any notice of either of you when you arrived home, both cleaned up and hair decently tidy in the same clothes you left in. Well, nobody except Minho, who was sitting on the sofa grinning at you as soon as you entered.

You bounded over to him, cuddling up to his side and grinning when his muscled arm pulled you in. “So…” He began, and you groaned internally. That smirk was alarming. “Daddy, huh?”

“Shut up!” You swatted at his chest.

“Seriously though, I’m proud of you. That’s seven down, and only one left,” Minho kissed your forehead, and you smiled. You looked around the room, trying to ignore the loud bass of yet another 2PM song. Where was Jeongin, actually?

Oh, right. You finally spotted him in the corner downing vodka shots with Jisung, his cheeks blushing and a sweet smile on his lips. God, he was so endearing.

“I have an idea for him, y’know,” Minho mused, and you lifted your head. Minho looked proud, as if he’d won the damn lottery.

“For who? Jeongin?”

“Yep,” Minho nodded. “I think it’d be great if we were both there, don’t you?”

You tilted your head to the side, eyes racking over Jeongin’s figure. He’d really come into his own lately. He’d started to get a little buff from going to the gym with Minho, but there was still that cute, innocent smile on his face as he fucked around with Jisung and giggled endlessly. His arms bulged where they were visible due to his black tank top. You wanted to ruin him.

“I think that’s a fucking great idea.”

[shanastoryteller]

Meg is the first choice, of course, but she’s not suited to this type of long term mission and they all know it. The problem is, almost none of them are. The nature of the beast, she supposes.

That’s why it ends up being her, in the end. Well, it’s almost Ruby, but there’s one thing she has that Ruby doesn’t.

How she ended up here in the first place.

She thought Clyde loved her. She thought he’d take her away, from her father and her terrible life, and so when he died too young, before he could fulfill any of his promises, she’d sold her soul to bring him back.

But he hadn’t kept a single promise. She’d died in her father’s house.

“You remember being in love, don’t you?” he asks, cruel in his callousness, which is different than his other types of cruelty. It’s all he has, shining out in a thousand different ways. “You’ll be better at faking it.”

All she does is fake it.

“Yes,” she says.

This mission gets her topside. It’s worth it for that alone.

~

She slips into a pretty blonde named Rebecca first but by the end of the day, the girl’s screaming has given her a headache, and she slips right back out. She’ll probably just think she had a bad trip.

He’d offered to arrange something for her, but she wanted to pick herself, and she’s not interested in having someone crying and moaning in the back of her mind. But it’s not like there are a lot of options.

She could kill one, of course. But she’s never – she hasn’t been topside, before. Everything she’s killed before had already been dead. So she hovers for the next week, looking for some sort of opportunity, for something she can use that’s not going to scream at her.

The day before she’s going to have to either pick someone or risk being sent back, there’s a car accident.

The girl’s heart is still and her body’s warm, blood pooling down her head, but that’s nothing she can’t fix. She settles into the body, jumpstarting the heart and can feel the skin on her head knitting back together. It’s also blessedly, thankfully silent, with her the only one inside this body. The driver who hit her is dead and people are crowding in, a crying girl pulling her free. “Anne! Anne, are you okay, oh my god, I can’t believe that happened-”

She wrinkles her nose before smoothing out her expression.

The name will have to go. She’ll say she’s reinventing herself after tragedy, or something, but she’s not going to walk around responding to Anne. That’s not her name.

Anne’s a sophomore, which isn’t ideal, but she’s beautiful and doesn’t have that many friends and barely talks to her family, so she’s actually perfect.

She’s also blonde.

She’d been blonde before too.

~

All the demons who had run these sort of missions before give her advice, tell her things that will help her. Some of their assignments had lasted months, but no one’s tried to do it for as long as she’s supposed to.

He likes smart girls.

Be confident. Be flirty. He’s shyer than he looks.

He never had a mother. He likes it when girls take care of him.

He likes to take care of girls too. He wants to feel useful.

She’d had dreams, before, of all the ways she’d could escape her father. It wasn’t common for girls to get more than a basic education, but she’d been smart. She could read and do complicated sums and enjoyed the quiet evenings when she balanced her father’s books. She’d thought she might like an advanced education, thought it could get her out of her life, but hadn’t known how to manage it.

Clyde had seemed easier. More attainable. More realistic.

She’d sold her soul for nothing in the end. She hadn’t even got the full ten years of her bargain.

She doesn’t know how much of their advice she can take.

She can be smart, but considering the school they’re at, all the girls will be smart. She hadn’t been confident or flirty, which is maybe why she’d latched onto the first boy who smiled at her. She never had a mother herself and doesn’t know to act like one.

She’s never been taken care of and doesn’t know how to do that either.

There’s no way for her to do this. She’s going to be replaced and sent back below and he’ll be angry at her and she hates hates hates when he’s angry at her, what he does to her.

“Are you okay?”

She looks up, something cold on her tongue, but falters.

He’s standing there, warm hazel eyes and long dark hair, hunching to try and make himself smaller, and a smile on his face that does nothing to hide his concern.

“Do you ever feel like,” she starts, her dead stolen heart beating too quickly, “everything is falling apart around you and you have no idea what you’re doing and like maybe your whole life is one huge mistake?”

Well, fuck. She’s definitely being replaced now.

Except Azazel’s favorite throws back his head and laughs, smile stretching into a grin. “Every day of my life, more or less.”

“How do you deal with it?” she asks, scrubbing a hand over her face.

He shrugs. “Well, my brother would say women and liquor.” He seems to realize how that sounds a moment later and he pales, “Um, not that I’m – I’m not saying, I wasn’t trying to. He’s just sort of a cad, and – I wasn’t trying to, with you, uh.”

She feels herself softening in spite of herself. “So you’re not one to apply that method yourself?”

“No,” he says firmly, eyes wide. “God, I’m just – I’m sorry. I – I’m Sam.”

“Hi Sam,” she returns, with a smile she doesn’t have to fake. “I’m Jess.”

~

She’s not supposed to fall in love with him.

She’s to worm his way to his side. She’s to keep him from running back to his family, to keep him from rebuilding the bridges he’s burned. She’s to keep him distracted and focused on her until his powers activate and then she’s to guide him into using them, to be supportive and loving and to push him straight into Azazel’s arms.

Sam loves his family so much.

He talks of his brother all the time. His father less, the emotions there more tangled, but love no less fierce.

She nudges him away from it, talks to him about how it’s normal for families to grow apart, to say that they’ll understand when he graduates, that he’ll show them they type of man that he is.

By the time he graduates, his powers will start manifesting, and he’ll avoid his family without her prodding. He knows what they’ll think of him, then, and Jess tells herself that she’s helping him. That this is for Sam’s own good.

If he’s with her, then he’s safe. His father won’t kill him while he’s safe at school. He can’t kill Sam for powers that he’ll never know about.

It’s easy to dig into the anger for his father, to use his last words to Sam as a way to hold him at her side. His brother is more difficult. Jess doesn’t do much with that, in the end, tells herself that it would be too complicated, too suspicious, and as long Dean is sticking with their father it amounts to same thing anyway.

The truth is more complicated.

His father will kill Sam if he has to.

She doesn’t think that his brother will. She thinks that maybe he’d choose to protect Sam, over their father’s wishes, over everything he’d been taught, no matter the consequences.

She fears that she and Dean have a lot in common.

She invites Sam over for holidays, makes summer plans with him, holds as much of his attention as she can manage.

She studies and makes friends and laughs and spends so much time with him, but not all of it. It has to be believable after all, has to be constant, in a way that it didn’t have to be with all the other demons sent to take care of him.

Jess lives a life that had been denied to her and tries to do what she was sent to do and does the one thing she was definitely not supposed to do, which is fall in love with Sam Winchester.

~

His brother shows up in their apartment and she knows that she’s going to lose him.

Sam tries to act angry, but she knows him too well. He’s moving around his brother like a flower following the sun and she asks him not to go, tries to find the words to keep him here, but they all get caught in her throat. If she begged, if she threw a fit, if she demanded it of him, he would stay. He’d tell his brother he’s sorry but he’d stay with her and not help him and burn their relationship for good. He loves her enough to do that for her. She knows it.

She loves him enough not to make him.

He kisses her and she knows it’ll be the last time. He doesn’t.

“What did that take, five minutes?” Azazel is right there, breath on the back of her neck, and his anger fury rage pressing down on her even closer. “Over three years at his side and you lost him in five minutes. What a waste.”

“I kept him for over three years,” she says, tries to keep her voice steady, but knows she fails.

She had him for over three years.

“Not good enough,” he whispers, lips on the shell of her ear. “Guess I’ll have to send Meg in after all.”

Pain erupts hot across her stomach and her screams mix with his laughter.

~

Love always burns her in the end.

[shirefantasies]

Hey! Recently finished LotR for the first time and just wanted to thank you for sharing so much amazing writing with the fandom!

I was wondering, after reading the how many children they’d like hcs, if you’d be comfortable writing some characters(personally requesting Legolas and Eowyn, but whoever you’d wish of course!) meeting their(/them and their partner’s if they already have children ofc) firstborn!

Either way! Tysm for reading and have an amazing day!!

Forgot I had one more finished draft lmao sorry everyone🤙🏻 here's one more post

Bro OF COURSE I love doing parent AU stuff!!! This is such a cute imagine omg. Also thanks for the kind words & welcome to the fandom 🥰 consider this part 2 of the pregnancy headcanons~

Warnings: some descriptions/mentions of childbirth/labor pain/blood (not too graphic though!)

LoTR Characters Meeting Your First Child Together (Wife!Reader)

Aragorn

Concern paints your husband's handsome features, furrowing his dark brow and glittering deeply in his blue eyes at your sudden, frantic motions. You are too quiet, too focused. Hiding something, perhaps? "What troubles you?" Aragorn asks, moving to your side, a hand caressing your shoulder as he breathes your name. Eyes widening, you start for a moment before deflating in a sigh. "I think the baby is coming. But I did not wish to worry you until I was certain, until I had more prepared and-" Saying your name, this time a little more firmly and a lot more lovingly, Aragorn takes your hand. "Worry me? Cast all your worries upon me. I am your husband. My heart is yours, and my service. Come, we will go to the healing halls at once."

~

Aragorn smooths your hair, wincing as you cry out and calmly whispering encouragement. He quiets you down as the pain and stress wash over you in nearly blinding waves, your body writhing with each push. Hours pass like this, Aragorn your one anchor until finally, blessedly, your body can fall limp against your sickbed and pant and sigh in relief, the babe proclaimed healthy and taken to be soothed and cleaned. "What a marvel. Truly you prove strength beyond measure every day. Beyond that, I simply love you more every day," he adds with a smile. Leaning up to kiss him, you fix your husband with tired eyes, loving gaze broken only by the midwives' calls. "My king," they say, "a son was born to you! The prince of Gondor!" "A son," you repeat, finally breaking back into a grin as you accept your little boy. Aragorn looks down upon him too with as wide a smile, greeting him in Elvish. "My son," he says, "how loved you are, and how blessed are we your parents. May you grow strong, healthy, happy, our little gift."

Legolas

Even as far as you had gotten, an unspoken fear had crept up between you and your husband until the very day of your labor, but your twins held fast. Such a thought echoed through your mind as much as you could bear to will it between the waves of pain. They held fast, and so would you, your husband at your side stroking your head and holding your hand, whispering calming words in the language of his people. Through tears, you smiled at the beautiful sound, at Legolas's constant reminders that you are strong, you are the most amazing gift the prince has born witness to in hundreds of years. He reminded you to look into his eyes as you were urged to push harder, your hips burning like never before...

~

"A son. A son and a daughter,” Legolas breathed, pulling you and both your twins into a gentle embrace. “And my wife. What more could I desire? Nothing. Nothing indeed.” You feel moisture, realize a tear has slid from Legolas’s eye to your hand, and reaching up you dry his eye before bringing your hand down to stroke the side of his face. You can feel the bags of exhaustion circling your eyes and your whole body aches, but all you can do is smile, smile until your face is just as sore; with your aching pleasure glowing throughout you nuzzle the babe in your arms, your son. “Our dreams are finally reality, Legolas. I would ask for no more either.”

Boromir

"What for it? What can I do?" Boromir is less calm than you expected at your sudden pain, the downward rush you can only assume is the baby coming. Not that you have told him that already. "Let us go to the healers." You try to steady your breathing, praying your water will hold out and break only upon entry to the home of the dear friend you'd selected to aid in your birth. Grateful are you for the grasp of your husband’s hand and the strength with which his arm raises you, tugging you against him for support, even if you feel his heart racing like mad when your hand falls against his chest.

~

For hours you toiled, your body rent and torn in creative horror as Boromir tried his best with jokes and sweet words to keep your wits about you… for far shorter hours than usual in your friend’s words. “I find that hard to believe,” you panted as she cleaned the child. “No, truly that was quite amazing,” your friend shot back, stepping back your way with a bundle in her hands, “We’ve had them take twenty hours before. Five is quite fast I daresay.” Every orifice in your body cried out with pain, so all you could do was incline your head until you raised it again, saw the child in her outstretched arms and felt your lips part in amazement. Eyes still closed, your child groped for you, stilling a bit in satisfaction upon your acceptance, feeling the weight fall and rest gently upon your chest. “Impatient little man and with some fire too! He fought against cleaning quite well.” “Little man?” Boromir’s head snapped so rapidly up to your friend and back to your baby you thought he might snap something. “We have a son?” “Indeed you do, you old dog, you,” she grinned. “It’s a boy!” He shouted gleefully, one hand resting firmly between your son’s and the other cupping your cheek and yanking your lips to smash against his. When Boromir pulled away, he laughed aloud, hearty and triumphant. “Bless him and bless you for giving him to me! I never knew I could be this happy, love!” Your smile widened to match his grin. Suddenly your pain didn’t seem quite so bad.

Gimli

“Push! Push!” “Am I not?!” You reply, uncaring of the raise of your voice or the vice of your hand about your husband’s. For his part and quite in spite of himself, Gimli must laugh, for such was the fire that stole his heart some time ago and the fire from which your newest love was forged- though not without some trouble first. Chip off the ol’ block, indeed! “That’s it, that’s it,” the healer encouraged, “yer doin’ great, lassie!” “Doesn’t feel like it!” Even as he winces in pain by your iron grip, Gimli chuckles again.

~

“A healthy little lad!” Six more hours have passed, but finally he’s in hand and you won’t give him up for anything. Except Gimli- he is the only one to survive your death glares when he reaches for your son, and pushing some hair off his shoulder he gently extends his arms further when you acquiesce. His lips part in an o of endearment and shock at your son, crying moments ago but now laying peacefully in his father's arms. Breaking into a wide smile, Gimli stares down with moist eyes and it is like time is frozen. “My son,” he half-declares, half-sobs. His gaze tears from the babe after a minute or two only to meet yours and bring a wide, triumphant smile to his face. "And most importantly, son of the fairest this earth has yet set forth, she who gave herself that he should be here. You did wonderful, my love. Thank you." "Thank you for being his father," you reply, "and for loving me through it all, even when I was quite ugly about it." "Ah..." Gimli replies diplomatically, "you were in a great deal of pain." Of course he forgives you, he worships the ground you walk on, after all, and you have just gifted him the honor of a son, a little flame all his own! And who, the dwarf suspects with another smile, shall look a lot like his father too!

Frodo

Frodo walked you all the way to the bed and laid you down by himself before he would finally relinquish any care of you to the midwife, despite the fact that he had selected her. You knew it was borne of no distrust of her, however, only a sign of the immense care in his heart he felt for you and the sum of all the kindnesses done upon Frodo in his most difficult years. When you love someone, after all, you carry them up a mountain. You lay them down and take their hand and kiss their forehead, telling them you will never leave them in their greatest pain. Just as your husband now did, just as he spoke upon cradling you close, grip only tightening as you cried out in pain.

~

"You're doing so well," Frodo encouraged during your last pushes, stroking your sweat-beaded forehead, "This is almost over." Indeed it was, for minutes later your final whimper broke Frodo's heart, sending spikes of dread shooting down his spine until a new set of cries stopped them cold. "She's here," the midwife tells you, standing up and fetching the cloths she'd dunked earlier. "A girl," Frodo breathes, "A little girl!" "Our little girl," you agree, reaching out to accept the tiny babe. Frodo's heart melts at her now-calmed face, the way her tiny eyelids flutter and the spray of tiny dark curls already visible on her head. "Hello there," he whispers, "my beautiful little girl. Never did I think my heart could give any more, and yet here it is, doubly taken."

Sam

"What's wrong? You look a little peaky. Here, why don't we-" "Sam, I'm fine. I just think I twisted my- hngh!" Crumpling in half with a grunt of pain you cannot even complete your sentence. Sam is rushing to your side, taking your hand and leading you back to your shared bedroom. "Shh, shh, it's going to be ok, you'll see. I'll get the midwife and she'll know everything to do, alright?" Sam's green eyes are warm as ever, his tone the sweetest and most soothing thing you've ever heard and ever will. Despite the waves of pain and the gush you begin to feel soaking the sheets around you, you find yourself nodding and willing up a faint smile.

~

"You're a strong lass, aren't you?" The midwife remarks as Sam returns to the room with more boiled water, looking at you with wonder in her pale blue eyes. Panting, you manage to reply that you suppose so with a faint smile of amusement before being wracked with the pain of another contraction. The only thing that keeps you going is the way your husband is there, leaving only to help you both before tumbling back against the bedframe to grip your hand, never once losing his smile even as you crushed the life out of him. It feels like a lifetime and yet no time before cries fill the room, your head immediately whipping to Sam's and meeting the tears spiling from his kind, loving eyes. "You did it," he whispers your name with awe, kissing your head, then your cheeks sweetly and softly again and again until the midwife is ready with your bundle of joy. "She's beautiful," the older hobbit comments, handing your baby off to you and beaming as you pull your daughter into your chest, loosening her swaddle enough to see her peaceful face. "Lovely," Sam replies, tone even more awed now despite its faint sob, "she looks like her mother. Her mother who worked so hard. Look, she has your hair." "She sure does," you agree, "but I hope she got your eyes." "Nah," he shook his head, "that can be the next one. I love that she's the spitting image. You've earned it after all that, I fear." You laugh at that, still smiling down at your daughter's face, which is still red and calming from her cries of alarm. "That I have. But the only reason I could at all was because of you, Sam." Tears falling anew, he shakes his head one more time. "The thanks are all yours. I knew you could do it all along. It's 'cause of you we have our little beauty."

Merry

"Come on, come on, that's it," Merry coaxed, lowering you down into the squatting position you'd asked for. Inside he was screaming bloody murder, but it was no good letting you know that, not when he had a duty to do and the most important one at that. No indeed, courage was far beyond necessary. Just as he'd had on the battlefield, he was to have with you. For you. Merry only could thank his lucky stars that you began your labor at home while he was there. Once you'd gotten settled, he reluctantly began to pull away his hand from yours, face falling at the way your fingers trembled. "I'm just going to get help. I'll come right back for you." "I know," you whispered with a smile, and just as it had been broken Merry's heart was up and skipping beats.

~

What a good sport the midwife was, for she had been in the middle of her afternoon tea when Merry found her, but never had he seen a napkin thrown down so fast. She rushed with him back to you and found you there still squatting and wincing, this time with sweat beading upon your brow. For hours there you remained, flanked on both sides by husband and midwife, until suddenly your skirts were lifted even further and the lady was calling "He's out!" You cried out in pain and relief and Merry just laughed and gave a big smile before remembering you, looking down at you with great concern. At that, you gave a chuckle of your own. "Sounds like we have a son, Merry." "We have a-" "Certainly you do and quite a big one! Here, you can hold him if you like, but not after the missus has a turn," the midwife cut in, laying your son in your arms. Merry's jaw positively dropped at the sight of him, and he leaned down to speak at once. "Hello there, little one. It's me, your dad. You remember the sound of my voice, don't you?"

Pippin

“Pippin, it’s time.” “Time? Time for what?” You loved your sweet, wonderful, clueless husband, but now was simply not the time. “The baby is coming! Get my supplies, please.” Your command came out as more of a whimper, your face twisting into a grimace at the feeling of moisture trickling down your leg. Water’s broken, then. Pippin caught sight of this, paled, and tore off down the hall, a crash sounding and a handful of stomps before he emerged again, bag slung over his shoulder and a pile of rags in one hand. "You know, for your..." "Yes, I know," you nodded, smiling in faint amusement as he took hold of your arm, barely giving you any time to straddle the rags at all.

~

"Push!" "What am I doing, then?" Your reply shattered Pippin, for it dripped with no sarcasm, only broken tears as you struggled with the pains of labor. The midwife shed a tear of her own, promising you did well, but this went on for hours until suddenly, finally, cries pierced the room's tense air and a massive smile spread across Pippin's face. "You did it!" A loud, triumphant laugh. "You did it, my love!" "She sure did," the midwife agreed, handing the babe off to another older hobbit and chuckling at the way Pippin's open hands followed them. "Don't worry your head off, he's just getting cleaned up." "He? It's a boy! Love, it's a-" "I heard," you grinned, "A little mini-Pippin. Just what I always wanted." "Are- are you joking?" "No," you shook your head, accepting your son with open, grabbing hands, "Not at all. Oh, look, he really does look just like you, too! Oh, Pippin!" Another little Pippin. This time hopefully not one who'll make the same mistakes. No. No, he won't, because he'll have the big one to guide him. And you, oh, his lovely wife... "Pip, are you crying?" "Of course I am," he replied in a quiet, awe-filled voice, leaning to press his curly head to yours, "Our son. Yours and mine. What a glorious gift you've given me. I'm going to work every day to pay you back."

Faramir

Faramir would have given anything to escape the meeting he had become entrenched in, the droning on about some law or another that- Slam! A messenger came bursting in through the door, one of the young page boys whom Faramir had sent notes off with. Rather than pass a message, though, the young man strode right over to his seat and leaned in to whisper to him. Feeling his face contort in shock, then a smile, Faramir rose from the chair at once. “My apologies, gentleman, but my wife has gone into labor. I will review all notes taken at my earliest convenience.” So it seemed the twins inherited their mother’s sense of humor.

~

Watching you strain and hearing your ragged breaths, listening to every cry of pain, stabbed Faramir in the heart with a hurt of his own. He never let go of your hand for a moment, though, despite the ache in those muscles as well. For hours he whispered you words of encouragement, reminding you that you were his hero and that you were doing great, even if it didn’t feel such. And finally your grip was tightening one final time, one final cry of pain as the second twin was born. First your daughter had come. “A girl!” Faramir breathed. “We have a daughter.” And with that last push Faramir himself caught your son. “A son as well. Two beautiful children.” Tears welled up in his eyes, which quickly turned to you as your son was cut free, lifted from his arms, and cleaned. Thumb stroking over the back of your hand, Faramir leaned over, head resting against yours. His stubble tickled your face as he shifted to press a kiss to your cheek. “We got the most difficult one out of our way first, hm?” You joked. Breaking into a tearful grin at your words, Faramir nodded.

Eomer

He should never have agreed to ride out on that patrol, but the others were pushing harder than usual and Eomer knew they trusted him. Trust went far in the Riddermark. Hence his shouts of frustration upon returning to a herald rushing his way and telling him that you had gone into labor. Luckily only about an hour and a half back. He had plenty of time. Running to the halls of healing and all but throwing open the great doors, Eomer barreled in and was met with your smile, then your cry for him, to which he ran to your side and took your hand at once.

~

"It's a boy," he panted hours later, hand aching from your grip and mind fatigued by pained screams, "our son is here." How in this world could you have endured it all if it drained even a bystander so? What a warrior you were. And what a warrior your son would be! Taking in the cleaned babe being placed in your arms, the enamored smile upon his beloved wife's face, the great rush of joy finally overtook him, all pain and exhaustion melting away for a brief moment. "Our son is here!" He called out again, this time louder, more triumphant, and when you spoke it also in your softer tone Eomer pulled you gently by the back of your head into a kiss that spoke volumes, every year of your love story thus far and all of them to come.

Eowyn

The pains of birth were no stranger to your wife; in fact, Eowyn recognized them before you did, cutting into your panic that something was going wrong with the reassurance that things were going quite right. “Our baby is coming,” she told you with a small smile that quickly faded back down when your knees buckled. She was prepared for this, very prepared. Having been forced into work as a nurse for so long had some benefits, after all, and very quickly your things were in hand, your body settled into the most comfortable position possible, and your wife rolling up her sleeves and pulling back her hair to get to work. Her own child would not be the first she had delivered, simply her favorite by far. Spikes of pressure fought their way up Eowyn’s chest, but just like in the heat of battle they spurred her on and she got to work with renewed courage.

~

“You are doing so well, my love, there we are,” your wife coaxed, “almost done, in fact! Our little one is almost here!” “Really?” You smile widely before your next wince and Eowyn can see her words have encouraged you. You pushed with all you had, and crying out finally forced the head, then finally the whole of your child, out into the world. Eowyn cut the baby free quickly as she could, all her focus tied down to making sure she heard breath before she let herself truly look. At the first call of little lungs she sighed and collapsed down upon her knees, hugging the baby to her chest. “Healthy, perfectly healthy.” Hurriedly cleaning your child, Eowyn saw that you had delivered a girl. “You’ve birthed a healthy girl. We have a daughter, my love!” Hearing you sob, she hurried quickly over to your side. “We both did,” you told her, reaching out to caress your daughter’s reddened cheeks, “Both her mothers birthed her. Where would I be, after all, without you?” It was Eowyn’s turn for tears to fall at your words, smiling as she was when you pulled her close and kissed the crown of her golden head.

Haldir

Long, difficult months had led to the moment of your doubling over with the first pains of birth, hobbling out to where you could find a hand to lead you to the midwives. You were half-knelt at the side of a bed, gripping its post for dear life, when your husband burst in. “Your patrol,” you inquired between waves of pain. “Safely in the hands of another,” Haldir responded, hand groping for one of yours, hastily taking it, “and no, they blame neither of us. Nothing but the pain of death could have separated me from your side.” A smile crossed your face, but moments later another wave of pain split your smile into a cry of agony. “The little ones are coming very rapidly,” one of the midwives told you, “your labor will not be long, at the very least.” At that, you heard Haldir exhale in relief. After such difficultly carrying them, your struggles with the twins would soon abate. Soon they would be in your arms.

~

True to her word, the midwife saw you through every push of labor in just under three hours’ time, one of the fastest she had seen in her many years. Haldir’s grip upon your hand never faltered until the very moment one of the twins was placed wrapped up in his arms. The other held by you, exhausted, shocked, but joyous, tears of relief and celebration flowing. “Two daughters. Two fair and healthy little souls all our own,” Haldir remarked, his voice barely above a whisper and a stunned smile upon his lips as he glanced back your way. The moment your eyes met, tears fell from his, too, and you both let out another exhale in relief; shifting the little one in his arms, Haldir grasped your hand. Smiling up at your husband, despite every strain of pain and exhaustion upon your body, all you could feel was the glow of utter triumph and bliss. “I have said it countless times, I am sure, but you my fair maids have my sword, my word, my heart, my everything,” Haldir told you, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your head, then that of the baby girl in your arms.

Galadriel

How Galadriel managed to remain so calm amidst your heaving breaths and calls of alarm, amidst a healer and midwives forgetting their place and trying to move her from your side, surrounded by bodies and screams and heat and fluid so serene, you would never understand. The way you’d doubled over in the middle of your wife’s vision, failing to smother the choked cry that escaped your lips, and she’d simply risen from the water with wide eyes and a nod, taking your hand. Had she let go? Not as you could recall, though memories blended and faded through great waving curtains of pain. Your strength is beyond admirable, my love. Head swiveling to meet your wife’s intense blue gaze, you smiled faintly. Comparable only to your beauty, her voice teased in your mind. Smile growing, the rush of joy gave you strength for another push…

~

“A daughter,” Galadriel breathes your name, joy permeating every faint crack of her so even voice, “you have borne us a daughter!” You see her extend a hand, accept a cloth you assume shall dry your little one off, but the midwife swipes your newborn for a moment and your wife dabs your tears, then the sweat clinging to your forehead. Setting the small piece of white fabric on the table by your head, Galadriel lets her hand drop down to trace the curve of your cheek, the ring you placed upon her finger some years back on your wedding day sliding over it with a pleasant cool. Your daughter, clean and swaddled, is placed in your arms, and beaming down upon you, your wife takes your hand. “A beautiful gift unlike any this world has seen,” she speaks out loud this time, though it is a whisper, “and surely with a heart as strong as her mother’s.”

Arwen

Pain rushed to you so rapidly it was as though you were stabbed. Crumpling and crying out was how your wife found you, rushing in with skirts held at her sides and dropped just as quickly so Arwen’s hands could close around both of yours, words of worry followed by encouragement whispered between you. Her father was the greatest healer you knew, thus he was to aid in his grandchild’s birth, the first of his family. Elrond was calm when through the veil of your pain you saw your wife bring him into the room, brows faintly furrowed as he pulled back his sleeves. Your hearing practically faded- or was it simply your memory?- as he began giving quiet but firm commands to another elf that followed.

~

Vision blurred with tears, you fell back against the downy pillow, breathing ragged. Much as Lord Elrond could do for you, the pain was still great. "The cord is severed!" You heard him announce and your head snapped back up to see your son in his grandfather's arms, hear him wail as breath filled his lungs. "Our little boy," Arwen grips your arm, grinning down at you, "He is here! Go on, Ada, keep us waiting no longer." Shaking his head at her teasing, Elrond gave you a wide, tearful smile as he lowered your son. Smoothing his dark hair, Arwen gazed down at him with loving eyes before leaning over to you, kissing your lips with such love and joy both of you were smiling into it. "My dearest love, he is so beautiful. Just like his mother."

Elrond

"My lord, your wife-" Lindir needn't say more. Elrond is already gathering up his robes and abandoning entirely the parapet on which he stood, regretting leaving you for a moment even if you had insisted he take some time while you rest. Hurrying down the staircase to your shared room, Elrond finds you sitting bolt upright in bed, brows furrowed and hand resting upon your middle. "I must get to the-" "No," calm as he is, Elrond seems to have developed a habit of interruptions, he thinks, "the midwife will come to you. Lindir?" "Sending for her now, my lord." At Elrond's side, you whimper. All too well does he remember this anguish; nodding, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Lie still. You will be well."

~

Thank the Valar for healing magic; soon your screams melt into whispers shared between you and your husband and winces become faint, tired smiles. Elrond feels the strain of each push upon you, but marvels at your strength, the midwife all but telling you to slow down. "I beg your pardon," you reply, gritting your teeth, "but I must be free of this!" And free you are, for not long later cries fill the air and tears of relief and joy spill down your cheeks. Elrond caresses your face and meets your eyes with a tearful smile; never does this moment stale, in fact nothing in this world can compare. As soon as the bundle is placed in your hands, you hold your newborn out between you, Elrond taking hold and reaching out his other hand, which your daughter grasps. "She looks just like her mother," he tells you with a smile. "But hopefully she inherited her father's wisdom," you tease back with a tired grin.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🩷

[juletheghoul]

if you are still taking requests for the general can we PLEASE see what would happen if reader were ever in danger or threatened or kidnapped? to see marcus’ reaction and him do whatever it takes to get them back?? and his reaction to when he does?? 😭😭 i’m shaking askingthis omg,,

You're so right for this nonny, you're practically in my head. I was working on a chapter of the General, and it's basically this so here we go!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, violence, attack on the villa - you are hurt and Marcus gets serious, hurt/comfort, creampie, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Unbeta’d, any mistakes are my own!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.8k

reblogs are appreciated

Prev chapter Masterlist series masterlist

-

Your fingers cramped, his tunic had been more damaged than you’d initially thought and what you’d imagined would only take a few minutes, had taken the better part of an hour. With his tunic mended, you used the small knife to cut the thread and blessedly stretched, wincing at the ache in your back from being hunched over. An odd feeling weighed down the pit of your stomach and it was hard to place until you realized how eerily quiet the house was. Not just the familiar quiet of night, but an all-encompassing hush that seemed to cover everything like a blanket. 

No crickets chirping, no night birds singing, even the breeze seemed to have stopped. An icy finger followed the line of your spine and when his dogs began barking loudly, it almost made you jump out of your skin. 

You ignored the unease in your stomach and reassured yourself, the hour had grown late, and all of the chores had been completed. All that was left to do was fill the water basin in his private chamber, as well as yours. The dogs still barked as you made your way through the peristyle, irritated that despite being well trained, they did not relent. It was unlike them to ignore a command from your dominus and with a frown you belatedly notice one of the house's guards lying prone. 

You gasped, rushing over to him to help him, hoping it was only the heat that had gotten to him. You turned him, struggling to reach his face when your hands felt something wet, and with a barely contained scream, you saw that he had been attacked, and had not survived. The realization hit you like a knife to the belly, there was someone in the house, someone intent on sending your Dominus to the underworld. 

Ice crawling through your veins and with your heart in your throat, you ran towards his chambers to warn him.

The halls were dark and quiet as you ran as fast as your legs could carry you, praying to Diana to bless you with swiftness, to Mars to bless Marcus’ sword, and to humbly beg Pluto to stay away. 

Diana did not listen, and a shadow caught you unawares in the dark hall outside his chamber, cutting off the scream before it left your mouth. Your vision blurred as the faceless hulk behind you all but lifted you by the throat, making you squirm in his grip until he pressed the sharp tip of his blade to your back. 

“Silence!” He hissed into your ear, pain radiating from your neck, and where his knife cut shallowly into the skin of your back. You tried to scream, to kick and struggle out of his grip but it was iron, and when he slammed you back against the wall the world turned on its head. You choked on the coughs stuck in your throat, vaguely making out the angry words he hissed in your face. 

“Where is he? Where does he keep the valuables?” The fight was going out of you, your eyes, felt like they were going to pop out of your head, and your hands had surely been weighed down with something. Warmth ran down your back. 

Your vision blurred and a sinking realization hit you. 

I am going to die here.

Everything faded for a moment before you fell, hard, onto the ground. Breathing in felt like swallowing fire, your body was so heavy, and you couldn’t be sure how much time passed before you took in the scene. The man that had attacked you was on the floor before you, his eyes open, but never to see anything again. 

“Are you hurt?” His voice is like a balm and it’s with frantic hands that you clutch at him where he’s crouched in front of you. 

“Dominus-”  Your voice comes out like gravel, your throat burning so much so, tears fill your eyes and he shakes his head, shushing you softly. 

“Quiet girl, do not speak if it pains you, simply nod, are you hurt anywhere but here?” His hand is wet with blood, but it touches your neck soft as silk. You nod your head as he helps you to stand, holding you close to his warmth, his eyes scan over all of you, frowning when he sees the blood seeping through the back of your tunic, and flowing down towards your ankle. 

“Let me see.” He lifts it, turning you in his grip and an angry sound fills his mouth. 

Your heart fills with something huge, something unknowable, unnamable. 

“Can you walk?” The strength in him rears its head, and he practically holds you up, you nod your head yes and he nods back once, pressing his bloody finger to his lip to keep you quiet before tucking you in behind him. He picks up his sword and slowly, you both make your way through his halls, hunting those who dared threaten him. He pokes his head around a corner and is confronted with a small group of his attendants, the older women, the toughest of them has a knife in her hand. 

“Hide yourselves, I will find you once the threat is removed. Go to the cellar and bar yourselves in.” He nods once and they obey, trusting him to protect those who are alive. You move to join them but his free hand holds you tight. “You stay with me, girl.”

You nod and hold onto his arm like an anchor. 

He finds them in his library, rifling through his things and for a moment your heart drops at the sight of them. There are four of them, and they turn in unison, dropping his parchments and smiling to see him alone, and worst of all, accompanied by an injured slave. 

Wordlessly they begin to circle and with your throat burning, you begin to pray once more. 

One of them advances too quickly and Marcus slices him from throat to groin without blinking. The blood splatters onto Marcus and then spreads from where the man falls on the floor and you feel as though you’re stuck in a nightmare. 

“I will give the rest of you the chance to keep your lives if you leave now.” 

“To what end? You’ve seen our faces, you will just come looking for us.” One of the braver ones spits it back in his face, looking to the others for support. They advance but he doesn’t let them close enough to hurt either of you. You see why he’s earned his reputation firsthand, and your brain rebels against itself. Part of you is terrified to see such violence outside the arena, in the place that is your home no less. Another part of you though, rejoices to see him fight for his house, for you. His sword moves swiftly, as fluid as water as he cuts his way through them with terrifying ease. 

He drips in their blood, unfeeling, unseeing, until there is one left on the ground, clutching at his wounds. 

“Mercy, I beg of you!” He holds his hands up, eyes shining with a fear you have never seen. 

“The time for mercy has passed.” He blocks your view, but you hear the sound of flesh parting, a sickening gurgling sound, and then silence. 

You stand there in the dark room, still as a statue until he blocks your vision again, his bloodied hands holding your face softly. He says nothing, only holds your gaze and you cannot help but press yourself close, gripping onto his arms if only to convince yourself that he is healthy and whole before you. 

Wordlessly, he leads you away from the gore of the room. He completes his circuit of the house, finding the guards that survived the attack as well as other attackers, none of them having survived their attempt. 

He thanks them for fulfilling their duty to protect and orders them to dispose of the gore corrupting his home. He orders them to find the others hidden away, to let them know the house is once again safe. Your hands tremble, but you cannot be sure if it’s from fear or from the way he has not let you go since this whole ordeal began. You look down as he speaks his commands, to see the way his hand sits on your hip, wrapped around you, pressing you close to his side. The blood on his hands has seeped into the fabric of your tunic, it is smeared all over your arms and your neck. You swallow and the pain is still there, and when you shift his hand tightens around you, pressing into the shallow cut and you wince. 

He feels the way you shy away from the pain, and promptly dismisses his guards, advising them that fresh water and linens are to be brought to him at once. 

“Come girl, let me tend to that.”

-

The shaking does not stop, neither does the feeling of ghostly fingers wrapping themselves around your neck. Neither does the pain. Your fingers itch to do something, but with your Dominus cleaning and bandaging your wound, you can do nothing but stand in front of him, and tremble like a leaf. 

He does his best to soothe, but his gentle touch and soft words can only do so much. There is anger in you, a sharp clawing desire to break something, to hurt those that hurt you, those that snuck into his house like rats to do naught but harm. If your throat didn’t hurt so much, you’d scream. His lips bring you back though, where they press to your back when he is done bandaging you up. 

You watch him, wild-eyed with the blood still pounding in your ears, and wonder how he can be so calm, cleansing the blood off his skin like he’s done it a thousand times. But hasn’t he? The reality of him becomes crystal clear, this was nothing to him. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, they move methodically, dipping into the water and scrubbing at his face, and his arms. He undresses to the skin and continues his ritual, only looking to you once he is satisfied with his state. 

“Come, girl, undress.” Your body falls into its usual rhythm, obedience. 

You strip, careful of the wound and your neck, and once nude, you walk over to him. Silently, he dips a new cloth and sets about his task. Your face is first, gently but thoroughly cleaned of every drop of blood. Your arms next, and then your neck. You wince, but stay still. Handprints that had seeped through and marked your hip, your back, all of them wiped away like they’d never been there. He crouches and follows the trail of your blood where it had slid down the swell of your ass, down the back of your leg towards your ankle. Not a drop is spared, and then he is done.

“Thank-” It's a harsh whisper that comes out of your mouth, and he doesn’t let you finish the sentiment.

“Do not speak, I would not have you in pain. Your throat must heal and the more you speak the longer it will take.” He pressed a soft kiss to your brow, but you held him close, cold all of a sudden as you stood there in his chamber, both of you bathed in moonlight and damp from the cloth. He lets you clutch to him, lets you press yourself into the cage of his arms, and wraps you up in them. He is the cure, you do not tremble when he holds you like this. 

An ache builds, the need for comfort, for warmth, for affection. For love, whispers a tiny little part of you, a part you ignore. 

You stand on the tips of your toes and press your lips to his, hoping he can sense what you need. 

“Are you not in pain?” His fingers curl around the long line of your neck, feather-soft, holding your gaze as you try to kiss him again. You nod, but try again anyway and he holds you still. You mouth the words, exaggerating the shapes of them in your mouth so he will understand. 

“I need you.”

He searches your eyes and is satisfied with what he finds, nodding once and then finally giving you his mouth, his tongue, and the loveliest of sounds from deep in his chest. 

You take charge and push him to sit on his bed, guiding him to lie on his back and he follows where you lead, arranges himself exactly how you want him, and lets you climb onto him. You straddle his waist, fitting his hardening cock between the lips of your sex. He bites his lip, eyes focused on the way you rock yourself along his length and despite giving you control of this encounter, his hands land heavy on your hips. His fingers dig in, sliding up to hold onto your breasts, both fingers pinching and stroking at the peaked tips of them in the way he knew you liked, the way he knew would turn your cunt into a fountain of arousal. 

“Use me, girl, do what you need, take your pleasure.” One hand stayed on your breast, the other went to his lips and he dipped his thumb into his mouth, wetting it before sliding it between where the head of his cock peeked out from between your legs and slipped it over your clit. A heavy sigh leaves your mouth, the pain in your throat mingling with the pleasure between your legs. 

You bend forward, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that claws at your very being. The desperation isn’t just in you though, there’s something of the caged animal in Marcus, a tremble in his fingers when they dig into the meat of your hips that conveys an itch to take control. You need this now though, so with his tongue in your mouth, you lean forward and lift your hips enough to give your hand room to grasp the weeping head of him, and notch it at your soaked entrance. 

It’s almost too much, the way he fills you, the slick head of him almost too deep. His cock twitches and you cannot help but clench around him, your cunt flooding with waves and waves of arousal for him. His hands are charged like the air before a storm, roaming from your thighs, to your hips, up to thumb and strum at your nipples. Moans and whimpers slip out despite the pain in your throat. 

You roll your hips, the pressure against your clit radiates out and the pleasure builds. It makes you frantic, the slip of him inside made all the better with the way you soak his lap. You speed up, chasing the friction and the pleasure just there, despite the burn in your thighs and the sweat beading on your brow with the effort of your movements. 

“That’s it girl, fuck me-” Your stomach drops with the dark thrill of him letting you take, your nipples so sensitive under his thumbs, it’s almost painful. You want to go faster, but you’re losing steam, and you let out a sigh in frustration, pushing past the discomfort. 

“Come, let me give it to you.” His hands slip around your back, and he pulls you forward, so you lie onto his chest folded into his embrace. He wraps his arms around you, fully, holding your arms to your sides so you can do nothing but take, and then he gives. 

He plants his feet, and thrusts up hard, and fast enough to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. 

“This is how you want it, hard, you want to feel this cock for days don’t you girl?” He grunts out the words, and despite the red, violent haze of his love, you cannot help but marvel at the strength in him. 

“Yes, please Dominus, don’t stop-” It comes out whispery, into the crook of his neck but he shudders all the same, and somehow, he fucks up into you harder. You turn to liquid in his arms, shuddering when the climax hits you hard as a punch to the gut. He lets out a guttural sound, but fucks you through it just the same, drawing out the orgasm until it takes him under. 

He comes hard, rope after rope of his release painting your insides. Hot and messy and it almost makes you purr like a cat.

He lets go, both of you breathing hard, and sticky with the sweat of exertion. 

“Give me a few minutes.” He breathes hard, while you press soft kisses, and kitten licks where the salt of him collects, “I will fuck you again, I am ravenous for you, girl.” His hands reach down, and grab at the meat of your ass and you smile. 

“Yes Dominus.” It doesn’t hurt as much as it did, and you’re sure that by morning, you’ll be right as rain. 

-

Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @maxwell--lord @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi  @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name @zombiesnips-blog @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @deadhumourist @felicisimor @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @gamingaquarius @localddreamers @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @recklessworry @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @breezythesimp @altarsw @artooies-scream @staygolddindjarin @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed  @shirks-all-responsibilities @androah @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker @tusk89 @dadbodfanatic-x @naiomiwinchester @blazedprince @avidreader73 @mr-underhills-things @avengersfan25 @tastygoldentaters @nyotamalfoy @mymindfuckery @its-nebuleuse @missladym1981 @inept-the-magnificent @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @ladyofmidlo72 @greenvita @honey-on-your-tongue

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Look for the Soul and the Meaning

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Early Alexandria

Warnings: Depictions of illness

Summary: You’re sick. Daryl makes sure you’re not alone.

A/N: I have been uber sick this week and just needed some self indulgent comfort. Idec if he’s ooc this time.

*gif is not mine

Groaning, you rolled your head from side to side, even the soft cradle of the pillow intensifying the ache in your skull. Your throat was a tunnel of razor blades, your lungs trying their best to eject themselves over your tongue. Your body ached and protested, skin sensitive from fever. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

“I feel gross.” You whimpered. You raised a hand toward your face but found it to be too much work, letting it drop to the mattress beside you.

“Know ya do.” His raspy whisper acted as a balm to your pain.

A blessedly cool cloth touched your forehead, remaining there for a moment before it was pressed against each cheek and then your neck. Your sigh came unbidden, shameless and sudden.

“That’s nice.” You croaked before being seized by a coughing fit. It was dry and unproductive, the mucus coating the inside of your lungs like slime, unmoving. It hurt. “Daryl.” You whimpered.

The flu hit Alexandria during your first autumn within the walls. Though some fell victim, just as they had at the prison, the community had medicines readily available. IV fluids, oxygen tanks, and fever reducers. This virus was different, thank god; a less intense influenza. That, however, was not a comfort when it came to feeling the symptoms.

“M’right here, Sunshine.”

The coolness left your skin to burn, but once his fingers began carding through your hair, his lips touching your forehead, you could no longer feel the heat. And for one moment, coherency filtered through.

“Daryl—Daryl, your bandana.” You wheezed, reaching for the fabric he had pulled down to hang around his neck. Looking at him, even your eyes felt like they would singe out of your skull. “You’re gonna get sick too.”

“M’gonna be fine.” He caught your hand easily—your movements too sluggish—and kissed the inside of your wrist. “Means ya gotta get better so ya can take care’a me.”

You chuckled weakly, triggering another cough. It jostled your sore body, earning a whine and a few tears. Your eyes had screwed shut to ride out the ordeal, but opened when something touched your lips. The bottle felt odd, warm and scratchy.

“Gotta drink for me.” Blue eyes flickered up to the bag of fluids hanging from the bedpost but didn’t linger. “Help them fluids do their job.” You reluctantly obliged, fearing the feel of the water against your already irritated throat.

Turned out, it was heavenly.

You drank greedily, not even thirsty but lost in the relief the cool liquid was providing. When it was suddenly taken away, you chased it with desperation.

“Gimme.” You pouted.

“In a bit. Ya gonna make yourself sick.” The cool cloth was back and the water was forgotten. With weak uncoordinated movements, you pulled the blankets up further, your entire form trembling with chills.

“Tell me a story, Daryl.”

The cloth ceased its travels. “A story?”

“Mhm. Don’t care what it is.” Sleep was standing in the corner, pulling at you incessantly, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier despite the heat and pain. “Tell me about your chupacabra.”

It was Daryl’s turn to laugh, a sharp exhale through his nose. “Nah, that ain’t no sickbed story.”

“Tell me—something.” You yawned, wincing when you could feel the pull on your inflamed throat. It was quiet in the room, your eyes closed and chest wheezing. But then:

“Once upon a time—”

You mimicked his earlier laugh, your eyes remaining closed. “So cliché.”

The man at your bedside scoffed. “Ya want a story or not?”

“Mhm. Sorry.” You whispered, already fading, the cloth pulling away to be replaced by his fingertips in your hair, ghosting over your face.

Daryl cleared his throat, the deep breath he sucked in was unsteady. “Once upon a time, there was a woman. She was a smartass. Pigheaded as all get out.” The corner of his mouth lifted when you began to snore, your stuffy nose making it impossible to breathe properly. “She met a redneck drifter, a real asshole.” Leaning down, he pressed his lips to your overly warm forehead, letting them linger there. Pulling back, he stayed close, just watching you sleep, stroking the hair on the crown of your head. “An’ somehow, she changed him.”

Sitting back, he grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the bowl of water, back to battling the flames beneath your skin.

“S’far from the end, Sunshine.”

[adverbally]

Don’t Ask Me What You Know Is True

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “Second Chance”

wc: 1,005 | rated: M | cw: none | tags: accusations of infidelity, relationship insecurity, angst with a happy ending | title from “Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS

———

Steve is chatting with Nancy and Robin in the kitchen when Eddie grabs him by the elbow.

“Hey, Eddie! Having fun?” Robin greets him brightly. She’s on her fourth beer of the evening so the words come out a little louder than she probably intended, even with the noise of the party around them.

To Steve’s surprise, Eddie ignores her. He just leans closer to Steve’s ear and says lowly, “Can I talk to you? Privately?”

Steve turns to get a good look at Eddie. He can smell the alcohol on his breath, can see the tension around his eyes and in the set of his mouth, like he’s pissed off but trying to hide it. “Uh. Sure.”

To the girls, he says, “I’ll be right back.” Half of it gets lost in the loud music playing from the living room as Eddie tugs him in that direction.

Stepping carefully around the paper cups and abandoned snacks scattered throughout the house, Steve follows Eddie into the guest bathroom and closes the door behind them. It’s blessedly quiet in here compared to the chaos of the festivities they just left.

“Thanks for the rescue.” Steve sighs in relief and rubs at his temples. “I’m gonna have to kick everyone out soon if I want to be functional tomorrow.”

Eddie snorts derisively. “Everyone?”

“You can stay the night if you want, you know that.” It’s been months since either of them slept alone, with Eddie sleeping in Steve’s bed more nights than not. “Nobody will say anything.”

“What about Nancy?” Eddie spits.

Steve blinks at him across the bathroom, his brows furrowing in confusion as he tries to parse Eddie’s question. “She’s driving people home, so… no? Robin had a lot to drink so she might take the guest room, but she won’t care.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just keeps leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The lights above the mirror make his dark circles and clenched jaw look even more pronounced.

Through the pleasantly tipsy haze surrounding his brain, Steve realizes that Eddie is actually angry, not just acting as an excuse to pull him away from his conversation. “Hey, are you okay? Did I do something?” He steps closer, reaches out to rest a comforting hand on Eddie’s bicep, but Eddie jerks away from his touch.

“Like you fucking care.” He sniffs furiously. “Like you weren’t busy flirting with Nancy all night–”

Steve interrupts, “Whoa, flirting with Nancy?” He had barely even seen her tonight, only getting about five minutes to chat before Eddie pulled him away. “Why the hell would I flirt with her when we’ve been broken up for three years?”

“You tell me.” Eddie’s eyes are hard and dark, with no hint of their usual warmth.

“I wouldn’t!” Steve’s chest feels like it’s about to cave in, his heart imploding and taking the rest of him with it. “Where is this coming from?”

Eddie points aggressively at the bathroom door. “I saw the way you were looking at her,” he hisses. “You’re obviously still in love with her, and she wasn’t exactly trying to shut you down now that she and Jonathan are broken up.”

“No, I love you. Just you.” Helpless tears are burning in Steve’s eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s my friend and that’s it, I swear.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Eddie shakes his head with a rueful smile. His eyes are glassy, but Steve can’t tell if it’s because he’s about to cry or because he’s drunk. “I know you wanted her back. And now you’ve got your second chance. I was just… a placeholder, a distraction. Someone to keep your dick warm for her.”

A flare of anger erupts in him, almost worse than the hurt. Steve tries to tamp it down. “You really think that little of me? You think I’m someone who would just use you like that?”

“Why else would you be with me?”

Steve hears how Eddie's voice wobbles and immediately feels like someone has just dumped ice water over his head. He tries to soften his voice. “Eddie, I’m with you because you’re you. How could you be a placeholder for somebody else when you– you would overflow the place you’re holding? You would make the place yours.”

Not his most eloquent moment, but hopefully Eddie pays more attention to his tone than the specific words Steve is vomiting.

He steps closer to Eddie, reaches out like he’s letting a stray dog sniff his hand. When Eddie doesn’t lash out, Steve takes his hand and hooks their pinky fingers together. It feels like he’s making a vow when he tells Eddie, “You’re so much more than I ever knew I was missing. And what I felt for Nancy doesn’t even come close to how much I love you.”

Eddie won’t look at him but Steve can see the tears beading up along his lash line. “I don’t deserve it,” he murmurs.

“That’s the best part. You don’t have to.” Steve tilts his head, trying to catch Eddie’s eye. “I’m gonna love you anyway. No strings attached. Even when you drink too much and make an ass of yourself.”

With a chuckle, Eddie finally glances up at Steve through his lashes. “Yeah, not my finest moment. I don’t suppose we could forget this ever happened?”

“Not a chance.” Steve presses a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “We’re gonna talk about this as soon as you sleep off your hangover.”

Eddie groans dramatically and drops his head onto Steve’s shoulder.

“Go drink some water and get ready for bed. I’ll start sending everyone home.”

“‘Kay,” he mumbles into Steve’s chest. “Love you. And I’m sorry for being an insecure asshole.”

Steve wraps his arms around Eddie. “Love you too. And you might be an insecure asshole, but you’re my insecure asshole.” Before Eddie can make an inappropriate joke, Steve tells him, “C’mon, the kids are gonna think we’re fucking in here.”

Eddie’s laugh has never sounded so sweet.

[petriquors]

POV: you wake up at your lover's side

a/n: set between acts 2 and 3; implied act 2 spoilers.

You wake up in a bed. It wouldn’t be abnormal, you think, apart from the fact that you’ve been camping on the road to Baldur’s Gate for days. You should be upon a bedroll with the stars overhead, not in a bedroom with the sound of a dying fire in one ear and the rhythm of ocean waves in the other.

It isn’t the sounds or sights that you recognize; it’s the feeling. A mystic warmth surrounds you; you’re subconsciously aware that everything you touch is an illusion, and the fact is ever-present in your slowly waking mind.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the caress of a shared daydream. It’s a vision that’s not your own, but you welcome it into your mind anyway. Besides, the hand that rubs your hip, the chest that presses against your back, and the breath on the crown of your head are all quite real.

“You needed this,” Gale murmurs in your ear. “After Ketheric—”

You smile to yourself, refraining from pointing out that Gale, who is blessedly still here, needed this, too. “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

He chuckles, and a rustling of sheets signals what’s about to come: Gale now moves like a man who knows he’s no longer on borrowed time. You’re entranced by the way one hand settles beside your head, while one knee swings over your hip. His center of gravity shifts, and he’s up above you, leaning down to lay his lips on your forehead.

“A good morning,” he says with a somber undertone, still used to the weight of his personal burdens. “A moment of quiet.”

Your smile grows. You reach up to cup his face with one hand, fingers grazing over stubble, while your other hand rests lightly on the back of his neck. “Quiet could be had at camp.”

A flash of mischief passes through his eyes, making him look younger and more full of life than you’ve ever seen him.

“Not,” he teases, leaning down again, but stopping before his smiling lips touch yours, “without prying eyes.”

Beautiful things come alive in your heart. Happiness. Anticipation. Romance. A sense of normalcy you haven’t felt since long before the tadpole. Who would have thought that a few grand illusions and several near-death experiences were all it would take to get you there? 

In bed, in the arms of a lover who touches your heart in ways no other ever has.

You lean upward, but you don’t need to move very far to reach him. With just a little tilt of your chin, your lips cover his in a kiss so sweet that your senses resonate like the most sublime of songs. You’re here, wherever here is, and so is he. Your hands touch his skin, and his touch yours. The little sigh he lets out reaches your ears, and you can taste him and all the life that’s reawakened in his soul.

When he pulls away, eyes full of a love that warms the very energy of the illusory room, you whisper, “Thank you.”

One side of his brow quirks up, but his smile hasn’t faded. “I’ll accept your thanks, but they’d be better if I knew what they were for.”

How could you ever answer that? There isn’t enough time to explain how grateful you are that he’s alive, here, with you. That he’s given himself the chance to chase what’s real instead of that which he cannot see.

So, you shake your head and reach to entwine your fingers with his. And then you settle upon thanking him for what he is: “Everything.”

[loveinhawkins]

passing period

ao3 written for @steddiemicrofic May 2024 prompt, “top,” 510 words. Rated G, Missing Scene, post season 1, cw: brief mentions of nausea & vomiting.

The sleepless nights catch up with Steve eventually. He doesn’t know what pushes him over the edge exactly—whether it’s the brightness of the hallway, or even the movement of his bag, the strap rubbing against the bare skin of his shoulder—just knows that he’s tilting suddenly, mid-step.

Before he can slam against the lockers, he feels a hand around his forearm, a quiet, “Bathroom?”

Steve nods through clenched teeth.

He flings his bag off just in time as he’s steered into a stall—promptly throws up into the toilet.

It’s over in what feels like a blink; more time must’ve passed though, because the usual chatter in between classes has faded away.

Over the flush of the toilet, Steve hears a voice outside the stall, “You contagious, Harrington?”

Steve rubs one eye. “No,” he says curtly.

“Darn. Was hoping for a ticket outta class.”

Steve opens the door to find Eddie Munson leaning by the sinks. He’s got Steve’s bag slung over his shoulder, safe from the clinging damp of the tiles.

“Dude, you’re gonna be so late.”

Eddie checks his watch lazily. “Nah, I like a dramatic entrance. Always fun watching the light leave O’Donnell’s eyes.”

“Doesn’t she, like, take marks off for shit like that?” Steve says passively, washing his hands—it just seems like the kind of thing to ask, especially since most seniors have been hurrying around all December, faces pinched with stress.

Evidently not Eddie Munson.

“Yeah, don’t think that’d make a difference,” he says, and maybe the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Not exactly top of the class.”

Steve shrugs in vague acknowledgement. Briefly presses his palms to his eyes, blessedly cool from the water—doesn’t really think anything of it until he drops his hands, sees Eddie just looking at him, a slight crease to his forehead.

Steve feels far too drained to even try and figure out whatever he’s noticed.

“You okay?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with the question, too bare in its sincerity; there’s no expected space for him to make a quip back, to play it off.

“Just tired,” he says, “that’s all.”

“Mm-hmm, that’ll kill ya in the end,” Eddie says, sing-song.

Freak, Steve thinks mildly.

“Hey, uh, who d’you have right now, Harrington?”

Steve has to think about it, his timetable hazy.

“Um… Mundy.”

Eddie makes a face. “My condolences.”

As Steve dries his hands, he hears the rustle of paper, a quick pen scrawl.

“Here,” Eddie says.

Steve turns. Eddie’s holding out his bag to him; Steve takes it, before being handed something else: a hall pass bearing a convincing copy of Mundy’s signature.

“In case anyone gives you shit. Folks are still kinda, y’know,” Eddie wiggles his hand back and forth, “since the whole Will Byers thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I know.” He folds the hall pass. “Um, thanks. How much—?”

But Eddie waves him off. “Nah, that’s your free sample.” He opens the bathroom door, glances back with parting words: “And I’d take full advantage, Harrington. Go home and sleep.”

[lippyispunk]

When the World Is Quiet, What Thoughts Remain

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately.

Dying.

-

A near-death experience provides Astarion some clarity.

Word Count: 3.7k

fluff, realized feelings, developing relationship

a/n: Hello all!

I wrote this to take place in Act 2, after the Yurgir battle but before Astarion's confession. I believe it is gender neutral, but if anyone finds something that says otherwise, please let me know! First time posting on here, so I apologize for any formatting errors.

-

Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately. 

Dying.

Despite the centuries that had passed since his mortality had been lost to this plane, the experience was seared into his mind. Back then, it had been horrific. The excruciating pain. The paralyzing fear of what was to come, as his body was drained of blood and his heart thumped erratically in his chest, desperately trying to keep his blood flowing- his body alive.

 

This time, the pain is ever present. He lies on his back in the mud and puddles, the yawning storm above continuing to release torrents of rain. His ruby eyes blink slowly, despite the droplets landing in them. Twin daggers have been abandoned at his sides, pale elegant hands having to hold his innards together instead. His white lounge shirt clings to his trembling frame, now dyed rusty brown and crimson red. 

 

The fear, however, is blessedly absent. His thoughts trudge through his mind like oozing honey. It’s almost peaceful. Cazador. The parasite. His never ending hunger. All seemed so far away now; the normally constant concerns looming at the forefront of his thoughts, now caught in the sticky trap of insignificance. 

He had been hungry earlier. Always so hungry. The small respite he received immediately after feeding never lasted as long as he wished it would. His condition had been even more bothersome as of late. Ever since he and the little group of misfits he traveled with had entered the Shadowlands. Prey was sparse. And any blood he lost during battle needed to be replaced somehow. That was how he found himself here tonight.

 

He had hunted further from the group’s campsite than he normally would, in search of the few living creatures that had not yet been felled by this accursed land. He had been ambushed by shadow beings, caught unaware due to his weakened, dulled senses. Their claws had cut through him so easily. His lack of armor was another mistake, but a decision made in hopes to be quick and quiet enough to catch a meal.

 

His head slowly lolled to the side, eyes attempting to focus in the direction of the camp. The monsters that attacked him had begun to slither that way before vanishing into hazy mist. His breath wheezes from his lungs, chest shuddering. Breathing wasn’t a necessity for him, but a habit nonetheless. Even now.

 

He wonders, idly, if any of his companions will be awake at this hour to intercept the attack. His muddled mind cannot bring forth who was supposed to be on watch tonight. He even admits to himself, perhaps his blood loss getting to his head, that he would not wish to see them come to harm. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart…

 

His drifting thoughts were brought to sudden clarity. A breathtaking, wondrous, kind creature unexpectedly ensnaring his thoughts.

You.

 

Gods, how could it have taken this long for you to flit back into his mind? You were all he seemed to think about anymore lately. Your smile, your laugh, your boundless good heart. But also the confusion he felt that always seemed to twist whatever lovely feeling you inspired in him.

 

He may not wish to see the others harmed, but you… you’re different. The way he feels for you is- different. He cares for you. In a way that he cannot recall ever feeling for someone else. You understand him in ways that he doesn’t understand himself. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. The most alive he’s felt in, well, ever. 

 

But it wasn't supposed to end up this way. He’s comfortable pretending. Seducing. It’s as familiar as the back of his hand. And the facade had worked with you too, for a brief time. Until that second time he propositioned you at the tiefling party. What had you called his seductions? ‘Honeyed words’? And then the complete dismissal of his fraudulent love confession. He had recovered well in the moment; he’s used to pivoting his tactics when the occasional target gets antsy with his persuasions. Even still, you had rejected him that night. You let him down easy, of course, with a compassionate smile and a sweet whisper of ‘perhaps another time'. 

 

Later that night, when he was alone once more, he contemplated. You were on to him, in one way or another. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of his ploy, but you could tell his flirtations were… insincere. Why else would you turn down another night with him? 

 

He had expected repercussions, a growing distance between the two of you that would put all his progress with you to ruin. You didn’t seem the type to settle for this feigned romance. You'd push him away.

But you hadn’t. You were just as warm and welcoming to him as you had always been. Attentive. Friendly. Hells, even laughing at his irrelevant, snarky quips. He was surprised. And in that surprise, he found himself off guard. You still wanted to spend time with him, despite everything. Maybe… maybe he didn't have to try so hard with you. 

 

Since that revelation, Astarion had found himself just enjoying existing . He had fun around you, and the others too, he'd be loath to admit. Now that the metaphorical weight of seducing you had been lifted. But inevitably, at night when he was alone, the pesky question returned, cycle after cycle. If not his body, what did you want from him?

 

More recently, there had been the battle with the Orthon, Yurgir. Astarion was still befuddled, even now. No one in his extensive time on this plane had ever gone to such lengths for him. When Raphael had offered the deal: one very dead devil in exchange for information on his scarred flesh, there had been no question, no doubt from you. Just resolve and an all encompassing respect for Astarion and his decision making. It made his chest ache. 

 

He's not entirely sure what to call the emotion he feels for you. It goes beyond simple lust for your form or an appreciation of your personality. And Gods knows he's scared to Avernus and back of what this all might mean. But he's not scared of you. Never of you. He realizes that whatever comes, he wants to explore this. With you, if you'll have him.

 

Returning to the present from his recollections, one conviction finally banishes the wandering thoughts in his mind. You deserve better than this. These pretty lies he had been trying to feed you. This mask that he had used for so many years, so many decades. You had given him some of the most important parts of yourself. Your trust, your belief in him, your patience.  It was time he did the same.

 

Ruby irises shift skyward once more, a newfound purpose and vitality clear in his pupils. He has to get back to you. To explain. To apologize. Hells, to bathe in the warmth of your presence just once more would make this endeavor worthwhile.

 

He steels himself before his body begins to twist, rolling to his stomach ever so slowly. An agonized cry peels itself from his throat, unbidden. The fresh wave of pain that crashes over his stomach ripples through the rest of his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. He keeps one hand underneath him, continuing to hold as much pressure on his gaping wounds as he can. The other arm is bent in front of him, poised for what he must do.

 

He begins to crawl.

 

He grunts with the effort, free hand scrabbling in the mud for purchase as he drives his legs into the ground to push his form forward. This is far from the worst thing he has ever endured. But Gods, hasn’t he endured enough in this lifetime?

 

Tears spring to his eyes as he continues his plight. His beautiful white curls are drenched, flattened to his head and dropping into his field of view. His anguished gaze is so unfocused that it doesn’t matter. He’s moving on instinct now, forcing his limbs to respond by sheer force of will alone. The will to live.

 

Somewhere distantly his mind registers that his voice has become an endless stream of moans and broken sobs. Blood continues to slip stickily between the fingers clutching at his stomach. He doesn’t care. He will do anything to make it back to you. He has to. He owes it to you. Hells, he owes it to himself.

 

Time moves in slow motion; he loses all sense of it. He knows not how long he’s been dragging his body forward, just that finally, finally , he reaches salvation.

“Astarion!”

 

He hears you as if he’s underwater, but he would know your voice anywhere. His mind is fuzzy, consciousness fading from his being quickly. He stops crawling and lifts his blood-red gaze. You’re here. His breath hitches in his chest, a new sob rending itself from within. Though this one was not brought out from pain, but rather relief. He's never seen a more welcome sight.  

 

You’ve come for him, battleworn and bloody. Your feet pound the sodden land, racing toward him as you pay no heed to the slick mud. You drop to your knees in front of him, hair plastered to your cheeks and eyes wild with adrenaline and some other emotion he is unable to wrap his disoriented mind around. His eyes trace your face with his last remaining strand of focus.

Astarion had long given up on praying to any deity. What was the point? They never answered him anyway. But you- you are divine. The sight of you here, now, almost has him reconsidering his stance. 

 

“Gods, Astarion! Just hold on, okay? Please!”

 

Your hands flutter in his vicinity for a moment, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He watches you, the barest hint of his lip tilting up at the corner.

 

“I don’t think you can make it much worse, darling,” he breathes, tone sounding brittle in his own ears. “Just do it.”

 

He sees you wince before you brace yourself. Ever the leader, doing what must be done. Your hands rest on him gently, but firm. Warm. Comforting, despite the circumstances. He wants those beautiful, lively hands to touch him again after all this. He wants to savor it. To feel them carding through his curls. To rest gently on his arm to catch his attention. To pull him in close, a secret for him alone dancing on your lips. He wants to- he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He just knows-

 

He cries out sharply when you turn him onto his back, the pain rocketing his thoughts out of his musings.

 

“I’m sorry,” you grimace, eyes scanning over his torso, cataloging the damage. 

 

Carmine eyes are glazed with agony, but he fights to stay conscious. He grunts when you move him again, swiftly tucking your legs underneath you. His head lays in your lap, face tilted skyward and ivory neck lengthened by the newly created slope of your legs. A healing potion appears at his lips, your hand holding firm as you tip it towards him.

 

Normally he’d have some smart comment, he’s sure. Something about being a damsel in distress, perhaps. Or maybe something about how this isn’t what he means when he says he wants to take a drink from you. But exhaustion takes hold, and he follows your lead mutely.

 

The effect is instantaneous; the healing potion is a glorious balm for his wounds. The pain numbs to a background throb, much easier to withstand. The gashes across his stomach begin to seal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Astarion sighs through his nose, relief radiating through him down to his fingertips.

 

The rain has abated to a lazy drizzle. It’s the only reason Astarion can hear your faint confession.

 

“You… you scared the shit out of me, Astarion,” your voice wobbles, such a far cry from the fearlessness he is accustomed to hearing from you. He blinks up at you, his gaze taking in your anxious expression as you lean over him. Seeing your expressive concern for his well being is still something he's getting used to.

 

He finishes the potion, licking the remnants from his pale lips as you pull the vial away.

“Apologies, my sweet,” his voice comes out stronger than before, but roughened from his earlier painful overuse. “You know I have a flair for dramatics. What better way to keep things lively than almost dying. Again,” he does his best to smirk, to don the mask of devil-may-care that comes so easily to him.

 

“Gods above, Astarion. ‘Dramatics’? That’s all you have to say? You were nearly gone when I got here. I was almost too late,” your voice tapers off, ending in a near whisper.

 

He blinks again, shocked. The facade slides off his face. Truth be told, your vulnerability is making him… uneasy. He doesn’t know what to say. Why are you so distressed? This is hardly the first time one of the group has come up gravely injured. He doubts it will be the last.

 

He will recover eventually, as he always does following a particularly nasty battle. It may take a little extra healing from Shadowheart, and a belly full of blood would absolutely go a long way in fast tracking the process. But regardless, his body will endure.

He’s painfully aware that his usefulness has… limitations. It extends to his body alone. His battle prowess, his dexterous fingers, his ability to deliver pleasure. But that’s it. He has nothing substantial to offer you. No worldly possessions, no powerful connections, just… himself. His biting nature, both literally and figuratively. His trauma, broken pieces with razor sharp edges. He's not even sure if you are interested in something like this with him, something deeper. No, he thinks. No one could want this. Not truly. His growing feelings for you are one sided, of that he is certain.

 

But then you throw his world off its axis again.

 

“I can't- I can't lose you. You mean the absolute world to me.” 

 

His eyes soften, rounding out as he searches your gaze. For what, he’s not entirely sure. Deceit? Twisted humor? But all he finds is tenderness along with the shine of unshed tears.

You pause for a moment, swallowing. He can see you're trying to continue so he waits, eyes rapt.

“I would miss how you always manage to make me laugh, even when I'm having a horrible day. And getting to hear your laugh in exchange when I do something you find particularly impish,” your serious expression finally gives way to a small amused smile. ”The little sweets you sneak into my bag whenever you manage to get your hands on some, just because you know I love them.”

 

Astarion's eyes widen imperceptibly. Shit. He didn't realize you knew he was the sweets supplier. It was…nice for him. To be able to provide you something you enjoy and a brief respite from all the weight on your shoulders. If only for a moment. To see the stress evaporate from your face for the few minutes it took you to chew. You'd only indulge every so often, when camp was quiet and nothing urgently needed your attention. He'd watch silently from his peripheral vision on occasion, not wanting to ruin your contentment but also needing to witness it for himself.

 

But he hadn't exactly wanted to mentally unpack what this absurd little habit of his might mean beyond the superficial. Hence, the secrecy. He was going to eviscerate whichever loudmouth at camp had clued you in. 

 

“You're there for me, in ways that I could never begin to fully describe. I know we don't always agree entirely, but I'm never afraid to tell you how I feel, or what I think. Because at the end of the day we'll still support each other,” you glance away briefly, and he sees the heated flush on your cheeks. 

 

Embarrassment. Always so delicious to him. For anyone else it means he'd get to loosen his tongue on some provoking quips. How he loves to rile people up from time to time. But now, he finds it enticing for an entirely different reason. Gods, you're beautiful. 

 

You find your courage again quickly, making eye contact with him once more. “I could probably go on, but what I'm saying is… I would miss you endlessly. I can't do this without you.”

What a novel concept. To be wanted, needed beyond anything he could provide carnally. To be desired purely for his presence will take some adjusting. But, if you truly believe everything you said about him, then who is he to disagree? Maybe there is some truth in what you say. If you can see some good in his wretched soul, then perhaps he can try too.

 

“I'm… I'm not going anywhere, my love,” he promises.

 

It flows from his lips so naturally, ‘my love'. It hadn't even been a conscious thought. Anxiety spikes in his gut at the admission, his mind already beginning to spiral. Love? Is that what this is developing into? He doesn't know how to tell; there's no past memories in his mind to pull reference from. 

 

But the smile that splits your lips at his vow is radiant, and he finds that his racing thoughts slow immeasurably. Regardless of the unintentional reveal, the moniker fits. He feels it in whatever remains of his soul. 

 

He smiles then, all honey and warmth. For you.

 

“I'll be here long after you tire of me, I'm sure. Vampires always tend to overstay their welcome, you know,” he jests softly, voice lacking his usual edge. 

 

You gasp quietly and he recognizes it as the familiar sound of you remembering something.

 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. You've just reminded me, I can't remember the last time you've eaten,” you immediately brandish your wrist, pulling your sleeve up. 

 

He freezes, the roiling, constant hunger in his gut flaring at the sight of your wrist. He knows how close the veins are to the surface there, just how deliciously easy it would be to sink his teeth into that soft skin. His mouth waters at the thought. But he is no animal, and neither are you for that matter. He comes back to himself, muscles uncoiling and gaze connecting with yours again.

 

“I appreciate the offer, darling. But you need your strength. Moonrise Tower won't storm itself, and having our fearless leader stumbling over their own two feet along the way won't instill much terror in our foes, will it?”

 

He can't bring himself to say the truth in its entirety aloud. He truly doesn't want to weaken you before the battle at Moonrise. But it has less to do with fearsome appearances and entirely more to deal with your safety. His feedings always take a toll on you. You smile and wave him off every time, but he sees the effects. Reflexes just a touch slower than usual, stamina not quite up to par with the rest of the group. 

 

It's not your fault he's starving. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about his lack of successful hunts since arriving in the Shadowlands. And you were absolutely overwhelmed with everything going on. Between the deadly shadow curse, Ketheric Thorm, and the Absolute, it was a miracle you could ever focus on anything else. No. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to be okay.

 

He can't be the reason you become injured, or worse.

 

But you insist, your wrist gravitating closer to his plush lips and aching canines. 

 

“I'll be okay, I promise. I'll even ask Shadowheart for a little healing incantation if I really need to. Please, you need to be healthy too,” you plead, eyes doing just as much of the convincing as your words. 

 

He breaks. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he bends to your will if he wasn't so hungry. 

 

His hands close gently over you, one a little ways up your forearm and the other on your hand. You know it's to hold you steady when he bites, but the way his cool thumb runs pleasing circles into your palm sends shivers coursing through you. He presses a kiss to your inner wrist, featherlight and fleeting, but it lights a fire under your skin all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before his fangs pierce your flesh. He is as gentle as possible, retracting his canines from the wound immediately. He keeps his lips attached to your wrist, sucking in a saccharine mouthful.

 

He’s uncertain of how much time passes while he drinks, or when his eyes drifted shut, but the feeling of your fingertips sweeping his soaked curls off his forehead pulls him from his reverie. He finishes his feeding, tongue caressing the new puncture wounds as they begin to clot.

 

His irises are vibrant now, a livelier red more akin to a pulsing wound than the darkened burgundy shade they become when he is ravenous. 

 

“You're wrong, by the way,” you begin softly. “When you said I'd tire of you. I could never.”

 

He would look back on this night later on and distinguish it as the exact moment his dead heart began beating once more. But for now, he smiles up at you- one full of genuine adoration.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, unwilling to shatter the moment. His tone is low, husky. More sincere than he's heard his own voice sound in centuries. Despite all that had occurred this evening, he finds a bone deep contentment in himself. He could stay here for a decade in the comfort of your arms.

 

A few moments later, however, the world kickstarts back into motion, voices carrying on the wind to your positions and popping the seclusion around the two of you.

 

Your head perks up at the sound, eyes scanning through the darkness.

 

“Ah, must be the others looking for us,” your attention returns to Astarion. “Think you can make it back? I can help if you'd like.”

 

He can definitely walk on his own, the potion and your invigorating blood have him feeling almost as good as new. But the idea of feeling the curve of your body pressed into his side is too intoxicating to turn down. So he won't. 

 

He breathes deep and nods, resolve settling into his very being.

 

“Yes, I think I've had quite enough of this mud bath. Darling?” He pauses, it's now or never. “After we settle back in at camp, come find me when you have a moment. Please. I think we need to talk.”

-

a/n: Thank you for reading! <3

[campingwiththecharmings]

hellooooo!! congrats on the one year anniversary<3<3

could I request “how mad would you be if i kissed you?” with poe?

(thank you for doing this event!!!!)

All Your Fault

AN: OMG IT'S A FIC-AVERSAY REQUEST!! lol Told y'all I was still gonna answer all of these! That said, I'm betting you probably don't even remember sending this lmao but I hope you can still enjoy it all the same though. Thanks for your patience 💖

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: T Words: 1,068 Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader (written with f!reader in mind but I'm pretty sure this could be read as GN. please correct me if that's wrong) Warnings: kissing, arguing...nothing else I can think of (please let me know if I missed something) AO3

——————

Commander Poe Dameron is, quite literally, the bane of your existence.  

Sure, he’s a great pilot and, okay fine, he’s not a terrible leader but, damn it if the bastard doesn’t drive you absolutely crazy with his needlessly risky plans. You’re not sure if he has a death wish or if he’s just an adrenaline junky, but what you do know is that if the storm troopers chasing you don’t kill him, you just might. 

You run down the narrow hallway of the First Order compound you’ve infiltrated, Dameron in tow, desperately searching for an escape. You spot a door, thank the Maker when it’s unlocked, and pull Dameron inside with you by the lapels of his jacket, glaring at him when he opens his mouth to complain. 

“Shut up,” you whisper harshly, pushing him against the back of the door. 

He watches you in the dim light for a moment, lips parted, breath leaving him in pants. Your eyes drop to his mouth, lingering longer than you’d like, and you wonder briefly if they’re as soft as they look, how they’d feel against yours, how they’d taste— 

Okay fine, so you’re a little attracted to him. That didn’t mean he didn’t still infuriate the hell out of you. 

The thundering of boots crescendos outside the door, (blessedly) breaking you from your staring contest with his mouth. Still pressed against Poe, you swallow thickly, your face warm as you forcibly avert your gaze. Your eyes land on his neck, and you have to ignore the sudden urge you feel to lick the bead of sweat running slowly down the side of it. 

You’re both still as the troopers pass, as if making even the tiniest movement might alert them to your presence. Poe is still breathing a little heavy, the air puffing against your cheek just another reminder of his closeness. You try to ignore it, ignore him, ignore how good his body feels against yours, how amazing he smells. In an effort to stave off the sudden urge you have to bury your face in his neck and breathe deep, you think of literally anything else: your bunkmate’s dirty socks, General Leia screaming at you, taking a blaster bolt to the shoulder— 

The sound of the troopers fades slowly and you breathe a quiet sigh of relief, backing up as much as you can in the small space.  

“That was a close one, huh?” Poe mutters, looking at you warily, as if you might attack him at any given moment. 

Your anger at him rekindles in your chest at the comment and you can’t stop yourself from punching him in the shoulder. He grunts, glaring at you half-heartedly as he rubs the spot where you hit him. 

“No, Dameron, that was stupid. Completely and utterly stupid,” you quietly scold, pointing at him in accusation. 

He scoffs, almost rolling his eyes and it sends another flare of anger through you.  

“Oh, you don’t think so?” you counter, stepping closer to him. “You think your little stunt helped us?” 

He glares at you, leaning back against the door with an annoyed look on his face. “We got what we came for, didn’t we?” 

“Yes, and we’d be out of here and on the ship right now if you’d just followed the plan.” 

“You mean followed your plan,” he mumbles almost petulantly. 

“Is that what this is about?” you ask, chuckling humorlessly as you take another step closer. “Still sore that the General went with my plan instead of yours, flyboy?” 

His jaw tightens and he moves even closer, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “Your plan is the reason I even had to pull that ‘stunt’ in the first place, sweetheart.” 

It’s your turn to scoff now, rage flaring in your eyes as you move so close to him his chest brushes against yours. You ignore how incredible he smells, even after all the running you’ve done, ignore how good he looks this close— 

“You are unbelievable, do you know that? Absolutely unbelievable.” 

Poe opens his mouth to retort, a mischievous look in his eyes, but you cut him off by continuing, your voice a harsh whisper. “You’re reckless, hot-headed, impulsive—” 

His finger on your lips stops you, your eyes widening in both shock and rage. 

Unfortunately, you’re silent long enough for him to ask, “How mad would you be if I kissed you right now?” 

Your brow furrowing in confusion, lips parting as much as they can with his finger still pressed against them. Instinctively, your gaze falls to his mouth, eyes dragging over his plump bottom lip as your brain reminds you of all the times you’ve fantasized about a moment just like this one. You watch as the corner of his mouth quirks slightly in a smile and know you’ve somehow given him all the permission he needs. 

He leans in, spanning the meager distance between you as he pulls his hand away, tentatively pressing his lips to yours. He’s giving you a chance to push him away, you realize, to decide you don’t want this but…You do.  

You melt into him, pressing your body against his and pushing him back against the door. He groans softly, the sound going straight to your core and you wonder what else you could do to pull sounds like that from him.  

You hope he gives you a chance to find out. 

His hands cup your cheeks, holding you in place as he presses his tongue against the seam of your lips. You part them without resistance, shivering when he licks inside. The taste of him is divine, a mix of sweetness and spice and something so inherently Poe. You could spend hours, maybe even days, like this, just kissing him, enjoying the taste of him, the feel of him. Already you can’t get enough, can feel your need for him clawing at the base of your spine as your fingers plunge into his soft, dark locks.  

You’re forced to break for air, foreheads pressed together as you both try to catch your breath. 

“This isn’t over, you know,” you pant, pulling back to shoot him what you hope is a stern look. 

He chuckles breathlessly, reaching out to trace the curve of your cheek with his knuckles, his lips quirking slightly when you unconsciously lean into the touch.  

“I’d be disappointed if it was, sweetheart.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟 fic-aversary masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

[sky-kiss]

R/T: Silence

A/N: A little comfort for @simplysolo. Hopefully it at least makes you smile, love!

Raphael/F!Tav: Silence

"So quiet, mouse." 

The little hero does not look up when he enters the Den. Her lips are pursed to a thin line, eyes screwed shut. This mortal form lacks the preternatural awareness of his true self, infernal blood…diluted here on the Prime, but he is aware of her. Raphael cocks his head to the side, cataloging the tension in her shoulders and neck—stress, exhaustion, and tension. 

Such mortal affectations. The devil hummed, passing a hand over her hair as he passed. 

"Silence—such a delightful treat. In blessedly short supply during your visits." 

Tav sighs. "I know what you're doing." 

"Oh?" 

She opens her eyes, pretty eyes, and fixes him with a weary look. "I'm too tired to fight, Raphael. I'd just…like to sit here. Just for a little while." 

"You have your own chambers, do you not?" 

Here, a hint of color in her cheeks. Tav clears her throat. "They're… it's not the same." 

The devil rocks back on his heels. He nods, crossing to the decanter nearest the entrance. Raphael pours each of them a glass of sweet dessert wine— ill-suited for a quiet evening in, perhaps, but easy on the palette. The cambion presses it into her hand. "Careful, my dear. You erstwhile companions might make assumptions—they'll say you need me." 

Her expression softens. "I don't need you, Raphael." 

"Want, then." 

She licks her lips. Raphael frowns; he can't say he appreciates the weakness. She's too quiet, too little fight in her. The devil selects a tome from the shelf and settles beside her on the sofa. A collection of ancient poetry in a language long since lost. Tav's brow furrows as she scans the text. 

"You're not throwing me out?" She asks. 

Raphael scoffs. "Perhaps later. But I have a taste for the desperate and the downtrodden pet. You've resisted me…but in an hour, you might prove more amenable to an offer. I might erase the causes of your frustration…just like that." 

The hero chuckles, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her hair smells like a mixture of sweat and sea breeze…he cannot say he favors either. If she remains, he'll rectify the matter. "Later. Maybe later."

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes again.

He'll chastise her later. For now, he reads, letting his voice lull her until some of the tension bleeds from her figure. 

[hero-of-the-wolf]

@kikker-oma !!! I couldn't let this month pass without writing you a little something 🫶 I hope you like it!!!! based on this drawing here :)

Twilight stumbled back a step, bringing his shield up against the lizalfos’ attack. His side screamed in protest at the impact, forcing him to fall back another step.

“Careful, Twi!”

“Do you need any help?”

“Are you okay?”

The rancher ignored them all. He was losing his mind. He knew that the others meant well, but it was hard not to feel absolutely smothered by all of their concern. He was a fully capable hero, just the same as the rest of them. So why was his injury such a big deal? Just because he’d almost died-....

Twilight shook his head firmly. He was fine. The wounds were well on their way to scarring by now. So what if they were still sore? So what if his current strength was only a fraction of what it once was? There was absolutely no reason for the others to worry about him.

He was fine.

The lizalfos pressed the attack, hacking its sword against his shield over and over again. Twilight gritted his teeth, losing more ground with every hit.

This was getting ridiculous.

Surging forwards, he bashed his shield against the monster, stunning it, and thrust his sword through its chest. With a horrible screech it exploded into a cloud of black smoke.

Twilight panted, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. He moved to walk forwards when his legs buckled, sending him stumbling to his knees with a surprised grunt. Almost immediately he felt a concerned hand prodding at him. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to hold it together. He’d be worried too if he was in their shoes, he tried to remind himself. They meant well.

He waved Sky away and forced himself back to his feet. His side was still screaming at him, his head was spinning, he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He looked around for the next monster only to realize the battle had already ended and everyone was staring at him.

He felt his face flush red.

Without a word he picked a direction and took off, steps quick and unsteady. He couldn’t take it anymore. He needed space.

He managed to make it out of earshot before the pain grew too much and he was forced to sit down roughly on a nearby rock.

Hylia it hurt.

It shouldn’t. He hadn’t even done that much during the battle. It shouldn’t hurt at all.

What was wrong with him?

“Twilight?”

He stiffened. He didn't dare to turn around. He knew that whoever it was, they wouldn’t be leaving him alone so easily. But maybe if he just—

“Hey… are you okay, rancher?”

Or not.

“Fine,” he snapped.

“I’m… not so sure about that.”

Footsteps crept closer, almost too quiet to hear. Twilight glanced over to see Hyrule nervously wringing his hands. When he noticed the rancher looking at him he immediately stopped, dropping his arms back down to his sides. The rancher frowned in concern and motioned him closer.

But Hyrule only bit his lip in response. “You… you’re bleeding, you know.”

Twilight looked down at his side, eyes widening in surprise when he saw that his shirt was already growing red.

“Oh.”

“Can I…?”

He nodded, resigned to his fate, and let Hyrule pull his armor off to look at the wound. He ignored the traveler’s concerned sounds, staring down at his clenched fists instead.

He’d hurt himself again.

Some hero he was.

“I know you’re trying to get your strength back,” Hyrule finally spoke up. “But you can’t hide this from me.”

Twilight glanced over again to see Hyrule watching him expectantly, his hands still outstretched. His heart twisted in guilt and he forced his gaze away.

“M’sorry….”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Hyrule gently pressed his hands against the wound. They were blessedly warm, easing the pain back into a much more manageable ache.

“Thank you,” he tried again.

Hyrule paused, looking up at him with a small, genuine smile. “Anytime.”

[swifty-fox]

“it’s just me now. you don’t have to be brave anymore.” BUCK PATCHING BUCKY UP AT THE STALAG AFTER HE ARRIVES WITH A BUSTED EYE SOCKET

ooo lets go

cw: hurt comfort, semi graphic depictions of a head injury

Gale smiles for John. Skin pricking cold on wire fencing, body still sore from his own crash, dirty and hungry and very very far from home. He smiles for John because John is alive and John is here and he's so goddamn beautiful it sets the insides of Gale squishy and vulnerable.

If only they had known, if only the guards had known what they could leverage against him. If they threatened to hurt John Gale would have given them everything.

He smiles for John, because they're all smiling and cheering and whooping and bowing the fence with the force of their impending reunification. Because Benny beside him mutters quietly under his breath, "Jesus, look at his face," in quiet horror.

Head wounds bleed a lot. They all knew this, had seen it plenty.

It still looked bad.

The boys watch John Egan stand for processing, pacing the fenceline like dogs waiting for their leader. Their missing Major doesn't sway or falter, but the moment he's through those gates and extracted from the delighted clutch of their boys Gale sees it, the slightest misstep as John approaches him.

Gale regards him, takes in the dark curls pressed to a helmet of gore around his face, the dried creek of blood from his nose. The messy pulsing devastation of his eye socket, the blue of his iris turned brilliant cobalt by the blood in the whites. He soaks it all in and John's looking him over right back and then the taller man is making a quiet noise in the back of his throat and Gale's arms are opening and they're crashing into each other like two stars across the night sky.

"You look like Hell, Bucky," Gale says.

"Been better," John laughs into his shoulder.

--

The showers are blessedly empty and Gale gets John set up on a stool against the wall and takes a moment to double-check the door. Brady and DeMarco were standing guard outside, passing Brady's pipe back nd forth while making sure nobody would disturb their Majors, but Gale didn't want them hearing anything either.

He has his shower kit made up of a barely functional razor, a couple rags, and most preciously; a chunk of soap.

Together they drag the stool beside the barebones sinks, Gale deciding that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to get John under the spray of a showerhead. He can feel john's strength flagging, leaning his large body back against Gale's thigh as he helps him strip out of his jacket and overshirt.

"What happened to the sheepskin, Bucky?" Gale asks quietly as he folds the clothing, placing it away from where it might get wet.

John shrugs, heavy-limbed and wincing, "Kidd was looking cold."

"Awful nice of you," Gale says, voice barely above a whisper as he returns to John's side, getting the water as warm as it will go before using one rag to slowly sponge at John's caked hair. He can feel a swollen lump somewhere behind the larger man's ear but there's too many layers of grime in the way. It streams down John's face and shoulders in thick streaks of brown and red and some in-between rust.

John is mostly silent, every now and again making a soft wounded noise when Gale gets too close to what slowly is revealed to be a tremendous gash in his hair, maybe an inch long but wide and deep enough that Gale can make out the layers of pink and blessedly healthy tissue. With a murmured apology, he pries apart the edges of the injury just slightly to flush out any stuck debris. John cries out softly, fingers vicing on his thigh but bears it.

"Gonna need the doc to stitch that up," Gale says when he's happy the wound is clean, cups his hand over the hurt spot and rubs his thumb against John's ear until by inches and increments he relaxes. His fists stay clenched however, as Gale pivots around to begin cleaning his face. And his eyes are vacant, staring somewhere over Gale's shoulder stubbornly.

Gale doesn't mind, he's still reeling from the shock of John being here, from the shock at the state of him. Of the relief and grief and anger dancing a threeway battle across his ribcage. He cups John's chin in a tender mirror of the other man's own habitual caresses and dabs the blood and sweat from his hairline, swipes it from his cheeks and around his mouth and under his beautiful distant eyes that flicker with something like emotion for a moment before being viciously cut off at the knees.

"Bucky," Gale sighs, begins dabbing at the obviously broken bone around John's eye.

The skin feels hot and spongy under his touch, swollen but with too much give and it sends nausea teasing across Gale's throat. John's jaw clenches tight, Gale can feel the tick of his muscles under his thumb and he puts the rag down to brush through his now blessedly clean hair.

"Hon."

John flinches, squeezing his eyes shut even though it must hurt, and shaking his head sharply just once.

"You don't have to tell me anything, John. But it's just me now. You don't have to be brave anymore."

It's not immediate, happening more in increments than the sudden burst of emotion one might expect from John Egan.

First his broad shoulders draw up to his endearly large ears, fall back down heavily. Bottom lip trembling, face screwing up tighter and body slowly bowing in half in a slow movement like landing gear folding up. A ragged breath, exhaling on a whine and then a second one on a dry sob. Gale puts a hand on the back of John's neck and draws him close, rocks his man's body slowly as John sobs his relief into a bloody smear of emotion on Gale's neck.

[meownotgood]

let us live, if we must die. / chapter one: fate entwined

You are a witch, and since the purging of all magic, you've been forced to live a life of solitude and secrecy. Your destiny was always beyond your control — until, by a pure twist of fate, you unknowingly fell for the kingdom's only prince. 

════════════════════

pairing: prince!aki x witch!reader

word count: 5.3k

tags: fantasy au, royalty au, reader is fem, lots and lots of initial worldbuilding, essentially reader is a mage in a world where magic is forbidden, reader has a very well-established backstory, aki is there but you'll be seeing more of him later. warning: some darker themes in this chapter + blood mention

notes: here we go!! mostly establishing reader and the world here... you'll be seeing aki's cute face more after this, I promise. I hope you like it, and please look forward to the chapters to come... 💞

masterlist read on ao3 join the taglist here!

════════════════════

is love like the sea 

will it wash me to the shore 

or drown me with it? 

—

You knew you should have cast a spell for better weather. 

As crows shake the swaying trees when they flutter into the air, cawing and dotting the sky with speckles of black, you're drawn to tilt your head upward. Dark knots of gray clouds obscure the sun, blocking its light. Thunder rolls ominously overhead. You breathe a quiet tsk to yourself. The cool air smells of that familiar, earthen promise of rain. Turning back to your work, you hurry to collect the rest of the patch of colorful mushrooms, grabbing fistfuls and stuffing them into your pack. 

It was a beautiful day mere hours ago. Sunshine warmed your skin in plentiful rays, before the clouds had taken over. If you were at all aware of a coming storm, you wouldn't have spent so much time dilly-dallying. Your preparations would have been completed way faster. You would have made sure to leave the cottage much, much sooner — No, if you'd known about the rain, it wouldn't have stormed to begin with. 

You can't cancel out a downpour entirely. Such a feat is impossible, even for the most experienced of mages. The world can't be broken, no matter the strength of a mage's will — but it can bend. You could have pushed the storm back to the next day, at the very least. It would have given you the time you needed to forage, and you simply would've opted to stay inside tomorrow. 

Damn it all. It's no use worrying about what has already been done. You need to hurry. Your distraction spell will wear off in the rain. 

You snap the buckle on your pack shut, rising to your feet while clumsily slinging both straps over your shoulders. You shiver; the first droplets of water hit each blade of grass, they tap against your bare arms and the top of your head, but you're already running. You're taking off through the dense forest, following the well-known path you took on your way in. 

Leaves flatten under your feet. Running against the strengthening wind, you feel goosebumps kiss your arms and your legs. You run and pant and run some more, until you can finally see the faint, warm light of your cottage, shining through the forest like a beacon of assurance. Trees taper off into a large clearing, with your cottage at the very center. 

Your spell dispels on its own. A cool wave rushes over your body, the magic fading, before disappearing. Thankfully, you've made it home, just in time. 

The wooden door of your cottage creaks when you slam it shut behind you. Your kitchen is warm. Blessedly warm. You take a moment to catch your breath: your chest heaving, palms on your knees, the fireplace crackling. You toss your heavy pack onto the kitchen counter with a huff, and you plop down in a wooden dining room chair. Thunder splinters, the sound loud and forceful. Rain blankets the cottage's roof, pattering to a persistent, calming rhythm. 

You need to stop having close calls like this. 

What would have happened to you, if you were out in the woods for even a moment longer? It's not that you doubt your skills. Your magic is versatile. A damn good defense and offense, despite your chosen spells functioning passively, for the most part. Without anyone to assist you, you're still capable enough to hold your own against a handful of demons, should they choose to attack you. But a whole horde of them? 

The kind that live in these woods aren't like the ones you learned to deal with when you were younger. These demons are resilient. They're smarter. They stay hidden, until the chance arises to enter a fight they're sure to win. You've seen the prey they hunt. Despite their small footprints — six footprints for each, meaning six legs with clawed feet — they've been taking out magical beasts nearly twice their size. 

Great Elk, mostly. Nearly nothing is left of their flesh by the time you find them, making for quite the grim scene. No matter how many times you see it, your stomach still churns. The creatures boast a gigantic set of horns, and you'll harvest parts of them for yourself, to keep your mind off things. You're appreciative of what those elk can provide for you, in death. That'll be your fate, if you ever screw up. 

In a way, it's a double-edged sword. The forest is what protects you, those demons are what keep anyone from venturing close enough to discover you here. At the same time though, they prove a danger to you every single day. 

You wish this wasn't how you had to live. Of course you want to be safer, happier; who wouldn't? 

Gazing up at the long shadows on your ceiling, your mind brews with the same darkness as the rumbling storm clouds. The patter of rain only seems to worsen the longer you stay sitting there. Your stomach grumbles. Darkness looms in the expanse beyond your cottage, as the sun begins to set, allowing itself to be swallowed by the thick clouds and the horizon. Finally, you sigh. You stop your sulking to sit up, and you head for the kitchen to sift through what you collected. 

You were hoping to practice potion-making, so most of the herbs you collected are for healing, not necessarily for eating. A few edible mushrooms, and the potatoes you still have leftover from yesterday will have to do. 

Your knife chops the mushrooms swiftly and effectively, into small, square chunks that you scoop up in your palms to dump into a pot. 

When you were much younger, you lived in the city. You haven't been there in a long, long time. Everything you learned, you had to teach yourself: how to cook, how to fight. How to hone your spells. Books taught you most of what you know now. They were your mother's, once. After she passed, with no-one left to hide you, you fled. You've kept yourself stashed away here, ever since then. The threat of discovery didn't leave you with much of a choice. 

You built the cottage yourself. Magic made things relatively simple. It took some trial and error, sure, plus a few nights spent out in the dark when your preparations weren't complete yet. When it rained then, you were woken up by water dripping onto you, getting in from the gaps in the shoddy roof. It's been a long time since you first came here, since you found the farthest clearing in the depths of the forest, and decided to let it encompass the rest of your life. You've managed to make a rather nice home for yourself, you think. 

By all accounts, you should have perished a long time ago. The kingdom probably assumes you did. Without magic to help shield you, to feed you, to protect you, you doubt you would've lasted long out here. Perhaps that's why most people fear it. 

Where would you even go, if this wasn't how you had to live? Your hand freezes up, knife stopping midair before it can come down on a half-sliced pile of parsley. Suddenly, you realize you've hardly thought about it. Gods, if you could go anywhere, as free as the songbirds you've always been envious of, you have no clue where you'd want to go first. 

You could follow the sea breeze to the ocean, allowing the wind to rustle in your feathers. You've never seen the ocean before. Or maybe you'd want to soar over the kingdom, finally, and honestly free. There would be no-one to hunt you, not a soul that could catch you. It's peaceful there. For those unlike you, at least. 

To the people who live in the kingdom, the nobles and the knights and the common folk alike, you aren't human. You're less than that — You're a witch, a seer, a miscreant. You are the very reason for this world's ruin: the source of all demons, and to some, the sovereign who can lead them. Ridiculous rumors, every last one. Those creatures listen to you no more than they listen to the cries of the Great Elk they're feasting on. 

Still, you don't place blame on the fearful. 

More than anything, you wish things could be different. You would do whatever those people wished of you to prove you aren't what they say you are, but none of them would ever give you the chance. Your magic could help people. You want to help people, not harm them. And yet, if you were anyone else — if you were normal, if you weren't you — honestly, you'd be scared too. 

Demons are horrifying. They're soulless creatures, who can take a life away in an instant, only to break whoever they wind up leaving behind. And magic, magic in the wrong hands is just as frightening. 

It was innocent, at first. Elves were the first to compose spells, the demons simply came afterwards. Death plagued the land; the people's magic grew stronger, but the demons were already learning to adapt. Magic became selfish. No longer were spells used to protect, to flourish a field of crops, to create a light in an endless darkness. As the first war on demons came to a close, a new threat was quick to emerge: near unstoppable mages, wielding a darkness of their very own. 

Humanity nearly destroyed itself. In the process, the magic which once brought them the closest they've ever been to the Gods, that filled them with the strength of the sun, and fell into their palms like stars — That magic is all but gone, and forcefully forgotten. 

You never forgot, though. 

You were a child, you hadn't seen more than six winters, and already, the patriarchs were calling for what remains of the kingdom's spellcasters to be turned in and killed. Your birth was done in secrecy, your presence hidden. You stowed away in your mother's home, while you practiced conjuring simple illusions and small sparks of flame. 

Young or old, it hardly mattered to those who sought you. Your father ran. Your mother was burned. In more "lucky" cases, some people would be allowed to live — relatives of knights or officials, mostly. The regency had their tongues carved out, so that they might never speak an incantation again. 

Your jaw clenches, your hand tightened around the handle of a wooden ladle. You breathe in deeply, and you force your mind to wander elsewhere. Lest you lose your appetite. 

There's places you've heard of only in passing. Towns and cities where magic is not only accepted, but allowed to thrive. It certainly sounds nice. However, the logical part of you struggles to find the truth in such stories. No matter which way you look at it, everything is telling you those rumors are nothing more than traps. They'll do anything to find you, to cleanse the land of what they feel brought it to rot. They're luring you, their detestable songbird, just for the chance to finally cage you in and clip your wings, once and for all. 

To remain undetected, one's magic must be sharp, and their mind ever sharper. Those were your mother's words, at least. She taught you to stay focused, to be smart, and you most certainly are. 

You aren't unhappy, per se, when it comes to living like this. You're safe, and that's about as much as you could ask for. You've been content for a long while, living off the forest, practicing your magic by your lonesome. It's better than stifling what you were born with. Or trying to be someone you're not, allowing the imminent risk of capture to remain hovering over your head. No, you aren't really free. Perhaps you never will be. But this is the closest you think you'll ever get to it. 

The cottage is home. A lonely form of home, sometimes. No-one visits you. You'll talk to yourself when moments grow too quiet, just to fill the gnawing empty space. You aren't the kind of mage who can speak with animals, and even if you could, there isn't much to converse with; the demons have slowly begun to drive out most docile species. 

Gods, you miss the kingdom. You miss when you could see the castle from your bedroom window, stone towers reaching so high into the sky, you swore they were touching the clouds. Lanterns shone from every window once night fell, glowing brighter than any of the stars in the sky. A young and hopeful you would dream of becoming an honored guest, or a knight, or perhaps a princess. One day, you'd find yourself atop the heights in the castle, staring down at your old home instead. 

Foolish as it is, you miss the peace that came with those childish dreams. You never got to see it, but you remember reading books and hearing stories of the times where magic was nourished, not suppressed. Now, there is nothing. You have no-one but yourself. You miss when you didn't feel so alone. 

Though, for now, you should put the rest of those thoughts aside. 

Dipping your spoon into the finished stew, you breathe gently to cool it down, before taking a sip. Delicious. It warms you, chasing away the growing chill from the setting sun and the raging storm. Once you're done eating, you'll clean. Then, you think you'll spend the rest of the night rereading an old grimoire, until the complicated spell descriptions paired with the lull of the rain put you right to sleep. 

After fetching a bowl from the cupboard and filling it, you sit down at the dining room table. Your hands clasp in brief prayer — a force of habit, considering no plea is actually spoken, no blessing is internally asked for. You don't have anything to say to any God. Not anymore. 

Thunder crackles in the distance, like it plans to split the sky open. Rain drums and echoes against the roof. You take a moment to let your stew cool off, you manage just one bite, and —

Something's tripped the mushroom circle. 

With a single fast snap of your fingers, every light in your cottage goes out. The candles and lanterns flicker briefly, before they vanish. The roaring fireplace suddenly dissipates into nothingness, leaving ashen logs of wood behind. Instantly, you're enveloped in total darkness, save for the small, floating flame you produce at the end of your thumb, with a murmur under your breath of the spell ignis. 

It's been awfully long since the last time you've had to do this. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, in your eardrums. Your mind races, trying to picture the possible outcomes. 

Demons have been growing in number around these woods, but they wouldn't be here; they stick to the outskirts, where they've made their dens. With the rain washing away the scent left by prey, they'd go back into hiding, not wander out here. 

When you established your home here, one of the first things you did was create the mushroom circle around the clearing. Using your own blood and that of the demons, you fashioned it to inform you of anything hostile that walks over, barring any docile creatures. Wildlife wouldn't have set it off, so it's surely a stray demon, it must be. It will return to its horde once it realizes there's no food here. Unless… 

Flame flickering over your trembling hand, you fruitlessly try to stay deathly still. You can't hear a thing because of the rain, no footsteps and no demon snarls. Only the steady downpour, and the echo of droplets, splattering when they hit the roof above with loud, persistent thunks. 

Dammit. It's been an entire minute, and the spell is still telling you there's something within the circle. Just one presence; the spell can't tell you who or what is near specifically, but you can detect each entity inside. 

You sense your magic, keen and continuous, invaded by the scorching, resolute soul of another. A deep, brilliant ocean, rippling in the wake of a pebble thrown into it. And those ripples aren't stopping — They're surging through your brain and your body, with a forcefulness that bleeds nothing but blood-red danger. 

Your head spins faster the longer the seconds tick into minutes. You feel dizzy. The last time this happened, the last time anything stuck around this close to the cottage for more than a minute, it wasn't a demon. It was two presences, two men. They were lost, after they had traveled many miles into the forest from the main road, looking for one of their horses. Apparently, it was spooked on the trail, and broke away from their carriage to bolt into the woods. 

They didn't stay for long. You were in your cottage at the time, and you remember not wanting to open the door, but they wouldn't stop knocking and knocking. When you gave in, cracking the door open hesitantly, it was just enough to meet the first man's eyes, but not enough to let either of them see inside. 

Their tone was cordial, not suspicious. We weren't expecting anyone to be living out here, so far from any nearby villages, you remember one of them remarking. The first man ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, while flashing you an easy smile. You hardly noticed, because your gaze was focused on the sheathed dagger at his hip, and the glittering pendant hanging around his neck. A menacing shiver twisted up your spine and gripped you tight. 

Still, you held your ground. You told them you hadn't seen a horse, and only that. They thanked you for your time, and left soon after. 

Fucking hell, those men were knights. The pendant one of them was wearing — it was silver, engraved with text and a depiction of a lion. The knights in the kingdom have that same symbol on their armor, and out of respect, they'd be the only ones allowed to wear it as a necklace. 

Those men, despite the clear hostility you must have been showing them, spoke to you so kindly. They told you they'd be nearby for a while longer, and if you needed anything, you only had to ask. The blonde man gave you a polite nod, and told you to be well as the both of them left, May the Gods continue to smile upon you. 

If either of them grew suspicious, or if even one of them was capable of sensing the magic your cottage was surrounded with, they would have driven their daggers into your stomach right then and there. Townspeople might hesitate, before proceeding to slit the throat of their loved one while they slept, hoping to claim some sort of bounty for dealing with another wretched spellcaster. But knights do not. They are trained not to hesitate. 

Thankfully, sensing spells is something very few can do, and most never know they can. Perhaps they can feel something, but they'll attribute it to an odd uneasiness, to a brief spark they felt flicker across their skin. It couldn't be magic. Not a soul would risk an utterance of the word, because to feel magic is to be able to use magic, and for that, they are better off keeping their mouths shut. 

Either way, right now, you can't risk drawing attention to yourself. That day was almost a year ago. You lucked out last time. Anyone else who approaches your cottage next might not be so quick to leave. One wrong move, and you could easily wind up dead. 

So, you hold still. Very, very still. A lone cabin out in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain, with no lights shining from inside isn't likely to draw much attention. Anyone in their right mind would assume it was abandoned. 

Whatever it is, whoever it is, you only need to wait for them to leave, and you'll be in the clear. In the wake of your spell, you can feel the strength of the intruder's presence tugging at you, burrowing into you, cold like winter's breath and absurdly, ferociously sharp — but you'll be fine. They'll be stumbling back over the mushroom circle any second now. 

You're probably panicking over nothing, honestly. There's no way anyone would be this deep in the forest during this kind of storm. They'd have to be crazy, stupid, maybe utterly lost. A lost fool isn't your problem. If the storm doesn't deal with them, the demons most certainly will. 

Perhaps your magic is malfunctioning. Right, you haven't used this spell in so long that you've gotten rusty, and there actually isn't anyone here, you're simply mistaken. The storm is messing with you, is all. You shouldn't panic, because you have absolutely nothing to worry about. 

That would be true, if someone hadn't just knocked on your door. 

The sudden sound gets you to practically jump out of your own skin. You freeze up, your breath catching in your throat. When you hear the clear pounding of a fist against the wood for a second time, your concentration slips away, and so does your fire spell. The flame you held in your fingers goes out, leaving the cottage in complete and utter darkness. 

"Hello?" Oh, great, that someone is talking outside your door now, "Is anyone there?" 

At a pace that could rival only the most sluggish of snails, you shakily rise from your chair, and whisper another small flame into existence to light your way. You tiptoe over to the door ever-so carefully, directing the flame to follow with a wave of your finger. Briefly, you hesitate, before another set of knocks — more hurried, this time, as though whoever's on the other side is growing just as anxious as you — has your cheek pressing against the door while you peer through the peephole. 

There's a man leant on the door, your door, clutching his side, and supporting his weight with his other arm resting on the doorframe. The soft light of the moon and stars dimly illuminates him. He's shielded from the rain, underneath the roof's overhang. His clothes are simple: pants and a tunic with long sleeves, fabric clearly soaked from the continual downpour. 

It isn't anything you'd place as out of the ordinary. Even commoners would most likely be donning a necklace or a pin or something that'd tie them to the kingdom. You glance the man at your door up and down once, twice, but he seems to carry nothing of the sort. 

More importantly, surrounding the hand he has pressed into his side, the off-white of his tunic is stained a dark red you can recognize even in the obscured darkness. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, and you feel an ache twist in your gut. His hair is dark, shoulder-length, and tied in a half-up style, his messy bangs in his eyes, with a small ponytail on the back of his head. Poking out from his hair is a pair of distinct pointed ears. They're decorated by an array of studs and hoops, with black, star-shaped earrings hanging from his lobes, glittering in the moonlight. 

Your protective spell wanes. When you felt the chill of his presence, and the sharpness of his soul, perhaps you were feeling a fraction of his pain. 

You watch the man's jaw tighten, droplets of water dripping from his hair. He raises his fist to weakly knock at the door one more time, and when there's no answer, the bridge of his nose forms a troubled knot. 

"Please, I don't mean any harm, I was-" He winces, stumbling slightly, and he sucks a painful breath in through his teeth. "I was training in the woods… and the devils- I'm just an adventurer, I'm not a mercenary. I just want to rest until this storm clears, and then I'll be on my way. I swear it." 

Devils? 

Wait. Your gaze flickers back up to his expression, his brows pinched slightly as he attempts to hide his discomfort. Then, you look at his side, where his hand is pressed to an obvious wound, blood staining his fingers and speckling onto the sleeve of his shirt. 

This is your fault. 

When you head into the woods to forage, you always cast a distraction spell on the opposite end of the forest; it'll lure demons over to it, giving you a while of temporary safety. Sometimes there are stragglers, but nothing you can't sneak around or handle yourself. Most of the demons will head towards the area you've marked, drawn by the magical rune without their control. The spell is cast directly into the ground — hence why the rain on the soil causes it to disperse. 

This stranger sounds like he's telling the truth, and with the condition he's in, he doesn't have any reason to lie. About most things, anyways. You seriously doubt he's an adventurer. There isn't anything out here of interest. Just endless woods filled with endless demons. Still, he's clearly injured, clearly in need. And you can't help but take some responsibility. 

If he came to the forest to train, he must've been expecting a fight he could win. The demons here are strong, but mostly in numbers. If he's at all capable, a handful of them wouldn't give him much trouble. But you sent every single demon in the area to one location. A risky spell, but effective, as long as you know where it's been cast. He didn't. 

Even after the rain came down, even once the spell dispersed and the demons ran to hide in their holes, there would still be a ton of them gathered, all in one place. Hell, as far as you're concerned, if he found himself facing down hundreds of those bastards, he's lucky to be alive — let alone still standing. He might be the luckiest man you know, actually, to have escaped that forest with nothing more than a single injury, and all four limbs intact. 

But what if there are more wounds you can't see? 

Nervously, you take a single step away from the door, clutching the front of your shirt as your heart continues to pound. Rain drums overhead, seeming to only grow louder and louder. Although it drowns out most everything, you can still hear when the man shifts, mumbling a swear to himself through gritted teeth. Gods, your poor heart won't stop racing, and you don't know what to do. 

You're scared, for the first time in ages; scared of him, scared for him. You shouldn't let him in. That would be the stupidest thing you possibly could do. You shouldn't help him, shouldn't heal him. You should pretend no-one's home, and leave him be without letting yourself meddle. 

You know that, and yet, you can't help but tell yourself you have to help him. No matter how much you try and force yourself to believe the opposite, you can't shake this feeling that you're the only one who can. 

There isn't anyone else out here, not for miles. He won't make it out in this storm, and once he leaves the protection of the cottage, it's likely he'll get attacked again. From what you can tell, he doesn't even have a weapon on him. He'll get lost in the darkness. Demons will smell the sharpness of his blood the moment he steps back in the trees, and no matter how fast he can still run, he won't get far. And tomorrow, when you find what's left of him — 

Another faint knock at the door has you stirring, your lips parting, although you aren't exactly sure what you should say. It's been a while since you've last spoken to someone other than yourself, not since those knights almost a year ago. Instead, your legs seem to move before you've truly thought about it, and you rush over to the kitchen, fumbling through cabinets to search for whatever medicine you have left. 

Perhaps you can't let him in, that much is true. He walked over the mushroom circle with no problem, so you're assuming he isn't capable of detecting spells. Regardless, your cottage is covered in magical items. In potions you've made, and spellbooks that were supposed to be burned with the rest of them. You can't risk anyone sifting through your belongings. 

And you already know pressure doesn't bode well with you; if you can't keep your cool, if you say one wrong thing and he somehow figures out you're a mage, dealing with his injuries will be the least of your concerns. He could leave and come back by sunrise with an army of knights prepared to slay you, for all you know. 

You shouldn't be helping. This is dangerous. He is dangerous. You're foolish for caring about someone you haven't met, no matter how responsible you might be feeling. But that's the thing. You never get to meet anyone. And maybe, just maybe — 

No, it'll be best if you give him some medicine and let him be on his way: some standard herbs, nothing infused with magic. Just something for him to take to ease the pain, and some ointment and bandages to help with the bleeding. You'll crack open the door, tell him you can't accept visitors, and offer him what you can. That's the most you can do. That's what you have to do. 

You'll never see him again after this, but you know it's for the best. 

You gather the herbs from the kitchen, and the ointment and bandages from the bathroom. You place them all into a small, spare pouch you had lying on the counter, which you hastily work to tie shut. As you walk over to the door, you can barely breathe. Your hands are shaking, and you stop in place, attempting to gather the courage to open it. 

It'll be fine. I'm sorry, I hope this will help you. That's all you have to say. I'm sorry sir, you can't come in, but please, accept this. He'll leave, he won't know a thing, and you'll do just fine. 

"Okay," The man's smooth voice starts from behind the door, causing you to abruptly tense up. He sounds more out of breath than before: "I don't think anyone is home, so I'm… I'm going to try to come in now. I'm not going to hurt you, just need to get the hell out of this rain- Please, don't kill me." 

Shit. 

You're unlocking the door in a hurry then. You fling it open, coming face to face with him; the man sways forward, almost tripping. He's rather tall, even taller when he stands up straight to look at you. Deep, worried blue eyes meet yours. Blue like the drawings of the ocean you memorized from your childhood story books. His expression is a muddled mess of pain, relief, exhaustion — and you must be making a face, because he's quickly attempting to make amends. 

"Thank the Gods- It's okay," He says, giving you a reassuring look, and raising his hands defensively, his palms stained a dark crimson. His skin is pale, his eyes heavy, like he's lightheaded; "It isn't as bad as it looks. I'll be… fine, I'm-" 

With one last stumble, his eyelids flutter. Bright lightning rips through the sky in the distance, and you're watching his knees buckle, leaving him to fall into you. You squeak in surprise, just barely managing to catch him. He's already gone limp in your arms. You're hardly able to hold up his weight, struggling not to just drop him to the ground. 

Rain pelts the ground and the grass and your roof. In between the steady drone, tiny droplets of blood splatter onto the wooden floor of your cabin with a plip, plip. 

Damn. And you were hoping to eat your stew while it was still hot.