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hotchnisslvr · 2 months

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“After Hours”

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x F!Reader

Summary: After ignoring orders on a case, Hotch calls you into his office to teach you an important lesson: there's no 'I' in team. (Highly Explicit)

Warnings: smut, p in v, blindfolds, bindings, delayed orgasm, vibrators, light choking, nipple clamps, dom!aaron hotchner

Words: 5.4k

Read on AO3:

Your spine stiffens as he calls your name. His voice is flat, but you know that tone. Just your name on his lips is an order all its own.

Derek’s eyes meet yours as you rise from your desk. “Good luck,” he whispers, though you’re the only two in the bullpen. You’d stayed late to finish paperwork after the closing of your most recent case before the weekend.“Nothing good ever comes from that tone.”

You smooth the front of your skirt and adjust the front of the button-up blouse that’s tucked into it. You thank Morgan as you pass his desk and he nods before hunching back over the file he’d been working on. Swallowing your nerves, you ascend the stairs toward his office. The blinds are shut, but the yellow light of the lamps peeks out from around the edges.

Hesitantly, you rap your knuckles against the door.

“Come in,” Hotch answers.

You do as he says and he doesn’t look up from the file on his desk. “Shut the door.”

Again, you do as you’re told and stand awkwardly by it, awaiting further instruction.

“Sit.”

He doesn’t indicate where you should sit; the couch or one of the two leather backed chairs in front of his desk. You choose the chair closest to the door and cross your legs, and hope he can’t hear how hard your heart is hammering against your ribcage.

“You went into that warehouse, alone, before we could confirm whether the unsub was there.”

“Sir—”

“Don’t interrupt,” he orders and you clamp your lips shut. “I understand that your actions resulted in saving that girl’s life. You were able to control the bleeding until medics could arrive. Your actions, brave as they were, were reckless and stupid.”

His words sting and you have to fight to school your facial expression, but you can feel the crimson rush of embarrassment flood your cheeks.

“You got lucky,” he continues, his voice hard. “We were able to apprehend the unsub as he was returning, but you had no idea if he was there or not. You didn’t wait for backup. We work as a team, you know this. The minute we start acting on impulse is the minute one of us gets hurt, or worse.” His eyes are steeled when they meet yours. “Do you understand?”

You nod your head, “Yessir.”

“Good,” he responds curtly.

“This can’t happen again,” he says, rising from his chair. Your eyes follow his movements as he shrugs out of his blazer and tosses it over his desk onto the vacant chair beside you. He steps from behind his desk and slowly approaches you, rolling the cuffs of his sleeves as he does so. He moves behind you and the click of him removing the paddle holster from his belt causes you to jump and you curse yourself for flinching.

“Something on your mind, agent?” he asks as he tosses his weapon onto the chair beside you.

You straighten your posture and answer him with as much nonchalance as you can muster. “No, sir. I’m just wondering if this will result in a write up or other form of disciplinary action.”

“As far as the Bureau is concerned, you saved that girl’s life. A meeting with me is all that’s needed to review your actions.” The soles of his dress shoes click against the tile and you feel his presence behind you.

“Whether you feel like another disciplinary action is necessary is entirely up to you.”

He always leaves the decision-making to you, but if this happens, it’ll be the first time it’s ever happened in his office, at your place of work. The thought terrifies you, but thrills you all the same.

So you dip your chin in the slightest of nods and the click of the lock on his door solidifies what’s about to happen.

“Good girl.”

Your nipples harden at the sound of his praise and you splay your fingers against your thighs, pressing the tips of your fingers into the muscle to keep yourself under control. Your body betrays you though as you feel your underwear dampen, your arousal building already. God, fuck him and his ability to do this to you with words alone.

His shoes click against the floor as he nears you and the hairs on your neck stand on end. You watch, eyes hungry, as he removes his necktie. He steps behind you once more and the familiar feel of silk over your eyes is almost a comfort as he secures it at the back of your head. With one sense cut off, you immediately feel your arousal’s intensity increase tenfold and you nearly want to cry out and come right then and there. Only he had this effect on you. Only he could do this to you.

Your chest is already heaving as you feel his hands slide over your shoulders and his mouth finds your ear. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, his breath hot on your skin. “What’s your safe word?”

“Sage,” you breathe quietly.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and his hands slide over your breasts. You try to moan, but his hand quickly clamps over your mouth, firmly, but not enough to hurt you. His lips find your ear again, “Derek’s gone home for the night but Rossi is working late right behind that wall.” You can’t see it, but you know exactly how close his office is in proximity to Rossi’s. “So, keep quiet.” His hands slide over the fabric of your bra and you squirm against them. “Or I’ll have to gag that pretty little mouth.”

You swallow and nod to affirm your understanding. Your hands have moved to the arms of the leather chair, your fingers pressing into the material as you await his next move. Slowly, he unbuttons the first few buttons of your blouse and you shiver as the backs of his knuckles brush against your skin as he does so.

He slips his hands inside your bra and just holds both of your breasts for a moment, his thumbs skirting over the peaks of your sensitive nipples. You whimper and hear the soft laugh rumble from his lips. “Like diamonds,” he muses regarding the hardened tips and lifts both of your breasts, using the backs of his hands to push down the fabric of the cups so they sit prominently atop the underwire.

He hums low in his throat and your throat bobs. You feel his presence shift away from you. A drawer opens and items shuffle around. Something is turning and a soft click echoes in the room. “I figured it was only a matter of time before this happened in the office, so I tucked away a few…” he pauses as he draws nearer, “provisions.”

His cologne invades your senses, the cedar-based scent is intoxicating. He draws something small and metallic across your chest and a soft whimper escapes your lips. “Do you know what this is?” he asks, and you can hear the smile on his lips.

You lick your lips and whisper, “Yes.”

His fingers brush along one of your breasts and you inhale sharply as he rolls your sensitive nipple between his fingers. Your back arches slightly against the chair and you feel the dampness between your thighs begin to spread. You squeeze your legs together to try and assuage the ache to no avail.

“I’ve hardly touched you and you’re already falling to pieces,” he murmurs as he nips at the skin of your breast. You hiss and barely stifle a yelp as the nipple clamp pinches into place. Instinctively, your body jerks forward and Hotch chuckles as he catches you. He flicks the now-swollen nipple and you bury your face into the fabric of his dress shirt to keep from shouting. The sharp sting of the clamp compounds your pleasure and you know what comes next, but nothing ever prepares you for the pinch of the second clamp. You bite down into the muscle of his pectoral through his shirt to stifle the yelp that escapes your lips, hissing and moaning as the feeling overwhelms your senses. The growl that Hotch emits in response is primal. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and you don’t even remember when you had thrown your arms around him.

His hands slide up and over your arms. He curves his hands to cuff around your wrists. “As much as I love your mouth on me,” he says darkly, his hold tightening. His nose pushes into your hair as he brings his lips to your ears. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”

There’s no time to gasp as he pulls you to your feet and whirls you around so that your back presses into him, and you feel him pressing against you. The quick jostling causes the clamps to tighten and your nipples protest the pulling sensation. Hotch threads his arms through yours and palms your breasts, the warmth of his hands momentarily soothing the sting of the clamps. His fingers slide down your stomach to unbutton the remainder of your shirt, which he then pulls down and discards absentmindedly; leaving you in your knee-length pencil skirt and black stilettos. Your exposed skin bristles in the cool air conditioning.

“Hands behind your back,” he instructs and you do as you’re told.

“Good girl,” he praises. Your ears prick as he unbuckles his belt, and you feel the throbbing at your core increase. He loops the belt around your wrists and pulls the leather taught, binding them together.

He tugs the belt, indicating you to follow his movements and you do so. He guides you, one hand on the belt, and one on your back. Slowly, he pushes his hand forward along your spine, urging you to bend forward. Your breasts press into the wood of his desk and he pushes his pelvis against your ass, a soft moan escaping his lips as he presses his dick into the curve of your hip.

“I wonder,” he purrs as he releases his grip on the belt. You pull at the leather wrapped around your wrists, hoping to brush your fingers against his hands and miss them. He chuckles as his hand curves around your hip. His fingers drop below the waistband of your skirt and you squeeze your thighs together as they continue to dip between your legs. “Just as I thought,” he says. His fingers pass over your clit and even through your panties, the brief brush sends thousands of tiny bursts of energy pulsing through your nerve endings. You jerk forward against his hand and he chuckles. “So wet,” he hums. “I bet you’d love for me to take you right here, right now over my desk, and fuck you from behind until you remember there’s no ‘I’ in team.” His hand gently curves around the column of your throat, his fingers pressing gently into the sides of your neck as he draws you up to your full height. The movement causes the clamps to tighten around your nipples and you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. “Would you like that?”

You nod against his grip on your throat and feel your knees begin to shake, almost buckling. “Come on, baby,” he sings into your ear. “You know it’s not that easy.”

A pitiful whimper leaves your lips and you feel the laugh rumbling from deep within him. Hotch’s fingers drop from your hip and you miss the feeling already, even though you know it’ll only be moments before it’s back.

Suddenly, a buzz fills the air and you nearly fall to your knees when Hotch touches the vibrator to the swell of your breast. His reflexes are quicker than lightning as his hand drops from your throat so he can loop his arm around your waist to keep you from falling.

“If you’re that sensitive up here,” Hotch murmurs as he touches the vibrator once more to your breast. You gasp in response and he chuckles low in his throat. “I can only wonder,” he touches the vibrator to your navel and begins to drag it down the length of your abdomen, “what happens when I touch you down here.”

The vibrator grazes the fabric of your panties just north of your clit and you gasp aloud, an inhuman sound erupting from your lips. Hotch quickly lifts the vibrator and pulls you taut against his body as he falls into the chair behind his desk. Securely rooted on his lap, the hand around your waist snakes around your chest and covers your mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat before his lips find your ear. “What did I say about keeping quiet?”

You swallow and mumble an apology followed by ‘sir,” and you feel his erection twitch against your thigh. A devious smile plays upon your lips and he can feel against his hand. He knows that you’re aware of how much power you have over him, but he’s about to do the same.

The vibrator dances along your thigh and your legs quake against his as you tuck your feet around his calves to hold yourself as steady as you’re able to.

“That’s right baby, anchor yourself against me.”

Your skirt rolls up your legs as you squirm against him and that only makes it easier for him to access the part of you he so desperately craves and you so desperately need him to touch.

He touches the vibrator to the southernmost part of you and you gasp against his hand as your body bucks against the sensation. Slowly, he drags the vibrator up your center and you feel the buzz like electricity in your veins. When it touches your clit, you moan. Hotch responds by lowering the speed of the vibrator to draw out the pleasure.

“Your moaning is music to me,” he murmurs as he kisses the column of your throat. Your chest heaves against his arm as he circles that tight bundle of nerves in small circles. “It tells me how much you’re enjoying this. Tell me,” he says, and his voice is low in his throat. “Are you enjoying this?”

You nod quickly against his hand and cry out against the palm of his hand as you feel the pressure in your abdomen begin to blossom.

“Do you want to come?” he asks. The hand over your mouth is still there, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

Again, you nod vigorously.

The pressure is building, that familiar warmth spreading through you. Your chest heaves. Your breaths become shallower as you cope with the budding orgasm. Just as the wave is about to crest, Hotch switches the vibrator off and pulls it away, halting the wave in its tracks.

You buck forward as the denial immediately sets in, leaving you wanting, needing more. Your clit throbs, pulsating against the damp fabric of your panties and you can only picture the smug look on Hotch’s face. He thinks he’s got you right where he wants you, but you know how to play this game too.

His erection sits right against your ass. Ensuring your feet are tucked tightly around his calves, you tighten your abdomen and roll your body, allowing your ass to grind against the entire length of him. His grip on you loosens as pleasure courses through him. He’d not been expecting that. You continue to grind against him and you feel each twitch of his dick beneath you. A tight moan escapes his lips, and you moan in response knowing it’ll get him all the more excited.

You feel him tilt his pelvis, leaning into the movement. He lowers his hand as he groans into your ear and a grin splits your lips. You turn your head and press a kiss at the corner of his lips.

“It’s not my turn,” Hotch murmurs, though it turns into more of a grunt as you continue working him through his pants

“I thought this was to remind me there’s no ‘I’ in team,” you say coyly. If you weren’t blindfolded, you’d be batting your lashes at him because you know it makes him weak.

“You’re right,” Hotch answers. “We are a team.” The vibrator switches back and the sound stops you in your tracks, which simultaneously earns a frustrated sound from him. “And because I’m such a good team player,” he touches it to the spot just above your clit, which elicits a sharp whimper from you. His hand covers your mouth and he pulls you against him. In your ear he growls, “I’m going to skip my turn and let you have fun for a little while longer.”

You grind against the toy, passing it again and again over your clit. He’s allowing you to set the pace and you want to touch him, god you want to touch him. You pull against his belt around your wrists and whimper. “Let me out of these,” you pant against his hand. You want to run your fingers through his hair, and scratch your nails along his back. Hotch chuckles and you feel his cock jerk against you. “Not quite yet,” he murmurs, and it’s strained. He’s close too. If he didn’t let you out soon, he’d be cleaning up a mess inside his pants.

You groan as heat pools in your belly. Your aching clit throbs and you increase your pace; grinding against it and Hotch.

“Go ahead, baby,” he entices. “Come for me.”

Your chest heaves, your nipples straining against the clamps which only causes that wave to build even faster. The pressure builds quicker than you can keep up with. You lose the rhythm, but you don’t stop chasing that high. When the wave peaks, Hotch doesn’t pull the vibrator away. Instead, the pressure builds and builds until it has no choice but to release. You ride the vibrator through your orgasm until you collapse completely into his hold around you, your body jerking uncontrollably as the aftershocks pass through your body. The vibrator clicks off and you hear him set it down on the desk with a dull thud.

He drops his hand from your mouth and says nothing for a moment as you take deep breaths.

“Lean forward,” he orders quietly, and you do. His fingers make quick work of the belt around your wrists. Once loose, he drops it on the floor beside you and you bring your arms in front of you. The thick corded muscles that make up his arms thread through yours and he gently palms your breasts. You exhale sharply as he undoes the clamps around your nipples. With the tips of his fingers, he delivers a short series of massaging movements against the tender flesh. Finally, his fingers trail the sides of your face. They hook beneath the lip of the blindfold and gently pull it up and over your eyes.

You blink a few times to allow your eyes to adjust to the dim lamp-lighting and your eyes quickly land on his deep brown gaze. His lids are hooded as he looks at you, no that’s not the word, as he admires you. Your cheeks flush and you lean forward to kiss his lips. They part instantly for you and you slide your tongue into his mouth. You slip your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. He groans into your mouth in response.

“I love the way you taste,” you mumble against his mouth.

You feel his lips smile against yours. “Nowhere near as good as you.”

You drop your hands to his shoulders and let your fingers find their way to the buttons of his dress shirt. You nip at his chest, leaving a purplish-red mark just beside his nipple. Your fingers brush the scars long since healed over from his run-in with Foyet as you explore his chest and abdomen with your hands. You need to feel all of him, to make him feel as good as he makes you feel.

Hotch slips his hands under your ass as you undo the buttons of his tailored slacks. His erection forces the zipper open before you get the chance to unzip it, tenting his boxer briefs.

Eagerly, you hook your fingers into the hem of his Calvin Kleins and pull down. He lifts his hips, with you on top of him, so you can jerk them down. His cock bounces up against his abdomen, pearls of pre-cum beading at the tip of his length. You eye it hungrily, but before you go any further you unhook your legs from around his and shimmy out of your skirt and panties. You unclasp your bra and let it fall to the floor, not minding where it lands. When you return to sit on his lap, you slide your legs through each of the arms of his office chair and press your slick cunt against the length of his erection.

His head tips back as a low groan escapes his lips. You press your lips to the hollow of his throat before moving to suckle gently at his collarbone. The benefit of wearing a suit and tie day in and day out means you can mark him as much as you want and no one is the wiser. No one besides him and you that is.

You curve your hand around his cock. Slowly, you begin to pump him in your hand. As you gingerly massage his length, you press your breasts against his chest as you lie flat against him to whisper in his ear, “I think you’re ready to take me now.”

You smile as his eyes screw shut as you have him literally in the palm of your hand. You always love watching the tables turn when you play this game. Hotch nods and grunts out an enthusiastic, “Yes!”

“Very well,” you purr into his ear.

Standing on the tips of your toes, you keep your hand wrapped around his cock and guide him to your entrance. As the blunt tip of his cock slides easily inside of you, you begin to sink down onto the length of him.

You both moan as he fills you, the width of his cock stretching your tight walls.

“God,” you gasp as you dig your nails into the skin of his shoulder blades.

“No baby,” Hotch breathes. “He’s not in this room tonight. It’s just you,” he kisses you once, “and me.”

You roll onto the balls of your feet and push yourself up before sinking back onto your heels. This helps you get used to the feeling of his cock filling and stretching you.

“Find what feels good,” Hotch says. “You set the pace.”

You repeat the motion again, except this time leaning forward just so that his dick strokes against your g-spot with each thrust. From there you begin a steady rhythm, riding him at a pace where you can still manage to kiss one another without breaking your teeth as you get lost in the throes of endorphins and hormones.

Eventually, you feel that familiar pressure begin to build and his fingers squeeze into your hips. He’s nearing his own climax.

“I want you to come with me,” he whispers against your mouth. “I’m close.”

“Help me get there, then,” you tease.

Hotch releases one of your hips and snakes his arm around your waist. His fingers find your clit without guidance and he begins teasing the tight bundle of nerves. For a split second, you lose the rhythm, but he helps you get it back by pumping his hips up to stroke that spot inside. The dual sensation is almost too much to bear, but as he begins to slam his cock up and into you, you know it won’t be very long now. You clutch at his shoulder blades, and he hisses as you dig your nails in deeper.

“Come for me, Hotch,” you plead. As your orgasm builds, you feel his breathing become erratic. “Aaron, I know you want to come in me.” You know using his first name drives him wild.

He grunts and drops his hand back to your hip, his grip bruising as he slams you down onto his cock. Each thrust strikes your g-spot and as his entire being locks up and his orgasm rattles through his body and pulses into you, your release follows almost immediately after.

You stay like that for a minute or two, a tangle of limbs. His arms wrap around your back, his palms flat against your slightly damp skin. He kisses your cheek once and helps lift you off his cock. You groan as he leaves you, and slickness from your combined arousal drips down your thighs.

Completely spent, he carefully stands, ensuring your legs don’t get stuck beneath the arms of his desk chair. Your legs feel like jelly, shaking and trembling as he lets go of you. He fastens the buttons on his slacks and tugs his dress shirt on, buttoning it haphazardly. A tired laugh escapes you as he scoops you into his arms and carries you to the leather sofa against the far wall of his office. He gently places you down and tucks his suit jacket over your shoulders. He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “I’ll be right back.”

He ducks out of the room, careful to use his key and lock the door from the outside as he does so.

Your eyelids are heavy, and it takes everything in you not to tuck into the corner of the sofa and fall asleep right then and there. However, you don’t think the weekend cleaning crew would ever recover if they opened his office in the morning and saw you in this state.

The sound of his key in the lock brings you back to reality. You tug Hotch’s jacket tighter around you as the AC chills your sweat-dampened skin. He smiles at you as he enters the office. Hands full, he quietly shuts the door with his foot before approaching you.

He drops your go-bag by your feet and places two bottles of water on the table in front of you. He retrieves his own bag from beside his desk.

“I figured you’d want a change of clothes,” he says as he sits next to you on the couch.

“Astute observation,” you reply cheekily, though there’s a tiredness to your voice now.

He smirks in turn, “Come here.” He slips an arm around the small of your back, places his palm flat against your hip, and easily scoops you into his lap. He pulls his go bag onto the couch and unzips it. After rummaging for a few moments, he pulls out a small container of wipes, a washcloth, and a small container of something you can’t quite make out.

The lid on the container of wipes clicks open. He brushes your hair over your shoulder and begins to wipe down the back of your neck, your shoulders, and back; clearing the sweat away. He does the same to your chest, your breasts, and thighs. The wipe is cool against your skin and a chill runs down your spine.

He slides out from behind you, getting on his knees before you. He presses soft kisses to your inner thigh before using a fresh wipe to clean you up. “I’m sorry I don’t have something more formal,” he says with a soft smile. “You can take a proper shower at my apartment.”

You arch an eyebrow at that. “I’m coming home with you, now?”

He tilts his head. “Only if you want to.” He unzips your bag and pulls out a pair of gray sweatpants, the ones you take on every trip. He guides your feet through each leg and you reach to pull them up the rest of the way. He kisses the corner of your mouth as you bend down and his suit jacket falls aside revealing the marks he’d left on your breasts.

He sits and pulls you between his legs once more. This time he screws open the container he’d left sitting on the sofa. He scoops a small amount of the gel onto his fingers and rubs them together. “Lie back against me,” he says gently and he doesn’t have to say it twice. You roll back into the wide plane of his chest and let your head loll to the side. Your eyelids feel so heavy and you’d love to just curl up in his lap and fall asleep just like that. When the gel hits the sensitive skin of your nipples, you gasp.

“Shh,” he soothes as he rubs the gel onto your sore nipples. The movement is not sexual, but methodical, therapeutic even. There’s a cooling component to the gel and relief courses through the sensitive skin there.

He caps the jar, wipes his fingers on the washcloth, and pulls his hoodie out of your go bag. The letters ‘FBI’ were barely legible after how many dozens of washes it’d been through. The front pocket was barely hanging on and there was a hole in one armpit, but somehow the old thing held together. Hotch had considered his hoodie from the academy a good luck charm of sorts. He’d kept it with him his entire career with the Bureau, but when you first started seeing one another and you’d borrowed it after a night at his house, there was never any doubt that you should have it. He didn’t need it anymore, not with you around. He’d have all the luck he ever needed so long as you were there with him.

“What are you smiling at?” you ask as you let him help you out of his suit jacket and tug on the faded hoodie.

He passes you a bottle of water before he wraps his arms around you and buries his face in the crook of your neck. You place the bottle on the couch beside him and lay your head against his and squeeze his forearm with your hands. “Just how lucky I am,” he answers.

You close your eyes and lean into his hold, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

He sits up suddenly, jostling you. “I meant to ask, did you want an ice pack? I think I might’ve held onto your hips a bit too hard there at the end.”

You arch an eyebrow and turn in his lap to loop your arms around his neck. You smile before kissing the downward slope of his nose. “My hips are fine, especially when they’re in your hands.

His thumb strokes your hip in response as he looks down at you from beneath his dark lashes. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

You nod. “Do you think if we order a pizza from the car, it’ll get there before us?”

Hotch smiles and helps you to your feet. He quickly gathers the things from your ‘lesson’ into the lockbox and tucks them into his go bag. He gathers your discarded clothes from around his office and tucks them into your bag. After he passes you the water bottle you’d discarded, he shoulders yours and his go bags. You’ll do laundry at his place over the weekend and repack it for the upcoming week.

He stretches an empty hand towards you, “Ready to go?”

You intertwine your fingers with his and squeeze. With the hand holding yours, he pulls you against his tall frame, the movement quick and unexpected. He captures your lips in a deep, final kiss. His arm is secure around the small of your back and you lean against it, gaze locked on his as you do so.

“Hey,” you breathe as you catch your breath. “Hotch?”

“Aaron,” he corrects with an arc of his dark brow.

“Aaron,” you repeat, drawing out his name, smiling as you see his own smile widen after using his first name.

His eyes search yours, and you let yours drop to his lips. “I’m still not sure I’ve learned my lesson.” You look up at him from beneath your lashes and bat them two, three times.

He kisses you again, both sets of your lips smiling as you fail to make it to the door. He pulls away with a breathless laugh, steps towards, and unlocks the door. As he opens it with his free hand he smiles at you, “Good thing your boss gave the team the weekend off.”

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meowzfordayz · 10 months

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shiny

Author’s Note: sooo this was supposed to be for a college au, secretly dating trope suggestion (as well as for an emergency request for fluff 😅)… but then The H*rny™️ hit 🥴, and uhh, it turned into its own lil thing. 😏

shiny

Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader

Word Count: ~2,200

CW: 18+NSFW, cream!pie, explicit language, Fem!Reader

~faqs~

“Sanemi, don’t you think she’s a little out of your league?”

Obanai’s stern tone does little to soften the reality behind his question, Sanemi once more reminded of why he can only watch—can only yearn—from a safe distance of ten physical feet, five invisible rungs on the social ladder, and one gigantic she-doesn’t-even-know-I-exist problem.

“Nobody’s out of my league,” Sanemi mutters, glare darkening with his trademark scowl, “She’s just shiny, is all. I’m easily distracted.”

“And that’s why you ignore me whenever she happens to be at the same dining hall as us,” Obanai snorts.

“Fuck-” Sanemi’s fork scrapes across his plate.

Raising an eyebrow, Obanai continues, “And also why you terrified those women away from their table.”

“-off,” fork stabbing loudly at his dry chicken.

“That just happened to be across from where she was sitting.”

“I said-” tearing sloppily into the overcooked meat.

Mask stretching as Obanai grins, he makes his final push, “And forgot to eat your food after she made eye contact with you.”

Mouth full, words muffled, “-f’ck ‘ff!”

“If nobody’s out of your league, then why don’t you say,”—in a breathy, squeaky voice—“Hi, I’m Sanemi!”

Swallowing his bite in a single motion, “I don’t talk like that,” Sanemi glowers, “Besides, shiny things lose their sparkle the moment you touch them.”

“Whatever man,” Obanai scoffs, “Shiny things also tend to hate crude assholes.”

“I’ll crude your fucking asshole.”

Eyes rolling, Obanai switches gears, “So Mitsuri and I-”

Only to be promptly interrupted, fork waved aggressively in his direction, “Don’t fucking start on your goddamn perfect love life.”

“Perfect?” Obanai huffs, whining now, “Dude, you know how long it took for-”

“If this is supposed to be a roundabout pep talk or offering of love advice,” Sanemi stands, half finished plate in one hand, steel grip around his glass with the other as he tilts his head back to chug the remainder of his lemonade, “Just fucking don’t.”

Waiting in lines isn’t your strong suit, fingernails rapidly tapping your lukewarm plate, droplets of water glistening under the too familiar lighting of the dining hall. You’d already scratched off the faint remains of someone else’s lunch, not bothering to search for a new, cleaner plate — they all had some sort of residue. Lifting your gaze to survey the people ahead of you, you’re immediately hindered by the tall, broad stature of a white haired man, the tension in his back muscles emphasized by the tightness of his moss green shirt. Sighing quietly, you notice his neck twitch, the curve of his biceps discernible as his arms—presumably—cross in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, chatter, clang, and hiss of lunchtime swallowing your attempt to get his attention, “Hellooo.”

Somehow, his biceps flex harder, fabric of his shirt’s armholes stretching to accommodate his strength.

“Um, alright,” you mutter, refocusing on your plate, fingernails returning to their tapping, “Never mind, I guess-”

“If you want, you can cut me.”

You blink, vision flashing to the Beautiful purple eyed man turning around to face you.

“Are they real?” you gush, cheeks warming, eyes squeezing shut before you can process any shame.

“Pardon?” a teasing, incredulous lilt lingers in his voice, “I can see, if that’s what you’re-”

“No, like, are they contacts?”

If it wouldn’t hammer the final nail on your coffin of embarrassment, you’d slap yourself right then and there.

“Open your eyes,” he speaks softer now, “I’m not wearing contacts.”

Eyes opening sheepishly, you stick out your free hand, “Nice to meet you, I apologize, you probably get the eyes thing a lot,” they’re too pretty for you to not.

“I’m Sanemi,” he responds evenly, your hand untouched as his jaw clenches, “Are you going to cut me or not?”

“Or not,” you reply quickly, nose scrunching as you glance away, hand dropping limply, “I can wait.”

“Your incessant tapping suggests otherwise,” he—Sanemi—grunts, “If you’re not gonna cut me, then at least be less annoying to everyone else in line.”

You snort, “Are you usually this combative?” pointedly ignoring his jab.

“Usually, I don’t offer up my spot in line.”

“So does that mean I’m special,” you grin now, eyes glittering at the way his brow furrows, “Or just extra annoying?”

“Extra annoying,” he deadpans, “Definitely extra.”

With a friendly pout, you lapse into silence, shuffling forward an insignificant amount, inwardly cursing whoever poorly planned the university budget to short staff the dining halls.

“Y’know, you look familiar.”

Sanemi shrugs, back turned once more to you, shoulder blades rippling with the motion, “Makes sense.”

“What, am I not original enough for you?” you grumble, cheeks warming again as he whips around to glare at you.

“Why are you talking to me?”

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, “To be nice? To be annoying? Because I’m bored and hangry and this line seems to go on for forever?!”

Lips twitching, he slowly gestures in front of him, still glaring, “Cut me.”

“No!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Before you can protest, he maneuvers himself behind you, impatience radiating from his body, lean muscles barely grazing your bare arms, goosebumps raising when he crosses his own, the view so much more defined from your new perspective. You’re too busy memorizing his physique to notice his reaction to your careful attention; too busy uttering his name under your breath, committing it to heart, to see the blush creep up his collarbones, his neck, his earlobes; too busy finally getting food to catch him opening, closing, then opening his mouth, a hushed And what’s your name? caught beneath hesitation and loneliness.

“Thanks Sanemi,” you say, waving cheerfully, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

His response falters in his throat as he watches you leave, gaze swiveling to eventually—reluctantly—make eye contact with Obanai. Good effort! Obanai gives him a thumbs up, just as Sanemi groans lowly, flipping him off.

“Sanemi,” you whisper, fingertips walking warmly across his scars, smooth and sensitive to the touch, his breath catching at the light pressure, “Promise me you were sober.”

Body vibrating with quiet laughter, he catches your hand, lips gentle and wet as he kisses each of your fingertips, “I don’t drink,” eyes flitting over to your haphazardly tossed clothing, “And you?”

“I had one,” you murmur, lifting yourself to roll atop him, straddling his waist, thighs sweaty and soft, heat stirring in his groin at the familiar position, “Way before you arrived.”

“Waited for me, hm?” he chuckles smugly, gripping your hips, kneading into your skin, a strangled hiss tightening his lungs as his cum leaks from your slippery folds to his stomach, “Didn’t think I’d see you at a party like this.”

“And I didn’t think you threw parties,” you quip back, reveling in the filthy squelch of your languid grinding, his rigid abdominals flexing shiny and divine against the bump of your clit, “Till your roommate introduced himself, invited me over,” draping yourself over his chest, tits heavy and warm on his sternum, voice promising and heady in his ear, “I didn’t think I’d be getting fucked tonight.”

“Me neither,” Sanemi rasps, cockhead swollen and smearing precum against the plush of your ass, erect again, “Didn’t think you’d show up on my doorstep,” grasping your jaw to present your neck to his bared teeth, nipping greedily, “Looking so fucking gorgeous, like you were begging for someone to devour you,” tongue swiping flat and messy at the hollow of your throat, his hips bucking upward for friction, “Good thing I found you first, hm? Good thing I got to your pretty mouth, to your beautiful cunt, before some other fuck.”

“Sanemi,” you whimper, tugging your head down slightly, just slightly enough to see the dangerous, hazy glint in his purple stare, “W-wasn’t here to f-fuck anyone.”

“But you did, didn’t you?” he teases lightly, releasing your jaw with a final, tender kiss to your chin, “Had me wrapped around your finger the moment I saw you, laughing with your friends in the dining hall, that incredible smile of yours knotting my stomach,” swallowing thickly, dangerous edge fading as quickly as it surfaced, feather soft confession taking its place, “I must’ve become absolutely insufferable,” snorting amusedly, “If Obanai intervened.”

“I forgot to tell you my name,” you admit sheepishly, beginning your own parade of sloppy, heated kisses across the sheen of his collarbones, exertion from his first orgasm still evident, “Thought I missed my shot,” reaching behind you for his cock, deft thumb circling his tip, grinning at his unabashed moan, “Wondered how I could possibly recover from such an encounter with your mesmerizing hair and brilliant eyes,” winking playfully as you squeeze his cock, earning a halfhearted scowl, “Your gentlemanly gesture of saving me from my hanger.”

“Want to feel you again,” is your only warning, and then he’s bullying his cock between your folds, whining sharply as his tip nudges in, rhythm shallow and wanton, gradually stuffing himself further and further into your honeyed, dripping hole, “Fuck,” he grits out, your ass so perfect and weighted atop him, “You feel so fucking good.”

“Is this all you want?” you ask quietly, question nearly lost in the broadness of his chest, pussy clenching tight and overwhelmed around him.

“This?” he manages to scoff, his exasperated, adoring eyes meeting your unsteady, wide gaze, “‘Course not, I want to get to know you, your favorite color, how you look in the morning, what buttons I can push, when to say I’m sorry,” repetitive, gentle grunts underlying his reassurance as he continues thrusting torturously slow, “I’ve got a devastating crush on you, you idiot, so why the fuck would this be all I want?”

“Well you did just call me an idiot,” you giggle, back arching into his movements, his eyes glimmering at the display of your breasts.

He huffs, “Learn it or hate it, but s’my love language.”

“I’m thoroughly enjoying this love language,” you drawl, grabbing onto his shoulders, sweat trickling shiny and subtle as you readjust yourself, “I guess I could adapt to ~odd pet names too.”

As Sanemi’s pace hastens, second climax coaxed harsh and unrelenting from your body, he slips one hand from your hip to your sex, palm pressing strong and intense on your clit, the most stunning wail tearing feral and needy across his bedroom as you cum on his cock, thighs squeezing the air from his lungs, fingernails digging deeply into his shoulders, neck faintly mottled with the aftermath of his love biting.

Sunlight glows weakly through his blinds, the quiet pulse of your breaths preventing Sanemi from wiggling even an inch, too afraid of shattering the stillness of his dream. Your leg’s slotted comfortable and trusting between his own, fingers pressing soft dots into his chest, a sensation he wishes he could bottle for a rainy day. Thankful for his lack of drinking, and thus, lack of a hangover, his eyes blink closed, basking in the recollection of your unexpected passion, the shine of moonlight on your naked figure, the curve of your smile, hot and welcoming against his mouth.

“So how do I look in the morning?”

Your sleepily murmured question startles him, the uptick in your breathing having gone unnoticed, too deep in his reminiscence. Head tilting to better see you, he smirks fondly, gaze more serene without the exhaustion of the day settled in yet.

“Like you just woke up,” he says nonchalantly, nevertheless breaking into an endeared smile, muscular arm tugging you closer to him, so close you can see the flecks of muted silver in his irises.

“Hm, thank gosh it’s Saturday,” you yawn, limbs stretching in his embrace, toes finding purchase on his ankles, “I definitely did not set an alarm.”

“What dumbass would throw a party on a weekday?”

“Not you,” you retort sweetly, dramatically batting your eyelashes, “You’re not a dumbass.”

“Fuck you,” he mumbles.

“Already?” you wink lazily, “Don’t men have a refractory period or something?”

“I only came once last night,” he nearly pouts, hiding his expression in your sunwarmed hair.

“Right,” you chuckle, tender memories of being carefully wiped clean, and then snuggling into him, promptly passing out, floating contentedly through your vision, “You’re amazing.”

“Amazing enough to do this again?” his voice hardens, somehow moving further from you even as his body doesn’t move.

“Didn’t I already ask you that?” you reply gently.

“Yeah.”

Nose crinkling, you poke at his cheek, humming confidently, “I may not have had a devastating crush on you, but I obviously I like you, idiot.”

“Yeeeah,” he sighs.

“So we’re doing this again,” you remark plainly.

“Good,” he finally grins.

“Good,” you grin.

“Ugh,” he scowls, pretending to push you away, only to quickly pull you back into his embrace, pulse thrumming at the momentary distance.

“You weren’t saying that earlier,” you singsong, lightly tucking a longer strand of his hair behind his ear, cooing at its immediate redness, “You think Obanai heard us?”

“Fuck,” Sanemi grimaces, suddenly dreading his next conversation with his best friend.

“Poor guy,” you laugh, tone laced with mock sympathy, “Probably regrets inviting me.”

Shrugging, Sanemi pecks your forehead, voice gravelly as he mutters, “Nah, fuck him.”

#sanemi shinazugawa #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #shinazugawa x reader #wind hashira #one shot #college au #demon slayer smut #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

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rosewaterandivy · 4 months

Text

don't fall away from me

summary: “If I should fall, on that day / I only pray, don't fall away from me" from I, Carrion (Icarian) - Hozier

w.c.: 1.9k

previously

Years pass by, and time moves differently here. Hawkins, but not quite, stuck in the perpetual year of 1983. Life, or whatever you call his existence, in the Upside Down is one long, drawn-out night. Turbulent clouds of red and blue rolled through a bruise-colored sky.

And somewhere beyond, just out of his reach, lies the scent of summer. It wafts through as it pleases— fragrant blooms, sunlight, and waxy blades of green. He can almost taste the slupees and melting popsicles, watermelon sugar tingling on his tongue.

He can hear your laughter in the dead air, the sound echoing through the caverns of his mind. That is, at least, when he isn’t there.

Vecna, Henry Creel, his majesty the scrotum— whatever.

Speaking of which—

“It’s time.”

The steel-trap of his memory slams shut, though it’s useless to try and keep anything for himself. Learned that the hard way. Many times, in fact.

Like clockwork, the lone walkie crackles to life with a burst of static.

“Eddie, it’s Dustin. Over.”

His longs to wrap his fingers around the chunk of plastic and press down to reply. He always will, he can’t rightly help it.

But this time, Dustin says something else. It’s not the usual: “Eddie, can you read me? Over.”

Instead, it's: “Eddie, if you’re there just—” followed by a deep breath. “If you come back, things are different now. She’s different. She’s got another life and…”

In spite of himself, he creeps closer to the walkie.

Dustin heaves a sigh down the line. “Please don’t come for her. If you are what I think you are, you’ll stay away.”

But, of course, he doesn’t listen to Henderson’s pleas. Turns out, a prolonged stay in the Upside Down as Vecna’s Frankenstein abomination of a lieutenant will do that to a person. Or whatever he was now. He can’t listen to good sense because his has fled. He has to hope that some things are the same, that your love remains the same.

And with that, he unfurls his wings and takes off toward the surviving gate.

Ever since he’d woken up, or rather, been revived by Vecna, something has been pulling at him from Hawkins. Well, several somethings really, but two in particular burn the brightest. He follows them like the north star guiding him home.

Except home for him doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in any way that matters.

A cabin tucked away in the woods kept secret and safe, sunken back against the trees. On a thick branch of a nearby tree hangs a tire swing, pastoral and endearing. Next to it sits a worn picnic table, burgundy paint peeling at the edges. There’s a clatter from behind the door before it creaks open.

You linger there, back turned to him, a cream-colored dress falls to graze just beneath your knees. Your hair is longer now, a smile coming to his lips as he continues to observe, a few locks falling loose from the braid you’ve tied.

The braid and dress are new. But the ease with which you lean into the house, carefree and relaxed, that is familiar.

And maybe that’s enough.

He watches as you eventually settle back against a well-loved rocking chair, a soft crooning voice floating through the air as you tilt your head back and sigh.

Christ. You smell good. He always thought you had, even now the faintest aroma of sandalwood only serves to conjure vestiges of you. But he can’t detect the fine traces of them now. In its stead is a bright note of salt, musk, and heat beckoning him like a siren’s call.

Only once the sun has set beneath the horizon does he answer that call, stepping out from underneath the shade of the trees. A twig snaps underfoot at his approach, and your head whips toward him, your mouth pulled in a flat line. With the grace and quickness only Nancy Wheeler would envy, you grasp the barrel of a soldered off shotgun.

“I would suggest you turn back now,” You warn lowly, cocking the hammer and wrapping your finger around the trigger.

Stepping from the trees, he raises his arms slowly and sheepishly ducks his head.

“Unless you’ve got some silver bullets in there, sugar,” He jests, lips jerking into a careful smile, “I doubt it’ll do much good.”

Rising from the chair, you narrow your eyes to stare into the taller broader figure of a man you have known too well.

“Eddie?”

He responds with a nod, not that it does much to lessen the blow. You blink, eyes darting side to side as if questioning your reality.

Hearing his name slip from your tongue so softly nearly steals his breath. He can’t help but close his eyes to memorize it. That voice, his name, the years have passed, and he hasn’t forgotten. Not a single thing.

From the first time you called it, to the first time you whispered it, to the last time you sobbed it, following him into the unknown darkness. No matter how black his heart, he always had you.

“Hi sweetheart,” He greets, stepping forward and dropping his arms, extending a shaky outstretched hand.

Or, what could once be considered a hand.

And the devastation that falls on your face is worse than any of the terrors he’s suffered combined. You stand frozen like a statue, stiff and still save for the fluttering of your skirt in the breeze.

Beautiful as ever.

Your mouth begins moving before any words fall forth, expression ranging from shock to elation before settling at outright terror. There’s a slight tremor to your hands as they grip the weapon aimed directly at him.

He can hear the quickening of your heart, the whoosh of air that slips from your lungs with each breath, the inherent thrum of life all around you.

He makes to call your name, but the words fall silent in his throat at the sight unfolding before his eyes. The door creaks loudly as you dash in front of it, shielding something from view.

And then he sees it. The change Dustin alluded to; the life.

If he had a heart, it would have dropped, trembled even. Even the cool absence of it feels like it could burst right through his chest.

“Mama?” The boy whispers from behind the mesh of the screen door. He clumsily totters from one foot to the other, landing with a plop on the floor.

A child.

“Stay there baby,” You say, eyes trained on Eddie and flashing in warning. “I’ll be in soon.”

Mama.

Fuck. The boy is beautiful. Footsie pajamas and face shadowed, shielding him from Eddie’s prying eyes. Even if he can’t make out the boy’s face just yet, he knows, because of you, any child would be perfect. Like those cherubs from Renaissance paintings. A little cherub that could have been his.

“Cute kid,” Eddie smiles, voice soft and low, “What’s his name?”

“He’s named after his father,” You say taking one step toward him. “And you should be leaving.”

“Jams!” The boy helpfully offers, “My name's Jams!”

“J-Jamie.” You breathe, “His name is Jamie.” Clearing a tickle in your throat, you clarify, “Steven James, technically.”

The boy— Steven. Eddie feels himself roil at the new knowledge. His name is Steven.

“Steven? Steve?” Betrayal trips along his tongue, a lingering tang of wet pennies in the way he questions it. As much as he tries to brace for it, a tiny blooming wound breaks through the syllable.

Between your overcast eyes and Eddie’s inspecting onces, the boy is lodged like a twig in a dam, holding back the torrent from both sides. You continue to grip the rifle and shush him now for the time being.

“Is he— Steve? He’s Steve’s?”

Eddie observes the front yard, the blinding, hopeful curtain lifting from his eyes— there are three chairs on the porch, three black-eyed Susans painted on the mailbox, three stumps further afield surrounding a fire pit.

A home.

You face swims with heartbreak, mouth twisting into a scowl he’s seen rarely but still— he knows it.

“Yes, Eddie.” You sigh, nostrils flaring and face coloring with indignation.

Eddie frowns, broken-hearted, apologetic, jealousy roiling in his gut. Unshed tears gather at your lashes, lips pinched tightly, as if holding back your words will keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t know what you mean as he stares vacantly at your protective stance.

But then he sees it.

He sees it when the boy grunts, tired of a conversation that is years beyond his interest and understanding. He rests a tiny hand against the screen door and gently pushes at it.

Jamie is quick and before you can haul him back behind you, he scampers into the light as if the pair of you are playing a game, and when Eddie looks back to where his perfect little head is— drawn firmly to your side, plopped on your jutting hip, he sees dazzling cascades of mahogany curls glinting in the dim porch light.

The boy twists his little body around and stares of Eddie with some curiosity now that they are both wholly revealed to the other.

“He was there for me,” A faint whisper escapes your mouth, heavy tears falling down your chin, pooling until they barely hang on. “He was there the entire time. All nine harrowing months, knowing that I was growing something that was yours. If it weren’t for Steve, I—” You shake the thought loose before it can take hold.

You press your lips to Jamie’s head, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, “I was completely out of it with grief. Th-thought, I coul— I couldn’t do it. Have a baby that was yours when you were gone. When you died, what we had was barely even a dream, Eddie.”

He knows, he remembers it all too well.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry— I didn’t—"

“I know,” You nod, acknowledging his confession. “You had no reason to.” He bites his tongue, hopes it draws some blood, hopes in secret that something will take his very existence from him now, and knows the chances are slim. He can’t stand the thought of being among the living any longer, facing the consequences of his actions, his so-called heroics— the two people he left behind.

“Steve was there, and he loved me through it. And when this little… when this sweet guy—” You press your face to his and take a steadying breath. “When this boy came, we held each other and wept.”

A small laugh escapes from you muffled by Jamie’s hair.

“So, he’s named after his father, just not necessarily his biological one.”

Jamie leans toward you, places his palms to your cheeks and pats the wetness away. “No cry, mama. Happy face.”

You crumble apart, bursting into tears against his little palm, pressing kisses to his fingertips, and part of Eddie crumbles to ruin too. The boy, this precious boy, who is both his and not his, turns and looks at him earnestly.

“Mama’s okay, baby,” You whisper to him, “I’ve got you now, my sunshine boy.”

“You should leave,” You turn to Eddie, reluctance rounding the words as they tumble from your mouth. “Before he gets home.”

Because your home is with Steve now. Not Eddie, at least not anymore.

“He’ll want to see you, they all will, but not like this.”

He wouldn’t even know what to say to Steve. He wouldn’t know what to say to anyone. The stories he’d told himself of abandonment and sacrifice all pale in comparison to the reality of it all— trying to mete out a meager phantom life, half-existing, while the world continued to turn above.

You and Steve, and his son— your son, Eddie’s son, Steve’s son.

All strung together like tragic marionettes, and he can’t protect you from the puppet master.

With a few beats of his wings, Eddie's gone, soaring above the tree line and catching the last few rays from the setting sun. Relishes the scant warmth and thinks that maybe Icarus had the right of it; the greatest tragedy, after all, is never to feel the burning of the light.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

Text

Only Lovers Left Alive

cowboy!vamp!joel miller x f!reader

joel miller masterlist

He offers her another option between life and death. How could she refuse?

warnings | 18+ smut, slight dubcon initially, gore, blood, dark themes in general, you've been warned muah hahahaha

wordcount: 4.5K

a/n | vamp!joel has me by the throat (pun intended) and though this is my last fic before my two month break, i have decided to turn this into a series that will span the decades! i already have 1920s, 1950s, and 1970s vamp bb waiting in the wings for when i get back in august :) BTW this first one is set in the 1870s ish - ALSO, @toxicanonymity posted a mind-melting vamp!joel fic last night that y'all should check out if you have a taste for the ~darker~ things in life. k, love you, bye

.........................................

A condemnation. An exile. Execution and exultation all wrapped up in one. She knew that if she rode out of town she need never look back. A white dress hanging on the bureau in her room the last thing she saw before she slipped out into the night. Her daddy’s gun and her brother’s horse and a scrawled note for her mama left behind. Do not look for me, I am already gone.

She has every intention to be dead by the time the sun unfurls over the plains. The only true escape for a woman in this world, a loveless marriage nipping at her heels on her way out. She rides hard in the inky darkness until the flickering lanterns of the town are only a blink in the distance.

Her hands are shaking as she dismounts, eyes skittering over the lip of the canyon she stands above. A bullet and a fall. If it’s so easy, why can she feel the cool slip of tears as she presses that steel mouth to her temple? Just like she learned from her daddy, thumb back the hammer to load that single, sweet bullet. And a pull, as easy as a loose tooth snapping free.

But before she can, her horse lets out a nervous chitter, head swinging side to side. A man, silent, palms open and up, comes inching toward her out from behind a copse of sagebrush.

“Don’t come any closer!” He stops dead in his tracks, lips parted, eyes wide and glinting in the moonlight.

“Easy, miss. Don’t want any trouble. Just wanted to offer my help.” It’s such a strange thing to say to a woman with a gun nosing at her temple that she finds herself letting out a humorless laugh.

“Do I look like I need any help right now?” It surprises her, the smile that softens his features, eyes crinkling up, soaked in kindness, and understanding.

“With all due respect, miss, you seem perfectly capable. But you should know that pistol of yours ain’t loaded.” She almost doesn’t want to check, a hot rush of embarrassment skittering up her spine when she does and sees that the man is right. She can already feel the tight sting of tears, something uglier and more desperate than frustration settling in her stomach.

“You probably think I’m a fool, don’t you?” The man takes another step forward, still with his hands up, still with that kind look in his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re a fool. Think you’re hurting like a lot of other folks out on these plains.” Another two steps closer and he extends his hand out to her, and for some reason, she takes it.

“Name’s Joel Miller, miss. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under such circumstances.” Deep, dark brown eyes that swallow her up. She finds herself telling him her name before she can even think not to.

“I ain’t gonna try to talk you out of anything. What I can offer you are some bullets, and maybe a meal if you’d like to stick around a little longer.” All charm, the quicksilver of his smile crooking in the pale light and she has to force herself to let go of his hand. She tries to take a few stumbling steps back, oblivious to the cliff-side her heel skids right over, a clipped yelp jolting through her chest before strong arms are wrapping around her waist and tugging her back from the edge.

“Woah there, miss. I think you’d prefer a bullet to a fall like that.” The way he so easily talks about it makes her stomach flip, something slippery settling that isn’t altogether unpleasant.

“I don’t have money and I ain’t that type of girl if you’re thinking you’ll get something out of helping me.” He laughs, a low thrumming thing, his palms still gripping her waist, his legs brushing against her skirts.

“Ain’t that type of man, miss, I promise. Just another lonely soul like yourself.” His hands slip away from her, stepping back, a chill running up her spine that makes her flush.

“Tell you what, I’ve got a camp a few yards ahead. A quick ride on that horse of yours. You can think on it and when we get there, I’ll get you your bullets and if you’re inclined to it, a warm meal.” She knows she can’t go home, not now, something worse than death waiting for her there. And something about this man, Joel, is making her want to say yes.

“Alright, you have a deal. But just because my gun isn’t loaded doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use it in other ways so you better not try anything.” A grin, all teeth.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, miss.”

He’s strong, she can feel it in the bulk of his thighs settling behind her on her horse, the steady, solid front of him pressed against her back. By the time they canter into a small rock outcropping, her mind is hazy with the feel of muscle pushing and pulling against her.

True to his word, the first thing he does after helping her down from her horse is to rustle around in his pack, taking out a silvery pistol and giving her two bullets from his own barrel, palms brushing in the trade.

“Those oughta work just fine in that gun of yours, though I am waiting on your answer.” That same slanted smile of his, eyes flicked up with the tilt of his chin.

“Please, miss. Pity a poor, lonely man. Just a bite.” How could she say no to that?

In the warm glow of the fire, shadows and light reveal just how handsome he is. The strong hook of his nose, the cut of his jaw beneath that patchy scruff of his. And those eyes, flickering in the flames, watching her every move.

She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, and though it’s sparse, rough fixings, she finds herself scraping up every last bite. No one to tell her to chew with her mouth closed, no table to get her elbows smacked off of, just this strange, silent man staring at her.

“Aren’t you hungry too?”

“Oh no, miss, I’m quite alright.” It makes her pause, her breath hitching, as she stares down at her already empty plate, her stomach rolling in a quick lurch.

“You– I–”

“You worried I poisoned you?” He says it with that same grin, and she’d like to scramble onto her feet and onto her horse and get as far away from him as she can. But the cool prickle running up her spine keeps her seated right where she is, trying to stammer out some sort of response. Joel is quick to silence her stumblings with another laugh though, teeth glinting in the swerving light of the fire.

“That’s alright, miss. But you should know I don’t want to harm you. I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Uh-huh. What if I told you that I could offer you another way out that doesn’t involve putting a bullet in that pretty head of yours?” Those eyes of his are catching her again, soothing the stilted beat in her ribs.

“W-what would it involve?”

“Well that’s a bit hard to explain, miss. But I assure you, it’s nothing you wouldn’t enjoy, thoroughly.” His hand reaches out, fingers tracing along the hinge of her jaw, brushing down the side of her neck before dipping under the neckline of her dress, flickering back and forth, back and forth along her skin.

“If you ask me, a sweet thing like you deserves more out of this cruel, cruel world.”

“M-more?” Shifting closer to her, his arm draping over her shoulders, pulling her into the haze of him, that silvery grin up close.

“Don’t you want to feel good, miss?” His lips so close she can feel the brush of them along her cheek, his fingers curling tighter around her shoulder. And then, with a stuttered nod of her head, she sinks into him completely.

She’s only had frivolous, playground kisses before. Quick, daring pecks followed by a fast dash away before anyone could catch them. This is not that. He devours her, licking into her mouth in a way that both shocks and soothes, his palm coming to hold her jaw firm in place as his lips move against hers. And she takes it, all of it, letting him move her to his will, his lips a wandering drag beneath the hinge of her jaw, lingering along the arc of her neck before dipping down to the tops of her heaving breasts pressing against the neckline of her dress.

“How sweet you are, my darlin. Sweet everywhere, ain’t you?” There’s nothing she could possibly say to that, her mind spinning in jagged gasps of sensation when he brings his hands to the front of her dress and rips clean down the front of it, corset and all, leaving her in just the thin gauze of her slip. She finds something like courage, a small ember of it smoldering enough for her to start tugging at the shoulders of his leather coat, earning a chuckle from him when he finally gets the hint and shrugs out of it.

“I need your words, darlin, else I can’t do this. Do you want this?” She’s not even entirely sure what this is, only that her mind is swimming in it, in him, and she wants more of it.

“Yes, Joel, I want this, I do.” He pulls her in for another bruising kiss, lips curled in that grin as he coaxes her to lay out on the cold desert ground, though she doesn’t mind with the way her body is burning up beneath his touch.

She’s never done this before, guided only by the sharp tug in her belly, that aching want intensifying as he rucks her slip up beneath her collar bones and begins a salacious trail down her skin. His lips close around the peak of one of her nipples, a gasp dragging through her throat as his tongue laves over the bud. But it’s a rattling shock when he dips just a bit lower, teeth sinking into the full curve of her breast before his tongue sweeps over the sting, soothing, soothing, soothing.

Lower and lower, a path of his open mouth mapped across her skin until he’s settled between her thighs, the broadness of his shoulders spreading open the hinge of her hips.

“No one’s had you like this, have they, darlin?” His eyes are blown black, unwavering, turning her shy and small beneath his question, her chin tucking into her shoulder as she shakes her head. He lets out a low groan at her response that makes her thighs clench, jolting in the wide grip of his palms.

“I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is let it feel good.” That’s about all the warning he gives her before his tongue drags a flat stripe through her cunt, her spine arching with the dizzying sensation as he settles his lips over a spot that makes her gasp. Over and over again, his tongue swirls against that aching point of pleasure, his palms turning harsh in their grip on her thighs as her muscles start to shake from it. Her eyes roll back, up to the stars in the pitch-black sky, ears thrumming with the obscene sounds of his lips smacking with her arousal. And it hits her all at once, everything going tight and hot with sensation before she unfurls for him with a sigh of his name, body languid and liquid as he continues to lap at her dripping cunt.

“Feels good, huh, darlin? Can make you feel so much better though.” She groans when his mouth meets hers again, open, wanting, receiving, the taste of herself on his lips making her mind swim. It’s primal, pre-human, the want she feels for the thick heat of him that’s settled between her legs, her hips canting up to chase that pressure.

“Please, Joel, I want to feel good.” She’s almost crying with it. Nothing has felt like this, ever. And he’s more than willing to give her what she wants.

“Gonna take my time with you, darlin. Make it feel real good.” He plants one palm next to her temple in the red earth, his other hand fumbling to unfasten his pants and shuck them down enough so his cock can rest, heavy and flushed against the soft inside of her thigh. She has to bite back a whimper just looking at the sheer size of him.

“Don’t you worry, darlin. Remember what I said, huh? Not gonna harm you, just help you. Relax for me, that’s it.” A stretch, a searing, sick pleasure as he begins to drive his cock into her fluttering cunt. But he’s gentle, so gentle, a slow spread that has her mewling beneath him.

“There you go, taking all of it. Made for me, ain’t you? My angel, all mine.” She can’t help the moan that tears through her chest when he grinds his hips deep and driving, a pulsing, aching fullness that has her digging her nails into his shoulder blades. But that ache bursts into a snarling fire of want when he drags his hips back, only to roll them forward on a much faster, much deepers thrust, already settling them into a dizzying rhythm of push and pull.

“Joel, please I– feels so good, oh my go–”

“Just my name, darlin. Say my name and nothing else.” She does, long drawn out preens of it as he fucks her, that same pleasure pulling taut up and down her spine.

“Again, darlin, just like this.” His words are murmured into her throat, that beating, pumping crook in her neck, and her body responds in kind, unraveling for him all over again as he continues the hot drag of his cock through her cunt. As she starts to come, those open-mouthed kisses snap into something else. Teeth, a graze, and then a sinking, startling pain. All she can do is hold on, her whole body going limp in his arms as that pain radiates into a burning singe. A rushing settles into her ears, dark pinpricks around her vision, barely registering the warbled moan he lets out as she feels something warm smear against her stomach.

“I think I’ll keep you, darlin.”

And then perfect darkness.

…

Like fingers skittering up her throat, she wakes up to a thirst so singular, so consuming, she actually brings her hand to her neck, wincing when her fingers brush what feels like a bruise across her skin.

“You’re awake.” It startles her so badly she jumps, curling up and scrambling back until she’s pressed against a large boulder. Joel sits, crouched, studying her, face schooled and steeled.

“I– how long was I asleep?” Her voice cracks, that thirst making her words weak and warbled.

“About two days. Slept like the dead when I was done with you.” His words crackle with his grin and she has to shake her head to refocus on figuring out where the hell she is. Looking down at her body, she finds herself in men’s clothes, slacks and boots, a button up, all too big for her, most likely Joel’s. And then she remembers what he had done to her dress and her thoughts go hazy again.

“W-where are we, Joel?”

“Just a few miles west. You hungry?”

“No, I’m– I’m thirsty.” His grin goes big and bright at that, silvery slick in the moonlight.

“I bet you are, darlin. Why don’t you come over here and I’ll give you something to drink?” The promise of this need, this burning urge being slaked is enough for her to close the distance between them, letting him maneuver her shivering body into his lap.

“Just give your body what it wants. Easy as reaching out and taking it.” Her palms press against his chest, a futile struggle as he guides her face into the crook of his neck with his hand cupping the back of her head. But something else takes over in her, a fire flickering up her throat when her lips press against the thin skin of his neck. And it is what her body wants, lips parting, teeth snarling and sinking in.

“That’s it, darlin. My angel’s a natural, huh?” When she finally pulls away, eyes hooded and heavy with satisfaction, she finds herself smiling up at him, something slick and sweet simmering in her veins.

“Thank you, Joel.” Teeth, all teeth.

“Of course, darlin. Gonna be you and me from now on.”

…

He offered her another option. Something between life and death. That is where she lives now. This is how she lives now. With him.

When they must, they travel in the day, wide-brimmed hats tilted down, bandanas tied over their faces, long leather coats and gloves. Otherwise, they move in the night, over the vast, whimpering plains, whetting their particular appetites whenever they can, jumping towns before their faces can be known.

A year, maybe two, maybe even three. What use do they have for time? Caught in an endless tangle, just the two of them, and that blazing thirst.

But there is one thing they have their sights set on. Making their way back, retracing their path, her path to him, until they find themselves on the outskirts of a town she swore she’d never see again.

No guns, they don’t need them. Horses set loose, they won’t be needing them either. As the sun dips down over the plains, they walk through the main drag of town. He let her call the shots, agreeing when she insisted they come for the men only. Let the women and children run so long as they stay out of their way.

It’s a long night. One that ends in her childhood home. And by the time the sun is coming up, one would find the ranch house with the front door ajar in a silent yawn, her mama and her sisters having fled. And on the porch, still holding his shotgun, her daddy’s splayed out body. Perhaps luckily, she didn’t have any brothers. Just the man she was supposed to marry.

“I’m so full, Joel. I don’t know if I can have another bite.”

“Hmm, you wanna save him for later?”

“I think I can make room.” Fear, like the cream top on a fresh gallon of milk. So, so sweet and rolling in waves off the man’s trembling body, Joel pinning him against the wall of her childhood bedroom as she paces back and forth. They haven’t had this much to drink in ages, and she feels dizzy, drunk off it, smacking her lips with the lingering taste.

“What are you people? W-what happened to yo–” Joel cuts off the man’s blubbering by jostling him back against the wall, teeth bare, something like a growl pulling from his chest.

“Now, Joel. Didn’t your mama teach you not to play with your food?” She grins, and he mirrors her in turn, looking over his shoulder at her. A hum in her throat, she glances around her old room, eyes settling on the wardrobe, her hands itching with a small want. She’s already moving over to it, opening it, and sure enough, that white dress is tucked inside.

“That’s pretty, darlin. Why don’t you put it on for me?” It’s nothing for Joel to hold the man against the wall, one forearm pinning him by his neck as he turns to watch her, her fingers already flickering through the buttons of her shirt. She strips completely bare, savoring the two sets of eyes trailing her every move as she slips the simple white frock over her body.

“Look like an angel, darlin. Doesn’t she, boy?” Joel punctuates his question with a harsh press of his arm into the man’s windpipe, making him wheeze out a stuttered yes.

“All this talk has worked up my appetite again.”

“This one’s all yours, darlin.”

Blooming red flowers all down her dress, a trail of it down her chin that Joel laps up with a satisfied groan. They turn greedy with it, desperate to get the other bare, and when every thread of clothing is in a pool around their feet, he circles around her, his lips pressing into the striped scars on her back, a mapping of her history that she finally got to repay.

“How’s it taste?”

“You were right, Joel. There’s nothing sweeter.”

“Except for you, darlin.”

She’s not that shy little girl anymore. She knows how to take her pleasure, how to pull it from her man. And tonight, both of their bodies painted and slick with their feast, she does just that. All teeth, sharp, scraping nips when her mouth meets his, her hands tangled up in his hair to tug him closer with a low groan. Push and pull, a stubborn tangle onto the bed, her hands splaying out on his chest, nails digging in enough to make him hiss beneath her. Their skin sticks and slides with all the dribbling blood. They’ve always been messy eaters.

“Look at you, darlin. Like a fucking painting in my lap. So beautiful.” He swipes his thumb over her nipple, collecting a stray trickle of red and sucking it into his mouth with a thrum in his throat. And she in turn dips down to lick up the line of his neck, salt and metal on her tongue. So perfectly sated, she feels dazed with it, a slow-flickering want rolling in her belly as she drags her dripping cunt along his cock, just a taste of the pleasure they’re both chasing. But they’re both too far gone, too full of that ache for her to tease much more, sinking down onto him slow and smooth with a preen curling her spine.

“I’m so, so full, Joel. Fuck, so good.” Her whole body hums with it, the harsh press of his fingers into the curve of her ass, his eyes watching the tight bounce of her breasts each time her hips drop against his, and his cock grazing so deep inside her, that pleasure that snarls with just a tinge of pain.

“Take it, darlin. Fucking take all of it. My angel’s so good, always so good for me.” Planting his feet into the mattress, his thighs settle against her back as he starts to meet her thrusts, a broken cry dragging from her chest as she lurches forward in his hold.

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m so close, Joel. Please don’t stop.” Words she presses against his throat, collapsed on top of him as he fucks up into her, chasing that pleasure with snarling teeth so he can lay it at her feet. It snaps all at once, her whole body going tight and taut around him, a close cry of his name as he fucks her through it. She doesn’t drink, just a simple creature comfort to sink her teeth into the curve of his neck, a lick of pain that sends him right over the edge with her.

They lay like that for a while, chest to chest, mouths sliding lazily together until sunlight starts to flicker through the window. She gets up with a sigh, his softening cock finally slipping out of her as she steps off the bed to close the shutters tight.

“I need a little taste.”

“Reckon there’s some left over, darlin.” The body is still warm, slumped on the floor. She crouches over it, still bare, flecks of red drying and flaking off her skin. His wrist, pale and perfect, untouched, just the place to sink her teeth and pull. Sweet satisfaction singing in her bones, she hums as she slips back into bed, curling up against her man and letting him lick the remnants from her mouth.

The story goes that a town lays somewhere tucked in the rolling dips of the plains that one day went dead. Women and children fleeing, and a fate far worse for the men. You can go searching for it in the daylight, when all lays still and silent, maybe catch a glimpse of a skeleton long picked over by some larger predator. Just don’t stay long enough to see the sun slip over the hills unless you’d like to meet a pair of lovers with a taste for a violence so pure, and an appetite that surely can’t be human.

“You and me, darlin. Forever.”

“Forever, Joel.”

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller angst #the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller series #joel miller imagine

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littlejuicebox · 2 months

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Midwinter Carol 9 / The Snake

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 2.7K

Story navigation: [1][2][3][4] [5] [6] [7]

Summary/Setting: Based on the prologue/premise from my OneShot “A Midwinter Carol.” / Astarion and the OC broke up after his ascension. She left Baldur’s Gate for fifteen years, only to return just recently. Following the events of “A Midwinter Carol,” Ascended Astarion has been convinced to pursue a new beginning. Will he be able to change who he has become, with the help of his ex-lover or will he ultimately fall victim to himself?

Preview:

He’s covered in the evidence of his wrongdoings. Hells, he can’t speak to Ani like this, with blood literally on his hands, drenched in the crimson color of all his past mistakes.

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore / Violence / PTSD / Astarion’s past trauma

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Astarion’s pulse begins to thrum in his ears the moment he sees Eirianwen — or rather, unknowingly sees Delilah, shapeshifted into the appearance of Eirianwen — dart from view, away from the doorframe. His hands and face are caked in slowly drying, scarlet smears of the now-dead Edmund’s blood, but he doesn’t notice. He leaves the partially decapitated head of the foreign spawn, its skull smashed in and ichor spilling out, abandoned on the office floor with the rest of the corpse.

The immortal elf scrambles forward, out of the office, and desperately calls after the woman he thinks to be his beloved sorceress as she sprints down the marble-floored hallway. There is a split second when Astarion notices the woman's pause and it causes his heart to flutter in brief relief. But then she turns to look at him, and the unmistakable hatred on her visage cuts through the Ascendant like one of her ice knives. Her cold, unforgiving gaze snuffs out the final embers of hope he held in his chest.

This wasn’t the first instance Ani thought him a monster. He didn’t know what felt worse, her disappointment the first time or her hatred this second time.

His stomach drops when the woman misty steps away, toward the dungeon, and quickly retreats down into its depths. She abandons Astarion on the upper level of the Palace, his voice still echoing after her.

Another nice, simple plan burning up in flames from another loss of control. He’s left standing in the charred ashes of his own actions once again.

Astarion’s heart hammers in his chest, threatening to break through the marbled surface of his skin as he quickly considers all his options. Finally, the Vampire Lord decides that regardless of if he currently wants to face Ani or not, he has no choice. The poison may still be in her system, and if he does not follow the sorceress, the rings will not continue shielding her.

He refuses to be responsible for that, too.

With no more than a quickly barked order at his spawn to stay behind, the Ascendant morphs into a cloud of smoke and reanimates in front of the dungeon entrance. He moves to rip the door open with a bloodied, shaking hand, but then suddenly pauses, restless fingers clinging onto a cold, heavy brass knob.

Ani is going to want to leave. He knows her well enough to know this. Fifteen years later, and this feels eerily similar to the situation that had finally caused her to walk out of the Palace, never to return.

Though last time, the dead spawn had been his own. Not a foreign one.

Astarion knows he cannot react in the same manner he had back then, because it will simply drive the sorceress away. The more he tightens his grip, the faster she slips through his fingers – that was always the way with Ani. He loathed it.

He cannot afford to lose her again. He doesn’t want to lose her again.

With his hand still clutching the knob, Astarion closes his eyes, bows his head, and steels himself. He sucks in a deep breath in and holds it for a moment or two before his lungs slowly release the unneeded air. When his lids flutter open, the Ascendant notices his disastrous, intimidating reflection in the perfectly polished floor beneath him.

A madman stares back.

He’s covered in the evidence of his wrongdoings.

Hells, he can’t speak to Ani like this, with blood literally on his hands, drenched in the crimson color of all his past mistakes.

The Vampire Lord pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hastily swipes it across his face and limbs, aiming to quickly clean himself. His fingers tremble as he works, causing his normally nimble hands to fumble, as he removes what debris he can from his flesh.

It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

He’s wasted too much time already.

With a single sharp inhale, Astarion rips the heavy dungeon door open and descends down the cobblestone steps. He unknowingly walks into the viper’s nest.

Delilah is facing the damp, stone wall of the dungeon as she prepares herself for Astarion’s entry. She knows without a doubt that he will follow her here; his obsession with Eirianwen seems to compel him far beyond what any potion or spell ever could.

When the shapeshifter hears the creak of the dungeon door, her hand instinctively wraps around the dagger. Ancient arcane magic flickers from the hilt of the God Killer, emitting a warm buzz of energy that tingles at her fingertips and electrifies her entire body with potential. The vision of Edmund’s mangled corpse won’t leave her mind; she suddenly bursts into tears.

She thinks a part of her might have actually been fantasizing about living an immortal life with Edmund. The possibility of such a future had been there, at least, until the Ascendant violently ripped that opportunity, like so many others, from her hands.

Astarion deserves to die just as violently as Edmund had. He deserves worse, but Delilah will settle for this.

“Ani…” Astarion calls as he approaches the woman, his voice a soft coo, much like someone might speak to a frightened child.

The Vampire Lord comes a few steps closer, his boots squeaking across wet stone as he moves painstakingly slowly, unsure what else to do but make his way toward Eirianwen and try, somehow, to smooth things over. He thinks perhaps he should calm her just enough that he is able to coax her back upstairs, away from this space that holds horrible memories for them both. They’d both nearly died here at one point or another; a tremor runs up Astarion’s spine as the memories assault his brain.

He needs to get Ani back upstairs, back into the space that holds far better memories of lovemaking in the bedchamber and waltzing in the great hall. Back into the space that remembers the sounds of their laughter rather than the sounds of their screams.

Eirianwen isn’t responding to him; the pitiful noise of her crying ricocheting off the walls causes his stomach to twist in knots as he inches closer. His fingers continue to tremble with nerves; he clenches them into balled fists.

“Ani, darling…” Astarion murmurs as he reaches his hand toward the woman. He thinks he might have to grovel, to convince her to come back upstairs, but the sounds of her tears have completely dissolved whatever might have remained of his pride just before he entered the dungeon.

The moment his hand brushes against hers, Delilah recoils in revulsion and then strikes in rage. She spins and sweeps the blade in an arc with an uninhibited scream, slicing into flesh, aiming for the Ascendant’s heart.. With the floodgates of wrath open, the woman is a sharp contrast to her normally calculated self and her strike is uncharacteristically haphazard. The blade pierces itself halfway into Astarion’s shoulder with a squelch, startling a yelp of shock from the elf as arcane magic snaps through his system like lightning crackling through the night sky.

The pain is intense.

“Eirianwen—” Astarion hisses, a sharp swallow of breath preventing him from saying anything further as his hands wrap around the blade’s hilt. Warm blood trickles in tendrils down his skin. He feels the woman using all her strength to fight back against him, almost as if she is wholly intent on forcing the dagger deeper into his body.

At first, the Vampire Lord thinks Eirianwen is just terrified and acting in misguided defense. But then he looks down, and his heart shatters.

She is brandishing the God Killer, he realizes, as another thrust of the blade releases a second snapping, azure ripple of arcania which severely dampens his Ascendant strength. His sweating palms lose their grip on the dagger; it slips forward, burying itself to the hilt.

Eirianwen was the only other being to know the location of the Jaithiman Dagger; they’d found it during renovations to the Palace. When it was discovered, Astarion suspected the weapon was what Cazador had accused him of stealing years ago. Someone had been smart enough to hide it from his predecessor… it just hadn’t been Astarion; he hadn’t even known it existed back then.

But that meant Eirianwen came to the dungeon and grabbed the blade intentionally. She planned this. This wasn’t simply a rushed act of fear, this was murderous intent.

She wants him dead.

The Ascendant's eyes widen in terror as he realizes he’s watched a similar scene play out before, the night that Gale, Faerun’s newest god, showed him a vision of his own future.

But no, this couldn’t be happening, could it? He’d done differently, he’d chosen differently— he’d tried to talk to Ani, ask her for help—

No, no, no.

There is still time, he can still fix this.

Astarion rapidly steps backwards, both increasing his distance from the woman and swiftly removing the blade from his own chest. The trickle of blood from the wound turns into a river running down his doublet, drenching the embroidered finery in crimson. He immediately raises both shaking hands and splays the fingers apart with sweaty, open palms facing the woman in a sign of truce.

She’s still staring at him with such cold-hearted hatred. He cannot stand it. His heart is cantering in his chest and echoing in his ears as he warily watches the woman approach.

“Ani– please, put the dagger down,” the elf begs; his voice cracks at the end, and he cannot even be bothered to try and cover the mixture of emotions causing his steely constitution to falter. In a final, desperate plea, he whispers, his throat suddenly dry and voice wavering on every syllable, “meleth e-guilen, just— gods, please—“

There is a minute pause in the woman’s advancement as Delilah processes the incredible idiocy of the bastard before her. Astarion thinks it is Eirianwen that just stabbed him, and yet he still called her the love of his life in their native tongue.

So much power, wasted on this spineless man, made possible only with the help of that stupid sorceress sleeping upstairs.

Gods, she loathes them both; she’ll happily send them both to hell.

Delilah screams and surges forward again, brandishing the blade as she aims to slash a line in the flesh of Astarion’s face. Let the real Eirianwen find him on the floor, his visage destroyed beyond recognition, as retribution for what he did to Edmund.

The Vampire Lord gasps and dodges just enough to narrowly outmaneuver the knife as it aims for his cheek. He isn’t quite quick enough to avoid the weapon making contact with his ear.

The searing, white-hot pain that instantly surges through Astarion’s ear is almost incomprehensible. An anguished scream is forced from the elf’s throat as he reflexively crouches and clasps his hand over the wound. His shocked mind is reeling as he tries to process what is happening.

His single source of comfort has turned to chaos.

Delilah uses Astarion’s distraction to shoot a powerful dome of thunder from her palm, sending the Vampire Lord crashing into the unforgiving stone wall, the back of his silver-haired head cracking into cobblestone. Astarion grunts as he falls to the floor, his vision blurring from the concussive force with which he hit the wall.

The elf scrambles to his feet, his body still recovering from the blast as his ears ring and blood drains from multiple wounds on his head. Everything moves in slow motion as the woman charges forward again, the dagger suspended over her head with a two-handed grip. Astarion lifts his hand to cast something against her, or perhaps strike her, but his fingers shake with effort as he tries to override his consuming desire to protect the woman that wants to kill him.

He can’t do it. His love for her will be the death of him.

If Eirianwen is truly so set on taking his life, then perhaps he is the monster he swore he would never become. If she truly hates him this much, perhaps he deserves it.

He thinks he understands; he hates himself, too.

Astarion slams his eyes shut as he waits for the blade’s impact and hopes beyond hope this horrible vision is just one of his many nightmares. He thinks he is going to have to hurt Eirianwen to stop this, and the thought alone makes him consider death, instead.

Death might be easier than this.

Astarion hears the dagger slicing through air before blood rushes into his ears again, effectively deafening him as his body prepares for further damage. But the pain never comes.

When the elf’s eyes snap open, he instantly furrows his brows in confusion. The weapon is lodged into a giant, frozen barricade as fractals of ice shoot about the room. Eirianwen is separated from him by a thick wall of ice.

When Astarion turns to search for the source of his shield, he peers through the crystalline partition and spots — gods below — Eirianwen bolting down the dungeon steps, flanked by his two spawns. A sudden wave of realization floods the Vampire Lord’s system in a blend of relief and rage. When his head snaps back to Delilah, she is already tearing the dagger from ice with a frustrated growl.

He thinks to attack Delilah, but as soon as the weapon is in hand, the shapeshifter disappears from sight. Four sets of eyes try to trace her whereabouts, but the only indication of Delilah’s path is the resounding slam of the secret exit hidden at the end of the corridor.

The two half-orc spawn move to chase after the shapeshifter, but immediately stop when Astarion barks a gruff, “Leave her; I guarantee she’s already gone.”

His hand comes to cover the wound still gaping from his shoulder as he groans and leans against the dungeon wall for support. His limbs suddenly feel like lead and his bones ache; there’s a sharp pounding in his head and warm trickles of blood leak from more places than he can count.

The real Eirianwen dispels the ice barrier with a flick of her wrist and slowly approaches the Ascendant, her eyebrows stitched together as she attempts to process what she just witnessed.

The sorceress lifts her hand to cast a healing spell, but when she finally catches sight of the blackened veins branching up her arm, she freezes. Her wide eyes flicker from her hand to Astarion’s face, silently asking him thousands of questions with a single worried look.

Astarion winces and sucks in another breath as he presses his hand harder into his own shoulder, aiming to stop the blood still dribbling from the wound. His gaze flits between Eirianwen’s honey-colored eyes, searching for any of the hatred he’d found in the duplicate pair on the shapeshifter. Something within the Ascendant calms when he doesn’t find a trace of loathing on her face. The breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in slowly escapes him.

He swallows, and his free hand comes toward the woman’s marred, blackened one. His fingers beckon her as he murmurs, “Good to see you awake. Let’s get you fed and cleaned up, Ani… and then… well, suffice to say we have quite a lot to talk about.”

Eirianwen blinks but says nothing. Her mind is working to fill in the gaps; the last thing she remembers is Astarion kneeling in front of her at the auction. And gods, she feels as if she’s terribly ill. There is a flicker of hesitation behind her eyes, but then the sorceress flexes her fingers outward and accepts the offered hand.

Astarion quickly notices the weakness in her grip, but his heart still jumps at the contact. He offers a reassuring squeeze to Ani before guiding her back toward the steps that lead up to the Palace. His thumb is clasped over hers, the digits binding the two elves together as they ascend.

The palm of his hand pressed flush against Ani’s is an exceptionally chaste form of skin upon skin, and yet the elf’s entire body feels as if it’s aflame.

Astarion is holding his breath again.

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Tags: @anukulee

#astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #baulders gate astarion #baulders gate 3 #astarion fic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic idea #baulders gate tav #astarion x oc #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x original female character #midwinter carol #ascended astarion arc #ascended astarion #ascendedstar #ascended astarion fic

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chaterbox1237 · 7 months

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So i was just having brain rot about dra and pokemon,so i thought about a mystery dungeon type au where everyone is a pokemon and it’s just a general mystery dungeon plot but stuff relating to dra happens(but no killing game because I don’t want too torture myself)

Fake Yuki/Utsuro:Pikachu

I don’t really have anything to say.

Akane:Indeedee

Once again fairly obvious.

Ayame:Alolan Raichu

It’s fast and it doesn’t usually get too much attention,and I think that’s sad.

I love ayame so she gets to be a pikachu Evo for that fact alone.

Also Akane really can’t stop simping for the mascots,can’t she?

Kizuna:Alolan ninetales

Even though Alolan ninetails does get more attention,I still love her and she deserves to be a diva.

The only reason she hasn’t cursed Mitch is because once she evolved Yamato explicitly made it so that she couldn’t curse people for petty things,and Kizuna doesn’t realize the fact that Mitch is literally the only exception.Yamato still wonders how Mitch still hasn’t been cursed.

Also speaking of....

Yamato:Delcatty

Look,I know it would’ve been better if I made him a steel type But I like skitty okay.

Also normal plays in hand with Mikako....

Mikako:banette

Much like Yamato I don’t have a specific reason I just like banette.

I want to see her go mega she deserves it after chapter 5.

Rei:Hatterene

I’ll admit it the only thing that didn’t make Rei some other psychic type is the shield pokedex entry for gigantamax Hatterene,she deserves to be considered a goddess.

Tsurugi:Lucario

Blue with red eyes what did you expect?

I imagine he doesn’t know how to use his aura,but nobody realizes until he blurts it out to Yamato in a fight.

Queue Yamato and the rest helping him learn how to use it.

By the time that Sora and gang apear at the dra guild he’s a lot better at utilizing it,but he still struggles with it a little.

Mitch:Pidgeot

I’m sorry pidgeot

Kiyoka:weavile

Ice shards kinda equal bullets?

Also I really like both kiyoka and weavile sooo.....

Kanata:Tinkaton

Once again because I love both.

Do NOT mess with the doctor especially when they have a giant hammer at their disposal

Kakeru:either Corvinight or Honchcrow. I haven’t yet.

On one hand,honchcrow could fit with the “gangster Like apearance”

But the idea that he’s just absolutely terrified of Kanata for like,six months while no one knows why is so hilarious.

Not even kanata knows she was raised by Blissey.

Kinji:Espeon

Kimono girls reference.

Satsuki:Ambipom???

Might change her and Teruya later.

She can juggle real good?

Haruhiko:Gliscor

Master of both sky and ground.

Teruya:Pawmot (shiny)

Small and fluffy

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skaylanphear · 26 days

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Final Fantasy VIII: Reclamation

Summary: Squall Leonhart has known only one thing all his life—that he was born and raised to be a SeeD. But being an elite mercenary is no easy task. Having grown up sheltered beneath Balamb Garden’s ring, he soon finds himself scrambling to stay alive after his first real mission thrusts him and his teammates onto the political stage in a bad way. Forced to head out into the dangerous, unforgiving wilds or face execution, they find themselves unraveling the ancient mysteries of their world, all while another sorceress war looms on the horizon. Haunted by strange, unexplainable dreams about a man he doesn’t know, and bound to the might of the crystals by abilities he can’t explain, Squall finds himself walking blindly into an uncertain future, even as he’s assured that “fate” guides his every step.

Yet, as circumstances grow murkier, Squall can’t help feeling that everyone else knows more about everything—including himself—than he does, and that he’s nothing more than a pawn in a game he doesn’t know how to play.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

Chapter 3

While there'd been no effort to oil or polish his gunblade, at least Seifer had checked it back into the armory. Spending his free period cleaning it inside and out, Squall held his blade out under the light, critically eyeing the length of it for any damage or remaining grime. True, he was going out for a combat review, which meant it was likely to get soiled all over again, but that was no excuse to let maintenance slip.

Upon qualifying for the field review at the end of his previous year, he'd also finally been granted a permit to have his own personal weapon designed and created by their esteemed armorers. A SeeD's weapon was one of their most prized possessions, so great care and personal preference was taken when utilizing this once in a lifetime permit. Squall's gunblade, therefore, was not only completely unique, but irreplaceable.

Shining silver, the long blade was made from the highest quality crystal steel. It had to be, as gunblades required more internal mechanisms than the average sword. Though the name would imply a blade combined with a firearm, it was somewhat misleading as gunblades didn't actually fire bullets. Rather, the ammo that was loaded through them produced a targeted explosion when the trigger was pulled, making it a singularly close-range weapon, but also exceedingly dangerous to use and master.

Having chosen the revolver type for its ease of use and reliability, his sword was equipped with a large silver cylinder capable of holding ten rounds of compatible explosives. The rest of the "gun"—the hammer, the trigger and guard, and the barrel that ran along the blade—matched in steel and quality, while the grip was created from crystal and black ivory. Shaped specifically for his hand, the finger grooves aligned with his grip, while the weight and length had been calculated to be most advantageous to what was predicted to be his top form in both physique and height. To that end, the weapon was still a bit heavy for him, but the more he used it, the more muscle he built up, and so he was already far more accustomed to its weight than he'd ever been any of the school provided weapons.

Along the flat of the blade, an intricately carved lion with wings had been etched onto both sides, allowing for the adoption of the sword's name—Lionheart. According to the school's head armorer, it was the second most expensive weapon she and her team had ever created, beaten out only by Seifer's gunblade, Hyperion.

Particularly meticulous when it came to the care of his sword, Squall eyed every inch before finally deciding it was fit for use. He'd also opened up and cleaned the scabbard, which was framed along its insides by a buffer of more crystal steel. The outside was swathed in thick black leather, the same lion as was on the sword's blade impressed upon both sides.

Eventually satisfied, Squall folded and snapped everything back together, before sliding his sword into its cover. He then wrapped and knotted his array of leather straps into place around his scabbard, buckling them before removing his chestnut leather belt from his person and sliding the straps onto it. He then replaced the belt around his waist, two of the straps pulled taut down at the back of his hip and over his rear, the third getting buckled along his front and allowing the heavy scabbard to hang stiffly down his left side.

He then removed the other two belts he wore more lowly on his hips—generally in a crossed fashion—and lined the insides with additional ammo. Pulling them back into place around his hips, he attached them to his sword belt on either side so as to prevent them sliding down his legs.

Moving to his assigned locker, he pulled out his tactical leg straps and holster. Buckling the three belts around his right thigh, a black leather holster—thin and unobtrusive—ran parallel up his outer leg and buckled to the bottom edge of his crossbelt. Able to hold additional ammo as well as limited medical supplies and his switchblade, it wouldn't do to leave it behind.

#final fantasy #final fantasy VIII #FF8 #FFVIII #Final Fantasy 8 #Squall #Seifer #Quistis

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kylowritten · 1 year

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If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Warnings: forced marriage, mentions of fighting, mentions of death

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I’m changing a few aspects of the Force, just to fit the story. It’s basically the same!

Part Four

The ballroom is quieter than when you left it, the air teeming with excitement. As you slowly make your way through the crowd, the nobles turn and stare, trying but failing to disguise their interest. You catch a figure slipping back into the ballroom — good, the attention is on you, and nobody even notices Finn’s reappearance, or that you you had been together.

Or so you thought.

“I didn’t realize you knew Lord Finn.”

Startled, you whirl around. This is the second time that the prince has managed to sneak up on you.

“Who?” You ask innocently.

“Lord Finn.” He doesn’t appreciate your feigned confusion. His mouth twists into a frown, but he doesn’t accuse you of it. Instead his dark eyes pierce yours, aloof yet strangely imploring, as if willing you to continue lying but wishing you wouldn’t.

Well, you’re sorry to disappoint.

“Oh,” you say as nonchalantly as possible. “I didn’t realize that was his name.”

Kylo inspects you. You’re about to look away from his intense gaze when he declares, “It’s nearly midnight.”

At the center of the ballroom, above the dual thrones where you ate — no, watched, dinner, hangs a massive clock. Framed in gold, the clock boasts two large hands, the minute hand only slightly less monstrous than the hour hand.

Swallowing, you ask, “What now?”

“I think you know,” he says.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to elope?”

Kylo frowns at you. “Funny.”

The crowd parts for Kylo like he has a magnetic field around him. You trail after him pathetically. He leads you to the dais. The tables have been cleared so that it’s just the two of you, your footsteps ringing through the ballroom as the nobles watch with increasing silence. From the crowd, a priest emerges, smiling awkwardly as he positions himself before you.

Your eyes widen. For some reason, you thought it would be an unofficial procedure, perhaps negotiated by the royal advisor. But one of the priests from the temples?

Heart hammering, you take your place opposite Kylo. He does not take your hands. Somewhere inside, the little girl who always dreamed of her wedding day is dying. These words were meant to be spoken by the person who loved you.

Finn’s plan rises above your grief. If it goes well, maybe you could still have that.

The priest begins. You try and listen but it’s as if you’re underwater, his words muffled and distorted. It’s not until Kylo clears his throat that you’re pulled back to the surface.

“Sorry.” You nervously glance into the crowd. “Um, I’m sorry. Where were we?”

A stifled laugh from the audience. You weren’t meaning to incite laughter, but you smile anyway.

“The rings,” the priest gently prompts.

“Oh. Right.” Your face burns.

Kylo produces two rings. He unfolds your fingers and places one in your hand before curling your fingers back over it.

He dips his chin, and the priest continues. In a loud voice, the priest says, “Repeat after me: I vow to cherish you always.”

Surprising you, Kylo takes one of your hands. “I vow to cherish you always.”

His words are thick, solemn as he speaks them, all the while looking into your eyes. There it is again — the hibernating beast lifting it’s head to investigate. Your stomach twists.

“To stand by your side and through darkness and light, to support you in all of your endeavors, and to love you with all of my heart for eternity. Let our love be as strong as steel and as enduring as the stars.”

After the last word drops from his lips, Kylo slips the ring onto your finger.

In a direct reflection of the vow, the ring morphs and shifts on your finger until it fits perfectly. The steel locks into place and before your eyes, a series of diamonds appear, dazzling beneath the lights from the chandelier.

The tradition in your kingdom is for the ring to signify the promise in the vows: the dark band representing the darkness, the strength of steel, and the diamonds the stars. It molds to fit you in an effort to imitate the union being created.

It’s your turn. You repeat the vow after the priest, staring into Kylo’s eyes and searching for any signs of emotion. “—and as enduring as the stars,” you finish, throat thick.

Trying to quell your shaking hands, you take Kylo’s large hand. He’s still wearing the gloves. Carefully, he removes one, revealing smooth white skin and long, deft fingers. You do your best to ignore the spark of attraction that shoots through you as your flesh touches, and the ring shifts and widens to accommodate him.

Several things happen at once.

Time slows. The world fades away, and all that you can see is the man before you.

Then, as if you’ve both been engulfed in a tidal wave, a sensation washes over you and you’re no longer two individuals but one. It’s like your soul and his have entangled irreparably.

Do you feel this too?

His voice, in your head, although his lips remain pressed together. He sounds scared, like a child, like he’s not sure if he should be afraid and he’s searching for reassurance.

I do, you respond.

No, it can’t be —

Your thoughts, no his thoughts, are interrupted by an explosion. Both of you jerk away just in time to witness part of the far ballroom crumble into rubble. Screams erupt. Nobles begin running in all directions as rebels pour into the ballroom through the blasted wall.

Your cue.

You glance helplessly at Kylo. He’s staring in shock at the scene unfolding in front of him, then something passes over him — disappointment, anger, you feel it all — and his hand flies to the lightsaber at his side. It bursts into fiery chaos, crackling with energy.

He plunges into the crowd.

Your name is called, diverting your attention. It’s Finn, his hands cupped around his mouth and shouting, “Go, now! You don’t have much time!”

Numbed, you nod. You trip over your feet as you stumble down the stairs of the dais. The crowd is nearly impossible to navigate but somehow you find a break and push through, relying on the momentum to make it to the edge of the ballroom. Just like Finn said, there’s the slight impression of a door in the wall behind a massive planter. Using your fingers, you explore the ridges until it pops, wallpaper tearing, and you heave open the door.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you step inside.

It’s an old servant’s hallway. At least, that’s what Finn told you before. It was boarded up but the rebels, with Leia at the helm, had an original blueprint of the palace to operate by. Dust collects in the corners of the floor and walls, and your footsteps send rats and other undesirable creatures scurrying away. You run.

“It’s going to be dark,” Finn warned you on the balcony. “But just keep going until you see a light. Someone will be waiting. I’ll meet you there and then we can go.”

You frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I have to get something,” he said vaguely.

Darkness encroaches on you as the beam of light from the open passage diminishes. You keep both hands out slightly to your sides, using the walls as your guide to run headfirst into the inky black. The smell of mold, of a small space that’s been closed off, creeps into your nose along with the rat feces and something that reminds you of sewer water. How long since this servants hallway been used?

Your pace shortens as you lose confidence. There could be a wall, anything, in front of you and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea. You slow to a stop and experimentally hold one hand to your face — nothing. This dampers your enthusiasm, although adrenaline pumps through your system.

There’s a pull behind your navel. In your mind, you see a glimpse of Kylo fighting the rebels. He’s completely unhinged.

Then the vision fades, and you’re left once more in the dark corridor.

Could he see you? Would he know where you were?

You start running, albeit slower than before, nearly a jog. If Kylo caught you now, you would have no hopes of escaping. This propels you down the dark tunnel. There’s no doubt in your mind that he would kill you on sight if he saw you, knowing that you more or less played a role in this coup.

There’s no saying how far you go or how long you run. Sweat beads your brow. There’s a movement in the dark, bringing your awareness.

“Hello?” You call out.

Maybe it’s the rebel waiting for you like Finn told you. But where’s the light? A chill dances down your spine. Who else, or what else, could be down there with you?

The blaze of the lightsaber ignites.

It washes the tunnel in a red glow, illuminating the increasingly familiar figure before you.

“No,” you whisper.

An invisible hand seizes your throat and yanks you forward, your feet dragging along the muddy ground. Pain explodes behind your eyes. In one swift movement, Kylo flings you against the wall and then encages your body with his own, one arm resting besides your head.

“You’ve made a grave mistake,” he intones.

Only the light of the lightsaber touches him. In the red glow, he’s both beautiful and haunting, the compacity of his rage arresting you in a way that you don’t care to name.

“Tell me what you did.” When you don’t respond, he hammers the wall next to you with his fist, feral and irrational. “Tell me!”

You finally find your voice. “I don’t know! I don’t know what I did. What are you talking about?”

Without warning, he lifts the lightsaber over his head and swings down. A cry escapes from you, but the pain does not come. Instead, he lashes out at the wall only a few feet from you, striking it over and over again until it’s charred and crisscrossed from the fiery blade.

You cringe as he whirls on you again, angrily pushing hair out of his face. “You’re inside my head.” His shoulders heave, breath hot as it fans across your cheeks. “I see you now. Glimpses. I…I feel you.” He spits this out as if it’s a terrible infliction. “Stop it.”

“I don’t know how,” you protest, shaking your head. Tears form in your eyes. “I don’t know what happened —”

You’re telling the truth.

Yes, you reply, exasperated. Why would I lie to you?

You lied about Lord Finn. A pause as he contemplates you. He was behind all of this.

Your cheeks burn. No, it was just me.

Liar.

Your heart pounds as a moment passes between you, neither of you speaking. The tunnel is filled with the scent of scorched earth. You’re afraid to relinquish your steely resolve in case he’s peeking into your mind now, able to read your thoughts before you’re even able to filter them.

If this isn’t your doing, then…no, no it can’t be. His jaw clenches.

Can’t be what?

An expression of realization flickers over his face. It’s fleeting, but lingers long enough for you to catch it, or at least feel the twinge inside him as realizes whatever it is that you don’t.

You repeat, Can’t be what?

Kylo takes a step back, and your breathing returns to normal. For someone that you can now share thoughts with, he’s still awfully difficult to read. He’s staring at you but there’s a new edge to his gaze, one that excites you as much as it makes you nervous.

You have it.

You suppress rolling your eyes. Trying to figure out any information from him is like trying to pull teeth from a rampaging rathtar. Please be more specific.

The Force, he explains. It’s connecting us.

The Force. You’ve heard it before, the proper name for the magic that Kylo uses, that’s mostly unheard of since the execution of all known Force users. Why would it be connecting you?

Was that a thing that happened?

I don’t have the Force, you tell him.

At his side, Kylo’s gloved hand tightens. “You haven’t had the proper training,” he says. “I could teach you.”

You react as if you’ve been slapped. “You can teach me?”

“Think about it,” he says. There’s an undercurrent of desperation in his voice. “We could rule together. If I teach you the ways of the force, we could —”

“We are not doing anything.” You lift your chin. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

I’m afraid that you don’t have a choice.

Molars grinding together, you snarl, “I’m going to make my own then. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back.”

“What makes you so sure?” Kylo asks, mocking. “You really think you can evade me? I see you now. Feel you. There’s no where that you can run that I won’t find you.”

A burst of ice shoots down your spine.

“Well, I can say the same for you,” you counter. “You have to let me go or else I will destroy everything you’ve worked for. Because I see you now too. Did you think of that? You won’t be able to make a move without me knowing about it. Your days of terror are over.”

A breeze brushes over your face, almost like the caress of a lover. “Maybe,” Kylo says, quieter, contemplative. “But perhaps it’s time to usher a new era of reign into the kingdom. With my wife by my side.”

You shudder involuntarily. “No. No way. What about your other wives?”

Kylo shakes his head. “You don’t get it. The Force is connecting us for a reason. We belong to each other, and there’s no escaping that, despite your efforts. You’re…I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your heart jumps into your throat. So what Lyssa said was true — the prophecy.

“I’m leaving,” you tell him. “And I’m not coming back.”

The faintest hint of a smile on his mouth. A knowing one. Kylo replies, “We’ll see.”

Footsteps pound the ground, accompanied by the sound of labored breathing. Finn. You turn to warn him of Kylo’s presence but before you can there’s a whooshing behind you, and the prince is gone, leaving you to stare wide eyed in the space of his absence as Finn emerges with a torch. He reads your expression and glances around.

“What? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Or something,” you mumble. You don’t know how or where Kylo vanished but you can still feel him stamped on your conscious, a tattoo of something you would rather forget. You sensed that you would now be forced to carry him everywhere with you like a bad disease.

“Are you okay?” Finn asks.

You change the subject. You couldn’t possibly explain what’s happened — the sudden shift of your life as it aligned with Kylo’s, the prospect of having magic, his proposal to rule with him.

Your marriage.

Your eyes go to the heavy-looking tome that Finn is carrying. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Finn nods. "Yes, I did. Have you met Poe? He was supposed to meet us."

"Oh, I haven't. I got, um, distracted."

Finn peers at you a little strangely but doesn't acknowledge his curiosity. "Let's go then. We have to leave before we're discovered. They'll be looking for us, for you."

The light from his torch swings across the ground as you both continue on. You feel as if Kylo is lingering in your mind, running his fingers over your thoughts like one might the spine of a book. It makes you uneasy, and you take extra precaution to keep your mind blank, focused mostly on just keeping one foot in front of the other.

You keep at it for only a short while, just one step behind Finn, before a light appears near the end of the tunnel. There's a man standing there in a dark vest and pants, holding a lantern over his head. Relief washes over his handsome features.

"You both made it. You're okay."

"How is everyone?" Finn asks. "I didn't get to see much of the fight before —"

The man, Poe looks grim. "I'm afraid most of them have been killed or taken as prisoner."

Finn curses.

"This is my fault," you say. "If you hadn't been trying to help me, none of this would've happened."

"You're not the only reason we launched the attack tonight," Poe informs you.

All three of your gazes land on the tome.

"What is it?" You ask again.

Finn grimaces slightly. "I'll explain on the way to the base. We're not safe yet. We still have to get out and safely leave the castle grounds."

The three of you take off. Finn and Poe exchange whispered words the whole way, until the tunnel slopes upwards and the temperature changes, the cold, dank air warming significantly. You’re grateful to see that the tunnel does have an end, another door that requires you, Finn, and Poe to open. Although you don’t have much time to enjoy the freedom, not before Finn is grabbing your wrist and pulling you ahead.

On the ship, you didn’t get a glimpse of the surroundings of the palace before landing. Dense forest cover the land, wispy blue fog hanging knee-height, swirling as you disrupt it. The trunks of the trees shoot up impossibly high before erupting into brittle branches and leaves and creating a canopy over your heads.

You fall back as Poe and Finn lead.

As you glance back, you spot a plume of smoke rising over the palace, barely visible in the darkness. Grief crashes into you. Even if it’s like what Poe said and you aren’t the only reason for the attack, people died because of you. Tears blur your vision — you’ve cried more times in the past few hours than since you can remember.

You lose track of time. You’ve spent so much of it running, running, running, that it meshes together until your legs ache with the effort and exhaustion creeps into your bones. It doesn’t make sense that it was only this afternoon that you had been taken, so much already happened, and you felt leagues different then before. How could it be that half a day could change you so drastically? You suppose that’s just how life works. In the flash of an instant, the life that you know could disappear before your eyes, never to be regained.

Finn calls your name. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” You stop and wipe your eyes. “Sorry.”

How long had you been trailing behind?

You avoid Finn and Poe’s curious gaze as you catch up. Fortunately, it seems that the rebels know not to push you. They’ve all had their own grievances, they understand.

“There!” Poe cries. “Up ahead!”

Sure enough, a ship crouches beneath a copse of trees. Poe reaches it first, throwing open the door and sharing a few words with the driver before getting in. Finn is next, but he pauses as he grabs onto the carriage for balance.

“Are you okay? A lot has happened for you,” he says gently.

You nod, although you don’t believe yourself. “I will be, once we get where we’re going.”

Finn climbs inside the ship, you after. Poe lounges in the seat across from you, while you slide in besides Finn. The door slides shut.

“Everyone in?” A feminine voice, traces of a district two accent. The driver turns around so that only the upper part of her face is visible, freckles and brown eyes. “Hi, I’m Rey.”

You introduce yourself. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“C’mon,” Poe urges. “We’ll have time for introductions once we’re safely out of enemy territory. Let’s go, Rey.”

She grins. “Alright, hang on.”

Fingers digging into the seat, the force of the takeoff sends you flying back as the ship launches into the air. It takes a moment for you to recover and calm your churning stomach, but then you’re transfixed by the view from the bay windows. The night streaks past you at an astonishing speed, stars blurring together as the ship gains height and the palace grows further and further away.

Rey fiddles with the buttons on the dash. “Ferrick. I can’t find the right channel.”

“Weren’t you already on it?” Finn asks.

Rey shakes her head. “I lost it after we landed. I think it had to do with the connection being lost in the forest, or else the First Order has done something to tamper with it.”

Static fills the cabin as she fervently switches through the channels, then a voice, “Your Highness, it appears that an unknown vessel has breached the atmospherical barrier. We have our sights on it. Do you wish to engage?”

Rey curses again.

Finn tenses besides you. “No! Rey, we have to —”

Then, his voice, Kylo’s voice, once more disguised by his modulated helmet: “No.”

“But, Your Highness, it could be the rebels —”

“I said no,” Kylo hisses. “Do not question your superior. Do not engage.”

Finn releases a stream of air from between clenched teeth.

Not one to miss an opportunity, Rey’s face sets in determination and she punches the ship into hyperspace, the First Order channel fizzling out.

“That was close,” Poe remarks.

Finn grimaces. “Too close.”

“For whatever reason, Kylo is feeling merciful tonight so let’s not ruminate on it,” Rey says. Her knuckles are white as they grip the wheel. “We can relax. It should be about half an hour before we arrive. Get some sleep now if you can, I know we aren’t going to rest once we get there.”

Finn lightly touches your knee. “You did good tonight,” he says.

You smile shakily. “Thanks. You too.”

You tune out as Poe and Finn talk, closing your eyes and pretending to sleep. Kylo’s words rush over you — do not engage. He protected you. But why? He was letting you leave without any qualms, a decision that you didn’t fully understand considering that he had just been begging you to stay.

He wanted to teach you magic. The Force.

For all you knew, you didn’t even have it. But how else would you explain the bond that formed between you and Kylo?

Your hands fall into your lap, and the bite of steel on your skin startles you. Kylo’s ring still rests on your finger. A memory of him slipping it onto your finger flashes through your mind.

Trying not to draw attention to yourself, you slowly take it off.

Deep down, you know that it would only make sense to throw it into the open galaxy, never to be seen again.

But a smaller, much quieter part of you wins over, and instead you keep it tucked in your fist.

Part Five

#cinderella #fanfic #force sensitive #forced marriage #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo x reader #kylo x you #one thousand and one nights #star wars

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mightymizora · 6 months

Note

From Temper:

“Do I not please you, Archduke Gortash?” He cannot tell if she is teasing him, if there is some memory she has of him on his knees for her. Her pale eyes are bloodshot, one completely burst into such a bloody mess that surely it would be better to take it out entirely. One of her cheekbones has collapsed in on itself, and it makes her mouth sit at an angle, causing a permanent frown. Her hair is cut to the scalp, scars of the shearing of a knife littering her. And of course, that point in her temple, a deeper wound that has not healed and slides down the side of her face, where Orin ripped her skin and plunged her blade into her mind. “I used to please you, did I not, Enver?” “What do you remember?” She pauses, her brow furrowed as she looks up at him. “There are… fragments. I remember the smell of you. Close to my skin.” She reaches for her clothes, and a disgusted part of him wants to stop her, but he does not. There is likely further damage, and he must steel his stomach to see the worst of it. It is no different to picking up the pieces of a shattered automaton, looking to see what can be hammered back into shape, what mechanisms can be replaced. Flesh may not be his domain, but salvaging promise? He has experience of that, at least.

Especially in contrast to Control! Really interested in the differences between the two beyond the physical trauma

Answering this director's cut question... about my fics!

Oooh this one is a juicy one to get into. For context, my fic Control was the first thing I wrote about Enver and Manva right back at the beginning of September. I'd barely started my Durge playthrough at that point! And I stand by it as a piece, even though I set up some lore that's really bitten me in the arse (they haven't had sex?? I mean it's great but it's very difficult lmao) and I feel their dynamic has fleshed out a bit more.

I wrote this after playing about in the magic mirror and getting some pretty shots of Manva with her hair down at the coronation. Another thing I established in Control: Enver is the only (living) person who has seen her with her hair down. It is an explicit intimacy of theirs. And then I got thinking about their journey and whether somebody like Kressa would even keep their hair? Or whether Orin would take it in a fit of rage? And then from that I got to thinking about the process of what Kressa did generally. It’s brutal. It’s really something. Would you really come through that?

I’m interested in the angle of how much brain trauma can change who you are, but I didn’t really explore it in depth here. I’m too afraid to as somebody whose experience of traumatic brain injury is relatively personal. So I leaned a little more into the bodily trauma to compensate. I liked the contrast to the hungry lust they’re both caught up in during Control.

What it does explore which Control doesn’t have space for really is the odd tenderness that comes with seeing each other again, the anger at what happened, the grief. Yes, what he does in the fic is abhorrent, but it starts from a place of an awkward, uncomfortable fondness. When compared to what he did to Karlach it’s impossibly soft of him, to try and pick up this woman who he would normally throw on the slag heap and find the spark in her again. She controls, he tries to temper, to reforge. Of course, his way of doing it is to provoke, to pull apart, and it’s pretty dreadful, causing an explosion of a different kind of temper.

When I wrote this piece it genuinely made me sad, ha. I posted it and walked away from it feeling strangely empty. With a bit of space though I think it has merits, and could even have more parts. I’m interested in how their love always balanced on a knife’s edge between ways they want to consume each other and what comes from Enver crossing a line, taking her and locking her away, ostensibly to fix her? Does the rage drive her to be more? Can he still convince her to kill Orin? Can he make her the attack dog he always said he wanted? I dunno. Maybe it’s a set of interesting questions.

#thank you!#still one of my more controversial ones ha at least to me personally

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qhostqizmo · 6 months

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Shared Tragedy

this is all over the place but rn so i am

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

Heart hammering against her ribs, Essatha let out a strangled gasping-hiss as Atmara dragged her into a wrestling grasp. One arm locked around her, the other flashes up to her neck with a knife produced from the spy’s person. The cool steel settles against the warmth of her vulnerable throat, leaving the sorceress fearful that swallowing or breathing too heavily would knick the blade into her skin.

“By Gods woman- sorry you haven't been kept in the loop. As Adela pointed you, you don't exactly have a Sending Stone on you right now to get information or to have received notice of our arrival, otherwise you would have known to expect the Hand of Jubaeta.”

Regardless of how incredibly agitated she was, Essie does her best to keep her posture calm and her words factual. It doesn’t stop the anger from biting into the rasp of her voice, and as she looks to her companions; protective and ready to skirmish for her safety, a brief flash of love and gratitude warm her heart. These people weren’t perfect, or always saw the world she did, but they were family, and they cared about her- and she cared about them.

The snarl of the woman behind her; hot breath on her skin, reveals that no one’s words were calming Atmara in the least. Although she couldn’t see her face, the wood elf’s firm arm remained unbending against her middle.

“Release. Her. Now.”

The only one who had remained silent through introductions and correspondence; Amon, finally asserted himself with enough frost lining the rumble of his voice it felt like an arctic chill had entered the room. Essie shivered unexpectedly, wincing as Atmara stiffly dragged her into the outline of her body like a shield, the blade angled into her flesh. The fiery-blue fury of the ex-nobleman’s gaze was enough to give everyone in the room the barest pause for thought.

“I don’t think any of you are in a position to make demands,” the spy seethed. “Answer me this: when did you hear about the supposed ‘assassination attempt’, huh?”

“We don’t have to answer shit,” Face replies with a sneer, angling his crossbow. “My finger may just slip though; I wonder how you’d like a bolt in your eye.”

The tension in the room felt like a rapidly depleting fuse to dynamite. Swallowing tensely, Essie trained her gaze on Amon’s for reassurance. He didn’t return her glance, however; the hate in his eyes trained upon the woman caging her as hostage.

A curse of some sort slips past the elf’s lips, but she didn’t sound afraid. She sounded pissed.

“Tick-tock, my arm’s getting tired.”

“Some agent you are; do you apprehend everyone sent to pass along information?” Penimra chimes in, almost sounding bored.

“Maybe we shouldn’t antagonize a lady with a knife to someone’s throat,” Sulhadur states with a nervous edge. The tip of his tail twitches back and forth; anxious as he looked about the room.

“Why don’t we let her use our Sending Stone to contact Seeker Aero, and straighten this whole thing out?” Adela offers, offering her hands out with palms open placidly.

“Nice try,” Atmara glowered, “the lot of you don’t have a Sending Stone.”

“I have it, actually,” Rava pipes up, reaching for her pocket.

The dagger moved, but Essatha didn’t see it. She didn’t even feel it; not at first. The only reason she knew something was wrong was the moment that Amon tore his eyes away from Atmara’s to look into her own, and she could see his anger melt away for the briefest of seconds into a look of total and complete horror intermingling with terror.

Then the pain came; burning and freezing all at once, as though she had shoved herself into frigid icy waters. She spasmed, coughing and gagging on blood that rapidly filled her airway. It was all over; the metallic tang, the scent of it in her nostrils, coating her tongue. Everything was red. Her neck stung; pain lacing its way through her like a snare grip.

Suddenly she was launched forward at a dizzying pace. The table came hurtling towards her and knocked the wind out of her as her abdomen connected, slumping towards the floor. Of the first things that came through all the sudden shouting and clatter of weapons and explosive magic, the alarmed shrill of Pri’cha as they came diving beneath the worktable for her, their golden carapace glittering in faint lantern light.

Oh Gods. She tried to breathe, and suddenly she was choking, gasping desperately for air.

Oh dear Gods was she going to drown in her own blood?

Helpless and alarmed, the sorceress clawed at the air and at her face, the shock swiftly being replaced by the reality of the situation and the jarring sense of fear as convulsions rocked through her. The whites of her eyes were alarmingly large as she finally attempted to slap a hand over her throat. Looking upon the floor and her chest, a puddle of blood and staining coating her upper clothing made her fingers slick with her ebbing life.

“ESSATHA!”

As the Thri-Kreen reached for her, the table lurched and went hurtling to the side. A violent howl of anger and Pri’cha’s cry of pain as the table landed upon two of their limbs rang through the sorceress throbbing eardrums as she flinched.

“ESSIE!”

Her vision swam as she searched for whoever was howling her name. Even in the cramped space of the basement, with all the noise, it was like a thunderclap. She gargled on saliva and blood; dripping from her mouth. The hand she didn’t have cupped over her wound pressed to the floor for stability as she attempted to stand, but she faltered and her palm slid upon the slick surface left behind by her bodily fluid.

The room was suddenly dimming, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of lanterns being knocked out or that the random flashes of magic spiraling around were making it seem otherwise dark. She felt light-headed.

“ESSIE, HOLD ON, PLEASE-”

Blinking, a shadow suddenly obscured her vision. It took her a moment to recognize Amon’s face; she hadn’t seen so much panic written there in some time. Not since…

Something grabbed at her pants leg as she blinked up at him once more, only, she couldn’t find the strength to open her eyelids again.

A tingling sensation began somewhere around her calf, where the feeling of thin spindly-like digits pressed into her clothes and began to throb in her neck. The sensation was warm, and not altogether unpleasant. But she still felt so sluggish; so bizarrely vertigo from lack of blood.

“It’s going to be alright; I’ve got you.”

Ears ringing, the world began to fall away from her conscious. Something heavy and warm lay atop of her. It smelled of cedarwood, leather, coriander and a touch of rose. The aroma brought a wave of memories and a feeling of sanctuary. She knew the fragrance blend well; knew its layers and knew the guardian of it that blanketed her with care.

“Essie, can you hear me?”

Amon’s pleading was so far away. Her lips trembled as she tried to use them; eyes flickering behind her heavy eyelids. Breathing felt easier, but everything was still muffled and growing further and further away.

“Please-”

She shivered involuntarily, floating; no longer tumbling, into some essence of a void that she had no control over.

“I need you.”

Inhale. Exhale. She couldn’t even feel Pri’cha’s hand upon her anymore; and the fierce grip of Amon’s arms as he pulled her in was like a blissful dream and less real.

“I love you.”

She sank into nothingness; neither dreams of bliss with her nobleman nor nightmares of the woman who’d just attempted to murder her.

Just emptiness, and nothing more.

#qhost story #OTP: Essamon #Essatha Meduza #Amon Illiad #painfully written

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conundrumoftime · 4 months

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Not sure if I’ll ever actually finish this, but here’s something I did today for part 3 of ‘All the kinds of alive you can be’ (the Sauron-shapechanges-into-Galadriel Celeborn/Sauron fic).

——

The blade is not of Doriath in the most literal sense for Doriath is long ago burned and drowned. What remains lives only in quiet memories and rarely-sung laments, in an oaken chest carefully lined with silk and full of trinkets that Celeborn only ever opens when Galadriel is away: a brooch with a winged moon, a toy bird carved from a deer’s antler, scraps of tapestry charred at their edges. But Mairon has studied well and in this blade he has captured a deeper truth.

It is not purely decorative. It is well-weighted, well-made, its edges sharp, its grip perfect for the shaking hand he takes and wraps around it (for doesn’t he know Celeborn’s hands so well by now). All the same it is not a weapon of war. It is the development of potential and beauty, what a weapon could be if not constrained by need. In its blade a dozen thin sheets of steel and bronze have been blended to give the appearance of rippling woodgrain. Its hilt is finely decorated with enamelled flowers, the dusky bluebells of spring that once carpeted the woods of Neldoreth. Its blade is more of a diamond than practicality would permit; its guard spirals into curls shaped like falling leaves.

Doriath was armed and guarded always, but at its heart, in its glory, away from its borders – the Doriath Celeborn knew, the Doriath Celeborn mourned – its princes were brought up in a land where things like this were made.

“It’s for you,” Mairon says, “I made it for you.”

Celeborn’s fingers curl tight around the blade’s grip. He is silent but when Mairon places a palm on his chest his heart hammers like a captured bird’s.

“I know how you miss Doriath,” Mairon says, “I know how you grieve, I know what was lost. I know you do not have words to name the ache when Galadriel sings of the sea and the lands beyond it. How great her grief and how sharp her pain, yet her home is still there beyond the sea. What of yours?”

Celeborn’s eyes flicker between Mairon’s eyes and his lips and the blade their joined hands hold. “Galadriel loved Doriath too.”

“But not like you,” Mairon says, “not like you,” and to this Celeborn says nothing.

He does not startle away at Mairon’s lips on his, the most gentle of kisses at the corner of his mouth. He liked this from Galadriel and from what he believed to be Galadriel and he does not seem to dislike it now. Although he is wary and afraid still he does not refuse Mairon’s hands soothing him, leaving the blade in Celeborn’s grasp to massage the hollow of a palm until the tension of muscle and tendon begins to ease. Then wrist, then forearm; and still Celeborn does not pull away nor refuse him nor fight.

Mairon had assumed he would fight at least once. It would not be as glorious as he imagined it with Galadriel, whose whirling fury even now drew closer – she’d be here in a few days at most, a thought both terrible and wonderful in equal parts. But this elf was a warrior too, albeit by circumstance rather than heart, and Mairon would allow him the gift of victory once if he wished for that. Whatever it felt like would be something Mairon yearns to feel.

“You can’t give me Doriath,” Celeborn says, “you can’t give me anything,” but soft skin shivers now beneath Mairon’s lips. It is as if he is working with silver itself and easing it gradually until it is something softened and pliable and ready to shape.

But Mairon is careless and desperate, a pathetic thing who needs too much. His master’s voice echoes within him, for elves, for elves, look at you yearning for elves of all things, and he pulls Celeborn close and hard to dispel it and finds instead a sudden resistance and his knife pressed to his pinned forearm.

Too fast.

“If I had wished to harm you I could have done it thirty times over, sweet silver prince,” he says.

“Then what did you wish of me?” A sharp harshness to him now that Mairon dislikes. He wants the softness and laughter he’s enjoyed before in Galadriel’s guise and he wants it for him, for him, why should she have all of this? Why should she who cannot understand all of Celeborn’s grief have such love and such loyalty, why should she whose people murdered his have all of him she wished to, and Mairon who would remake Doriath for him again be denied even one kiss from his lips?

—-

Link to the first two published chapters: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46393219/chapters/116806576

#eyeofacat fic #rings of power fic #Celeborn x Sauron #eyeofacat writing process #your wife doesn’t understand you (but I do)

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douglysium · 6 months

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Steel Berserker: John Henry (WIP)

*Note that all information in this profile is subject to change at any time.

Class: Berserker

True Name: John Henry

Nickname: Steel Berserker, Berserker, John, Johnny, Steel Drivin' Man, Steel Driver

Characteristics

Species: Servant, Heroic Spirit, Human

Gender: Male

Height: 4 feet or about 122 meters

Weight: 101 pounds or about 46 kilograms

Blood Type: Unknown

Place of Origin: Unknown

Birthday: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Personal Information

Addresses self as: Boku

Likes: Work, good work ethic, never giving up, perseverance

Dislikes: Not working, taking breaks, resting, bad worth ethic, giving up

Talents: Singing, humming, having a good sense rhythm

Natural Enemy: a steam-powered rock drilling machine, people who slack on their work, lazy people

Image Color: Iron gray

Affiliations

An unknown mining company

Family Members

Unknown

Servant Stats

Type: Heroic Spirit

Source: Folktales and Songs about John Henry

Region: United States of America

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Hidden Attribute: Man

Armaments: Large hammer, pickaxes, mining helmet, and other mining equipment

Known Summoning Catalysts: A piece of one of his hammer heads, a pickaxe he used, and a rock from a tunnel he dug

Qualified Servant Classes

Lancer

While he is not a master of fighting and combat he can let loose a mean hammer swing. His strength is so great and his technique so masterful that he can swing just about any hammer with a force that outshines the strength of any normal war hammer. His mastery of how to use his iconic long hammer counts as a type of polearm, akin to that of a war hammer. In his Lancer form his alignment is Lawful Good.

Berserker

It appears that during at least a portion of his famous race against the infamous high-tech steam drill he became overcome with a form of madness in his unwillingness to lose to the machine, even at the cost of his own life. His Berserker form seems to be obsessed with working and completing his job and will often hyperfocus on anything he perceives to be his job, even if doing so comes at his own detriment. If he can’t complete his job it might go on a rampage.

Parameters

Strength: A

Endurance: A

Agility: C

Mana: E

Luck: C

NP: C++

Class Skills

Madness Enhancement: E+

In the case of John Henry at E rank this skill causes him to become more focused on working and completing whatever he perceives as his job. As long as he is performing the said job all his parameters, except for Mana and Luck are raised. When this happens veins can be seen bulging around his body in strain and his body becomes slightly red due to the abnormal amounts of blood flow. If something gets in the way of his work the skill’s effectiveness will increase but he is unable to talk or think about anything that doesn’t have to do with the perceived job.

John can hold a normal conversation quite easily when he is “off the clock (not working on a job)” but while he is working on something he views as a job he will become unable to talk or think about anything that doesn’t have to do with his job in some way. So a mutual understanding becomes extremely hard unless one can convince him that what they are talking about has to do with his job.

Personal Skills

Mana Burst: E

A skill that allows a servant to gain an increase in performance by infusing one’s weapons and body with magical energy and instantly expelling it. To put it simply, recreating the effect of a jet burst by expending large amounts of magical energy.

John Henry’s Mana Burst is only E rank so all it really does is create a small burst of energy in order to slightly increase the force of his strikes, this effect becomes more noticeable when striking with a weapon of good make.

Tunnel Navigation: C

A skill that helps prevent confusion, disorientation, and getting lost when traversing through underground caves and tunnels. At high enough ranks users of this skill will always be able to find their way back to the surface. Servants who were miners or something similar in life often may have this skill.

With this skill Steel Berserker can always backtrack his way flawlessly through tunnels and caves even if the environment radically changes or there seems to be no identifiable landmarks.

Battle Continuation: C-

A skill that allows for the continuation of combat after sustaining mortal wounds. It will also reduce mortality rate from injury. This skill represents the ability to survive and/or the mentality of one who doesn't know when to give up, consisting of one's strength of vitality in predicaments. It is also one of the powers of a vampire. The best result is achieved when a resilient body is combined with this skill.

John is one who does not know when to give up and will continue to try to complete a job even if it comes at the cost of his own health. The story of John Henry says that in his race against the steam hammer/drill he never gave up or wavered and pushed himself so hard that when he finished the race he died from overworking his body. He is someone who believes that he has a duty to complete every job he is given but this skill drops in effectiveness if he feels he has no job to do, as he will feel aimless and lose some of his fighting spirit. This skill can help hold superiority in prolonged battles or jobs.

Magecraft: E-

A skill that denotes servants who have knowledge about modern Thaumaturgy/Magecraft.

Surprisingly, John does seem capable of Magecraft and even has a basic understanding of it. However, his Magecraft skill ends up being extremely low ranked since he only knows how to perform reinforcement in order to enhance the strength and durability of his weapons and body and despite how difficult reinforcement is to learn he seems to lack any knowledge about other spells or how they work.

Valor: C

A skill that negates mental interference such as pressure, confusion and fascination. It also has the bonus effect of increasing melee damage. Unfortunately, it is not usable under the effects of Madness Enhancement so it is not really worth discussing in the case of Steel Berserker. It is a skill that is supposed to raise the strength of his hammer swings.

Noble Phantasms

Steel Driver: I'll die with this hammer in my hand!- Rank C++(Anti-Fortress), Maximum Number of Targets 1~20

This Noble Phantasm is not the entirety of his hammers but rather only the ornate heads of his two hammers. It is unusually powerful because, despite not being a Divine Construct, it appears to be similar in existence to the legendary hammer Mjölnir that the famous Thunder God Thor of Norse mythology wielded. Steel Driver was seemingly inspired by the legendary hammer and was built by someone in an attempt to replicate its power. However, due to not being a true Divine Construct its power pales in comparison to the real Mjölnir. Its weakened state also means that Steel Berserker does not need to wear the Megingjörð and Járngreipr to use it. Despite the similarities to Mjölnir, the hammer is also a manifestation of John Henry’s legend as the “steel driver” given form. Whenever the hammer lands a strike it unleashes a small blast of lightning which can shatter stone with ease and launch rail spikes and specialized drills with the force of a rail gun. This also gives John a surprising amount of range in combat.

Upon releasing this Noble Phantasm’s True Name John can release this hammers’ full power. It embodies his legend as the “Steel Driving” man who helped carve out tunnels and how he raced a steam drill and won. This means that when the True Name is released John will swing his hammer(s) and, upon contact with an object, the concept of a drill will burrow through the target before a concentrated beam like explosion that is reminiscent of the black powder and explosives that were used to blast apart rock is created. As a steel driver John would pound a handheld drill being held by someone else into the rock. Eventually, the jobs of John and countless African-Americans working to dig a tunnel were put in danger with the invention of a “steam drill.” John, the strongest, fastest, and most powerful man working on the railroad, raced against the steam drill to prove that he and his fellow workers could drill a hole through rock faster than the drill could. Using two heavy hammers in each hand he was able to pound a drill into the rock so incredibly hard and so incredibly fast that some say he was able to launch the drill 14-feet into the rock with each swing despite the drill supposedly being meant to go no further than 9 feet. However, John overworked his body and died of exhaustion after beating the drill. This Noble Phantasm’s True Name release can be used to blast a hole through entire mountains or fortresses in moments but it always comes at the cost of his life. Its true function is that of a Broken Phantasm, like that of Arash’s Stella, which only adds to the ability’s power. When the True Name of John’s hammer heads are released the triquetra symbol at their center also expands in the form of a holographic-like projection and anyone hit by the hammer will have a drilling blow dealt to them. While using this Noble Phantasm John will sing to the beat of a song, typically one of the many ballads and/or “hammer songs” dedicated to him.

In life these hammer heads weren’t as strong because John was a human and by the time he tried to use their full power to beat the steam driving drill he had already burnt through most of his energy. As a servant John can use these hammer heads to their fullest.

“I’ll finish this job no matter what boss. I’LL SMASH THROUGH STONE AND ENTIRE MOUNTAINS IF I HAVE TO!! EVEN IF IT KILLS ME!!! I’D RATHER DIE WITH THIS HAMMER IN MY HAND THAN GIVE UP!!! STEEEEEL DRIVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!!!”

“One last job huh….? Don’t worry, I’ll finish it even if I die with this hammer in my hand. STEEL DRIVEEEEEEEEEEER!!!”

Miscellaneous Skills, Abilities, and Equipment

His skin, even without reinforcement magecraft, is incredibly tough and many describe it as almost being rock-like and rugged to the touch. His muscles also seem to be unnaturally tough and resilient. He has silver freckles that resemble flecks of metal such as iron or steel.

He is usually seen wearing mining clothes and equipment. Which is complete with torches, a hard hat with a headlamp, hand drills, and railroad spikes as well as pickaxes. He also carries dynamite, flashlights, and pickaxes. He carries different types of hammer heads so he can swap them in and out as needed. Sometimes he will just throw some of his extra hammer heads as heavy projectiles if needed as a way to catch opponents off guard.

He is a talented singer.

His blood pressure is absurdly high and any open wounds he receives will cause blood to spray out. He doesn’t seem to mind though.

He has an immense appetite, mostly because of how hard he is working most of the time.

Background

John Henry’s stories, like many tall tales and songs, have many different variations each with their own nuances big and small. However, as opposed to many ancient legends and myths John’s story tends to be a lot simpler. While typically, being remembered purely through tall tales would prevent a figure from being anything more than a phantom, unlike stories such as Paul Bunyan, John Henry is believed by many to have been real or at least plausible to some capacity. As opposed to something purely fantastical.

The story goes that John Henry started out life as a slave, being born into enslavement as a child. Even as a child he would dream of hammers and often played with both toy and real hammers. He was described as being “born with a hammer in his hand.” However, since as early as he could remember, he had dreams of being freed from his enslavement and this came true when the Civil War came to a close and he was freed some point afterwards. However, he quickly realized that someone needed to provide for his friends and family so that they could enjoy the fruits of their freedom so life was still not easy. Work was hard to find and racism was still rampant. John constantly looked for jobs and one thing led to another. John became obsessed with working, taking on as many jobs as possible in fear that if he didn’t one day he wouldn’t be able to support his family or himself. Overtime, this also gave him a sense of purpose, worth and pride. His entire identity and self-worth became tied to if he could work and provide. If he couldn’t work then he was simply dead weight.

One day he came across a man who wanted a railroad dug through a mountain and any man who signed up would get 50 acres of land if they managed to complete the railroad. This kind of land could change the life of almost any black person at the time forever and could allow for John’s loved ones to live comfortably. So John signed up for the job.

Out of all the people who signed up for the job John was without dispute the strongest, fastest, and most powerful man. He could smash drills and stakes clean into the rock and earth they were digging into with one clean swing of one of his heavy hammers. Despite this, the process of digging the tunnel and putting down rails was an extremely dangerous job even for John due to the use of explosives and the risk of the tunnel or rocks within it suddenly collapsing at any time. Plus, the air was often thick with noxious gas and fumes and there was also always the possibility of other accidents. During his work John saw numerous workers dragged out of the tunnels screaming from injuries, pain, and/or trauma, and those were the lucky ones who didn’t die. Occasionally, he would witness lifeless bodies being pulled out of the tunnel. Many couldn’t even be brought home to their families and were simply thrown into makeshift graves near the mountain. Most of the people who were injured and died did so in an attempt for a better life or to support their families and that thought broke John’s heart.

John’s strength and speed was inspirational and many of the workers rallied around him as he gave them hope that the tunnel would one day be complete and that they could get their promised land. John was also a great singer and would sing along with his coworkers to lift spirits and encourage them to work harder. The rhythm of the song also acted as a guide for the proper rhythm/pace of the work. This helped ensure that they wouldn’t work too slowly but also wouldn’t injure themselves by pushing themselves too hard. Some of these songs apparently acted as inspiration for many of the “hammer songs(a type of work song)” that revolve around John Henry.

John’s job when building the tunnel and railroad was that of a hammerman. Which involved working with a “shaker.” What would happen is that the shaker would hold a chisel-like drill against rock while the hammerman would strike the hammer with a blow. Then the shaker would begin to rock, wiggle, and rotate the drill in order to optimize the bite of the drill and help dig into the rock as the hammerman swung away. The job of a hammerman was also known as “steel-driver” due to the fact that their job was to drive steel drills into rock. Hence, the epithet of “Steel Driving Man” that John would earn. John Henry’s skill with wielding a hammer was so great that rumors once again spread about how “he was born with a hammer in hand.”

Despite the grueling labor, the workers were progressing much faster than the company had anticipated. However, one day a salesman came to the company touting a new steam powered drill that would render human workers unnecessary. At first, the workers were ecstatic because this meant that the tunnel would be finished and they would get their land without having to risk any more lives.. However, the company announced that not only would they replace all their workers with the drill but that in doing so none of them would get paid anything or get even a little bit of the land they were promised. According to the company this is because the contract stated the workers would get compensated only if THEY finished the tunnel. Which meant any worker who died to support their friends or family would not have any compensation given to their loved ones AND if the drill finished the tunnels instead of the workers the workers themselves wouldn’t get compensation either.

The workers were furious and John was no exception. In his anger John called the salesman a hack and a fake, stating that the human workers could dig the tunnel faster and better than any machine at the time. The salesman scoffed and asked John to prove it so he offered a wager. One single person would go into the tunnel with the drill and dig into the rock. If the human worker could dig faster than the drill then the workers got to continue working on the tunnel and get their payment but if the machine won then the machine would replace them and the company wouldn’t have to give them a cent of money or an inch of land. The salesman and the company accepted this bet and declared that the race would be held the next day. The workers had a brief gathering discussing who should race the drill and the voting was unanimous. John Henry, the fastests and strongest among them, would do it.

So the next day came and the race began. Whoever could drill the farthest by a certain amount of time would be the winner. The steam drill whistled, wriggled, and whirled as it dug through the rock at great speed. At first, it looked like John had no chance at winning but the salesman and the company made a massive miscalculation. Yes, the machine could technically dig faster than a person but it could not shake the chippings of rock away as they fell into various parts of the machine so the drill bit it used could not drill as far and would frequently break down as it needed to be fixed. On the other hand, John, with his almost superhuman strength and amazing stamina, kept a more steady pace and slowly but surely began to get ahead of the drill. Strong as he was though, John was still just a human and became tired while the drill did not. As the drill began to catch up to him he drew upon the last of his strength declaring “I WOULD RATHER DIE WITH THIS HAMMER IN MY HAND ” when the thought of loss crossed his mind and he began to speed up once again.

When the race was said and done John had drilled a 14 foot hole into the rock while the drill only made a 9 foot hole into the rock when time was up. John had managed to win. However, John had pushed himself too far and he slowly began to die from exhaustion after he had won the race. The fellow workers gathered around him as he finally passed away holding the thought of his family and friends in his mind and his hammers in his hand. Dreaming of the better life they would have. However, John had made a mistake. He had died before the tunnel was completed which meant his family would not see the fruits of his labor which left many of them bitter and heart broken.

Because of this while John is a story that conveys the indomitable will of the human spirit it is also a tale used as a warning. A reminder that workers should keep a proper pace and not overwork themselves lest they end up overworked or die after being reduced to a tool that is then discarded with only heartbroken family and friends left behind. This aspect became so well know that the term “John Henryism” was coined as a way to refer to “a strategy for coping with prolonged exposure to stresses such as social discrimination by expending high levels of effort which results in accumulating physiological costs” and “that African Americans sometimes attempted to control their environment through similar attempts at superhuman performance, which may involve working harder at the office or working longer hours to prove one's worth.” Nevertheless, the tunnel John Henry worked on would be completed sometime in the 1870’s and his name would be etched into the U.S. consciousness.

Appearance

John Henry is usually thought of as a tall, muscular, and strapping man but in actuality he has a very dwarf-like appearance, being short, muscular, and stout. He has a muscular build even though he has a noticeable amount of fat around his stomach area and he has a large beard. He is generally hairy and does have a head of curly hair, but most of the hair on his body seems to constantly have metal shavings or bits of rock and minerals stuck in them. He also has brown skin and freckles that shine like metal such as iron or steel. His short stature as well as his unusual strength, propensity for working in underground tunnels, and the similarities that his Steel Driver has to the hammer wielded by the Norse god of thunder, Thor, has led some to speculate that John Henry might be distantly related to dwarves and had a dwarf somewhere in his family tree.

When working on a job veins can be seen bulging around his body in strain and his body becomes slightly red from the abnormal amounts of blood flow.

Personality

When first summoned John Henry usually bursts into tears since the exhaustion that he had when he died no longer clouds his brain and makes him immediately realize that he had failed his family and friends. To distract from his sorrow and the rage he feels, which are only intensified by his madness enhancement, he has immersed himself into work and completing jobs.

Once he composes himself he will see his master as his boss, referring to them as such, and will constantly ask for work and jobs to do. If not given any jobs to do he will go find one to do even if he needs to wander off or go find someone else to hire him to do it.

As one might expect, John has a strong commitment to hard work and he tends to have a very single-minded determination to complete and succeed in doing what he perceives as his job(s). He doesn’t care about just doing the job but also doing it “right” and will reject using anything that he considers to be cheating. An attitude that can sometimes make words harder for himself.

While he does have a strong work ethic he is also very adamant about getting paid for his work and doesn’t react kindly to people who refuse to pay him for his work or put off paying him for too long. Due to the madness enhancement he is not above attacking his own boss or others to get payment. His madness enhancement makes him unable to refuse giving up on a job once he’s begun even if it ends up hurting or killing him.

He loves to sing and has a surprisingly good voice. While working or performing a task he can usually be seen singing or humming to himself. He enjoys listening to music and his talent for rhythm and precise striking makes him a natural at playing drums.

He hates feeling weak or being unable to complete a task. His main personality flaw is that he refuses to quit a job once he’s starting it which can lead to him overworking himself or stretching himself too thin from taking too many jobs at once.

He can be very hard on himself and seems to believe that almost every bad thing that happened to him could’ve been avoided if he had just worked harder.

He is very strict about his promises and contracts and always tries to uphold his promises and deals.

Wish for the Grail

“I wish I was stronger, strong enough to finish that tunnel, strong enough to finish my job, strong enough to save my family. All my problems are because I wasn’t strong enough to keep going, I could’ve worked even harder. So I refuse to be weak and I refuse to quit even if it kills me. I could have done it all if I was just strong enough“

Voice Line Examples

“ALRIGHT, LET’S GET BACK TO WORK!”

“Smash, smash, smashing awaaaaay♫”

“I CAN’T QUIT NOW!!! Not when I have a job to do…”

“A HENRY NEVER QUOTES.”

“You got it boss♫”

“I’m busy, so go away unless you have a job.”

“This has nothing to do with my job.”

“I ain’t gonna talk about anything that isn’t related to my job.”

“SCRAM!!! You’re getting in the way of my job.”

“I have a job to do so if you don’t move out of the way I’ll move you myself.”

“I’m still waiting for my money…”

“Yahoo♫, payday. I’m so happy I could break into a song.”

“One dollar, two dollars, three dollars…”

“Well, money does make the world go round.”

“Heh, a job well done.”

“Relax? TAKE A BREAK?!?!?! HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO REST WHEN THERE’S WORK TO DO!?”

“Blood pressure? Yeah it’s at a nice 140... THAT’S THE LOWEST IT’S EVER BEEN!”

“Hard work pays off♫”

“1, 2, 3, SMASH, 1, 2, 3 SMASH♫”

“It’s important to keep a good rhythm♫”

“HEY, more working less shirking!”

“I…. I suppose I could take a break if you’re paying me…”

“I like your work ethic.”

“I’ll destroy you and your terrible worth ethic.”

“The only rest I need is hard work.”

“Time to take some time off with some hard work.”

“I’m gonna put my back into this Noble Phantasm.”

Servant Interactions

Artoria(Saber) and Artoria Alter(Saber)- They both have large appetites and stress the importance of eating properly.

“HA HA HA, LOTS OF FOOD MEANS WE CAN DO LOTS A’WORK!”

“If you aren’t eating at least twice your bodyweight you aren’t eating right as I always say.”

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne(Lancer) and Diarmuid Ua Duibhne(Saver)- He recognizes Diarmuid as someone who is loyal and usually does his best to try to uphold his promises.

“Oh, I like you. You have a good work ethic and know how to uphold your end of a promise.”

Emiya(Archer)- Emiya is someone who got reduced to a tool to be used by the counterforce while John Henry is someone who tries to make himself a tool or worker for others in order to distract from his pain. This opposing behavior causes them to butt heads and Steel Berserker’s propensity to overwork or harm himself to get a job done for someone else unfortunately reminds Emiya of some of Shirou’s worst qualities.

“Let’s just make sure we don’t forget what our job is okay?”

“Just because you don’t take pride in your work doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Who cares if this job will never be finished? That’s no reason to give up. Hard work is its reward.”

“Whatever, ya say let’s just get this job done…”

“What’s wrong with being a tool anyway? Tool’s are important and they don’t have to think about anything else other than the job they’re made for.”

“Emiya… ya think too much.”

Emiya Alter(Archer)- Emiya Alter is someone who was reduced to a tool like Emiya but unlike Emiya(Archer) he doesn’t even remember what he’s fighting for or any of his loved ones. He is almost emotionless unlike Steel Berserker and more heartless.

“Let’s just make sure we don’t forget what our job is okay?”

“I work for my family and friends. Why do you work?”

“Whatever, ya say let’s just get this job done…”

Don Quixote- He greatly respects Don Quixote’s perseverance and work ethic despite his delusions. Although, considering Steel Berserker’s own madness enhancement, it is to be expected that he might relate to those with such unrealistic dreams..

“Never give up on your dreams. With hard work anything is possible. So we only need to work even harder.”

Queen of Sheba- They both understand the importance of money and always demand proper payment. However, the Queen of Sheba usually asks for a lot more money than Steel Berserker does.

“Money does make the world turn though. What’s the point of doing all this labor if you don’t get properly compensated for your efforts… maybe we should start a union around here… that railroad company I worked for definitely could have used one…”

Sasaki Kojirō- He is impressed by the hardwork and practice that went into Kojirō’s Tsubame Gaeshi

“Man, with the power of hard work anything really is possible isn’t it? I wonder if I could have perfected my digging and steel driving technique if I had just worked as hard as you had?”

Spartacus- He sees Spartacus’ tendency to pick the most difficult route as having a strong work ethic so they at the very least aren’t enemies. Which is quite the feat for someone interacting with Spartacus. Spartacus doesn’t automatically see John as an oppressor either unless the job Steel Berserker is performing aligns him with whatever Spartacus deems to be the oppressor(s).

“Now you, my man, have a good work ethic.”

“Hey, he’s got a point, doing things the hard way builds character.”

Purachatra Jayakara(Rider)- “Just say the word and I can build you the railroad of your dreams… er, with proper payment of course.”

“I’ll build a railroad worthy of that Noble Phantasm. With proper payment of course.”

“Don’t worry, this time I’ll work hard enough to finish that railroad.”

(Purachatra Jayakara is a fanservant designed by @ChaoSen1. You can view Purachatra Jayakara here on Twitter(https://twitter.com/ChaoSen1/status/1726839256826712407) and be sure to check out his Toyhouse in case he ever puts more info on Purachatra Jayakara(https://toyhou.se/ChaoSen1/characters?page=1)).

Death Line(s)

“I’m sorry… I wasn’t strong enough…”

“I’ll work even harder next time…”

“Di-didn’t work hard enough…”

“I’ll never quit… I’ll work at 100%... until the very end.”

Fun Facts

Steel Berserker’s Magic the Gathering color alignment is Blue-Red and secondary White.

If he was in the Hunter X Hunter universe he would be an Enhancer and his Hatsu would revolve around enhancing his hammers while increasing his body’s strength and stamina.

If he had an epithet in the Epithet Erased universe it would be “Overwork.” However, he would most likely be a mundie.

His favorite Pokemon are Tinkaton, Excadrill, and Dugtrio.

His story arc would revolve around learning to not use working as an excuse to run away from his problems and how not taking proper care of yourself and overworking can hurt you and those you care about more than helping them. He would also need to learn that hard work can’t solve any and every problem, and not to blame himself for not working hard enough whenever something goes wrong. If anything he would have to reckon with the fact that sometimes working too hard can make things worse.

Sources

https://www.nps.gov/neri/planyourvisit/the-legend-of-john-henry-talcott-wv.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_(folklore)

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2594971/#:~:text=The%20John%20Henryism%20hypothesis%20posits,those%20with%20greater%20socioeconomic%20resources

https://www.ibiblio.org/john_henry/alabama.html

https://voiceofthevalley.com/2021/08/18/when-coal-was-king-john-henry-no-1-mine-in-black-diamond/

https://www.miles2gobeforeisleep.com/blog/2017/11/24/john-henry-steel-driver-whaler-coal-miner

https://www.wvencyclopedia.org/print/ExhibitHall/12

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COfKWWTIbHI&ab_channel=HISTORY

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2594971/#:~:text=Abstract,those%20with%20greater%20socioeconomic%20resources.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henryism

#fanservant #fate #fgo #JohnHenry #typemoon

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