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bnpd · 3 months

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❝ LONG SHOT ! ❞ ; 001

❝ PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL PLAYER!GOJO SATORU X PHYSICAL THERAPIST!READER. ❞

SYNOPSIS: After an unexpected encounter with the infamous Gojo Satoru at a local convenience store at 3 A.M. You're given the opportunity to worm your way into his life, but not without a personal invitation from Gojo himself. One thing leads to another, and you're the first person they call when he gets a career-threatening injury, forcing both of you to spend day and night together, but not without some obstacles of course: your cousin.

WORD COUNT : 8K SERIES MASTERLIST : ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . NAVIGATION : ꩜

PT. 1 : PT. 2

Your days start off simple. Wake up at 5 am. Shower at 5:05. Get ready at 5:30. Breakfast at 6:30am. Leave your cozy city apartment at 7:00 am –sharp– to make it to work.

“Good morning Miwa,” you greet politely, walking past her desk and she scrambles to gather her clipboard. Hot on your tail, she frantically looks over her notes. “What do you have for me today?” You ask.

“Doctor, your first consultation of the day is waiting for you in your office! And your regular patient called to let you know that those exercises you suggested are working wonders!” You nod and hum occasionally to inform her that you’re listening as you maneuver through the rest of the doctors, stopping momentarily to encourage a patient lifting weights. She speaks quickly. “And Doctor Shoko called to ask if you’ll be going to…” she pauses and you figure she’s looking at her notes again. “The basketball game,” and she's quick to add “ —the Jujutsu Sorcerers are playing tomorrow night.”

You stop abruptly outside of your office door, feeling Miwa lightly bump into your back before she mutters a swift apology. You turn around, raising a questioning eyebrow. “She called about that? Tell her I’m bus-”. Miwa’s quick to intercept. “She insists! Plus, I thought you loved the Jujutsu Sorcerers?”

You think it over.

You did like them. No. They were your absolute favorite basketball team. Besides, you could never turn down a basketball game.

“Fine. I’ll see her tomorrow night. Thank you Miwa.”

“We have just minutes to go here in the fourth quarter of the season opener at the Sorcerer Stadium. The Jujutsu Sorcerers are up by ten over the Special Grades, thanks much to the tremendous effort of the star point guard, Gojo Satoru.”

Inside the stadium is loud, as fans cheer on their favorite teams. It’s a full game tonight. A completely sold out stadium with all the people that showed up to praise their favorite players. The energy is loud, and fun. As people stand, and others sit in their seats in a stressful manner—mostly the losing team.

The two kids behind you wear matching Jujutsu Sorcerers jerseys. One boy is sporting a 01 while the other sports a 02. One for the infamous Gojo Satoru and the other for Geto Suguru. You’re happy to admit that you too are sporting a number 01 jersey.

“Gojo Satoru, one of the best point guards in the league. Living up to his reputation and title of the ‘Chosen One’, tonight.” You listen, and watch intently as the announcers speak of Gojo. As he dribbles left, dodging every player in his way, bypassing their attempts to stop him. He’s unstoppable.

“He looks inside. And he’s got nothing there.” The announcer anticipates. The crowd stands up from their seats eager to watch his next move. Their anticipation is intense as everyone in the stadium witnesses the Gojo Satoru work up close.

“He’s gonna take it himself!” The announcer exclaimed in disbelief, he himself could not believe this. “Behind the back! He puts it up, and it's good” The entire stadium puts their hands up to cheer, and scream. You see a mix of colors in the crowd, mostly a light blue in support of the Jujutsu Sorcerers.

You tune out the announcers as Gojo Satoru is celebrating his team's score. He’s sweating so much his jersey sticks to his chest and stomach. You can faintly make out the outline of his abs. His muscles flex as he lifts his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his forehead, his abs on full display. You grin at how hot he is. Anyone with eyes can see it. You swear you hear the girls cheer louder at the display of skin. Even if you were still here for the game, you were still a woman after all.

“You’re drooling.” Shoko points out beside you, and you almost reach your hand towards your mouth to check before you playfully narrow your eyes at her. “Please,” you say dismissively, “What’s the correct way to react to a court full of sweaty hot guys? Watch the game?”.

Her eyes roll dramatically before sporting a playful grin, and you bump your shoulder against hers to bring out a full smile from her. You succeed.

Shoko continues to cheer on the team. This is the most excited you’ve seen her since she found a remaining cigarette in her car after she’d just ran out. You were so distracted by the cigarette addict beside you that you almost missed the foul they gave the other team as Gojo Satoru stands on the free throw line.

“Gojo Satoru shot 95% from the freethrow line last season, but he’s been 100% tonight.” The announcers go back to bickering about the game, praising Gojo’s in-game scores. “Let’s see if he stays on his hot streak tonight, and for the rest of the season–”.

Gojo dribbles the ball, and the stadium remains silent. The tension thick in the air as they hold their breath–even you, who leans forward in anticipation. He locks his knees, and shoots straight into the basketball hoop. The ball never even touches the rim. He makes both shots. Gojo smirks cockily as he slaps Geto’s hand twice in celebration.

“-And he’s done it! It’s 12 in a row, for Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru–number two–has 10 tonight. Quite a duo on the court. I would say.”

Shoko and you cheer on the team as they celebrate the win themselves. The kids behind you scream so loud your eardrums almost pop, but you can’t find it in yourself to mind.

The energy in the stadium tonight reminds you of why you loved going to basketball games in the first place. The excitement in the court, and in the entire stadium is something no one can miss.

The kids behind you are so excited that it spreads to you, and you jump up to celebrate with them. Their toothy smiles are so big and bright. They warm your heart. The moment is quickly ruined by the woman sitting on the other side of you, opposite Shoko.

“Look at that!” Your cousin harshly tugs your arm, pulling you down to reach her seat. “The player’s wives section. Full of snobby bitches.” Her fingers frantically shake to dramatize how much she wants you to see. “I’m looking.” You reply exasperated before rolling your eyes. “She has a custom Birkin! Do you have any idea how expensive that is?” She asks, and you reply with a muttered response “A house mortgage loan, I assume.”

Your cousin was—to put it shortly–spoiled, but you respected her views on someday marrying a rich man. The only problem with that is that she even uses the good ones.

She was a model. Not a well known one, but a model nonetheless. She was gorgeous, and everyone knew it. Even the men you dated. Most of them had gone as far to tell you. But you never let it deter your self-esteem. Men are a defective species and that has nothing to do with you. You choose to push that thought aside before it can develop into a mental breakdown in the middle of a basketball game.

The children screaming behind you interrupt it before it can. “Look, look!” The kids behind you frantically poke at you to look.

“He just made a three-pointer,” the boy lisps a little, and you swear you feel the saliva hit your face.

More than half of the game is just Gojo Satoru stealing the ball, and making countless scores.

You look up at the clock and see the time as it read ten seconds on the board.

“Gojo Satoru again with the ball!” You watch as he steals the ball and dribbles all the way across the court. Five seconds on the clock. He jumps up, and slams the ball directly into the basketball net with both hands still hanging onto the rim. “Anddd Number 1… brings the game home!” And the final buzzer rings across the court, calling the game. Zero seconds on the board.

The announcer makes one last comment, “Unbelievable performance by Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo is instantly swarmed with reporters in hopes of getting a word with him. But he’s fine with this. He loves the attention. He loves it when all eyes are on him. He thinks it’s how it should always be. A cocky man at heart.

“Tremendous game tonight Gojo Satoru.” The reporter speaks, and she’s too close for any regular reporter, and Gojo catches onto it quickly. “Thank you, thank you.” He responds in an airy flirty tone.

He scans the stands, and his eyes catch onto a woman helping two kids from their seats—they wear the number of his jersey, and Getos. His eyebrows furrow, and he tunes out the reporter subconsciously. The mysterious woman laughs at something her friend says—and his eyebrows lift up in surprise at the recognition of his friend, Shoko.

“Almost a decade with the Jujutsu Sorcerers, the only franchise you’ve ever played for…” a male reporter takes a lead on his attention as Gojo turns his head over to talk to the male reporter. He smiles into the camera, a radiant smile.

A player from the opposing team passes Gojo before patting his back, and cheers at him for the good game.

“...But you’re a free agent at the end of the season. The question everyone wants to know… will Gojo Satoru re-sign with the Jujutsu Sorcerers?” he asks as he shifts the microphone from side to side at the question, urging Gojo to answer. The reporters surrounding him, too, lean closer into him.

Gojo licks his lips before responding. His chest breathing erratically from the previous game, “I prove myself night in and night out on that court. I’m the best in the league right now. Of course they’ll sign me. I’m the best.”

He winks at the female reporter after his proud admission as her face turns bright red at the display of flirtation. She lowers the microphone to say something to him personally before his manager comes disrupting the flirty exchange and drags him away from the reporters as their distant shouts begin to fade, entering the locker room.

You’re exiting the stadium before one of your cousin’s friends invites herself into the conversations. Completely interrupting your rant about how horrible the injury a recent basketball player received.

“Girl, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” You turn around at the sound of the high-pitched voice, and see a woman dressed in all black, some large classy sunglasses, and a dark cherry red lipstick. Her aura emitted elegance, and high-class.

“Hey,” she greets you in a monotone voice before turning over to your cousin again and her excitement seems to be shot back into her system as she begins to ramble to your cousin. Your head tilts at her attitude. Disbelief is clear on your face.“It is so packed in here, it is so gross.” She comments with an undeniable hint of disgust in her voice as she clutches her mini purse closer to her.

“But anyway!” she dismisses, “Gojo Satoru… is having a birthday party Saturday night at his house, but we don’t have the tickets yet, sooooo we’re going to an after party tonight, and see if we can worm ourselves into getting some tickets.” She picks at her nails before grabbing your cousin's hands to shake them in an urging manner. She takes her glasses off to show her a pleading look.

Your cousin lifts her eyebrow in question, “Where’s the after party?”

“The Shibuya Hotel.” Your cousin thinks it over before nodding, turning over to you. “You don’t mind do you?”

You smile at her, “No, not at all. Do your thing.”

“K-K, bye!” Her long slender fingers moving back and forth in a quick and dismissive goodbye.

The bells above the door jingle to announce the presence of someone entering the convenience store. The sudden sound of them has you looking up.

After the game ended you went home and locked yourself up to finish some remaining paperwork, before checking the time and deciding to grab a snack at your favorite corner store.

You glance up at the clock in wonder. It’s currently 3 a.m, and the convenience store tucked into the sketchy corner of the city is always empty. It’s quite a walk from here to your apartment, but a welcomed one. Especially at this time. You always found yourself making late night trips to the store for a midnight snack. They were just something you found quite peaceful. A walk in the dark as you play your favorite playlist, finding a chance to lose yourself in your own head.

You were close to the owner, an old sweet man that conjured a liking to you because of how much you resembled his daughter that was currently deployed overseas.

You spare a glance at the hooded figure that steps into the store, their back turned to you, but you note how tall they are. A shiver runs down your spine as the opened door allows cold air to rush into the tight space.

You’re not sure if the shiver was a cause of the gust of wind that slithered its way inside or the new presence of the looming figure. You don't like to ponder on the possibility that it might be the latter.

You continue to browse through the mochi flavors, looking for your beloved one. It’s unusual for them to be unstocked around this time, considering how cold the weather is. And how empty this side of town finds itself to be. You sigh as you bend down to get a better look.

You feel a presence behind you, and you stiffen at their closeness. A masculine, slender hand, comes into view, as it reaches for the exact flavor of mochi you so happened to be reaching for as well. You both freeze at the sudden, and unexpected contact before both releasing a nervous laugh.

But neither of you find it in yourselves to retract your hands. You clear your throat before speaking.

“Listen…It’s been a rough night,” You start, and turn to face him, but pause mid sentence at the look of what he’s wearing. A black face mask, a black hoodie with the hood of it over his head, and some sunglasses?…At night…and indoors? Not only that, but the man in question was insanely tall. Taller than any regular man you’ve encountered. He had the height of a basketball player.

“Never mind,” You suddenly find yourself not in the mood to argue with a suspicious stranger at 3 a.m. in a sketchy part of town.

Your mother always taught you that as a woman being careful with who you piss off, especially a man that could bring you harm, was important. You wish you had the confidence to defend yourself physically, but you’d rather never have to take those chances. That was the reality of it.

“You can keep it.” You mutter before gathering your things, and speeding over to the cash register. You watch him scan your items, but you can’t shake off the feeling of two eyes burning holes in your back throughout the whole ordeal.

You pull your scarf tighter against your neck as you speed walk in the direction of your apartment. The cold of the fall and lack of sun always make your entire body quiver. You thank your past self for wearing thick layers of clothing, knowing you wouldn’t be able to handle the freezing weather.

You never could handle the cold.

Your senses heightened when you heard steps approaching behind you, quickly at that.

You clench your first in your coat jacket, readying yourself for anything. The steps get closer, and you wait until you feel their presence closely behind you before swinging around, surprising him with a amateaur punch. “Ow!” the stranger winces. “What the fuck!” He chokes out in surprise, holding his face in shock.

You bring your hands up to your mouth in a gasp. “Oh- My-God!” A frantic apology is quick to escape your lips. “Why would you do that?!” You question the stranger exasperatedly. “Don’t–sneak up on a woman like that!” Your hands move around to signal the obvious, it’s dark.

“Well, fuck!” He responds, “I was just trying to give you the mochi,” His hand extends to reveal the truth. A mochi sits in his grasp—not just any mochi—the one you abandoned back in the store for the sake of it. He chased after you to give it to you.

Your body deflates at the realization, and it makes you feel a tiny bit sorry. Not for long when you realize he's most certainly at fault. He should’ve known not to approach a girl in the dead of night.

A few feet of distance separates you both, but you can’t help but release a tiny embarrassed laugh at the comedic situation. Your contagious laugh seems to transfer to him because he releases a small huff of amusement under his breath.

You’re both standing under a streetlamp a few feet away from the convenience store, in a defense mode. The stranger in front of you still holds onto his face in an attempt to relieve the pain.

The physical therapist in you kicks in, and you step closer towards him to inspect the damage. He’s reluctant to let you approach him, tensing is evident in the way his shoulders square up. But you reassure him. “It’s okay,” you softly comfort, “I’m a physical therapist, I just want to see that it won’t bruise or anything.”

Your words seem to help because his guarded shoulders deflate a little.

“Let me see,” you murmur into the dark, reaching over to remove his hand. He watches you intently through his glasses, and you realize he’s wearing a lot to protect his face. You take the time to study his remote way of dressing. His attempt to hide himself, you reason within yourself. His hair is covered by a black hood, paired with a black beanie, a black face mask that covers his lips and nose, a light blue sweatshirt that brings some color, some gray sweats that cover the entirety of his long legs, and a black puffer jacket to help keep the cold out. He looks warm, yet cold at the same time.

You wonder why he’s deliberately trying to hide who–or what—he is.

You find out soon enough because when you peel off his hand, and later his face mask to get a better look at his cheek you blurt out the first thing that crosses your mouth.

“You’re Gojo Satoru.” It’s spoken in a whisper, he almost doesn’t hear the acknowledgement with how soft your voice travels. Your eyes are wide with surprise, and a bit of elation. It felt like a caress, he notes.

A choked gasp almost leaves your lips when you take off his sunglasses and find the most unreal set of blue eyes stare back at you.

“The one, and only.” His response doesn’t come out as confident as he planned. Instead it came off shaky, and unsure. Breathless even. He blames it on the look on your face, and the way you stare intently into his eyes, seeing straight through him. His lips crack into a smile, and the amused look in your eye caused by his cheesy line.

“You sound more confident on TV.” You retaliate. He’s quick with a witty response, “Maybe you just make me nervous.” He wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue, taking you in. You’re illuminated by the streetlamp.

You laugh at his stupid attempt to flirt with you, playfully dismissing his advances.

Bringing your focus back to his cheek you inspect it before speaking, “It won’t bruise,” He looks like he’s ready to speak up but you interrupt him by finishing your sentence, “But—you’ll still need to ice it. At least for tonight.”

Of course it wouldn’t bruise, you’ve never taken any lessons on how to properly hit—let alone land a punch. You punched him in hopes of catching him off guard before he could surprise you, giving you the chance to run for the hills, not because you knew you’d be able to take a stranger in a fight.

When your fight or flight response kicked in, you didn’t even ponder the possibility of punching a professional athlete, let alone a professional basketball player. One that played for your favorite team. Quite frankly you were starstruck, and the fangirl in you was having an entire party. The Gojo Satoru was here. Right in front of you. He was even more gorgeous up close—taller too.

The cameras did indeed do him justice, but nothing ever compares to the real thing. His bright blue eyes, and snow-white lashes were straight out of a magical fairytale. As much as you’d like to jump up and down, and then hug him, you knew you had to contain yourself. Otherwise you would scare him away. Or he would feel too uncomfortable to engage in casual conversation with a crazy fan.

But you were more of a basketball fan than solely a Gojo Satoru fan, and that fact alone was keeping you at bay. Your early childhood years of having a basketball coach father always kept you engaged in basketball in general.

After going back inside the convenience store to grab some ice from the ice machine—with Gojo trailing closely behind you—you both now sat on the edge of the sidewalk right in front of the convenience store, talking amongst one another about nothing in particular. The only source of lighting being the lit up convenience store, and the streetlamp hovering over your seater figures.

Gojo sits beside you with a hand holding the ice pack to his face, while another is used to reach into the bag of mochi to grab some more. But your mind can’t seem to ignore how close you two sit against one another, your thighs are almost touching from your close proximity.

“Thank you.” Gojo’s hushed voice cuts through the silly conversational atmosphere, and turns into a semi-serious one.

A tiny toothless smile spreads across your face, “You can thank me, by winning the championships.” Your knee knocks into his in an attempt to bring back the playful mood, and he takes it gratefully. He responds eagerly by knocking his knee against yours in response. His touch shoots a tingle up your spine.

Your smile must be contagious because the cutest lopsided smile makes an appearance on Gojo’s face, “Oh, so you’re really a die-hard fan?” He teases.

“Ever since I was a little girl.”

“How so?” He asks, his eyes never leaving your face as his hands reach into the bag of mochi to munch on.

“Well,” You think about your next words as you gesture for Gojo to move the bag of mochi closer so that you can grab a piece, “My dad was a college basketball coach—still is—and all through elementary to middle school I would often sit on the side of practices and watch them play. So I kind of developed an interest in watching the sport. I find it nostalgic—in a way. My dad and I just bond over it.”

You mention how you were looking to become a professional NBA physical therapist. It had been your dream ever since you were a little girl. And it still is. Though you’re a current sports physical therapist— the best in your field—you want more.

He’s silent as he reflects on your response. You take this as your chance to bite into your mochi, humming contently at the yummy taste. The chewy texture is satisfying against your tongue, its sweetness seeping into your mood.

“That’s cool,” he replies after a moment of silence. “I grew up watching—and playing—basketball too.” He pauses, and you patiently wait as he collects his thoughts.

“But mostly because our family has been professional basketball players for generations, and I just kind of fell into that.”

You nod your head in understanding. You wonder if he’s playing because he genuinely likes the game or because it’s expected of him to continue the tradition. The legacy.

You knew about the Gojo family being generational professional basketball players. Every single one of them have played for the Jujutsu Sorcerers, and because of them they’ve always been an outstanding basketball team. Some consider them to be reincarnations of each other, but that’s just silly internet theories.

There’s numerous articles about the Gojo family, a lot of them highlighting the way they dominate almost every industry. Their wealth, and worldwide superiority is insanely known. It went beyond just Gojo’s direct family playing professional basketball, their entire family tree is gifted with various qualities.

You can’t imagine the burden he must carry.

One thing is certain and it’s that you’re genuinely delighted in his presence. You realize he’s silent before looking over at him, and you frown at the unreadable look on his face. “What’s wrong?” You probe.

His gorgeous bright blue eyes look all over your face in an analytical kind of way, before a ghost smile grazes his features. “Nothing,” he says softly, his eyes staring softly at you, “Nothing at all.” He turns back to bite into his mochi, chewing on it before contently humming to himself.

A familiar tune, you realize, and you gasp before hitting his arm, “Is that the Digimon tune?” His eyes twinkle in surprise, and something like eagerness—before he takes off into another excited rant. Telling you about his favorite digital pet model toy he used to own as a kid, and how he still has a collection of them at home. He tells you about how he wishes to find a rare one. His descriptions are so animated, and you can’t help but stare fondly at his features.

Though you weren’t a huge digimon fan, you don’t bother telling him in fear of breaking through his elation.

How the corner of his lips turns up in excitement or how his hands are used to animatedly demonstrate what he is trying to portray. Often used to wave them around. Your favorite feature would have to be his eyes, and the way they sparkle when he talks about something he's passionate about. Even in the darkness his ice cold blue eyes find a way to look so warm.

You like the bubble you’ve both created for yourselves. Time feels unimportant, and worries feel so far away.

After his rant you fall back into a comfortable silence. The ambience around you does a good job at filling the silence. The crickets hidden in the grass sing as the wind blows, swaying the trees. The moon lightens up the world to the best of her ability. But the city is alive, it always is. New York never sleeps, even at night. It’s probably the time it’s most awake.

Gojo breaks the comfortable silence,“What are you doing Saturday night?”

You make it back at 7 a.m., (with the help of Gojo driving you home), and thank the gods that you didn’t have work today. Shoko would’ve pestered you about your late-night whereabouts.

You’re welcomed by the sight of your cousin sitting on the floor by the coffee table surrounded by numerous magazines scattered around the living room. Her concentration prompts you to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

Cautiously walking into her space to not cause a disturbance, you ask her why she has a mess in your living room.

“I’m researching.” What could she possibly be researching in a magazine?

She notices your confused silence, and heavily sighs before putting her pen down. “I’m trying to figure out how to marry a professional athlete so that I can leech off him, and live a happy–rich–life. A girl doesn’t just become the wife of a NBA franchise player by accident.” She takes a moment to apply lip gloss before continuing.

“It takes strategy, good intel, and vision.” She finishes off before grabbing the poster board sitting next to her, showing you a pin board with various different basketball players. Thankfully, a certain bright blue eyed player is absent.

Next to each of their pictures is their name, age, birthday, interests, basketball team, and other miscellaneous facts. Her entire pin-board looks like an FBI investigation wall.

“Modeling only pays so much. Especially as a model who isn’t a Super-model.” An exasperated breath leaves her lips as if she was exhausted from just explaining the obvious to you.

“I mean look at this!” She says, frantically showing you the magazine. You lean over to get a better look as you read the title.

‘PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE, NANAMI KENTO’S WIFE STARTS BRAND NEW BAKING TELEVISION SHOW.’

“These women get fragrance deals, shoe lines, clothing lines, like; Oh.My.God! Even shows!” Each admission becomes more passionate than the last. As she continues to rant to you. “I’m almost 30. I need to start thinking for myself, and my future. Like, now. I’ll find a man, and use him.”

You laugh at her crazy talk, you start putting fingers down as you list her current struggles, “You’re crashing in my guestroom.” One finger down. “Your BMW got repossessed because you stopped making payments.” Two fingers down. “You haven’t been able to hold a steady job.” Three fingers down. “And you don’t even help clean the house.” Four fingers down.

You wave them in front of her face to try and get your point across. “Look, I’m all for you finding a rich man in the future, and living off of him—that’s fine. But for now, at least help around the house when you can. I work lots of shifts at the clinic, the least you could do is help at home—”

“Especially since you don’t help me pay any bills.” She’s ready to protest, and cut you off. You make sure you get the last word in. “I don’t care because I get paid enough to cover this nice apartment in the middle of the city. Just, take some stress off my shoulders.” You smile kindly at her.

She lets out a huff of annoyance before turning back to her magazines, and ignoring you. A tired sigh escapes your lips. Her gloomy mood makes you feel pitiful, but thankfully you remember what Gojo said to you that night.

“Besides, how are you gonna get an NBA husband, if you…” You grab your phone, and tap on the screen before showing her the details for Gojo Satoru’s Saturday birthday party, “Don’t go to the gatherings?”

Her eyes grow wide with excitement, and she jumps up to hug you. “How did you do that?” She questions in disbelief, as she grabs your phone to see the tickets. “Well, I bumped into him in the street, and one thing led to another so he invited me.”

She squeals before hugging you again. “I need to figure out what I need to wear. No—I need to figure out what I need to buy to wear.” She runs to your guest room in excitement, muttering to herself as she begins to move further and further away from you. The door slammed shut as an indication that you’re now alone in the living room.

You choose to keep the details hidden of how exactly you met Gojo because of how personal they felt. It felt like something sacred that should be kept between Gojo and you. You didn’t want to let anyone inside your little bubble. As selfish as that sounded.

What happened earlier this morning felt so refreshing. You softly smile to yourself before walking to your room to rest your eyes before the party.

Your mom has always believed in destiny. That the universe worked in mysterious ways. She liked the idea that everything was meant to be. People were at a certain place, and time for a reason. Even if you lose something—whatever it may be— the first time, it’ll always come back someway, somehow.

You believe it now as she enters your old adolescent room before you, holding a box in her hands. You had decided to get ready at your parents house because of how convenient it would be, considering how Gojo’s house is closer to your parent’s house compared to yours.

“You are going to find a husband tonight.” Your mother laughs. You playfully roll your eyes at her admission. “Mom… don’t start.” You half-heartedly warn before she goes off her lovesick rant, placing the box on the table next to you.

“Honey, I married your father, and he still can’t believe his luck. I mean I understand, I am beautiful, and so is my gorgeous daughter—”

“—and niece!” Your cousin adds before going back to the mirror, touching up her eyelashes.

Your mother and you sweetly laugh before continuing, “I mean, when I first met him, it was like love at first sight.” You can’t help the frown that overtakes your features at her admission, a certain white-haired blue eyed man coming to mind.

“Anyway,” Your mother says before waving dismissively, “I have a surprise.” She smiles, before opening the box she had brought with her. You gasp as she pulls out the most gorgeous set of earrings you’ve ever laid eyes on. “Are those…?” You trail off in question.

“Your grandmother’s diamond earrings.” Your mother confirms before gazing softly at them. “She wore them the night she met your grandfather, and I wore them the night I met your father. And now I want you to wear them.” She tells you.

“They’re beautiful!” Your cousin compliments, quickly picking herself up from her seat and making her way over. “They are more than beautiful,” Your mother responds in agreement.

“I don’t think those will suit her Auntie, but they will suit me!” You glare at your cousin. Your mom smiles at your cousin before handing them to her. A look of betrayal paints your face. “Then I think you should wear them.”

Your heart drops at the admission, and before you could protest. The earrings are already on her before you could blink. “What do you think?” She asks you. Ugly. You think.

“I think I need a shot.” You mutter.

“Oh my god.” Your cousin says in amazement. “This is beautiful.”

You can’t help but silently agree with her. Gojo’s house was beyond gorgeous. The house was elegant, simplistic, yet lived in. It was decorated enough to uplift the house, rather than outshine it.

You walk through the main entrance, and see a lot of faces you’d usually see on TV, magazines, and billboard signs. Lots of Gojo’s teammates scatter among the crowd. They’re easy to spot considering their height.

The music is played to a low volume. The atmosphere emits one of class, tranquility yet fun, and livelihood. People chatter away, immersed in their own worlds, without a care in the world. You suppose that people who have the privilege to attend a Gojo gathering can afford to live without a care in the world.

As you enter the main living room, you hear a voice command the room. Perfecting timing.

“I’d like to make a special toast, for a special birthday boy.” Geto grins, lifting his drink to cheer, before grabbing Gojo by the neck and continuing with what you suspect is a birthday speech. As if on queue the people begin to gather around Geto and Gojo.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard this before,” Geto pauses before continuing, “that when some people become rich and famous they turn into pricks…” He looks back at Gojo, “But Satoru’s always been a rich and famous asshole, so it doesn’t apply to him.” He laughs before receiving a shove from Gojo as they share a hearty laugh together.

“Point is, he’s still the same guy from high school…minus the stickman legs, and high-pitched voice.” The crowd joins in on Geto’s laughter, “To my one and only best friend, happy birthday.” The crowd cheers, and a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday!' ring throughout the room. “Thank you Suguru.” You watch as Gojo and Geto prepare themselves to do a load of shots. As the music begins to pick up again, and the crowd disperses.

Your cousin taps your shoulder, and you look over at her, “I’m gonna go explore okay?”

“Oh! O–” You turn around to find her already gone, “--Kay.”

You find your way to the bar, as you sweetly greet the bartender. “Can I have a glass of champagne?”

You’re waiting patiently against the bar when you feel a tap on your shoulder, and a look of surprise crosses your features at the sight of Gojo’s beaming smile. “You made it.” He says happily, eyeing you with a dopey smile.

“Happy birthday!” You tell him, and his hand rests beside your waist against the bar, slightly caging you in. “I got you a card!” You say, reaching into your handbag for the Digimon themed birthday card, and a breathy chuckle leaves Gojo’s lips at the sight of it.

His eyes twinkle when he looks back up at you, “Aw, come on,” He says before continuing with a fake pout, “No surprise punch?”

You laugh at his lame teasing, but play along with him anyway. “Maybe next time, if you decide to run up behind me in the middle of the night, I’ll give you two.” His lips set on a teasing yet flirty smile, raising a questioning eyebrow, “Next time? With the way you look tonight, there will definitely be a next time—”

“Oh god!” A frantic voice interrupts you both, and you’re not surprised to find out the culprit is your cousin. Although you’re happy that she found you again, currently her presence is an unwelcome one. Her hand rests on your shoulder as she looks into your eyes. Your annoyance is quickly replaced with worry as it immediately overtakes your features. “There you are! I am so sorry, but I need to leave.” Your cousin says.

“What? Why? Is everything okay?” You ask, quickly scanning her for any physical injuries. “Everything is okay! It’s just that I got a call from the non-profit I was working with, and they need me to come in immediately.”

Non-profit? Working with?

“What? You don’t–”, She gives you a look that causes a realization to wash over you. She’s lying to make a good impression. With a roll of your eyes, you clear your throat to look back at Gojo but find that he is already fixated on something. Or more like someone.

Your cousin. The look on his face causes a sinking feeling to settle in your stomach. “Hey.” He says.

“Gojo, this is my cousin.” You tell him her name before continuing, “We grew up together.”

Your cousin barely glances at Gojo before realization dawns on her about who he is, and a flirty smile graces her features. “Oh, hi. Nice to meet you.” She says, before slipping back into a false indifference. Gojo’s eyes never leave her figure, but your cousin has a game to play, and it’s her favorite one. Unfortunately for Gojo, he’s playing right into it.

“One of the volunteers at the homeless shelter I help out at, just called in sick. So I need to go.” She begins to walk away, but Gojo stops her before she can. “You know, I volunteer too.”

“That’s cool," she says before turning to you and perking up again, “I have to stop by the store to buy some games for the kids, okay?” You couldn’t believe her. Her head tilted to one side while listening to him, a hidden sheen of interest coated her eyes.

You think you might have to kill yourself after this.

Gojo’s eyebrows raise once again in a curious manner, “You two…live together?”

“If by living together, you mean she free-loads, then yeah! We live together.” That earns you a gentle elbow in the stomach. “How can I get in touch with you?” He persists with an unrelenting stare.

“Oh…Gojo…It’s Gojo, right?” You feel your eyes roll involuntarily,” I’m sorry I’ve tried the whole ‘dating an athlete thing, and…it’s not my thing. But it was really nice talking to you.” She turns to you once again, and you swear you see a menacing glint in her eye. “Are you ready?”

To jump off a cliff? Absolutely.

Your cousin walks away, and anger overtakes your entire body. You turn to look at Gojo, and deflate at how his attention is solely on her, and the way she confidently walks away, catching the eyes of many men. Unaware of the attention you hinder as well.

You feel sick to your stomach. You should’ve asked the bartender for a round of shots.

Gojo’s friends watch as you walk away with interest in their eyes. “You know, the objective is not to make them leave.” Geto speaks up. Entranced by you.

But Gojo’s eyes stay focused elsewhere, before looking at Geto, “I think this worked out just great.” He trails off.

“What the hell was that back there?” You interrogate in a tight voice as soon as you shut the car door. “Oh. Come on.” The tone of her voice has you reeling back. You watch in disbelief as your cousin reapplies her lipstick through your car vanity mirror. She pops her lips before continuing, “Was he looking at me when I walked away?” Her eyes shine with a gleam of deviltry.

A scoff leaves your lips, and you look away from her. “Yes, he was.” Sadly. “You do realize, you don’t work—let alone volunteer—for a homeless shelter, right?”

“Obviously,” she counters, “But he seemed like the kind to fall for that kind of stuff. So I gave it to him, and it worked. I won’t even need to work a job anymore when I get to live in this big house.” Her hands gesture back to the direction of Gojo’s house before continuing to fix her makeup.

“You don’t even work a job now.” You emphasize with raised eyebrows, and a tilt in your head. “Besides, you rejected him.”

“Yeah,” your cousin responds in a ‘duh’ tone, “That’s probably the first time that’s ever happened since…forever. Trust me…” She trails off while fixing her hair, “I’ll be hearing from him.”

And she did.

The next morning you’re almost leaving your apartment for work when you hear a knock, and find a well dressed Gojo before your eyes. You raise a questioning eyebrow at the sight of his presence.

He eyes you for a little before clearing his throat. “Is your cousin here?” A hesitant tone overtakes his features, studying you for a reaction.

Your heart threatens to drop, but you clear your head before it can. “Yeah.” You respond somberly before continuing, “She’s in her room. I’ll go get her.” You turn around to fetch your cousin but pause mid-turn as a sudden question sweeps into your head. You turn to face him once again in clear confusion.

“How did you know I lived here?” You ask skeptically. Gojo grins confidently, a lazy smile gracing his features, “I know people.”

“That’s reassuring.” You drift away from him after curtly inviting him inside your home, and you watch as he studies your cozy apartment. Zero-ing in on the personal pictures of you you’ve hung up on your bookshelf. A faint hum comes out of him as he studies your pictures intently, memorizing them.

“Aren’t you nosy.” You quip at him teasingly. He turns to look at you with a playful expression. “Well, I find you interesting.”

“Well not interesting enough,” you say, muttering to yourself. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” You say walking away from him to get your cousin.

Everything took off from there. One dinner turned into two, then three, and then more than you could count on two hands. It’s like their love came easy for them, and you could tell by the countless tabloids covering their every move.

From Gojo’s ravenous yacht dates with your cousin, to endless shopping sprees. Everyday a new magazine feature was released to keep the public updated on their love story. But you didn’t need to read them to know how good they were to one another. You could tell by the way they’d gaze at each other, more on Gojo’s part.

She’d come home countless times, with something new to share. Whether it was a new expensive necklace Gojo had bought her, or he took her overseas on a spontaneous trip. You sat there and took it. You were helpless, and all you could do was blindly support her. Encourage their relationship.

And Gojo? He became unstoppable. It was impossible to believe how much better his life got—considering how great it already was. He was amazing on the court, and off the court (so you’ve heard). Your cousin got her wish granted. She could finally sit in the basketball wives section, sporting a new exclusive purse every game. She got the brand deals she always wanted, and a feature on a well known magazine. The paparazzi were so obsessed with them. Oftentimes photographing them on outings, whether it was an exclusive club, or a sweet night out together.

Headlines often portrayed their relationship as anything short of wonderful.

“PACKING IT IN: Gojo Satoru ushers his precious girlfriend into his Mercedes after spending an exhaustive day buying up boutique Manhattan.”

“LOOK OUT!: Gojo Satoru and girlfriend share a sweet kiss at a beach in Bora Bora.”

She got everything she ever wanted, and Gojo wasn’t an exception.

At first it felt like you were drowning. Like you couldn’t escape them, but then acceptance began to settle in.

You were aware of your brief interaction with Gojo. Though it felt like more than that, you realize maybe you’d jump the gun too fast. The way you both clicked that night, maybe you’d imagined his interest in you. Maybe you’d wish so badly for it that it twisted your reality of things. You’d wished to have swept him away the way your cousin did. It hurt to see the man you’d ever truly had a faint interest in slowly fall in love with your cousin. They were just so in love. At least, he thought he was.

But it didn’t matter anyway, it’s not like you knew the guy–beyond just a conversation that lasted hours. Vulnerability leaving you both bare to one another. Gojo wasn’t yours. And now he’ll never be.

You weren’t bitter. No. On the contrary, at first you were upset—granted—, but then you were happy for her. How could you be bitter? You had your own thing going on. It was going to take far more than this to hurt you. Besides, you could just avoid Gojo Satoru, right?

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hitlikehammers · 4 months

Text

feels like home

rating: t ♥️ cw: coming out, softness, recovering from the upside down ♥️ tags: pre-relationship, post-s4, fluff, hurt/comfort, Eddie is having many feelings, the main one being that Steve feels like home, platonic stobbin, supportive platonic soulmates coming out so Eddie feels safe to do the same, injury recovery, still-so-soft

for @steddielovemonth day seventeen: Love is about a hand reaching out to you so you don't get lost (@yournowheregirl)

this definitely takes place chronologically after this one so: have some of these codependent lovebirds as they start to figure their big feelings out ♥️

It’s weird, and probably unhealthy, that his hospital room—like this—feels kinda like home.

But he thinks it’s okay, to be fair, because it’s not like he thinks this place is home; the smell of antiseptic is still pretty sharp in the air even as he’s gotten disconnected from one machine, drip, or monitor every day until he’s largely free to toddle to the bathroom on his own as long as there’s someone to watch and make sure he doesn’t fall. Wayne’s there for that when he can be, which explains the home associations, but: the rest of the time, in fact—kinda more often than it isn’t?

It’s Steve.

And Eddie struck a deal with himself—no digging in to the fluttery-gooey-warm-chest-squeezy feelings while he’s laid up in a bed—but when he walks around even under supervision, it’s…feeling like he’s cheating.

Plus the feelings are getting kinda…kinda loud.

Because Steve is always there, sometimes he ever stays when Wayne comes, at least for a while. He leaves to keep an eye on the Party, leaves to check up on Max, hits the community hub: but it’s…it’s such a blip of time, honestly, in comparison to being here, with Eddie.

And when he’s gone, it doesn’t…it doesn’t feel at all like home, it feels kinda fucking horrible, so.

Eddie doesn’t even actually have to dig in to that train of thought. It’s pretty fucking clear as-is.

He’s surfacing from kind of, like, a light doze, not even a full on nap, and he’s gentle with the coming-to of it because he can kinda, like, feel Steve’s presence at his side and he’s talking really low anyway, even if he couldn’t, so Eddie definitely knows it’s him, and he could have guessed the other visitor pretty easy even if it wasn’t her voice that was the first to bleed through with actual words:

“She’s,” Robin makes a little stifled whine; “you’ve seen her.”

“Not my type but,” Steve’s saying from next to Eddie; “ I see your point, yeah.”

“She’s like a,” Robin’s voice goes kinda hazy, a little dreamy; “like a fairy creature, or! Or like a prairie woman with those, those hats—“

“A prairie woman who likes boobi—“

“Stop!” Robin hisses low, and Eddie can feel her knock his mattress a little, she must lean over like she wants to enforce her will somehow: “stop stop stop—“

“If you can’t say it you probably shouldn’t be touchin—“ Steve’s saying and god, his voice is so bitching, and Eddie think he kinda fucking lov—

Oh. Oh, well. Shit.

“I’m not touching!” Robin moans, but kinda frantic with it; “the problem is I am not touching!”

And Eddie, too, is not touching the thought he just had about those four fucking letters that are, that, that are—

“Also it’s a gross, immature word,” Robin’s going on and…oh.

Oh.

Okay, so like: even if he’s just kinda in that liminal space of awareness, they have to know he’s more awake than not; his two remaining monitors are different even when he’s calm and just resting, but as the words themselves sink in, now? His heartbeat’s betraying the hell out of him for the staccato it’s pinging on the screen as he processes it: Robin’s showing her cards, though Eddie’d always figured she might be a bird of his feather, but, like—

“Is it though?” Steve’s murmuring low and so, so judgmental; “seems more immature to not say it at all,” and he, he fucking tsks at her, then, and, and—

And then—

Then Steve’s saying words that make no sense at all, like: sure they’re words. In English. Eddie’s very sure of it. So that means he should definitely comprehend them. But…

“You should listen to me, Robs, seriously. I do still like boobies, too. I have insights.”

And Eddie—Eddie’s eyes fly open, he thinks out of shock? That makes the most sense, like he’s startled into full-wakefulness, that tracks as he blinks up at the water-stainer ceiling with his heart in his throat as he tries to find sense in those words, fails, tries again, fucking fails, all as the Corsican Twins cackle over word choice, good god, and then—

“Hey.”

Steve’s grabbing his hand at the wrist and covering it so gently, fucking…cradles it and stories his thumb over the insistent tap of his pulse and meets his eyes, so wide and honest and earnest and if Eddie’s heart wasn’t already primed toward racing it sure as shit would have started just with those eyes on him, and that touch on him, and:

“You okay, man?” and it’s so simple, and Eddie doesn’t fucking know what’s happening on his face, what kind of of shock or terror or something deeper still is seeping from his expression but Steve’s studying him, watching for long seconds that stretch for-fucking-everbefore his jaw squares and his head tiles, something resolute shining through in him and he moves so slowly, lifts Eddie’s hand in his so slowly and Eddie doesn’t even wholly clock what’s happening, let alone that it’s real, as Steve fucking pauses their hands by his lips, so Eddie can feel his breath so warm and he watches, then, waits, and Eddie doesn’t think through what it means when he nods, like it’s not actually a legitimate thought, exactly, he just knows that, that—

Whatever’s happening, and however terrified he thinks he is: he can trust Steve.

Because somehow: Steve’s home.

It’s still fucking earth-shattering when Steve does lean, when his lips brush against the heel of Eddie’s palm, still scrape-covered, and then he reaches just as slow again for Eddie’s cheek to cup, to fucking cradle that, too, and Jesus H. Goddamn Christ—

“You’re safe, Eddie,” is all he says and maybe, maybe Eddie’s reading into it way beyond what he should, but like, it doesn’t feel like Steve’s telling him he’s safe maybe from the lingering threads of a nightmare, or that he’s safe from the government, from the cops, or from the Upside Down coming for them because they all know it’s still fucking coming but Eddie has felt scared of it once, yet, not like this, not here, with—

But Steve’s tone doesn’t just hold that: it’s bigger. He means…

They had to know he wasn’t really asleep, and so, Eddie, Eddie thinks Steve means…

Yeah.

Fuck.

“You’re outta water,” Steve’s saying and Eddie didn’t even notice he’d been reading to pour Eddie a glass from the ever-present pitcher at his bedside then he’s standing, his hand leaving and fuck all if Eddie doesn’t lean into it before he can think twice but Steve just smiles, soft, as he walks out the door.

“We talked about it.”

He turns to Robin almost violently, head kinda snapping her direction with the speed and force he moves with.

“We weren’t gonna hide it from you, but like,” she mashes her lips together, Eddie can see she’s trying to find a way forward with the least possible rambling, but the clearest possible throughway so she can get what she needs to say out, before Steve comes back.

“You shouldn’t feel like you have to,” she hums a little; “be that, you know, open? With us, if you don’t want to,” her eyes are so big and sincere, and Eddie’s pulse is steadying if only slowing by a fraction, but she does help put him at ease, even as she trips a little over the rest: “if you had any thing that was, y’know, kinda private or, something,” she nods to herself and plays with the hem of her shirt: “yeah.”

Eddie nods to himself, and…he can’t, he can’t not ask her, not in this window, because she said they’d talked and if this wasn’t part of it she loves Steve fierce and he could be still a little fresh off death’s door, she’ll still tell him to fuck off if she needs to, so at least there’s that, at least he knows, like, he won’t be allowed to step where he’s not welcome, and—

“I’m,” and fuck, his voice is a mess, he does need a fucking drink but in the absence of one at hand, he clears his throat hard and accepts that consequences of it burning like hell; “he, umm,” Eddie bits his lip and gestures toward the empty door, eyes Robin kinda pitifully: “he said—“

Robin, thank fuck: Robin is merciful, has to see where he’s going, here, and she points to the doorway indicative of who isn’t in it, yet:

“Very both,” she says simply, then point to herself: “very…”

“Boobies?” Eddie suggests and Robin, she just groans.

“Not you too,” and…okay, shit, umm, well—

Eddie… maybe Eddie can be brave. Like, in small doses.

“Actually, ah, I,” he stumbled but then he makes himself take a breath, makes himself try:

“No, not me too,” he says in a rush and looks up at her through his lashes, so fucking vulnerable: “like, very specifically not, me too.”

And she smiles at him so warm and…like, almost welcoming, which is weird but feels, nice? And she pats his arm kinda affectionately and, just—

“Did you decide to take me up on my wisdom so we can actually accept she’s almost definitely into you, and move on to planning your wedding?” Steve slides back in and shuts the door behind him, getting to pouring Eddie some water before he even sits the fuck down.

His fingers brush Eddie’s as he passes it off and, it probably shouldn’t make Eddie all tingly, Steve did kinda kiss his hand? Like, a little?

But that don’t mean shit: Eddie’s all pins and needles and, like, sparkles.

“He’s the only help you’ve got here, Buckley,” Eddie screws his courage up one more time because…because Steve needs to know, too; Eddie wouldn’t put Robin in the position of not knowing whether she can tell her platonic soulmate something, make her keep a secret even by implication but so much bigger that that is, are—

All the things he doesn’t want to poke at, or dig up and examine, that he’s dodging on the excuse of convalescence: all those things taken into account: he trusts Steve. He feels…so much for Steve already, and he feels weirdly sure that whatever happens next, those feelings are only gonna find ways to grow, so—

Steve has to know, not just because Eddie thinks he suspects it, but because Eddie tells him—because it’s….’cause it’s Steve.

“Feels like it’d be foolish not to take the man up on the offer when he’s definitely the expert in the room,” Eddie pushes on, awkward but determined; “seeing as I don’t, umm, know about,” and his eyes flicker to Robin for a second, before they land on Steve to finish:

“About boobies.”

And Steve does say anything, doesn’t look any way save how he’d looked before: calm, and mostly-relaxed, and right next to Eddie, and Eddie’s eyes drop from Steve’s face and find the collar of his shirt, the peak of hair from in between and, shit, shit, he’s talking about tits and then there’s Steve’s chest hair and holy fucking wow he is staring:

“Umm, I mean,” and fucking fuck, now he’s talking—

“Like, not that kind, at least,” and then he forces his eyes down to the sheets over his lap and considers if it’s possible to dissolve into cotton if it’s startchy and uncomfortable as shit, and you happen to be mortified enough to sink into the fucking threads.

But then; then there’s Steve.

Because of fucking course there’s Steve.

And Steve?

Steve takes his cup from him when he could easily have leaned to put it down himself, but then Steve replaces the cup in Eddie’s grip with his own warm hand, like a tether, like a lifeline, like a…

Like a promise.

And when the conversation turns toward strategizing Robin’s approach for Vickie, Eddie’s, he, he just…

He’s home, y’know?

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

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leighsartworks216 · 9 months

Text

I Come With Knives

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I am not tagging anybody in this because this fic deals with very heavy subjects and I don't want to force anybody into that unexpectedly.

Title comes from "I Come With Knives" by IAMX

Warnings: blood, injury, blood drinking, mentions of past abuse (not explicit), mentions of emotinal/psychological abuse, mentions of (emotional) manipulation, self-inflicted injury (somewhat vague in description), trauma, slavery mention, angst with a dash of fluff here and there

If I need to add more PLEASE let me know

Word Count: 2,025

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

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The moment you laid eyes on him, you knew what he was. Even in the sunlight, those crimson eyes, the fangs, the bite marks. There was no denying it. But he never said anything about it, never brought it up, nor did he eat in front of you - so you let it lie.

You weren’t a vampire, fortunately, but unfortunately you’d been… a slave… to one. You toss and turn at night, imagining you’re back in her arms. Writhing under her, light fading as she drinks too much in her anger. How she coos and cuddles you afterward, urging water and fruit into your mouth as you cling to her. You wake up nauseous and panting, cold sweat sticking to your skin.

“Bad dream?”

You whipped around, the dagger you kept under your pillow aimed at the owner of the voice. Astarion chuckled, hands raised to show he was unarmed. You sighed and dropped your weapon.

“A really bad dream, then, or are you always so quick on the draw?”

You stay quiet and wipe the sweat off your brow and upper lip. There was a stream nearby… but the thought of being alone out here at night terrified you. Sleeping out in the open with another vampire mere feet away was bad enough.

But there was nothing else you could do now to distract your mind. Her eyes, her smile were burned into your every thought, taunting you, beckoning you back to her.

“I dreamt of my master,” you admit. His eyes squint with intrigue. You feel bile in the back of your throat. “She haunts me every time I close my eyes. I can’t get rid of her.”

He hums, contemplative. “When you say ‘master’...”

You hum, thinking you knew precisely what he was going to say. “She’s probably not too different from yours.”

All at once, he shuts down. The playful, charismatic aura about him turns to stone in a heartbeat. His voice is sour and sharp when he speaks, like a snake’s hiss. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then pretend I said nothing, but you’re not exactly trying to hide what you are.”

He opens his mouth, fangs prominent, but the conversation is cut short when someone shifts in their bedroll. You both watch, waiting for the still silence to return. Even once it does, he says nothing.

“Goodnight, Astarion.” You tuck your dagger back under your pillow and lay back down, tugging the blanket up and over your neck. He catches a glimpse of puncture wounds before they’re hidden away once more.

It’s almost noon the next day when he brings it up. Shadowheart and Gale forge ahead, chatting idly about their goddesses. When he sidles up beside you, you wait for him to speak.

“I thought I was being subtle.” It’s light, almost a pout. He doesn’t want to scrape past the surface just yet.

“The fangs and eyes could be excused, if you weren’t an elf. But I’d recognize a scar like that anywhere.” You look at him from the corner of your eye. “And the jokes were a little on the nose.”

His lip quirks up. He looks at you appraisingly, sizing you up. “You have the same scar,” he pointed out. You looked straight ahead again. He looked too… pleased with himself for noticing. “No wonder you wear a high collar - it looks deep.”

“I…” you swallow. Thinking about her makes you so flustered. It’s hard to find words when just thinking about it placed a boulder in your gut. “I was her personal blood supply. Every night, she…”

You don’t see the way his face softens. Haughty superiority replaced with a sort of sorrow. Empathy.

“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it.”

Leaves brush up against each other around you with the coming and going of a cool breeze. The only other sound besides the conversation up ahead was the sound of boots stepping on dirt and over branches. You focus on it all, desperate to distract your mind.

Astarion clears his throat. “Your form is lousy, by the way.”

You turn and stare at him as though he’d sprouted a second head.

He pretended to study his nails. “When you threatened me last night, your grip was sloppy. And you’d never be able to land a solid blow, not without breaking your wrist first. Threatening an enemy is only as good as your ability to act on it.”

“So my form was like an empty threat?”

He grinned at you like you were a child grasping the alphabet for the first time. “Precisely.”

“And I assume you’d be the one to teach me how to improve?”

“Darling, there’s no one better. I would be willing to give you a pointer or two. If you ask nicely.”

You smiled despite yourself. And later, back at camp, you said please and he showed you everything you needed to know to defend yourself.

The stars glisten overhead. Each twinkle is a secret shared between them. A whisper of gossip. You can almost imagine what it would sound like - the tinkling of bells, the soft clink of porcelain.

Astarion purposefully makes his steps louder so you don’t startle when his face pops into your vision. The bags under his eyes seem deeper. His cheeks more hollowed than usual, skin sickly white instead of simply pale. He nudges his head toward the forest, and waits impatiently as you stand to follow.

Long strides carry him quickly through the underbrush, you’re nearly jogging to keep up. And suddenly he stops, ways enough from camp that talking wouldn’t wake anybody up.

He paces, almost frantic. “I don’t know who else to come to for this. The others already don’t trust me - they’d kill me before showing an ounce of kindness.”

“Astarion, what are you talking about?”

He groans and comes to a stop in front of you. His eyes are crazed and starved and apologetic. “I’m hungry,” he finally quietly admits. He takes a step back when he sees the microexpressions in your face. The way your eyes become distant and sharp. At the same time as your mind wanders to your master, you were searching him for any signs of danger. “I know what you’ve been through, but I can’t keep slinking off to eat squirrels and boar - it’s not enough, not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak. I’m open to suggestions, darling, really. I’d much rather not latch onto an old scab.”

When he says it, you turn your head away to hide that side of your neck. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. He can hear your heart racing in your chest. He’s worried for a moment that you’ll pass out. But he waits, as patient as a starving vampire can be, while you think. He makes no move forward, no efforts to reach toward you or grab you.

If eating animals couldn’t satisfy him enough, then only bigger prey would. Your mind jumps to shout “HUMAN” in your ear, but then you’re reminded of the bodies left in your wake. With each encounter, all manner of unsavory types were abandoned, left to rot and decay.

“T- The goblins? Could you eat those?”

He huffs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Well, yes, but there’s a startling lack of them for at least a mile down the road. With your permission, I’d be more than happy to eat my fill after a fight - even during, should it come to that. But if I have to fight tomorrow like- like this,” he gestures to himself, but his voice chokes before he can describe what may happen. He sighs.

The moon watches silently as you struggle against yourself. The stars whisper vitriol to each other, giggling as you clench and unclench your fists. You could do it. You could help him, right now. But just thinking about his mouth on your neck-

You swallow. “I may have an idea. I- I don’t know how well it’ll work, but…”

“I’m all pointy ears, darling.”

You stumble over your words, trying and failing to explain your thoughts. Eventually, you huff in annoyance with yourself and tell him to wait there, before disappearing back in the woods towards camp. You grab your dagger from beneath the pillow, an empty bottle you found, and a roll of bandages.

He frowns when he sees what you’ve returned with. “What are you doing with all that?”

You shove the roll of bandages towards him and he takes them, unwilling to upset you further when your face was set with such determination. You hold the bottle under your arm and steady your blade against your hand.

“Darling, what-”

The smell of blood hits him like a tidal wave. He can’t tear his eyes away. Something animalistic inside of him wants to lunge for a drink; it takes every ounce of his willpower not to.

You uncork the bottle with your teeth and line the dripping blood up with the whole. With a squeeze and a whimper, blood begins to fill the container. The drip slows when the bottle is halfway full. Even for a small jar, it’s impressive. You hold it out for him to take, a slight tremor in your fingertips. “Drink it.”

He can’t argue. He can barely form the words to say anything. All he can think about is the sanguine fluid presented to him. He licks a stray drip trailing down the side of the bottle with a sigh. So sweet. So warm. Thick and rich, not some watered down rancid rat’s blood. He’s groaning as he tips it back, gulping every last drop down.

In his distraction, you pull the bandage from his hand. It takes no effort at all. You wrap a section around your hand.

Astarion sighs long and low when he finishes. His eyes are closed, savoring the taste on his tongue. “That was…” He huffs with a smile, fangs bared and tinted with your blood. When the daze of hunger passes, his eyes find you.

You tried repeatedly to hold the bandage in place, pinning it between the back of your hand and your stomach, trying to hold onto it with your fingers, even trying to use your teeth. It falls each time. You’re careful not to let it hit the ground. You had enough to worry about - best not add infection to the list. Pale hands stop you before you can try again.

You startle away at first. His fingers barely wrap around your wrist, making no effort to hold you in place, only to hold you steady. His other hand takes hold of the bandage.

“May I?” It’s deep, almost seductive. He has a smirk on his face again. Already his skin is gaining the slightest tint of color; his eyes don’t look as tired. “It’s the least I could do.”

Everything inside of you tells you to run away. He’s too close. One quick movement while you’re off guard and he could drain you dry. He could hurt you. Your dagger is abandoned on the ground, dirt sticking to the wet blood along its edge as it waits to be cleaned. You’re defenseless.

With the barest nod, he gets to work. Nimble fingers wrap the cloth securely and tie it off on the back of your hand, out of the way so you can still hold onto things. He guides your hand to his mouth and you’re scared he’ll tear the bandage off and dig his teeth and tongue into the cut, but all he does is place a small kiss over it.

“This is a gift, you know,” he whispers, eyes half-lidded not with lust - but something reminiscent of it. A poor imitation. “I won’t forget it.”

He lets go of your hand. With a smile - too devious to be genuine - he slips back into the woods.

Her eyes don’t haunt you in your dreams that night. Her mouth doesn’t curl around contempt and honeyed words. All you see is him. His eyes staring through thick lashes into yours as his lips place a feathered kiss on your hand.

#fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion & tav #astarion & rrader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #i come with knives

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couldyouimagine-that · 5 months

Text

Shattered Glass

Genre; hurt/comfort, fluff

Word count; 2.1k

Warnings; mention of nightmares, talk of injuries (reader removes glass from Lucifer’s wing, not explicitly described)

Pairing; Lucifer (Supernatural) x Reader

Lucifer goes to the reader for help with an injured wing and the reader shows him some kindness despite everything. Lucifer makes an attempt at reciprocating it.

This is the longest piece I’ve written in a while and I had a lot of fun writing it. Enjoy!

Masterlist

You were laying on top of your bed in the bunker, a drink in hand and trying to read something to distract yourself from everything which was going on. It was easier said than done, but you were planning on going to sleep soon and you wanted to calm yourself first to have the best chance of getting actual rest, rather than just a series of nightmares. Too many times had you ended up alone in the kitchen at some ungodly hour wishing your brain would stop sabotaging you. But not tonight; you had decided.

A knock at your door interrupted your efforts, though you assumed it was nothing dire from the lack of urgency. You called out that it was okay to come in, expecting Dean or Sam, or even Castiel at a stretch. What you got was Lucifer.

He offered a slightly sheepish grin as you sat up, book forgotten and mouth open slightly in shock. He slid through the open door and closed it behind him, leaning back against it and keeping a hand on the handle. You blinked a few times, mind whirring as you tried to decide what was going on.

“Can I help you?” You settled on at length when he made no move to speak. His gaze on you was intense, his jaw tightening.

“Actually, yes. See I have this problem.” You stayed still as he began to walk over to you, steps slow and hands clearly devoid of weaponry. Not that he would need any, but it was at least slightly reassuring. “When we were fighting those demons earlier, I used my grace to torch the last few. Remember?” You nodded that you did. “Well, when I use my grace, my wings manifest in shadow. And that’s usually fine.”

By this point, he was standing right next to your bed. You had to crane your neck to look up at him and found that his eyes were still locked on yours. He made a sweeping gesture with the hand closest to your bed.

“May I?” You thought rapidly, but with no knowledge of what this was about, you had no idea what was for the best. You ended up just scooting back a little to give him more space, though you were sure you should have simply kicked him out by now. Dean would be running for the archangel blade right that second if he knew. But he didn’t, and the light smile Lucifer offered you in thanks was not what you had been expecting. “This time though – well, it’s such a small thing it’s stupid.” You stayed quiet, watching him deliberate on what to say next. Thinking about why he was trying to avoid saying what he actually came here to say. Was he nervous? He took in sharp breath, muttering, “Right, just get it out.” Then, louder, “My power shattered a few windows behind me when I had my wings out. Some of the glass got stuck at the base of one of them and I can’t get it out myself, and I can't heal it while it's still in there.” He looked at you expectantly, lips tight. You felt your eyes narrow a little in response, assessing him.

“And you want me to get it out?” He spread his hands in a motion you would have said meant thank god coming from any other being.

“Finally. Would you? You know what Sam and Dean are like. And Cassie, well… I just don’t think he would.”

Your jaw worked for a moment as you watched him. For you to do any kind of first aid on his wings, he would have to manifest them fully, which you didn’t even know was a possibility. You had spoken to Castiel about an angel’s wings more than once and from your conversations, you knew they were sacred. You were sure Lucifer wouldn’t treat his own wings carelessly, which meant that showing them to anyone, let alone allowing someone to touch them, required a great deal of trust. Even if this was the Devil who you were dealing with. You couldn’t help but wonder why he had chosen to trust you. He raised his eyebrows to encourage an answer when you didn’t immediately give him one. Still more than a little confused, you started nodding.

“Okay. I can do that.” You spoke slowly, but he seemed more than eager to just get it over with.

He offered you a cocky smirk that you were now certain was fake, before he turned away from you. You watched as he dropped his button up from his shoulders then pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his back to you. Your gaze traced along the contours of his back and shoulders somewhat absently, until he glanced over at you.

“Get out of the way, I don’t want to knock you out.”

That was all the warning you got as blinding angelic light filled the room, leaving your eyes smarting. You squinted heavily, failing to regain your ability to see when you heard an exasperated sigh and felt a light, fleeting pressure on your forehead. Your vision cleared instantaneously, in time to see Lucifer’s retreating hand and then – his wings. They were pure white, near perfectly kempt in spite of everything he had been through and impossibly huge. You were sure you had gasped, barely able to comprehend that they practically reached across the whole room. The end primaries curved powerfully, almost as long as you were tall. And they looked heavy, but they melded seamlessly with Lucifer’s back and he seemed not to notice their weight at all. He felt the mattress shift as you kneeled behind him speechlessly, and he drummed his fingers sharply on the bedframe.

“Come on, Y/N, daylight’s wasting. Things to do-”

“They’re beautiful.” His frown was heavy. Your voice had been soft, filled with a quiet wonder he didn’t think he had ever heard from you. The weight of your gaze on him felt like a physical pressure, one he wanted to disrupt.

“They’re what?” His words were harsh as he turned to look at you, but you didn’t seem to care.

“Can I touch them?” Your eyes met his and there was that stupid soft voice again. He should have tried his luck with Castiel, he thought irritably as he turned his back to you once more, presenting silent permission. But your touch didn’t alight on the bloody base of the injured wing. Instead, you ran your fingertips along the top edge of the other one, your touch sickeningly light. He actually bared his teeth with the effort it took not to shudder, swearing at himself silently. He was the Devil! He had lived for eons, he had survived everything that had ever been. And here he was, reduced to nothing by simple touch.

Your hand returned to the muscle near the base of his wing, your movements growing more confident. You lightly wound your fingers between the shorter coverts until your nails grazed the skin beneath, combing your fingers downwards like you would through someone’s hair. And you stopped short at the clipped, low noise Lucifer emitted. Your hands flew to his shoulders on instinct as you leaned forwards to see his face.

“Oh my god I’m sorry, did I hurt-”

You froze yet again, this time in surprise. He met your eyes with a lidded gaze, his chest heaving. He actually had to swallow before he could speak.

“They’re sensitive,” Lucifer ground out, cursing everything in all of creation for the situation he had put himself in, the weakness he had shown to you. You, a human of all things! At least if Castiel had agreed to help, he would have just gotten the job done and left. Or left the glass in place, Lucifer supposed. That was an option too.

You suddenly seemed to realised that you had your hands on his bare shoulders and you lifted them quickly, shrinking back a little. You looked unsure of yourself.

“Sorry, I – I’ll just get on with it. Sorry.” Your words were mumbled as you ducked behind his back and out of the way of his eyes. A few minutes ago, you would have been surprised by how minor the wound was. You would have been more surprised by the hiss which issued forth when you fished out the few small pieces of glass, but you understood now how much it had to have hurt. Uncertain yet again, you laid a flat palm to the area above the injury.

“That’s it, you’re done,” you told him, and immediately a little bit of that angelic light shone around the wound. When it was gone, so was the blood and the damage.

A beat passed. Your hand was still on his wing and he hadn’t moved yet, and neither one of you wanted to speak. It was on impulse and at the risk of a slow, painful death that you cautiously moved your touch back up to the leading edge of his wing. You couldn't help but be enraptured. Your fingers curled over the top and applied a gentle pressure as you ran your hand along in the direction of the feathers, their soft give like the cool scales of a serpent. The whole wing jolted when you reached the joint halfway down, and you could feel the outline of the lightweight bones which held so much power. Transfixed as you were, you had forgotten exactly what was sitting in front of you.

Lucifer’s wings snapped tight to his back as he stood without warning, and you threw yourself backwards to avoid getting hit in the face.

“Enough,” he warned, though his voice was ragged. He flicked a hand and the bloodied glass you were still holding vanished, leaving you to slowly sit up from where you had caught your weight on your elbows. He snatched up his clothes and made for the door without another word, but you scrambled to follow.

“Lucifer, wait,” you tried, struggling to cross the room before he reached the hallway. You laid a careful hand against his back before he could leave, over the ridge of his spine. Nowhere near his wings. And for the moment, at least, he paused. “You know I won’t use this against you,” you breathed, nervous of the implied loyalty behind your words in spite of everything he had done. “Right?” You couldn’t help feeling a little sick when he didn’t answer. Even though it was Lucifer, even though he had killed and tortured and tormented for longer than you could comprehend, he had needed help, and he had trusted you enough to make himself vulnerable to you in order to get it. You didn’t want him to leave thinking you would throw something like that back in his face, no matter what he had done.

When he still didn’t speak, you made yet another decision that you were sure would have bad consequences and leaned forward to wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back in the space between his wings. They drew in tighter still, stiffness radiating from them.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

You went to move back but his hand caught your arms before you could. He felt sure that you would betray him when the time came, but right now, you were the one in danger. You had no weapon that could harm him and you were trying to show him trust in return for his own. A human taking a risk like that with him, he could appreciate.

Lucifer angled a wing over your head so he could turn to face you, his arms encircling your shoulders and upper back and holding you to him. He knew you were being sincere, so for once he just let himself enjoy the moment. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had wanted to be so close to him in such a soft capacity, if it had ever happened when the other person had known who he truly was. You were nervous, yes, but you slowly relaxed into his hold and he allowed his wings to stretch out to a more natural resting position in turn. It was when he realised that your eyes were closed and you were leaning your bodyweight against him that he decided it was time to go.

You almost face planted into the ground when the archangel simply ceased to be present, barely catching yourself against the door. A brief jolt of fear shot through you when you thought over what you had done, but you quickly decided - or at least hoped - that it wouldn't matter too much in the long run.

#supernatural lucifer x reader #spn lucifer x reader #supernatural lucifer #spn lucifer #spn fanfic #spnfamily #spnfandom #supernatural #supernatural reader insert #lucifer

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mcntsee · 4 months

Text

— ★ trojan horse.

↳ summary: Task force has finally tracked Makarov down to London.

↳ warnings: Not proof read. Violence, blood, description of injuries, death(s), weapons, language, mentions of smoking, some suggestive content but nothing explicit. Slight ooc Ghost and one use of “y/n”.

↳ note: Reader’s call sign is “Zero”.

↳ author’s note: I refuse to let Soap die. In my mind, he is alive and happy, so that’s what I am doing. While writing this I really liked it, then I didn’t, then I did and now I’m not sure.

“Smokin’, Johnny?” Ghost’s gravelly, low tone resonated in her ears, breaking her concentration, her heart skipping a beat at the unexpected interruption, her grip tightening on the rifle. “Blending in, L.T."

Despite the tension of the mission, a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “If ya say so..”

Zero allowed her gaze to glide through the sniper scope, tracing the scene where Soap stood, cigarette in hand, while Gaz extended a lighter to ignite Soap's smoke.

A gentle crackle emanated from the earpiece nestled snugly in her ear, a precursor to Price’s voice that followed soon after, “Zero, how copy?"

“Go ahead."

“Status on the target?"

She let her gaze return to the target, leaving the image of Soap smoking behind, before responding, “Seems our mate’s on the move. Finish up that smoke and get movin’."

Her eyes tracked the target's movements, ready to advise Soap to wait and blend in when the target stopped to tie her shoes. However, before she could speak, Ghost's voice crackled through the comms once more. “Wait. She's tyin' 'er shoe, likely checkin' if she's bein' followed.”

Zero’s gaze swiftly scanned the surroundings, her sharp eyes catching sight of a dog nearby. "Cute dog, eh, Soap?" she remarked over the comms, watching as Soap leaned down to pet the dog, his praises flowing as he stroked its fur.

Before long, the target resumed her movement, with Soap's careful steps tracing behind her, before coming to a complete stop by the kiosk, eavesdropping on her conversation.

“She made a dead drop for a buyer. Flash drive. Alley between Bistro 43 and Tea Cafe."

As soon as those words left his mouth, Zero sprang into action, swift steps descending from the building's rooftop as she made her way to the CCTV room.

"No sign of Konni. Must've already left.” Ghost's voice greeted her as she opened the room's door, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him and his back turned toward her. “Good. Scrub the footage for anyone leaving the alley, 0–7."

She approached him slowly, her steps light so as not to distract him. Once within arm's reach, she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, massaging the knots she found there until the image on the screen caught her attention.

"There," she said, her finger extending as she leaned forward and pointed at the Konni. With a quick nod from Ghost, his voice graced her ears again, "Found ‘im."

Their eyes tracked the figure on the screen until eventually he disappeared into the tunnel, and they lost visual.

They exchanged a knowing glance, the voices of their teammates fading into the background as they locked eyes with each other. Carefully, she reached up, cutting off her mic in an attempt to have a private conversation with her lieutenant, who mirrored her actions soon after. "You reckon we found 'im?"

His hand came up to caress her cheek. "I would 'ope so, love," he said. The sound of one of his knees cracking in protest as he stood up reached her ears, and she couldn’t contain the teasing smile that crept onto her face as her eyes followed his movements. “Gettin’ rusty, L.T.?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound bringing her the same comfort it always did, as his other hand, too, came up to gently cupped her face, his eyes meeting hers with warmth. “Be careful, eh?"

“Is that an order, L.T?"

“No, it’s a sincere plea, love.”

At that, her eyes softened at the edges, an almost imperceptible blush gracing her cheeks beneath his hands. "How could I ever say no to that?" she whispered, her voice as soft as always. "Mind yourself as well, yeah?"

A soft “‘Course, love.” slipped from his covered lips as he drew her closer. One arm tenderly enveloped her figure, while the other gently cradled the back of her head, guiding it closer to his chest. With a tender gesture, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head before slowly letting go and walking out of the room.

Soon, she found herself at the entrance of the west side of the tunnel, the voices of her squad members reaching her ears once again, each one confirming their entrance into the tunnel. “Zero?”

Her eyes quickly met Viper's, and with a swift nod, he lifted the bolt cutter, severing the chain that had previously secured the door. As soon as her group stepped foot inside and scanned the surroundings, her hand instinctively reached up to her vest, finding the microphone's button. With a decisive press, she answered, "Tunnel breached; we're inside and movin'."

Acquiring the USB from the Konni buyer had been a straightforward task. However, she harbored doubts that this would be just as effortless.

Her thoughts were interrupted as faint voices filled her ears—voices she didn’t recognize—and she swiftly signaled to her team with a closed fist raised high, halting their movements. Her head subtly tilting to the side as she strains to pinpoint the source of the unfamiliar voices. She gradually lowered her hand, extending her palm downward and making a sweeping motion from side to side, silently instructing them to spread out and move in different directions.

As the team scattered in different directions, she motioned with her head to Viper to follow her, extending two fingers out and gesturing for them to move forward to the train rails.

As they approached the train rails, the distant murmur of voices grew louder. Silently moving into position behind a stack of crates, they made eye contact, Viper's hand coming up, letting her know that there were five enemies ahead of them.

Her mind raced, gears turning faster as she formulated a plan of action. Quickly peeking over, she spotted two of the Konni sitting side by side, and a smile graced her lips. Meeting Viper’s eyes again, her hand went up with three fingers extended before pointing at herself, indicating that she would take out three of the enemies.

After his confirmation, she made a fist, holding it up in the air, before swiftly lowering it towards the ground, sending a nod in her teammate's direction.

She positioned her gun on top of the crate that was keeping her hidden. With a fluid motion, she closed one eye, the world narrowing to a tunnel of focus through the scope. Her heartbeat steadied, synchronizing with the rhythm of her breath. In the silence before the shot, she felt a calm resolve wash over her, every movement deliberate, every sense heightened.

With her finger poised delicately over the trigger, she took one final breath, then squeezed. The sharp crack of the bullet slicing through the air shattered the silence; the only sound that followed was the thud of two bodies hitting the ground.

Soon, the only remnants were the sight of five lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground, “Clear.”

Her earpiece crackled to life, static filling the airwaves before a distorted voice emerged, blending with the interference, “Six -o Watch—.., train clear. -vancing to Cross-..."

Frowning slightly, she quickly checked her equipment, ensuring that her radio was securely connected and powered on. “A-.. This is-, taking eff-… Konni has -stages.” Despite her efforts, the interference persisted, obscuring the clarity of the transmission. “Zero to Watcher, requestin’ a comms check."

She waited for a second, then two. “Ghost, do you read? I need to sync up for a clearer line.” Static was the only sound she heard as she adjusted the frequency settings on her radio, hoping to alleviate the issue, but to no avail.

With a sigh, she turned to her team. “Comms are compromised. Looks like there’s a jammer nearby.” Her eyes scanned the area, looking for any sign of the ruggedized electronic device with antennas protruding from the top. “We proceed with the plan. Keep tight.”

The signal wasn't ideal, but she considered herself fortunate. Despite the interference, she could decipher most of the messages coming through the comms and discern who was speaking based on the sound of their voice, which had proven helpful as she and her team pressed forward. “Th-.. karov’s last kn-.. position, Six— tay sharp.”

Sweat coated her entire body, exhaustion setting in as adrenaline surged through her veins. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and her breathing became more difficult to control. “Bloody hell, this place is packed with Konni."

The world around her faded away, her peripheral vision narrowing until all that remained was the crosshairs of her scope and the distant figure in her sights. The sounds of gunfire and chaos around her became distant echoes as she honed in on her objective with laser-like precision. “G’night, arsehole."

Her eyes followed the limp body of the enemy crumpling to the ground, and soon, the cacophony of battle rushed back to her ears. The distant roar of gunfire, the shouts of "Clear!" and the whirr of machinery somewhere farther down the tunnel. The weight of her rifle in her hands, the cool metal pressing against her hot cheek, the gentle sway of her body as she shifted her stance. Her vision began to expand, the edges of her sightline gradually widening to take in the full scope of her surroundings.

The closer they got to the crossover, the clearer the voices in her ear became. “—host, Ze-ro, Gaz-, tro—… tact- your position?” The static wasn’t as loud as before, but the messages kept cutting off intermittently.

She held her hand up, signaling to her team to stop, while she strained to understand what was being said. “Push-ing up the tra-… nnel. Got wounded-.. ans,” Ghost's voice crackled through, soon followed by Gaz's. “No s-..tage… hostages, eit-her…” A relieved sigh escaped her lips, tension dissipating from her body.

She reached for the microphone's button, pressing it as she breathlessly announced, “Almost at the crossover.” and then released the button as soon as she was done, lowering her other hand. Her feet carried her forward, footsteps following close behind her.

"Zer- what-… osito-?" Price's voice asked again, the tone growing louder with each word. She reached for the button again, but before she had a chance to press it, she was harshly shoved to the ground.

Her body tensed up, her hand instinctively reaching for the knife secured in the sheath on her thigh. “Zero, ho- copy?”, echoed through her earpiece. Before she could grab the knife, the same body that had shoved her pulled her behind a crumbled wall. Viper’s eyes met her wide ones, just as the sound of the turret mechanical gears rotating reached their ears. “Zer-, check in! ar- you al—ight?”

Her hand instinctively patted her belt, searching for the reassuring shape of the grenade nestled among her other gear. With each frantic pat, her heart pounded in her chest until her fingers traced the familiar contours of the grenade’s casing, feeling the cold, smooth metal beneath her touch.

The weight of the grenade in her palm grounded her, its textured surface offering a reassuring grip as she tugged it off her belt. "Fo—uck's sake, …-ero!”, With one quick glance over the wall, she localized the turret’s position.

Her grip tightened around the grenade, and in a swift motion, she pulled the safety pin and tossed the grenade toward the turret's location. Following the explosion, she heard someone yell, “Turret down!” followed by a tired "clear."

She stood up, flicking the grenade's safety pin to the side, and offered Viper her hand. As soon as he took it, she pulled him up to his feet. “This is Zero; we're nearly at the crossover."

A wave of relief washed over her as her earpiece crackled to life with Ghost’s voice, “Say aga-in, you—.. unreadable.” She repeated her words deliberately, ensuring clarity without risking detection by any nearby enemies. “Nearly at the crossover, L.T.”

A quick "Rog-" was all that she needed to hear for her shoulders to relax from their tense posture. Slowly, her hand rose to wipe at her sweaty forehead, the dirt on it smudging over her face. As her team began to move, her other hand swiftly reached out, grasping Viper’s wrist and bringing his progress to a halt. “Thank you, Harry."

His head slowly turned to her, a tired smile gracing his cracked lips. “Always, y/n."

“We’re pinned down, Cap! Konni’s blockin’ the tunnels.” The soft static that had accompanied her ear through the entire ordeal finally ceased, leaving only clear voices without interruption. “0-7 to Six—We're punchin’ through now!” She would've smiled at the improvement, but by now, with her teammates in sight and no longer reliant on the earpiece to hear two of them, she found its absence more of an annoyance than a relief.

"Get 'ere!” With quickened steps, she made her way to where Soap and Price were crouching by the bomb, her team following closely behind. They split into two sections, with three members staying behind to cover their backs while the other two moved forward alongside her.

"Red wire, got it," was the last thing she heard them say before her heart sank. With a surge of adrenaline, she broke into a sprint, her breath ragged and sweat streaming down her face. "Soap!" she screamed, but her words were cut short by the echoing shots that reverberated through the tunnel that was now littered with lifeless bodies.

Despite the impossibility, her pace quickened even more, her hand instinctively reaching up to open her microphone. "Backup is needed now!” her voice hoarse and breathless, with each word punctuated by the rhythm of her footfalls.

The desperate voices of Ghost and Gaz filled her ear with questions and status updates, but only one voice was clear. “Never bury your enemies alive."

Her thoughts raced as fast as her feet, and prayers to whoever would listen were sent as she pleaded for just two more seconds to reach them.

For a moment, relief washed over her as she saw Johnny stand up and strike the back of Makarov’s head. She almost paused in her running, but as quickly as the relief came, it vanished again when Soap’s arm was twisted and his body pushed forward.

The two seconds she had desperately wished for were granted, and not a moment later, she was running behind Makarov, watching him push Price back to the floor with his foot and aim his gun at Soap’s head.

Without hesitation, she rammed her body against his back, pushing him forward as the gun he was holding went off. “Soap!” Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced over at Johnny.

On his knees, Johnny held the left side of his head with one hand, the other planted on the floor to support his weight as he leaned forward. He was alive.

As if jolted back to reality, she quickly turned her head back to face Makarov, her hand reaching back to draw her gun.

“No!”

Time slowed to a crawl, and suddenly, her ears were ringing with a high-pitched whine, drowning out the cacophony of gunfire and shouts around her. Each sound seemed muffled and distant, as if she were submerged underwater.

The metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth, coating her tongue with a bitter, coppery taste that made her gag. Dizziness washed over her in waves, threatening to send her tumbling to the ground. She fought to maintain her footing, but she couldn’t remember the moment her legs gave out.

She could feel the cold sweat trickling down her spine, mingling with the warmth of her own blood. A searing heat radiated from somewhere on her neck, spreading like wildfire through her veins. Throbbing with each heartbeat.

Hands pulled at her vest, maneuvering her onto her back. The numb feeling of pressure being applied to her neck was almost lost on her until another hand gently tapped her cheek and the one on her neck left for a second.

She could barely hear her name being called as she forced her eyes to focus on the figures crouching by the bomb. Her thoughts raced in multiple directions, only coming to a halt when they landed on Soap. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny—

“Jo- John-“ Her voice sounded so strange, gurgling on blood as she fought to formulate a coherent sentence. “J-Johnn-y. Whe-"

"He's alright, love. He's alright." The tension left her body. He's alright, he's alright, he's alright, said the familiar voice in her head. Only then did she realize whose hands were stroking her cheek, the gentle motion bringing memories of that same afternoon flooding back.

"Si- Simon." Her voice, though quiet, carried a gentle tone that almost drowned out amid the shouts for medics that surrounded them, but he heard.

He heard, and his heart shattered at the haunting resemblance to her voice in the early morning or the late nights they spent entwined in bedsheets. Lost in each other’s eyes, hands roaming each other’s bodies between pants and pleas.

Their low whispers as they shared secrets, the hushed laughter that filled the kitchen during late-night conversations.

"You're gonna be alright, love." There was nothing he wanted more than to find Makarov and make him pay for what he had done. Return the pain he had caused to all of you tenfold.

His glove was soaked in blood. The crimson liquid stained the once pristine white skull hand a dark brown. He never despised the color brown more than he did in that moment. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, darlin’."

He could hear the distant footsteps approaching, urgent and hurried, echoing through the tunnel he had fought his way through not long ago, all in an effort to reach them. To reach her.

His gaze wandered up and away from her pale face, his eyes locking onto Johnny’s wide ones that were looking at her. Gaz sitting by his side, pressing a gauze to the left side of Soap’s face; his attention also fixed on her.

Price’s voice echoed from somewhere behind him, barking orders and demanding medical attention. And as his eyes shifted once more, he spotted Harry standing by a pillar, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at her.

He knew Viper well enough to be familiar with his first name. She had shared stories about him, the friend who convinced her to enlist alongside him, and the one constant in her entire career. He could sense the guilt emanating from him, and he dared not imagine what thoughts were consuming him in that moment.

Harry had been the one to bring her here, to this job, to this moment, and Ghost wanted to blame him for it, but he couldn’t. After all, without Harry, Simon was sure he would have faced a very lonely and unhappy life without her by his side.

For a moment, everything was silent; even his own mind had ceased its relentless chatter, and then he heard choking. “Love, breathe."

But she didn’t listen to him, so he tried again, louder. "Love, you 'ave to breathe," he pleaded, his hands trembling slightly with fear. “Darlin’, please.”

Just as his hands reached to pull at her vest, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder, attempting to pull him away. “Simon.” He squirmed away from the hand, moving forward because she wouldn’t breathe. He had to take her vest off. She couldn’t breathe.

The hand reached out again, its grip firmer than before, and pulled him back as he fought against it. “She can’t breathe,” he insisted, reaching forward again, his tainted, gloved hands grazing her vest before another hand landed on his bicep, forcibly pulling him away from her. “Simon, let ‘em do their job.”

He moved forward again, but this time, the hands on his body didn’t let him get far. “Ghost, let ‘em save ‘er.”

His tension eased only when his eyes registered the uniforms of the individuals who had taken his place beside her. Medical.

He fought the urge to cover his ears as the choking sounds grew louder and louder. “She can’t breathe.” Her eyes still tracked his every move, each flicker becoming slower, eyelids growing heavier, but they never left his, as per his request.

The notion of time eluded him; one moment, he was cradling her frame in his arms, whispering encouraging words, and the next, he was watching the ambulance leave.

The same hand that had initially separated him from her body touched his shoulder again, its weight lighter than before. “Son, I-“ The gentle pats from the hand ceased. “‘am sorry.”

“Nothin’ to apologize for, Price."

The drive felt impossibly long, yet too short at the same time. He wanted to be with her; he truly did, but another feeling nagged at his heart. A little voice in his head accompanied the feeling, reciting every worst-case scenario. Scenarios he couldn't allow himself to imagine. What-ifs that, if he allowed his mind to dwell on for too long, would forever haunt him.

She got lucky; it was only a graze. He knew the receptionist was just trying to ease their minds and assure them that she would be fine. Alive, and finally breathing. Still, he wanted to punch the reassuring smile off of her face. Lucky? How on earth could this whole thing be considered luck?

It felt like an eternity had passed as he waited for any updates. Johnny had come out not too long ago, a bandage around his head, a sling supporting his arm, and a worried look in his eyes as he scanned the reception area.

Gaz was the first to stand up and approach him, guiding him to where they were.

Simon felt for Johnny; out of the four of them, he was the only one who hadn't received a single update. According to him, the last thing he heard or saw from her was at the ambulance, and when he asked any of the medical staff for answers, they refused to provide any information, leaving him to assume the worst.

That she was gone. That the girl who he had grown so fond of— a sister to him, had been lost while protecting him. That her life had been taken away in exchange for his own.

In all the time Ghost had worked with Soap, he had never seen him so defeated. No jokes, no stupid stories—just pure and utter worry in his eyes, a stark contrast to the mischief that Ghost had grown so accustomed to seeing sparkle within them.

Once he had been filled in with the little information that they knew, his stance relaxed slightly, but like them, the worry didn’t completely dissipate until a nurse approached them. She was fine. Alive. Breathing.

After another hour or so, she was finally allowed to have visitors. Upon entering her room, his eyes quickly scanned the surroundings, taking in the sight before them. The sterile, white walls seemed to close in around him, contrasting sharply with the chaos of medical equipment scattered throughout the room. Wires and tubes crisscrossed the space, connecting her to an array of beeping monitors and humming machines.

The heart rate monitor emitted a steady rhythm that accompanied his ears as his gaze lingered on the IV stand beside her bed, the transparent bag of saline hanging precariously, dripping life into her veins.

As for her, she lay motionless on the hospital bed, her features pale and drawn, a bandage wrapped snugly around her neck.

Price was the first to move, his steps quiet as he approached her. "Oh, kid. What 'ave ya done?" His hand carefully took hers with a sigh. He wasn’t disappointed; no, he was worried, like a father would be.

He had been right there, in the perfect spot for his eyes to witness, with unimaginable clarity, the moment the bullet hit her. Some of her blood splattering on his face, the vivid image of her crumbling body etched in his mind forever as he reached for his gun.

Price’s desperate yell had been the reason why Simon’s steps had increased to an unimaginable speed. The pain and anger in his captain’s voice only increasing the panic that gripped at his soul as shots started to go off again. And then he saw them.

He saw Johnny’s trembling form kneeling on the ground, and Price's hand coming up to aim his gun at the retreating form of Makarov.

He watched Makarov’s image disappear as a train flew past them, Price's body crawling to her. Tugging her to his side by her vest, shaking her body as he yelled at her to look at him.

He saw Kyle appear and kneel next to the bomb as he ran forward, his knees hitting the ground next to her at the same time as Price moved back to the bomb, instructing Gaz on what to do.

There were only a few instances when he could admit that Simon had a stronger grip over him than Ghost did, today being one of them.

He hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than her. Her eyes, her mouth, and her blood forever staining his hands. On top of all that, he remembered her promise. Her promise to be safe. A vow similar to the one he had made to her, the only difference being the fact that he kept his and she didn’t.

As the hours stretched on, a steady stream of visitors flowed in and out—military friends, superiors looking for mission details, nurses, and doctors.

At some point Kyle had offered to take Johnny back to base, but it took Price’s authoritative insistence to finally persuade Johnny to leave, making the captain and lieutenant the only ones left in the room with her.

Price clenched his fists, his brows furrowing in frustration. "I wanna be mad at 'er for what she did," he grumbled, his voice tinged with annoyance, prompting Simon’s gaze to shift from her to him. “It was stupid, but she saved our arses."

With a sigh, Price's hands came down to his knees, pushing against them as if to support his own weight as he stood up. “In all my years in the military, I’ve only encountered two individuals whose loyalty matched their bravery." Simon watched his captain’s movements, noticing the slight shake of his head as he continued with a softer voice. “Willing to sacrifice everything to protect others.” Price’s hand reached forward, placing it on her leg and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Her bein’ one of ‘em.”

After a moment, he released her leg and met Simon's gaze. "You the other." With a nod of his head in his captain’s direction, he quietly murmured, “Double-edged sword.”

Price lingered for a moment, his eyes returning to her face for one last glance before he made his way over to where Simon sat. With a couple of gentle pats on his shoulder, he said, "Get some sleep, son. She's going to be alright."

As soon as the door closed and he was alone with her, he allowed his facade to crumble. The emotions he had kept at bay surged over him like crashing waves, threatening to drown him in their intensity.

The events of the day played on repeat in his mind, each moment etched vividly in his memory. He could still feel the weight of her hand on his shoulder, her comforting touch easing his stress. The scent of her hair filling his senses as he held her close, her head resting against his chest.

The worry that consumed him as they tried to reach her, only to be met with silence on her end, and the relief that flooded through him when she finally responded, her gentle voice interrupted by static.

The scream of his captain echoing in his ears, and the sight of her body lying on the blood-covered ground. Her dimming eyes and paling skin. The struggling gasps for air and the sound of her choking on her own blood.

The hands holding him back and away from her, and his best mate’s eyes filled with terror. The slight tremor in Price’s hands and the constant pacing from Kyle.

The weight of it all bore down on him, threatening to crumble his resolve as he made his way over to her, each step feeling heavier than the last until he finally reached her bedside.

He went to take her hand in his but stopped as soon as he noticed the dried blood on his now-bare hand. With a grimace, he rubbed at the stubborn residue, his skin reddening from the friction as he attempted to cleanse it away.

He continued to scrub at the stain until a smaller hand gently enveloped his, halting his frantic motions. It took a moment for his brain to register the touch, but when it did, a small gasp escaped his lips, and he looked up.

His eyes found hers in an instant, and his airway constricted. She was fine. Alive. Breathing.

Part two….?

Comm dialogues with no static:

1. “Six to Watcher, train tunnel is clear. Advancing to Crossover.”

2. “All Bravo- This is 0-7, taking effective fire. Konni has hostages.”

3. “That is Makarov’s last known position. Stay sharp.”

4. “Ghost, Zero, Gaz, troops in contact. What's your position?”

5. “Pushing up the train tunnel. Got wounded civilians.”

6. “No sight on the target. No hostages either.”

7. “Zero, what’s your position?”

8. “Zero, how copy?”

9. “Zero, check in! Are you alright?”

10. “For fuck’s sake, Zero!”

11. “Say again, you are unreadable.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #angst #fluff #flangst #reader insert

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m1d-45 · 1 year

Text

your shield, a sword

summary: how various genshin men deal with conflict or confrontation when you’re involved. ft. wanderer, thoma, tighnari, zhongli, alhaitham, cyno and albedo, in that order.

word count: ~2k

-> warnings: major spoilers for sumeru archon quest (specifically 2nd part w the wanderer) and liyue archon quest, minor spoilers for tighnari + albedo + alhaitham + kaveh lore

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me

< masterlist >

wanderer rarely lets any remark slip by him. after his memories were restored, he’s not identical to who he was before, but being who he was carries a heavy temper with it. he’s getting better at it, but he can still often be found locked in a heated discussion with one scholar or another. it’s rare he gives them his time, but when they so blindly get a detail of history wrong, something easily researched had they bothered to open the book, he’s not going to let that slide. misinformation is a problem in the akademiya already, no need to perpetuate it.

you don’t have the heart to tell him that most scholars aren’t like him, and don’t research every facet of their argument before making a point with it. not everyone is that rigorous in their study, which is why his papers stand out so much.

physical encounters are the same from the outside, but starkly different if you looked closer. he’s still antagonistic, still drawing their attention to him, standing in front of you and fighting the urge to look back. the fatui were a cruel organization, and while he was used to people picking on him, were you? he was a lot, would you be okay with it? his attitude was a shield that covered his fear, and fights—as rare as they were—only exacerbated these anxieties. would you leave him? you didn’t call him out on his behavior as often, was that because he was getting better or because you were getting tired? he doesn’t know, and is honestly afraid to ask. it’s easier to pretend to be confident than actually try to be; this outlook got him this far, and it’ll get him further. he’s certain it will…

thoma, as a mondstat native first and inazuman ‘fixer’ second, has had more than his fair share of conflicts. people that disrespect him or another, those that believe he doesn’t belong or that he’s being unfair, the staff of the other commissions that believed ayato was unfair for employing him as his retainer… the list could stretch from ritou to liyue and back with slack to spare. as such, he’s learned a lot about how to deescalate while still holding firm, and is more than willing to extend this to you. whether because you’re not one for confrontation or because it’s a matter of politics and he doesn’t want your words to get twisted by whoever’s listening, he’s not afraid to step in.

he’s also well trained with his polearm. not many dare to attack one so close to the yashiro commissioner, but the few treasure hoarders that do are met with the point of his blade and a sharp warning. he doesn’t like fighting, not only because of the incident report that always needs to be submitted afterward and the anxiety that someone might take the opportunity to paint him in a bad light, but because he runs the risk of injury. nobody he cares about likes to see him hurt, and he hates to worry them. sometimes it’s necessary, and he won’t apologize for getting involved, but he will say sorry for worrying you. trust him, he’s a capable man, and if it really bothers you then he’ll take you to feed the strays around the city. that’s always a nice way for him to destress, and he’s certain you’ll enjoy it too.

tighnari is a man who stands for his morals and integrity. hell, he got his vision by correcting someone during an academic debate, and denies his master at the academiya on a regular basis in favor of reforming the entirety of the forest rangers. he’s taunted fatui into a fight and his tongue is sharper than his arrows. karkata is proof of his entire character, and he’s very obviously willing to put word and bow to use in defending his principles and what he loves.

would he rather know you’re safe in gandharva ville? obviously, but another scholar bothering him for help he won’t be thanked for isn’t something he can nor should protect you for. you’re your own person, and if you don’t want to see him dismantle their argument point by point, that’s your prerogative. you know the way home and so does he, and if a half hour or so of his time is the price for a handful of months of quiet, well, who’s he to deny it?

he’s stopped investing emotionally into these arguments a long time ago, and it’s only when they dare to bring you into it that he does get a bit heated. still, within the hour he’s successfully compartmentalized that person’s opinion away, and doesn’t let it affect him. he won’t hold it against you if you’re upset, never—emotions are healthy and if anything he’s happy you trust him enough to tell him—but he will list out every single reason why actually, their opinion doesn’t matter, and your time is better spent elsewhere; like with him, for example.

zhongli is well versed in battle, more than capable of defending both you and himself with nothing but his spear. his power has lessened since he’d given up his gnosis, but celestia could not help the mitachurls on the wrong end of planet befall. his shield is nothing to scoff at, and the abundance of geo in liyue makes it impossible for him to ever feel threatened.

but just because he can doesn’t mean he wants to. he could take down a platoon of fatui on his own, but if you’re with him then he wouldn’t even consider it. a single stele rises from the earth, a jade shield forming around you as he pulls you into his arms, letting the resonance from the stele disorient the fatui. he may not be a marathon runner, but he’s still a god that knows liyue like the back of his hand. he knows you’re not hurt physically, and when he finds a good tree to sit under with you the first thing he does is make sure you’re not scared anymore. he’s here, he promises, you’re going to be okay. the wind is cool and his arms are secure, and when it’s over he’ll give you a silk flower for your bravery.

alhaitham doesn’t have time for racket like this. no, seriously, he has a date to go on and this is more of a minor inconvenience than anything. he puts an arm around your waist and keeps you tight to him, but that’s the only sign he’s feeling anything other than annoyance. it doesn’t matter how upset he may be internally, how much of his mind is allocated to how quickly he could get you back to his house, his face is a mask that his opponents can’t break.

you can, though. as he rushes you away down the twisting alleys of sumeru city, you can feel the urgency with which he walks, the slightest of frowns on his face. when he returns to his home, he sequesters you away in his room, somewhere he knows is safe. he keeps you close, frets, part of him upset over the ruined outing but mostly concerned for you.

he knows he’s got a thicker skin than most, so he tends to overreact slightly with you, unknowing of how much one thing affects you. people are different, yes, but he’s used to kaveh, so it’ll take him a good ten to twenty minutes to believe that you’re actually fine and not just saying so so he’d stop fussing.

he’s still going to make you the dinner you missed out on, but it’s just because he’s hungry too, okay? yeah it’s your favorite but that doesn’t mean anything, it’s just growing on him. sit down before kaveh hears you and starts to tease him.

cyno has plenty of experience in dealing with people that dislike him. criminals attacking him after he’d taken their leader in for custody, family of others that believed he’d unjustly arrested them. for the most part, it’s an easy enough problem to deal with once the revenge has been launched. it’s just another mission for him to take care of, a routine side effect of his job. he arrests someone, people get mad, they attack, he arrests a few more. he’s more than used to fighting his way out of situations, and is skilled at doing so.

but with you?

he refuses to involve you with his work. doesn’t matter if you’ve trained for years, you could be a matra yourself and he’d still be adamant that you stay away from his work. he makes dangerous people mad, and the last thing he wants is for you to get tied into his business.

if, archons forbid, you’re with him when one of these groups retaliates, he reaches for you before his weapon. he’s not going to fight, not when you could get hurt. maybe you could stand your own, maybe he’d be able to take on some of these eremites too, but that’s the last thing on his mind. he takes your hand in his and flees, stopping only once he runs into another matra to report the attack before continuing to either your home or his office, whichever is closer.

you’re more important to him than any capture, and even the smallest of nicks on you still makes him feel guilty. lie with him for a while, move his headpiece to a side table and let him put his ear to your heart. he’s afraid for you, you know, and surely you can’t hold such a thing against him?

albedo isn’t one for confrontation. any talk that escalates into shouting is one that he dislikes, both because of the spectacle and principle of it. a discussion should be civil, with all parties level headed and self aware enough to both concede when another is right and accept when they are wrong. he understands the latter can be difficult, and sometimes struggles with admitting fault himself, but to shout? to yell? to win not with logic or speech but with force and intimidation? that is a battle not worth fighting.

physical altercations aren’t his forte either. he’s an alchemist for archons’ sake, not a swordsman. his blade is more of a necessity, something to get him out of tough spots and little more. he’s an artist, a scientist, and the day you see him willingly start in a fight, verbal or physical, is the day you know you have the wrong albedo.

he’s not the most talented with emotions, but he has the best memory in mondstat. he knows what you like, when to talk or stay silent, when you need touch and want to be alone, not based off some intuition but off a careful deduction from your behavior. it gets to him, sometimes, that he needs a formula to fix your distress, but he’s easily soothed. he trusts you, so when you give him a kiss on his temple with a murmured thanks, he believes that you don’t mind.

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arting-block · 8 months

Note

I absolutely love your writing style & your 11th doctor fics 😊 I’m not sure what your opinions on writing poly ships are, but I’m a sucker for some fem reader x 11 and River, and was wondering if i could request something fluffy and sweet with reader thinking her feelings towards the both of them are unrequited due to River and the Doctor being together already, but of course relationships with the Doctors can always be so complicated so who says he has to love just one woman at a time, he’s got two hands for a reason 🙏❤️

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | Eleventh Doctor x F!Reader x River Song

❝𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.❞

Summary: You were just a companion, a friend to the two Time Lords. At least, you thought you were.

Warnings: Angst, unrequited love (not really lol), fluffy ending

Words: 6.1K

A/N: I'M ALIVE!!! This request sat in my inbox and I struggled a bit to not turn this into a fully fleshed out story. I swear this was meant to be a smol lil blurb, your honor. I sneezed and then 5k spat onto my screen idk it just happened I swear...Anyways, gonna try to get to my other requests soon 🫡

Ordinary is not in your vocabulary. Nothing in your life ever seemed ordinary the moment the Doctor offered an adventure in his bigger-on-the-inside box and a devilish smile. No one normal would have given their safety in exchange for life-threatening altercations with aliens, monsters, and the worst of the universe. You hated the ordinary, despised the monotony of everyday life.

You took the Doctor’s offer with a smile of your own, delight and mischief to complement.

Everything was going well as far as you were concerned. Lives were saved, memories were made, and all the time in the world to do whatever. You were happy, plain and simple.

You embraced the unknown, thanks to the Doctor’s influence. Comfortable with the odd and unthinkable.

At least you thought you were.

With each adventure comes injuries. Most are minimal that heal in a matter of days. Others leave scars that are forever etched in your skin. Being the self-sacrificing stubborn human you were, you often became a shield to those in need. In this particular case you had gotten slashed by a knife in a tussle.

It wasn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it stretched from your collarbone to the side of your neck. Thin line of crimson and a sharp sting when air hit it. Annoying, yes, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

Your traveling companion had a different view.

You groan, “I’m fine, seriously. There’s no need to fuss over a scratch.”

River, beautiful as she is stubborn, gives you a pointed look. One that borders a withering stare but since you’re you it comes off as scolding.

“You nearly had your head off your shoulders. You’re lucky I was there to intervene,” came her grumbling response.

Her fingers find your chin to tilt your head up, her face out of your line of sight as you stare up at the ceiling. You take the opportunity to roll your eyes at her need to coddle you. You’re a grown woman for Christ’s sake, perfectly capable of handling yourself. If anything you’ve encountered worse and had bounced back fine.

Sure, the knife of your attacker came a tad too close to the artery on your neck. Hell, maybe if your reflexes didn’t kick in fast enough you would’ve had a much different night to spend.

But those hypothetical scenarios were merely that. Hypothetical. You’ve walked away that fight with bruised knuckles and a shallow, 4 inch cut.

You were fine. Perfectly capable of handling yourself—

River’s finger finds the hollow of your throat.

Feather-light, just barely touching the skin. You feel her touch up along your neck sending a chill down your spine. Your breath hitched when it stopped just above your pulse point. Something tugs the strings in your chest.

A dangerous feeling coils down in your core.

River’s breath tickles your ear, “Breathe, darling. Can’t have you passing out on me.”

As if on command, your body responds eagerly. You force air to leave your lungs all at once. There’s a slight burn left behind and you're sure it’s not due to your withholding oxygen.

You clear your throat, “Are you going to patch me up Doctor Song?”

It comes off shaky and quiet.

River’s hand leaves your face and you can finally see her. A curve of a smile and a glint in her eyes that leaves goosebumps.

Your legs involuntarily shift close.

River gives a shrug, “You’re right, just a scratch. No need for fussing. Unless you want me to patch you up?”

You shake your head, “N-No, there’s no need. Thank you for offering though.”

There’s a painful squeeze in your chest. Regret.

River nods understandably, “I’ll be out of your hair then. Give a shout if you need me.”

You watch as she turns to leave. You can’t help but trace the curve of her hips as she approaches the door. Words clump in your throat, an impulse of a thought racing. Before you can act she crosses the threshold, the door closing behind her.

Somehow it stung more than the 4 inch cut on your throat.

Just a friend. Only a friend.

— — —

You tried to put the encounter with River as far removed from your mind as you can. It was just the heat of the moment, a little rise because it’s been ages since you’ve had a romantic relationship. Not that you needed one. You’re perfectly content with spending your time with the Doctor. Who needs romance when you’re traveling the universe with a quirky alien?…A hot alien.

A hot alien who is your friend. Nothing more.

“Is there something on my face?” the Doctor asked, swiping his chin for invisible crumbs.

His words snapped you out of your haze. Back to the present.

“Wha—No! Sorry, lost in my own head. What were you saying?”

The Doctor presses a few buttons to prepare the TARDIS for travel, glossing over your admitting to not listening, “I was in the middle of explaining why going to Kaythrona would be a bad idea in comparison to Bouble-4A. Perfect this time of year—trees made of crystals and the water is perfect temperature year round. Perfect water, perfect temperature, perfect getaway!”

His smile is that of pure joy. Infectious to anyone, especially you.

“Yeah, perfect! You have any plans when we arrive?” you asked, leaning against the console.

You were an arm’s length away. At this distance you could smell the remnants of his earl gray tea from this morning clinging to his clothes. Wild hair that is tamed on the sides, the cut of his cheekbone, and the hint of stubble along his jaw.

The Doctor whizzes about the controls with flair. Pushing, pressing, and pulling controls that look indistinguishable from one another.

“Many, many plans. Oh, (Y/N) you’re gonna love the little markets along the coast. We could go to the seafood restaurant—no, the pearl mines! So much to do and lots to show you.”

The Doctor makes his way around back to you, bumping shoulders as he did so. He turns to you, excited to expose you to yet another world.

You give him a small smile in return. Hoping your demure expression would hide the fluttering of your heart.

Pulling the engine lever down, you feel the familiar rumbling of the TARDIS. The two of you grab onto the railing in hopes to not fall over. The Doctor reaches for the edge of the console, bracing himself.

You, caught up in your fawning, didn’t properly latch onto the railing and nearly toppled over. A hand yanks your arm and you collide with a wall of wool and earl gray.

“Don’t worry I got you,” the Doctor assured, his mouth nearly kissing against your ear.

His hand migrates from your arm to your waist, pulling you to his side. Tight and secure. The shaking continues, but you’re much too focused on how warm the Doctor seems to be. His hand firm on your side, as if it was meant to be there. Your cheek against the scratchy wool of his coat just inches away from his hearts.

Just a friend. Only a friend.

You grasp onto his jacket even though there’s a perfectly stable railing right in front of you.

— — —

Ordinary didn’t apply to your life, so it would only make sense it didn’t touch your love life either.

River once again joined you and the Doctor for another adventure. Surprisingly, one that didn’t involve intergalactic battles and executing a poorly planned heist. No, she just so happened to be in New York in 2023 at the exact same pizza parlor the Doctor is dragging you to.

In the past few months you’ve come to realize that the odd feelings in your stomach and the nervous butterflies wasn’t just spur-of-the-moment anxiety. It only manifests when you are within proximity to either the Doctor or River. Anytime they slipped past your personal bubble, you felt the simmering heat in your stomach and a dizziness whenever they got too close. You didn’t realize how the three of you would be joined at the hip until you realized something.

You love the Doctor…and River.

It came crawling into your mind until it was all you could think about. Moments across the years playing over and over. You loved them both for so long but you played it off as platonic. It should’ve been obvious with how you hoard their attention and do everything in your power to be near them. Their laughs, praise, and happy moments shared between you set your heart ablaze.

Only problem is that they’re already married. They weren’t secretive either. Always flirting in the face of danger. Lingering eyes and a heated kiss when things got rough. They never hid their affection towards one another.

You were never jealous of them. The ache in your chest came from the fact that they would never share that with you. You were you and they were the Doctor and River Song. They had a history long before you and they seemed more than content with each other.

River sat in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The afternoon sun highlighted her golden hair like a halo. She was writing in that old diary of hers that resembles your beloved time-machine.

The Doctor walked in fast, measured steps while you tried to keep up. His hand on your back, guiding you through the people crowding around the cashier. The closer you stepped the more anxiety pools.

River looks up from her diary with a wide grin. The one where it crinkles her eyes and makes you lose breath.

“Hello sweetie,” she says, her words honeyed with affection.

“Hello love,” the Doctor returns with a giddy smile.

River’s gaze met yours. Her expression didn’t change, as if she was just as happy to see you.

“We meet again, darling.”

Darling became her nickname for you as much as sweetie was for the Doctor.

She’s just flirting, nothing special.

Your nails dig into your palms, “So it seems, Riv.”

The Doctor ushers you into the booth so you sit shoulder to shoulder. He rubs his hands together as he snatched a menu from the pile in the middle of the table.

“Alright, what do we have here? Some good ol’ pepperoni, some cheese, and lovely sauce. I’m absolutely famished. Haven’t stopped to think, let alone eat something other than the ramen packets Y/N hoards,” the Doctor says.

You snatched the menu from the Doctor, “So you were eating them! You said they could clog your arteries.”

The Doctor snatches the menu right back, “I said they could clog your arteries, not mine.”

“You made me believe I was going mad! Why couldn't you get your own?”

“‘Cause your room is closer…and less expensive.”

The two of you continue to bicker whilst the menu keeps being tugged mercilessly. Ramen packets changed to snoring habits (you were horrified that the Doctor snuck into your room when you were still in it) and the argument shifted to accusations. Most of which was you calling the Doctor a robber. The Doctor deflects and somehow blames you for being easy to rob.

River watched the exchange with a tiniest of smiles. The Doctor with a hint of red at his ears, leaning forward. You with pinched brows and sharp words that you don't actually mean. So close the two of you were that your knees were touching and the air between was your mingled breaths.

“Ahem,” River coughed rather obnoxiously.

At the sound of her, the two of you ceased arguing.

“Any louder and you’ll alert the whole parlor,” she scolds.

Luckily the busy little parlor was already loud with its many customers. Loud enough to drown the squabbling in your booth. Though the realization of how you might've looked made you and the Doctor slouch into your seats.

River narrows her eyes, “If you're done arguing like petty school girls we could hurry up and order because I’m not sharing my food. Unless you wish to continue spilling each other's secrets for all of New York to hear.”

“Nope, we're done,” you say. You shoot her a grin in hopes to hide the fact that, yes, you will continue later.

River’s eyes shift to her husband, who avoids her stare.

“Yes, done-zo. No more arguing,” the Doctor affirms. He leaves out the “For now” at the end.

River knows the little omissions. She doesn't voice it, instead rolling her eyes.

— — —

Lunch went by smoothly, all things considered. Food was served, pizza was eaten, and stories passed the time. The Doctor retold your fantastical adventures with some minor exaggeration (leaving out the mishaps as well). River bragged about her many archeological discoveries and Indiana Jones-esque quests to find legendary artifacts.

As they retold, shared, and laughed at each other's fortune, you sat in your seat with sealed lips. As the time passed, the two of them leaned forward with biting grins. It was as if magnets in their chests pulled them nearer.

You stayed put because in place of a magnet was a lump of sorrow that was weighing you down. You watched their banter go on and on, leaving you out. Their words turned personal, intimate with inside jokes. It was clear that although River and the Doctor weren't exclusive by any means, their love runs deeper than most.

Their love for each other ran deeper, felt stronger only for them.

Not for you.

It hurts to watch them. It hurts to love them knowing they will never feel the same. You’re just a temporary blip in their long lives. They already have one another. Perfectly content with having you just as a companion. Because that’s all you are to them. In this moment, trapped in your bubble, you can see just how in love they are. In the middle of the table their hands are inches away from each other. The tips of their hands moving at a snail's pace towards the other, until they fold in where they meet. They don’t seem to notice the collision of hands, still conversing with one another nonchalantly.

It’s an innocent gesture. Sweet and pure with its intentions. Perfectly their hands fit, you don’t think they could form against yours. They were perfect for one another. Witty mouths, playful eyes, and brilliant minds.

Husband and wife. Vowed for one another.

Your eyes don’t leave their hands, transfixed by your own spell of deep longing.

The Doctor laughs at something River says. It’s a soft chuckle that pulls his lips and shakes his head. River stares unabashed with eyes so full of love that it tugs the strings in your chest.

It makes you sick.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you blurt out. You felt too close, too warm in the booth. You need to get away from them both.

The Doctor and River glance at one another. A pointed look that could hold entire conversations. Moments ticked by before the Doctor scoots out of his seat to let you pass. You all but sprinted out of the booth and made a bee-line to the bathroom.

It was a small, dank space with dark brown walls and one lighting fixture in the middle of the ceiling. The harsh lighting and tight space was far from cozy and inviting, but you are glad to have made it out. Your breathing became more shallow, tears started to burn into your eyes. You stare into the warped reflection in the mirror.

Tiredness smudges around your eyes. Your lower lip is cracked from the constant tugging and swiping of your tongue. Edges of your shirt wrinkled from how tightly you were holding onto it.

You don’t know how long you stared at yourself. Lines around your face blur as the tears start to flow. Down your face, into the valleys of cheeks, and into the porcelain sink. Another falls, then another, until you can’t help but sob into your hand.

— — —

Minutes tick by. The pizza being shared was now specks of crumbs.

Your companions sit idly, waiting for your return.

“Is it just me, or is (Y/N) a bit quiet today?” the Doctor mused, looking behind him to see the closed door of the bathroom. The red sticker on the lock gnaws at his mind.

River rubs her thumb over the Doctor’s hand, “Why don’t you ask her? She’s your companion.”

The Doctor turns back to her, “Why don’t you ask her? Everytime I see you two, you can’t keep your hands off one another.”

His words don’t have any malice. If anything, it was more of a jab at how horribly River hides her affinity towards you. Always doting on you with small trinkets and tight hugs. The soft drawl of her “darling” seemed much too intimate, too loving to be platonic.

River’s smile is sharp, her words quick, “Says the man who whimpers whenever she wears a tight dress.”

As quick as her words came, the image of you a week ago floods his mind.

Silk gloves, the shine of your skin, the color of your lipstick. It was a gala out in a different galaxy and the Doctor found it hard to resist your puppy eyes.

You begged him to dress up, to match with your dress. He mutters, whines, and begrudgingly says yes. Not because he didn’t want to go, but because he knew of the outcome of seeing your dress.

A deep blue, nearly black, with delicate lacing and gemstones. Simple, lavish, and complimented your body beautifully. The neckline perfectly snug against your chest, bodice hugging your waist, and when you turned around—

The whole of the Doctor’s face flushes a bright pink. He sputters, tone harsh, “I do not. It’s called being flustered. I’ll have you know that I—stop laughing.”

The Doctor’s plea falls on deaf ears as River let out a choked giggle. Her hand covers her mouth, but the edges of her smile still peek through. Seeing the Doctor flustered over a girl never fails to make her laugh.

“I was…only teasing!” she let out between giggles. The expression the Doctor made, all grumpy like a cat, made her sides hurt.

The laughter dies down. River dabs her eyes and massages her tired cheeks. The Doctor’s hearts swells at her joy, even if it was at his own expense.

The Doctor looks over his shoulder once more. Your door is still locked with no one in line. An uneasy feeling lodges in his chest. Your usual bright, happy attitude was strangely absent. A few times you chimed in, relaying your own version of a story the Doctor purposefully miscounted.

You weren’t sad, at least the Doctor didn’t seem to think so. Empty was a more appropriate word. Stuck in your own head thinking God knows what.

“Did you hold up your end?”

River’s questions shocked the Doctor out of his own thoughts.

The Doctor narrows his eyes, “I don’t recall making a bargain with you. I thought we agreed that if we were drunk that it doesn’t count.”

River rolls her eyes, “I’m talking about (Y/N). I told you to talk to her about…” she gestures to the space between them.

The Doctor mimics her movements, confusion still present in his face, “What’s this? What did I agree to?”

“Us! You agreed to talk to (Y/N) about us. You told me that you would drop hints about it,” River scans the Doctor’s face for any recognition. She sees the realization dawn on him, and the guilt settling in. River can’t help but curl her lips into a snarl, “You didn’t do it, did you?”

“How am I supposed to?” he threw his hands up in exasperation, “It’s bad enough as it is that I get all light-headed and fuzzy when she’s near me. You hear me? Light-headed and fuzzy. I didn’t think that was possible—no I was certain it wasn’t possible. At least with you, you made all the moves from the get-go. What if she doesn’t like me back?’

River shoved her leg under the table, earning a strained “ow” from the Doctor, “You stupid oaf! Of course she likes you! Smartest man in the universe, yet you couldn’t use your big brain of yours to notice her signals? A cyberman could figure it out for goodness sake.”

The Doctor slumped back into his chair, dumbfounded. He would be lying if he said he didn't notice how close you were with him. But you're close with everyone. Always friendly, open with your emotions.

River was the one to bring up a potential relationship. Nudging the Doctor towards you, trying to get him to open up. Every time he mentions anything romantic, it never seems to come out right. Words jumble in his head and his tongue knots in his mouth. On the off chance he does something “romantic”, you would always—unwaveringly—call him a friend. He has to pretend that the word doesn’t make his teeth grind against each other.

The Doctor swirls the colored straw in his glass of soda. The ice clinking against glass and the residual carbonation sizzling out.

Ice. Cracking. Sizzling out into the inky depths of the cola, almost black in the dim lighting.

Something in his brain clicks.

— — —

10 minutes passed before someone banged on the bathroom door.

“Can you hurry up man! You’re holdin’ up the line!” an angry, muffled voice yelled.

You furiously wiped your face, collecting all the remaining tears with paper towels. A couple splashes of water to soothe your puffy eyes before you unlock the bathroom. You were greeted with a cross, stout man with too much hair on his chest and not enough on his head. He grumbled something before making his way around you. No one else stood behind him.

The restaurant died down with only a few tables left occupied and the setting sun spilling through the windows. You drag yourself towards the booth the Doctor and River were situated in. Your steps get slower as the distance gets shorter. Dread builds into you; your mind conjures the image of their exclusion towards you.

Voices, familiar and warm, could be heard. They were more hushed than before, perhaps due to the lack of other customers to drown out their noise. As you round a corner, you see River and the Doctor hunched towards one another. You can only see River’s stern expression before her eyes immediately spot you. Relief sags her shoulders. At her expression, the Doctor whizzed around to greet you.

You stopped in front of them, seeing their ruffled clothes and fidgeting body language. You were gone for a few minutes, so why did they look…disheveled? River’s usual glossy curls were frizzy around the edges; wild strands sticking to and fro. The Doctor’s shirt looked wrinkled and bowtie skewed at an odd angle.

Did they…? No, you weren’t gone for that long.

“Sorry I took so long. Long line and no toilet paper,” you lie with a monotone voice. You didn’t put any energy into making it believable, hoping they would get the hint to not question you.

The Doctor sprang up from his seat with an expression that seemed much too happy to be innocent.

“Change of plans. River had just informed me that at this very moment, there is a comet passing by in—” he checks his watch, “ —Yosemite, California. Super beautiful, gorgeous color. Isn’t that right Riv?”

River nods, fast and eager, “Sure is, sweetie. I’ve had enough of the city, wouldn’t you say?”

Their odd behavior rang alarm bells in your mind. A prank? You doubt River would be the type to follow along with a malicious prank. The Doctor, however…

You let out an exhausted sigh, “Could this wait later? Tomorrow?”

“Nope! Can’t wait, lots to see!” came the Doctor’s reply.

The Doctor placed his hands on your shoulders to steer you to the front door. Your feet nearly tangle together, practically stumbling down the empty street with River not too far behind. You find your footing just fast enough so that you can speed walk without the Doctor trying to knock you over.

“Guys, slow down. Doctor, I can walk just fine y’know,” your shoe gets caught onto a piece of sidewalk, making you jump slightly. It doesn’t deter the Doctor, still hellbent on shoving you down the street. You turn to your side, eyeing River, “Could you please explain to me what’s going on? Why are you guys acting weird?”

River’s cherry red lips stretched to a smile (Did she just apply it?), “Spoilers.”

Your friends’ odd behaviors made you question if you’re being kidnapped by shapeshifters. Not an impossible scenario, but would explain why they’re suddenly so hyper. The Doctor made a sharp turn into an alley. You see the TARDIS with its vibrant blue against the red brick of the buildings beside it.

Something’s wrong.

“The TARDIS was parked a few streets down. Why is it here?” you questioned, distrust lacing your voice.

The Doctor sent a worried look towards River, who looked caught off-guard.

“We…thought it was best to move it closer so you didn’t have to walk far,” River explains. It comes out quickly. Too rushed and uneasy to make it truthful.

The Doctor gave a smile, too wide for your liking.

You cross your arms over your chest, “If you don’t spit it out already I’m not getting into the TARDIS. I’m honestly a bit freaked out right now.”

“We, uh…” the Doctor moves his hand, trying to come up with something, “We can’t tell you.”

You scoff, looking at River to see if she will spill.

River shrugs, “You’ll have to come inside the TARDIS to see.”

You wrestle with the idea of accusing them of being aliens with perception filters. It could explain their odd appearance and eagerness to get you to the TARDIS. Were the real Doctor and River Song trapped somewhere. Is this a trick of the mind?

The Doctor hand tugs yours. Secure and warm. His expression calms, “It’s a surprise,” he indulges.

River unlocks the TARDIS, holding the door open, “A big one.”

The Doctor and River take your hands, interlocking them. The action sends your mind blank. Soft, warm. They hold tightly, flushed against your clammy palms. Your heart stutters, finally registering what’s happening. You’ve held their hands many, many times. It wasn’t unusual to see you link hands with either of them.

This. It feels different.

They all but pulled you inside, the destination already on display and the engine ready to go.

— — —

Cool air kissed your face, greatly contrasting the warm New York temperature. Grass met your feet instead of concrete. Stillness you’d always associate with nature instead of the bustle of busy streets.

“Is the blindfold really necessary?”

You fight the instinct to rip the cloth off your face, but your hands are preoccupied with being held by your companions. River to your left, the Doctor on your right. Their other hands find the small of your back, guiding you forward.

“Almost there, darling,” River assures.

You bite back a groan. One foot in front of the other as best as you could. Each one was wobbly; unsure of debris blocking your path. The hands along your back tighten, trying to steer your uncoordinated body towards the destination.

You smell the familiar scent of firewood in the air before you hear the crackling.

The walking stops and hands leave your body. You hear the rustling of fabric and stray giggles of the Doctor. River hushes him.

Your fingers twitch at your side. The cotton of the Doctor’s bow tie is soft yet strangely secure on your head. You're trying to piece together what they’re trying to show you. Nothing seems to add up. Is it a holiday? A prank? Was it a birthday?

You hear footsteps and feel two hands on your shoulders.

“Keep your eyes close, yeah?” the Doctor whispers, tugging his bow tie off your eyes.

You sigh, “Doctor, what are you trying to do?”

The Doctor doesn’t respond. You don’t know his facial expression or any sort of clue towards his motivations. But you feel the gentle hold of his hand. Warm palms picking up your fingers, thumb tracing the peaks of your knuckles and the valleys of your skin.

Almost like…

“Ready,” River announced, a bit distant from where you are standing.

The Doctor leans close, his hair tickling your temple, “Open your eyes.”

It took you a few blinks to adjust your eyes. The inky darkness of night contrasts the warm, inviting fire light.

River stands next to a picnic blanket with the most lush pillows you’ve ever seen. Movie snacks are piled in the corner and in the middle a neatly wrapped box with an obnoxious bow. In front of the picnic blanket was a small, orange fire surrounded by a ring of rocks. The flames crackle loudly, providing warmth against the lowering temperature.

“What…How? Why?” Was all you could muster. You take a few steps closer, unsure of how to process this.

You focus on the box. Dark wrapping paper with shining gold stars to accent. The flickering fire made the glitter on the stars twinkle. The bow nearly swallowed the top of the box with ribbons cascading down. Your eyes flicker to the pile of snacks. Your favorite snacks. Even some ramen packets.

The Doctor spoke up, “Hope you’re not too full from the pizza. Though, come to think of it, we may have left the drinks back in the TARDIS. River suggested wine but I’m already buzzed from my own endorphins.” His words were a bit fast, almost nervous.

“But why? Is there something special about today?” you ask.

River smiled, “November, 1826.”

There’s something familiar about the date. It tickled your memory, but nothing clear.

“Our first adventure together. The three of us,” The Doctor clarified.

It felt as though the Doctor’s words swept all air from your lungs. Of course, how could you forget?

You are certain it was years ago. Keeping track of time on the TARDIS is finicky at best, but you felt the time pass as evident by the scars on your skin and fine lines dotting your face. You were still wide-eyed and naive, not yet comprehending the dangers of the universe. The Doctor was still odd and new to be around; still getting used to your presence at his side.

There was a galactic cruise ship, nearly swallowing Pluto in size. Parts of the memory are hazy in your mind. You forget if it’s you that urged the Doctor to go or the Doctor dragging you out. Whatever the case was, you found yourself onboard and immediately lost, tipsy from the wine given.

River found you then. It wasn’t ‘til later that you realized that River was actually seeking you out. In your eyes, it was the first time seeing her. To her, she had already had a tone of familiarity when your name rolled off her tongue.

Turns out River had organized a heist to return stolen goods that were aboard the cruise ship. Fighting and mishaps ensued until the Doctor managed to hoard the goods aboard the TARDIS and return them to their rightful spots.

At the end of it all, the three of you had just so happened to be above the Earth at the same time as Biela’s comet.

You remember your legs dangling off the edge of the TARDIS, dark splotches along your legs where bruises formed. The Doctor and River lean against the doorframe, silent in their awe. The first of many mishaps and adventures the three of you would create.

They took you to the exact day—the exact time—

“Why?” you whispered. Everything came rushing all at once. Stolen glances, longing stares, the uncomfortable beat of your heart. Memories of the three of you or just intimate moments with either of them. You swallow the lump in your throat, “I just…don’t understand.”

The Doctor took your hands once again. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

“We love you (Y/N). For a while now, actually.”

His delicate words hit you like a gust of wind. Your head snapped up, eyes wide and fearful. The Doctor’s usual happy facade is gone, any humor wiped from the planes of his face entirely. His hands grip onto yours a bit harder, enough to ground you.

After a few moments, your brain finally stills. Anxiety still grips your muscles and tightens your chest, but you manage to sputter your thoughts out coherently.

“I love you guys too,” you grin against the onset of tears starting to fall. You didn’t move your hands from the Doctor’s, so you simply let them cascade down your face. You shakily inhaled, continuing, “For so long I thought you guys wouldn’t feel the same. Even now…”

Two hands appear at your cheeks, thumbs swiping away the salty tears. The Doctor smiles and you don’t mistake the glisten in his eyes as well.

You turn towards River who stands near the blankets with the present pressed tightly against herself. The fire gives her golden hair a bright orange hue, surrounding her with a divine glow. The way she looks at you made your skin flushed; so full of adoration, as if you were the most breath-taking sight.

Stepping towards the blond with the Doctor, you try to meet her gaze head-on. You stopped once you got close enough to see the dilation of her eyes. For a second a flicker of something else flashed in her green eyes.

“Breathe, darling,” she teased. At her command, you let out the breath you were holding. She hands you the box, never breaking eye-contact, “Consider it an anniversary gift.”

The choice of words makes your eyes widen. The box seemed a bit hefty in your hands. You gave it an experimental shake, feeling something large and solid moving. You gripped the end of the ribbon and gave it a tug. Silky ribbon buckled, folding into itself until it completely unraveled and slipped from the box. Pulling open the top you saw a large blue book nestled inside.

TARDIS blue, you noted.

River takes the empty box while the Doctor ushered you onto the picnic blanket. There were no words embellished that gave any indication as to what the book was about. Flipping the cover open, you were met with a mostly blank page, save for the text stamped in the middle:

“For the love of our many lives. A companion, friend, and most importantly, the reason the Universe doesn’t seem so cold.”

Tears nearly blurred your vision, but you managed to wipe them away to flip to the next page.

A collage of photos filled the pages. Some were candid, others in black in white, most of them had you in them. There were pictures you had captured on an old film camera you snagged when you were stuck in the 70s. You were quite surprised to see snapshots of you doing mundane activities. Your head was turned away from the lens, completely focused on some task in front of you. There were a few pictures with you and River and some with all three of you.

Years of memories stored in the pages of the book. Some far back to the earliest days of your travels.

The rest of the night blurred into happy tears and hearty laughs. You snuggled between the two Time Lords flipping through the photo album filled with your fondest memories.

The insecurities felt in the cramped bathroom in the middle of New York seemed so far away. Years of anxiety curdling in your stomach finally bloomed into something sweet. They loved you. They wanted you. They planned everything out for you. You felt it in their gaze, their warm touches.

“Tonight,” the Doctor whispered, “It’s all about you.”

As Biela made her visit, shining brightly amongst the twinkling stars, you realized that somewhere out in the sky, your past selves were observing the same scene.

Staring out into the vast expanse of space, you hoped the love that swelled your heart could be felt millions of miles away. That your shared laughter transcended the atmosphere and carried to the passengers of the TARDIS floating above Earth.

You hoped that somewhere out there, your future selves are looking over, sharing this experience across time and space.

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asumofwords · 1 year

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Aemond POV: Your return to the Red Keep

A/N: I saw that a few of you wanted an Aemond POV, and as I am a benevolent ruler, I thought I would give the people what they wanted. I wanted to do the the first couple of times he saw you after the years you were separated. This is all from Aemond’s point of view and from the time where you and your family all returned to the Red Keep.

This is a Dark!Aemond POV from the fic Smoke, Fire and Ash.

Enjoy !

TW: Aemond POV. Dark!Aemond. Murder, Incest, thoughts of violence, thoughts of sexual activities. 18+

Words: 4k

Character pairing: Dark!Aemond X Reader, HOTD characters. Dark!Aemond POV.

He swung his sword roughly at Ser Criston, who leant back to dodge the edge of the sharp blade, as he and Aemond moved in tandem in the training yard. Aemond was fast on his feet but knew Ser Cole to be just as quick.

Each swing was met by a duck, or deflection by the chain of the flail Ser Cole swung at him, the loud clanging of the chain and whistle in the air as it moved towards him, guided him back. And soon Aemond found himself dancing in a circle as he waited to make the next move, to swing the blade back down onto the knight and make him yield.

Ser Cole swung the striking head once more towards Aemond, and he dodged, before spinning to hold the tip of his blade against Ser Cole's neck, hitting the flail away. They both breathed deeply as they watched each other, and Ser Cole finally conceded.

Applause rang out from those who had gathered to watch the two men train, and Aemond felt the prickling sensation of three sets of eyes upon his form.

Ser Cole dropped the flail to the ground heavily, “Well done, My Prince,” Ser Cole breathed, “You’ll win tourneys in no time.”

Aemond did not lower the blade, “I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” He spoke, before allowing his gaze to roam the space to where he felt eyes watching him. Lowering his sword, Aemond let his eye land on a pair of brown headed boys, and the silver hair of a girl.

Who is she?

“Nephews,” He called out, enjoying watching the two Strong boys stiffen as they were addressed, faces suddenly uncomfortable, “Have you come to train?”

Jacaerys mouth opened and closed like a fish, as Lucerys looked up to the girl, no, woman, beside him. How she had grown. No longer the gangly limbed child, who’s hair could rarely be tamed, but now stood a woman of the court.

Her hair was braided neatly behind her head, as she wore a tight all black gown that hugged her curves. Grown, indeed. Her cheeks were dusted a light pink. He felt his lip twitch as he watched her, small excitement bubbling inside as he remembered fond memories of their youth together.

Was she nervous?

As he caught her gaze, she blinked, looking down and then back up at him, stoney faced and chin held higher. She looked down to Lucerys, whispering to him before moving the two Strong boys away with her, back into the Keep.

All those fond memories came crashing down, and the bitter rage in which Aemond had tried in vain to keep in order, bubbled up inside of him. There she was, the Princess who he had been so close to, his niece who he had shared so many memories with, so many secrets, once again choosing her brothers over him.

He could remember vividly, sitting in that room, as the Maester stitched his eye shut, feeling the sharp pain of the needle as it threaded through. No milk of the poppy was given to him. He was too young, it was too dangerous. And so instead he tried to seek comfort in someone he always had.

You.

And what had you done?

Stuck by Lucerys, checking his face for injury, and standing firmly alongside your mother, watching him as he was berated in front of all, by his father. That was when the love shared between the both of you died.

He would do well to remind himself of that.

Aemond could not believe how much she had changed. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he watched them walk away, the Princess throwing a curious look over her shoulder to glance at him one more time.

He supposed that he had grown too. His cheeks no longer held the plumpness of young adolescence, and his face had grown sharp and angled. Even the way he held himself was different.

He had changed, and so had she.

You were all in the Iron Throne room, listening to Vaemond Velaryon put forward a motion to be heir of Driftmark, questioning the four of you and your legitimacy, voice loudly ringing into the court.

Aemond would remember it for the rest of his days.

You stood, back straight, head tall, hair braided tightly up, with none flowing down. A black and red gown hugging your figure with an off the shoulder look, similar to your mother as you stood beside her, mouth turned down in the corners.

Such rage, Aemond noted.

He watched with glee as Vaemond argued with your mother, watching Jacaerys shake his head and mutter under his breath whilst his assaulter, Lucerys looked nervous. You had pushed Lucerys beside you, using your body as a shield to keep him out of Vaemond’s line of sight.

Still protecting him.

Aemond felt that bitterness curl through him as he watched.

“Her children... are bastards!” Vaemond yelled into the court, and yet despite it all, Aemond could not keep his eye off of you. As soon as the words left the Velaryon’s lips, he watched as your face calmed.

It was eerie, Aemond thought.

Your hand had moved the slightest of bits towards your side, and Aemond watched as you swayed forward, as though ready to pounce. There was no blush on your cheeks, no sneer on your lips, just a fire burning in your eyes as you watched your Velaryon uncle.

“And she…is…a whore.” The man sneered.

“I, shall have your tongue for that.” Aemond’s father called out to the court, standing roughly as he unsheathed the blade from his side.

Aemond would not give the old man a second glance, he knew that his father would do nothing, as he had done nothing for years. And would do nothing as he was too weak from sickness, and too faint of heart.

Movement caught Aemond’s eye, as he watched Vaemond Velaryon’s corpse fall loudly to the ground, the sound of a blade and the loud thud echoing through the chambers.

If Aemond could laugh, he would. But it would not be proper of him.

“He can keep his tongue.” Daemon purred, looking down at his handiwork.

Aemond flicked his sight away from the corpse and up at you. You had not jumped, nor looked away from the body on the floor. No. Instead you glared at it with rage, before suddenly your lips pulled into a small smile.

No-one else in the court would have witnessed it, too busy looking at the body of the man slain in front of them. Your lips looked as though they were fighting to hide the sheer joy and pleasure you got from watching him be killed. A small line of blood was flecked across your cheek, but you did not notice, or if you had, you did not wipe it away.

Such a beautiful smile.

And then suddenly your eyes were on him. And Aemond felt the air be sucked out of the room. You watched him in delight, no longer hiding your smile as you watched him. Such a smug and proud look upon your face. A threat some would say.

The sight made his cock twitch.

There she is.

Aemond felt awe as he watched Daemon move back, wiping his sword on his robes before he came to stand beside you. You took your gaze from your uncle, and looked up at your mothers husband, smiling proudly.

He watched as Daemon ran a finger along your cheek to wipe the Velaryon blood away lovingly, and Aemond felt a pang of jealousy.

Aemond noted that Vaemond was wrong when he said that they wouldn’t know what Velaryon blood looked like, because now the whole court did.

Aemond had been running late for his family feast, something that he had never done before. He prided himself in upholding his duty and being the son that Aegon should have been.

In truth, Aemond had gone straight to his chambers after the events at court, and had pulled roughly at his cock at the thought of you. He wished to touch you, to hold you, to claim you. He wanted to mark you so that everyone knew that you were his. He wanted to watch you swell with his babe.

He had never thought of you this way before and it maddened him. He found his release in his hand three times that day, picturing you on your knees before him, pleasuring him with your soft lips, or him thrusting deep into your cunt.

You had bewitched him.

He had brushed his hair more roughly than he should have, the frustration rolling through him as he prepared to walk down to the feast. And although he had brought himself to climax three times already, he still was not satisfied. He told himself as he walked to the Dining Hall to ignore you, to breathe, to not get caught in the trap of a bastard.

But he was already trapped.

When he entered the room, he noticed all were praying before the meal, his mother Alicent giving him a stern yet disappointing look. It made his heart sting to disappoint her. And this sting, he blamed immediately upon you.

As he walked to the table he let himself gaze at you.

You wore quite the scandalous dress, as though you were purposefully teasing him. No. He was sure you were doing it on purpose. To get a rise out of him. To tempt him into your space.

The neckline was plunging and he could not help but let his eyes linger upon the breasts you had developed. They looked so soft, and Aemond wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over them softly, or bite them roughly.

He could not decide which one he liked the thought of better.

Aemond asked his mother for forgiveness as he sat at his seat, at the opposite end of the table facing you. He held your gaze firm, and when he saw the light blush crawl over your cheeks, he let himself smirk in victory.

Perhaps he affected you the same way you did him.

He watched you carefully that evening, eye roaming your figure wondering if you had been spoiled yet by some man, or woman. He wondered why you had not been betrothed yet, surely a woman of your age should have been promised to some Lord by now.

And then he could not help but think perhaps the Gods were on his side for once, and the reason that you were not engaged yet, meant that you would be his.

Aemond found that he had no hunger that evening, except for a hunger for you. He could not bring himself to eat, nor could he bring himself to take his eye away from you. He still could not believe how much you had grown.

Your lips were fuller now, and had the softest curve to them, than you did when you were young, and the longer he looked, the more he found it difficult to look away. He wondered if you hated him. The way you caught his gaze and sneered, made him assume so.

How could she hate me? He thought.

What had he done to deserve this? She was the one who abandoned him. She was the one who chose her bastard brother over him. She was the one who let him take his eye, and did not care for his pain after.

He felt that anger prickle in the back of his head as he watched her.

He watched his niece dance, and laugh with his sister. He watched them break each other's cold masks and for one second, he thought he was looking back in time, from when they had all been children. Back to when Helaena and Y/n had been inseparable.

Or so he had thought.

He found that as he watched them dance and enjoy each other's company, he could no longer sneer. He could no longer hold such disdain and anger. It gave him a lick of hope. A disgusting, fickle piece of hope that perhaps one day, he could have her, and she would want it.

But then Jacaerys took Helaena to dance, and suddenly he felt that anger redirected.

How dare the dirty bastard touch her like that. How dare he make her smile. How dare his disgusting Strong hands touch Helaena so gently, hold her as though he knew her intimately.

He didn’t.

His nephew could never know just how beautiful Helaena was, just how beautiful she could be.

No one deserved her.

Not even Aemond himself.

And as he found himself scowling at his nephew he heard the soft, yet sharp call of your voice, turning his attention back to you, hackles on his back up and ready to fight from your tone.

You were mocking him.

“Prince Aemond, were you riding Vhagar this evening? I thought I saw her soaring up into the sky. When you didn’t arrive on time, I worried that a storm had come and taken you.” She inquired, fake concern lacing her venomous tongue.

You little bitch.

Aemond had to school himself, and so he reached out to hold his goblet, taking a sip of the spiced wine to give him time to think before reacting. He had been reacting to her all day, and found that if he did it again, he would have to take her, right there and then, before their family to show them who she truly belonged to.

“I was merely enjoying the night sky, dear niece.”

Lie. He was thinking of your soft thighs, and sweet lips and warm-

“It's not everyday you have the world's largest dragon, and I make a habit of reminding myself of that.”

And Gods, he could not lie that when your next words spilled from your lips, and the cruel smile you gave him, he had not really listened to your words. He had not even given thought to your attempt to goad him into a fight. Because he was ready, and he had been all too ready since the day you came back.

Since the day he saw you in the training yard.

Aemond had been ready to lash out at you for what you had done to him. For abandoning him. For choosing your bastard brothers and whore mother over him. For ruining what could have been. For what you had made him feel. For how weak he had become.

He was almost as bad as Aegon, and that was what made it so much worse.

He had planned to leave it, he had planned to not give in. To show who was superior, to show the grace of a true Targaryen, not a bastard of a disgraced whore Princess, who would never sit upon the throne. He clenched his teeth so hard in his mouth, that all he could do was hum in response.

But then the Gods were cruel, and fate was even crueler, and he watched in horror as a roasted pig was placed before him. He knew it was coming, he knew the cards that were about to be dealt, and he felt the slightest itch of his scar as his lone eye looked upon a stark reminder of his youth.

He listened as Lucerys snorted, just like the pig at his expense, and it all came flooding back.

The taunting, the mocking, the cruelty, his eye.

All of it.

But losing his eye did not hurt nearly as much as watching you abandon him for them.

“Is that not your first dragon, uncle Aemond? What had you named it again? The Pink Dread?” You teased, smirking at him and Aemond heard as the others giggled from the table, even Aegon.

Aegon was the worst of them all.

And despite everything he had done for his brother, the years of protecting him, the years of coddling him and allowing him to be the disgusting man that he was, it still wasn’t good enough. Aegon still called Aemond a twat, and mocked him. Made a mockery of their position as Targaryen Princes. Forcing him to a Pleasure house at ten-and-three, telling him it was ‘time to get it wet’.

But he hadn’t wanted to.

And there it was.

That anger that he tried so desperately to push deep within him. That anger his mother had tried to school out of him, the anger that only Helaena seemed to soothe with her kind words and comfort. She was the only one in the Keep who did not treat him like a monster. She was the only one he had left.

Fuck it.

Aemond slammed his hand on the table, feeling the wood sting his palm as he stood to his full height, holding out his goblet to her, watching her shit eating grin slowly fall from her face.

“Final tribute.” He began, directing that anger carefully into his next words.

He watched as she stiffened, eyes flicking about the table, gauging the other's reactions.

“To the health of my nephew's, Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise,” He paused, watching her as she began to anticipate the next words, “Hm… Strong."

Watching her face turn to frown at him, to scowl at him, to burst with such hatred, made his blood rush through his body and into his cock.

And so he continued.

What a rush.

How good it felt to hurt her the way she had hurt him. To make her feel just as lowly as she had made him feel. How her brothers had made him feel for years.

He heard his mother say his name but he ignored it. He would deal with the repercussions later, though he doubted he would. She had never stopped him before, and in fact was brazen with discussing the illegitimacy of the Strong boys, so why start now.

“And to my darling niece, some cast doubts about her strength, but I can see that she is just as Strong as her brothers.”

She was simmering with rage by then and all he could think of was how glorious it would be to put her in her place. To bend her to his will, to snuff out that fire inside of her.

"Let us raise our cups, to these three Strong boys, and their Strong sister." Aemond purred, watching her clench her entire body, hands in fists so tight, her knuckles turned white.

Aemond heard the irritating growl of his nephew Jace, “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond could not help but smile. This would be little challenge. Though Jace had grown, Aemond was still older and bigger, and doubted the younger boy trained as hard as he did with the sword.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Aemond felt the dull ache on his cheek, his head whipping to the side as Jacaerys laid his fist into his face. His hand still held his goblet, and he noted to himself with great pride, that he had not spilt a drop of wine on the floor.

Turning back, Aemond used little effort to shove his nephew to the floor, watching in his periphery as Lucerys tried in vain to help, as Aegon slammed him into the table by the scruff of his neck.

Down boy.

And then you did something that had not shocked him in the slightest. You grasped the fork from the table, calling out to him with a voice that was laced with venom.

“Say that again. Say that again I dare you!”

Seeing that tiny fork in your hand made him smile even more. He doubted you even trained yourself, and his size and strength could certainly overpower you.

And how he could not wait to bend you over the table and f-

“No. I want to hear what my uncle has to say.” She heaved a breath, “Speak Aemond, so that we may hear your treasonous lies again.”

My little dragon. Such fire.

He felt an overwhelming sense of pride as he watched you heave angry breaths, eyes wide as you clutched the pathetic fork. So proud in fact, that he found himself grinning.

He had only seen this side of you a handful of times as a child.

Defending Helaena when Aegon would question her intelligence or sanity.

Defending Lucerys and Jacaerys when he and Aegon would call them bastards together, or taunt them once their mother Alicent had told them of the threat of Rhaenyra ascending the throne and her bastard children.

Even defending him.

It made his lips pull wider.

It was not often that Aemond grinned. Sure he smirked, and occasionally smiled, but rarely did he show his teeth. Those sharp incisors that he would have no issue using to bite down on the soft flesh of your thighs, or the stiffened bud of your nipple.

As soon as he bared his teeth to the room, you were moving and he watched in awe as you charged straight for him, much like his mother had done to Rhaenyra all those years ago.

It was uncanny, the wildness in your eyes. Such devotion.

Such love.

And then you were before him, breasts pushing against the confines of your dress as you heaved angrily, eyes dancing across his face, demanding he answer you.

Commanding him to answer.

He felt the prongs of the fork underneath his neck and could not help but feel himself begin to harden under the tight confines of his pants.

You were so close to him, the closest you had been since you were children. He could see the purple of your eyes, and the blush on your cheeks from the wine and your anger. He could see the small freckles you had on your face, and smell the oils on your skin.

You smelt sweet, earthy, musky. It was addictive, it was arousing. It was everything he had hoped and dreamed of that day, cock in hand. It took all of his strength to not dip his head down and capture your lips with his. To taste the spiced wine that would surely be on your tongue. To drink down your essence and be full of it.

He wanted to be full of you, to taste you. To lick at your weeping cunt as you cried beneath him, begging him. More, more, please Aemond, please uncle, more. He wanted to drink your release as it leaked from you, as he brought you to climax, time and time again.

“Say. That. Again.” The little dragon spat.

If he did not preoccupy his lips with something, he would kiss you. He could not help it. You were magnetic. And enigma. A force to be reckoned with. The Gods had taken their time with you.

And so he lifted the goblet to his lips to sip, but your small hand swiped it away, causing the wine and goblet to spill onto the ground.

As soon as your hand brushed against his, he felt an electric jolt. It had been so long since you had touched him.

Touch me again.

And then Daemon was behind you, whispering in your ear and Aemond watched as your strength wavered, as contemplation flickered across your face. As all the emotions flashed quickly and disappeared as he continued to urge you to stand down.

How had his uncle tamed you so well?

How had this man made you so pliable? Aemond found himself more and more jealous of the relationship the two of you had. And the more he looked at you both, so close together, as you had grown into your face, the more he recognised certain features.

Certain mannerisms.

And then his uncle was staring him down, as he crowded his niece in front of him, whispering so lowly, that no-one else but the three of you would hear.

“Issa ñuha tala.” (She is my daughter.)

And then it all made sense.

That fire, that rogue air about you.

The way you held no fear around the Prince, the way you did not flinch, and leant into his touch. The way Daemon doted on you more than any of his other children.

You were his.

You were not a Strong bastard.

You were fire.

And that made Aemond more determined than ever to have you.

And he would have you.

No matter the cost.

Argh so here it is, a lil blurb of Aemond's POV from 'Smoke, Fire and Ash'. I thought it would be best to show you the beginning of his descent into pure obsession with the reader. Sure there had been a possessiveness from the start as children, but it had been innocent, until the reader came back to the Keep fully grown. The pair truly force each others hand, neither one knowing when to stop and only making things worse. It's beautiful :')

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pastshadows · 2 months

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 12: Growth

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.5K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

You stare into the pale Elf’s vibrantly red eyes as he holds the razor-sharp edge of his dagger against your neck, which he seems to be looking at rather too ardently for your liking. You frown at him, struggling against his hold on you. He’s stronger than he appears at first glance. You knew this man was bad news as soon as you laid eyes on him. You’ll never be able to comprehend why you thought it was a lovely idea to turn your back on this stranger and walk away.

Perhaps you can blame it on being tired, having a worm thrust into your eye socket, falling out of the sky, or your head injury that smarts fierce and unforgivingly under the baking heat of the noonday sun.

You’re about to burn him to a crisp for this attack, but as you gaze into those eyes, your soul sparks with recognition you can’t place. You know this man, somehow, but you’re sure you’ve never seen him before.

The way he leers at you almost makes you giggle. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

Fear. You can see it plainly, hidden behind this facade of confidence. Your arm holds the dagger's tip steady as the steel kisses your neck. Keeping your voice as balanced as you can, you retort, “You have it backwards - they took me prisoner, just like you.”

“Don’t lie to me. I - agh.”

Your mind twists. Gods. The squirming behind your eye is beyond uncomfortable as it moves your brain matter around. You close your eyes and surrender to the sensation. It seems like the only option lest whatever is wiggling might break open your skull like a melon. A vision is steadily anthropomorphized. You’re looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold onto the memory, but it fades, and you’re left with the light and a potent fear that makes your stomach churn.

“What was that?” The pale Elf stares at you with a suspicious glower. The tenor of his voice increases. You recognize distress when you hear it. You better proceed carefully, or you’re going to wind up with a blade in your windpipe, ”What’s going on?”

Well, there’s no point in lying. Is there?

“It’s the mind flayer’s worm - it connected us."

His grip on you eases as he draws the pointed tip of the dagger away. You think about asking him if he recognizes you or if you’ve met before, but there’s nothing in his demeanour to indicate such. Have you hit your head far worse than you thought, and it’s scrambled your brain like an egg?

“You’re not one of them. They took you, just the same as me.” His scowl eases and becomes… artificial amusement? Real amusement? This man is decidedly hard to read. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

Apologies? Apologies?! Is that really all he has to offer you after he dragged you to the ground with a godsdamned dagger? He’s lucky you didn’t hail fire from the fucking sky! Gods. You want to punch him in his pointy, pale, beautiful face.

Well, I was contemplating burning him to death.

“Apology accepted.” You hiss at him, dusting off your robe. There’s sand in your mouth, gritty against your teeth. It makes you want to punch him all the more, “I might have done the same if roles were reversed.”

He chuckles at your taunting, “Ah, a kindred spirit.” He leers at you with a haughty glower, “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The streets were familiar as the vision played out behind your eyelids. If the glimpse wasn’t enough to convince you that he’s telling the truth about his origins, his accent does.

“I’m a Baldurian as well,” you glower back at him, meeting his arrogance with your own.

“Is that so? We clearly move in different circles.” You roll your eyes at his pompous intonation. “So, do you know anything about these worms?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” You hesitate but decide truth is the best course of action. He might as well know what he’s up against, “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”

“Turn us into - ha. Hahaha!” You jolt at his mordant laughter like a giggle at a funeral. There’s such a deep sadness woven between the facade cracking. “Of course, it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?”

Your heated palms itch. Not with the draconic fire that squirms underneath the thin skin, but to reach out to him, to comfort this total stranger who has been nothing but a pain in your ass since you met him moments ago. So, why do you desperately want to hug him?

What in the Hells is wrong with me? Good Gods.

He continues with an abstract hopefulness, “Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.”

“Control it?” You scoff and quirk a brow, shaking your head. Control the worm? No. You need to fucking expel it immediately! You lean forward and resist the urge to poke his chest, which you are currently trying to imagine without that lovely doublet. You shake your head again, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts, “We need to get rid of it!”

“Well yes, of course,” he drawls as if you’re an idiot. With the way you’re acting and thinking, you begin to wonder if your head wound is worse than you thought, “But first things first.”

“You should travel with me.” The words are blundering out of your mouth before you have time to consider what you’re asking. He’s already been enough trouble, and you’re requesting more, but maybe, if you’re lucky, you will see him shirtless… Fuck! What in the Hells is wrong with you? You clear your throat, “Our odds are better together.”

“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” Astarion, this pale Elf you don’t know but somehow recognize, sizes you up as you frown at him, “And you seem like a useful person to know. All right,” he bows shallowly, “I accept, lead on.”

A useful person to know?

Ah. Yes. Of course. He’s one of those. He does not see you as another living being. No. You know his kind well. He sees you as a tool he can use to implement his liberation from your new friend who’s currently in a competition with your brain matter for space in your skull.

You walk a couple of steps before your outrage gets the best of you, and you whirl on him, fire in your palm and the Weave aglow in your eyes, “You said your name was Astarion, correct?”

“Yes,” his hand moves toward the dagger’s hilt at his hip. “That’s correct.”

“Don’t make any sudden moves, Astarion,” you snarl and toss Firebolt as close to his toes as you can without burning him.

“Ah,” he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. You’re sure it’s merely a placation so that you let your guard down. His voice is as smooth as butter and warm as daylight, “I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, yes? I apologized. What more do you want? I’m all out of wine and chocolates - I’m afraid.”

“Listen closely, Rogue,” you try to hide the insecurity you’re feeling behind an illusion of poise. “If you ever put another knife to my throat, if I have even a suspicion you might, I will reduce you to dust.”

“Oh, sorceress,” Astarion smirks, cavalier and handsome, “I would love to see you try, you brute. I don’t fancy your chances. I know a thousand ways to kill you before you can so much as utter an incantation, but I digress. You’re welcome to try, of course. You’ll find I am particularly hard to kill.”

You scoff, holding your hand in his view as fire edges over your fingers, up your arm, and back before petering out. “Who said anything about incantations? I hope you’re as good with that blade as you seem to think you are.”

“I assure you, I am. I’ve had more practice than you can possibly imagine,” he turns his nose up, puffing his chest out in bravado that makes you want to deflate that cocksure attitude.

You roll your eyes, stalking away toward the wreckage. You need to find supplies, coin, food-

“Ah-ah, sorceress!” Astarion chimes behind you with a jeering lilt that makes you close your eyes and curse under your breath as your patience wears incredibly thin.

Gods, give me strength.

“What?”

“Hells. You’re a snappy one. Are you always this rude?” He quips. “Do you have a name, or shall I just continue calling you sorceress, brute, shrew….”

“SHREW?!” You cut him off, trying very hard to hide your amusement but finally relenting and dissolving into raving laughter.

“I fail to see what’s so funny,” he peers around, crossing his arms, jutting a hip out. He’s obviously not accustomed to his jeers being scorned, but you’re not some soft-hearted juvenile.

“If you mean to upset me,” you giggle as he glares disdainfully, “you will have to try much harder than that. Until you can come up with a worthwhile slight, you may call me Kamena.”

“Kamena…” Something flashes in Astarion’s ruby-red eyes, dazzling and animated in the sunlight. His lips rap together as if he’s sampling how your name feels on his tongue. He shakes his head, sweeping the perplexity furrowing his brow away, “I would say it’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying. Now, if you’re quite done threatening me, may I suggest we get a move on?”

The spoon in your hand idly churns the thick, pasty curds of the cold porridge that was supposed to be your breakfast. You stare, disconnected and disgusted by the thought of consuming any form of nourishment despite the grumbles in your stomach indicating that you’re hungry. You slump in the chair, pushing the bowl away from you with a grimace. Your appetite is insufficient, and you can’t conjure the will to shove a spoonful of the algid, viscus goop into your mouth.

Days have turned into anxious nights with naught a syllable uttered between you and Astarion. Your heart is heavy in your chest with longing and uncertainty. He doesn’t come out of his room during the day and leaves late at night when he thinks you’ve fallen into your trance. Your nightmares have returned with a savage vengeance now that Astarion is no longer there to wake you from them before they start to escalate. Dark, puffy bags are beginning to extend under your eyes as you avoid slipping into your trance night after hopeless night. Your head spins misery like a web around your last interaction.

Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.

“Sorceress,” Tara grumbles by your side, but you’re so tired her voice is forgotten as soon as it whispers over your ears. “Kamena!” She asserts more stridently, jolting you awake.

“What?” You snap at her, digging your fingernails into the table.

“You look weary,” Tara purrs soothingly. “What troubles you?”

“I did it,” you whisper, trying to swallow the heavy shadow of your heart constricting your throat. “I told Astarion how I felt. He has not spoken to me since.”

“I see,” she considers your words and then smirks as much as her little nose will allow. “So, now he is being the idiot.”

Even with tears welling in your eyes, seeping from the corners, mutinying your control, you laugh, “I suppose you could say that.”

“Did the vampire tell you he did not feel the same?” She looks at you softly with those green eyes that hold the wisdom of a sage in their depths.

“No. Nothing like that,” you say with a tremoring voice and shake your head. “He requested I give him space.”

“And this troubles you,” she cocks her head, “this request for solace?”

“No,” you try to find the words to explain your melancholy. “No, it’s not the space. I can give him that. It’s the avoidance. The silence. He is usually so hard to shut up.” You give a meek laugh and let your head drop into your hands. “I will never get this right, will I?”

“Come, idiot,” she tilts her head toward the door. “Take a walk with me, will you?”

Tara half flies, half-scampers beside you, leading you deep into the forest. Golden sunlight flickers gently through the canopy. A brisk wind shakes the withering leaves from the trees, and they float down around you in a shower of oranges, reds and yellows. She leads you into a small alcove. Her wings flutter as she lands, stretches and settles them.

“What are we doing out here, Tara?”

“Pick a tree and make it fall.” Tara’s eyes glimmer as bold and keen as a hawk. “It matters not how.”

The request is odd, even for her. You can’t begin to fathom why in the world she would drag your sleepless, sapped self out here to simply fell a tree. You grasp the Weave and let the peaceful force thread through your muscles, giving them a pleasant buzzing tingle that starts in your toes and gambles up your spine. The incantation rolls off your tongue like poetry and the electric blue of lightening hisses as the current churns around your fingers. Picking a tree far from you or Tara, the bolt strikes true right at the base with a resounding, echoing boom that causes birds to flit away from the high boughs.

Tara shakes off the splinters of timber your grand display deposited on her fur. “Did it make a sound, sorceress?”

“Are you deaf?” You scoff. Your ears are still ringing from the blast, “Yes, of course, it made a sound.”

“When a tree falls, it tells the forest the tale of its demise, yet its seeds will grow in silence,” she says softly like a purring lullaby. “Growth and creation are often quiet. Even in this silence, you and the vampire are still growing.”

Oh, Hells. This godsdamn cat.

Shit. Tressym.

Astarion sits in the dimly lit confines of his room with his head in his hands and fingers curled in his hair. Turmoil surges within him as long-dormant fears roil, unravelling a tapestry of overwhelming emotion. He scolds himself with a scoff. He’s being a fucking fool, but those catacombs of pain and darkness have once again cast their baleful spell on him. Old insecurities he thought he had conquered paralyze him.

Cazador’s words often float through the darkness in his room. Will he ever stop hearing his voice? How many years will it take for it to fade away, lost to time like the colour of his eyes?

“You are nothing but an insignificant little insect, my boy.”

"You are no one. A monster, a fiend, a creature that can never be loved.”

“You are an abomination, unworthy of affection or compassion.”

It’s not an easy thing to untangle the web that Cazador wove. There are so many knots, snares and tangles that he keeps getting caught on. He feels trapped in this bloody prison of his own making, bound by the chains of his past. Fear has become his warden, prattling doubts that feed on his shattered self, holding him captive. Why can he not leave these things behind? Why do they keep cropping up to plague him?

Gods. He yearns for her touch, the warmth of her embrace to melt away the ice that has solidified in his veins, but shadows loom over him like monstrous spectres, threatening to extinguish any hope of happiness.

He heard the snarky feline call him an idiot today, and he’s loathe to admit it, but she’s right. Two hundred years of being surrounded by lover after lover, victim after victim, and never did he feel any real connection. Not until he met her.

“You look dreadful in that colour, sorceress.” He tuts, clicking his tongue. “That robe is quite unsightly. It leaves much to be desired.”

“It’s a good thing that you already desire me so much then,” she turns, walking backward and taunts. “Perhaps this will stop you from drooling over me like a lovesick pup.”

“I do not drool!” He scoffs.

“You’re drooling over my very delectable neck right now.” She grins, caressing her buttery skin. She does have a very lovely, biteable neck. He would not mind another nibble.

“Gods. You wish.” He crosses his arms, glowering at her presumptuousness. “No one will drool over you if you keep wearing that.”

“I think Gale finds this robe particularly attractive,” she giggles, twirling to showcase the horror show of a garment.

He attempts to remain impassive and emotionless, but a scowl devours his features nonetheless. The wizard has been all over her since she pulled him out of that damned portal. He hoped that Gale might be deterred after their little late-night tryst. It didn’t seem to dissuade him any. He should not even care if she finds herself in the arms of another. Yet, the more he witnesses Gale, Wyll, Hells, even the Gith, ogling her, flirting with her, giving her those amorous looks and suggestive comments, the more it simply rubs him the wrong way. He cannot quite comprehend why. He’s never been a jealous man before. He tells himself it’s because they might ruin his “simple plan” if they gain her affections.

“That’s not a good thing, darling. Do you see that purple curtain he’s wearing?” he snorts, grimacing.

“Need I remind you that you were also wearing purple when we met?”

“Yes, but it looks decidedly fabulous on me,” he retorts. “You look like you're wearing a burlap sack.”

“Oh,” she brings a finger to her lips and cocks her head in an adorable fashion. “Now, that’s a great idea. I shall adorn a sack on our next outing for your viewing pleasure since you seem so utterly invested in my outfits.”

“Hells below.” He grumbles. She likely will do it to get a rise out of him. “By all means, embarrass yourself further. I care not. Just have the decency to leave me at camp so I don’t have to be seen with you.”

“You know what?” She giggles, her face crinkling with the delight of teasing him. “I’ll just take it off right now. Will that shut you up, or will I have to rescue you from drowning in a puddle of your own saliva?”

“First, I cannot drown. I do not need to breathe.” He huffs, sticking his nose in the air. “Second. I do not drool. Third. I’m calling your bluff. Surely, you would not disrobe right in the middle of the road.”

“Hmm.” She ponders with her eyes cast skyward, twinkling in the fading light. A mischievous glower splits her lips, “Challenge accepted.”

“What?”

She laughs as her fingers unlace the ties on her hideous robe. His mouth drops open. Surely, she will stop. Even if she doesn’t, surely, she’s wearing something more than her undergarments under that.

Right?

…. Right?!

It falls open as she fiddles with the last couple of ties, and he’s glad she’s not looking at him because his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. She is decidedly not wearing anything other than her undergarments, and fuck, she is not stopping. He swallows thickly. She is a sight to behold, but good Gods, he does not want anyone else to behold it!

She chuckles and throws the robe over her shoulders, letting it drop to the dusty ground in a puddle around her feet and saunters off with a provocative sway of her hips. It takes him a moment to regain his poise as she strolls down the road in nothing but her underclothes and tall boots.

“What are you doing?” He grabs her robe off the ground, shaking it off and jogging to her. “Are you out of your mind? There are Goblins, Gnolls, and, ugh, Gnomes, roaming all over these parts.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I am not shy, hm?” She laughs lightheartedly. “You’re gawking, Astarion.” She leans in close, swiping a thumb over the corners of his mouth, “And drooling.”

He swallows. He might be drooling a little, but he will never admit it.

“You, my dear, are intolerable sometimes.” He smirks. This woman is full of surprises. “Now, get dressed before I hold you down and redress you forcibly.”

“No, darling,” she tuts, mocking him and poking his chest. She purses her lips, glowering defiantly at him, “I don’t believe I will.”

“I will do it, sorceress,” he asserts with a low growl. “Do not tempt me.”

She giggles and takes off in a sprint through the trees. She calls back over her shoulder, “Consider yourself tempted, Rogue.”

Day bleeds into nightfall, and you sit with your back pressed against the headboard of your bed, resting your chin on your knees as you make the fire transform into various shapes. Your ears seemingly twitch with every tick, tick, tick of the clock, which is maddening as it seems to mock every second spent without Astarion. You’ve considered breaking it several times, and tonight may be the night it meets its fiery end. You see a shadow crawling across the floor, and you jump to your feet on the mattress, looking for the offender. Your heartbeat reflexively patters in your chest as you scan the floor. Your door opens abruptly, and you yelp.

Astarion looks around and arches a brow. He leans a shoulder on the doorframe with a regaled smirk, “Let me guess,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You saw a spider.”

He knows you too well. His voice is a salve to the deafening silence, and for a moment, you just let the sound and sight of him wash over you.

“I saw the shadow of a spider,” you finally reply, eyes flicking toward the floor to make sure the errant arachnid is not crawling toward you. “I have yet to see that actual perpetrator.”

“Well,” Astarion giggles. “If you can calm the thumping of your heart. I could find this transgressor rather quickly.”

“It’s not funny, Astarion!” You scold him and cringe, “Have you seen all the legs?”

“On the contrary, darling. It’s fucking hilarious and entirely adorable.” Astarion strolls around your room with silent footsteps. He cocks his head, listening intently, “It’s under your bed.”

Fire instantly leaps to life on your fingers, and you wonder how angry Gale would be if you burned his manor to the ground. You feel like it might be justified.

“A little excessive, no?” Astarion’s hand covers yours, making you smother the flames. “Come, love.” He grabs your legs and throws you over his shoulder. “I will rescue you from this most deadly of foes.”

You giggle as Astarion strides down the hall to his room. He places you back onto your feet and closes his door. You nearly wrap your arms around him until you remember he asked for space. Instead, you fold your arms around yourself and shrink away, taking quick steps back.

He frowns at your retreat, and an awkward silence stretches between you. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant lately,” Astarion begins, breaking the silence, “I just needed time to-“

“Are you okay?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but you finally find your voice. Unfortunately, it means everything you’ve been holding in starts spewing out in a blundering regurgitation of words. “I’m sorry. It was perhaps an ill-judged confession. I don’t expect you to feel the same. Nothing will change between us if-“

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cutting off your verbal vomit. He holds you close, your body perfectly pressed into the contours of his. He takes his time tasting you, savouring your flavour with an intimacy that makes your knees feel like hot jelly.

“Well,” he smirks, breaking off the kiss, leaving you once again breathless and wordless. “That always did work wonders to shut you up. Now, will you allow me to get a word in, or shall I keep kissing you until you forget what it is you were going to say?”

“I’ve sufficiently been shut up,” you say breathily.

“Good. Sometimes, your mouth is bigger than mine.” He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing all your fingers and palms, rubbing them comfortingly, “Cazador devoted much of his time to convincing us that we were nothing, that we did not matter - not to him, not to any of the Gods, and certainly not to anyone else, and the centuries proved him right, unfortunately. No one ever saw me, really saw me. They saw the rake, the persona I portrayed, and never thought to look any further than that - until you came along with that very darling neck, all your questions, and your objective stupidity.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Astarion puts his finger against your lips and tsks you, “Uh, uh. Patience, sweetheart. It never was your strength.”

His voice is trembling with a vulnerability he seldom allows himself to display. “My past… makes me believe that I am unworthy of such love, but more to the point, it makes me unworthy of you.”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. Your features are a gentle portrait etched in a mix of concern and resolve. “Astarion,” you implore, reaching for his hand, “there is no past that can make you unworthy of love.”

“I have done… unspeakable things,” Astarion protests, casting his eyes away from you. “Things that will haunt me for eternity and beyond.”

“I’ll always be there to fight those phantoms of your past with you if you will allow me,” you assure, trying to keep your voice steady while tears streak down your hot cheeks. This is starting to sound a lot like a goodbye, and you’re not sure if you’re ready, “If you’re going to tell me you’re leaving, it’s okay. I understand.”

“What?!” Astarion looks at you with his eyebrows curved upward in shock. “Gods above. No. Come here.” Astarion pulls you in, pressing you against his chest. He only pushes you away slightly so he can guide your eyes to his and looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of our future together. I once told you the Gods sent you to ruin me. I realize now they sent you to save me. My heart is yours now and forevermore.”

He pushes you up against the door, pinning you with his hips. Your lips are locked with his in a passionate embrace. Astarion gently skims his fangs down your neck. Your hands tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. He scoops you into his arms and throws you on the bed playfully. He crawls over you, removing his shirt and catching your lips in his with a wild and ravenous desire.

He peels off your nightdress with desperation as if his hands simply cannot bear to not have your skin against them for a moment longer. Astarion kisses your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak. Your back arches off the bed, pushing yourself further into him. Your skin is hot, melting the icy chill of his, and you shudder as he bucks his hips into you.

He looks up at you through thick lashes, “What would you say if I said I wanted to make love to you tonight?”

His question consumes all the air inside your lungs, and your body goes rigid as stone. Your heartbeat kicks up as you stare at him with rounded eyes. “Astarion… What are you saying?”

“Hmm,” he cocks his head and arches a brow at you with a charming smirk, “I thought I was rather clear. No matter. Let me try that again. If a night of passion is on offer, I would very much like to make love to you tonight.”

“I… Are you comfortable with that? Are you ready? We don’t have to. We can wait for as long as you need.”

“Oh, my love,” Astarion purrs, taking your hand, kissing every knuckle while never taking his eyes off you. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off, well, mostly off, you. Do you? I have been thinking about being inside you nonstop. It has been quite distracting.”

You sweep your thumb across his cheek and along his strong jaw. Trepidation slightly pinches your brow. Good Gods. You want this, but you are afraid.

“I will stop if I need to.” Astarion assures assertively, kissing your forehead and cheek, “But I do not foresee the need. Do not hold back. I want this, Kamena. Really, really want it.”

“Hells, Astarion. I want you too.”

“I know,” he smirks as his fingers find your folds already slick with arousal. “Always so eager for me,” he teases. “Gods below. I love the way your body responds to me.”

Astarion parts you, running his fingers up and down your seam, coating them in the sleekness of your desire. He circles the border of your swollen flesh, and your hips jerk in a plea as you whine against his needy mouth. You wrap your arms around him, and Gods - he feels like he’s been made to fit in your embrace. Astarion’s arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His fingers finally sweep over your sensitive bud, and he groans as he coaxes whimpers and moans from your throat, catching your sweet cries on his lips. The outline of his desire is pressed against you. Your fingers undo the laces of his pants and grip him greedily, eliciting a hiss from his clenched teeth.

“Gods,” he pants, kicking off his trousers and freeing his throbbing cock. Precum already beads from his swollen head, and your mouth waters with the memory of the salt of him on your tongue.

Astarion sinks two fingers into you, twitching the pads up so that they hit that sweet spot that makes white flash in your vision with every languid pump. He expertly settles into a rhythm that drives you senseless. You could not keep your eyes open if you tried, and you jerk your hips, sinking his fingers deeper into you with the cry of his name.

“O-oh! Gods. A-Astarion.”

“I love the sound of my name on your tongue,” he purrs, peppering kisses down your neck, and he increases the speed of his thrusting fingers.

“Astarion…” you mewl into the crook of his neck, dragging your fingers through his hair as your muscles tighten. “F-fuck. You’re s-so good. I’m going to… fuck. Astarion! You’re going to make me…”

“Yes,” he groans, guttural and eager, as you both drown in each other. “Let me feel you come.”

Your head drops back, and you cry out with the pure blissful intensity of your climax. Your core grips his fingers, clutching and spasming around him as he hauls you tightly to him and catches your lips in a savage and passionate kiss.

He’s between your legs before you’ve fully recovered, hooking your knee with his. His hands guide your hips in little rolls against him as he glides his cock that weeps with his arousal through your folds. The chill of him on your heated sex is decadent, bracing and sets your nerves aflame.

“Hells,” he purrs with a heavy breath, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His voice is gentle, yet rough as sandpaper. “I will go slow. Tell me if it hurts or if you need to stop.”

“Make love to me, Astarion,” you murmur, kissing his chest, nipping his neck playfully, and letting your lips whisper up to the tapered point of his ear.

Astarion gasps, shuddering and curling his fingers into your hair. He eases in inch by delicious inch, slowly working you open. You let out a pained whine, and he stills, allowing your body time to adjust to his girth. Gods. The stretch is such a pleasurable kind of pain that you wrap your legs around him and plunge him into you, savouring the fullness.

“Shit,” he hisses, blinking slowly, looking into your eyes. “You feel divine wrapped around my cock, Kamena,” he pants darkly. “Fuck. I missed this.”

He thrusts, tender and sensual, almost painfully teasing in the measured pace. He rocks his hips into you, coming to his forearms and caging you beneath him, pressing himself into every curve of your body as if he cannot possibly get close enough. You sputter nonsensically, twisting your fingers into his silky silver curls. Astarion increases his tempo, and you buck your hips in time to meet his thrust. He presses kisses to your forehead, your cheek, and down your neck. You roll your head to the side in an offering.

He growls, unadulterated and wanton. His fangs sink into your neck. Your eyes snap open. Your hands grab the taut muscles of his side, and then the pain ebbs to an all-consuming ecstasy as you’re spiralling through his body and drizzling in his veins. Your skin prickles as you chase your release. Astarion’s hips stutter as your walls flutter around his hard length, and he moans, a sinfully heavenly rumble deep in his chest. Astarion’s pace becomes less measured and masterful, his movements frantic and hungry.

When you’re walking on the precipice of your orgasm, Astarion rests his forehead on yours. His face is twisted in pleasure, lips parted, taking heavy breaths with every snap of his hips. It’s a beautiful sight that brings tears to your eyes. Astarion purrs, “I love you.”

Fuck. That’s it. That is your undoing, and you crash into a blissful rapture so intense you’re sure that your heart skips several beats.

With one last plunging pump, Astarion joins you as your core is still in the throes of clenching and spasming, massaging him. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself into you, “Gods above. Oh, f-fuck! Kamena!”

You wrap your arms around him and take his panting lips, dragging him into a ravaging kiss, pressing your sweat-slicked bodies together. Astarion rolls, somehow keeping his cock in you, catching you in his arms and pulling you atop him. You nuzzle your face into him, breathing in his scent. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he heaves a contented sigh.

“You are perfect,” he coos, pressing a kiss into your mussed-up hair and checking the bite on your neck. His breathing is as uneven as yours, “Every time.”

You lay there with him for a while - you’re not quite sure how long, while his hand skates up and down your back, and he hums comfortingly. You could stay like this forever, wrapped in his embrace, sheltered and shielded from your troubles and worries.

Eventually, after your heartbeat settles, you crane your neck to look at Astarion. He smiles at you with ardent love impassioned in the vibrant scarlet of his eyes, “Are you okay?”

Astarion chuckles and points to his temple, “Up here, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I am free, safe, and happy.” He sweeps some wild strands of your hair back and runs his fingers along your jaw, “I have you in my arms, in my bed and on my cock. It would be a most grievous understatement to say I am simply okay.”

“So vulgar!” You giggle, “Are all vampires so crude?”

“Oh yes,” he drawls, grinning devilishly. “It’s a well-loved pastime of ours. We often meet to exchange vulgarities to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses.”

“I would love to see you unleash some of those upon Gale,” You laugh, letting your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arm, “I wonder how red he would get.”

“Sweetheart,” he snickers, “Gale would positively expire on the spot if he heard some of the things that come out of my mouth. Even yours. You are not innocent, sorceress.” He leans close to your ear and gives you a playful jostle, “I’ve heard some delicious, sinfully indecent things from your very lovely lips.”

“I learned from the best,” you quip with a clever flare in her eye.

“Oh, as much as I would adore taking the credit,” he chuckles with a wicked grin. “I think you’ve always been an absolute freak.”

When you wake, you’re famished, and Astarion practically pushes you out of bed, grumbling about how your growling stomach annoyed him all night.

“You’re a vampire,” you retort, giggling at the look of annoyance scrunching up his face. “You don’t even need to trance.”

“Need and want,” he tuts, clicking his tongue, “are very different things. Now, get out of my bedroom and eat something.” Astarion’s lips quirk up, lop-sided and handsome. His curls are mussed, falling with reckless abandon. He winks, “I have some very depraved, hedonistic plans for you later. If you hope to keep up with me, you need your strength.”

Good Gods. You're already wet. Astarion chuckles as you roll your eyes and slink out of the bedroom. The remnant of your night together is still sticky between your thighs, and your skin prickles with the exhilaration of it all.

Astarion is here, in your bed, in your hands and in you.

“Good morning!” Gale greets you as soon as you step into the kitchen. “I trust you had a… good night?”

You hear Astarion’s loud laughter echoing through the manor and try to stifle your own.

Oh… shit.

“You could say that.” You feel the blush burning your cheeks.

Gale chuckles, sipping his tea while you shovel cut-up fruit into your mouth. The silence is a little awkward, and you’re not sure if participating in useless small talk will make it worse or better, so you opt to stay quiet.

There’s a tap on the door that makes you jump, “I’ll get it. Gale, are you expecting someone?”

“I don’t believe so.” Gale’s brows pinch, and then he smirks, “It’s likely a neighbour coming to make a noise complaint.”

You groan, feeling the heat erupt, rushing back to your face. The early morning sun dazzles you as it streams into the open doorway, blinding you momentarily. When you blink, you realize it’s not the sun that blinds you; it's the gleaming of the silver, metallic armour of the guards standing before you.

“That’s her!” Mr. Blackwell snarls from behind the City Watch guards. The noble is bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut, his lip split and seeping, and a cheekbone that appears to be broken along with many of his teeth. “She’s the one who assaulted me!”

“No!” You gasp as the guards grab your arms, forcing them behind your back. “I didn’t do this!”

“Save it for the courts,” the guard drones, paying your protests no consideration as iron manacles snap shut around your wrists, biting into your skin with an uncomfortable pinch.

“Gale!” You shout over your shoulder as they drag you away. “Don’t let him do anything utterly fucking foolish!”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We are finally getting to the smutty goodness :)

And then Kamena is entirely ripped away from the promise of these depraved plans. I, for one, would kill Mr. Blackwell simply for that alone.

#astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #shadows of the past #astarion bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x named tav #astarion spawn #spawn astarion

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bluegalaxygirl · 9 months

Text

Trouble Makers P2 (Zolu X reader)

Zoro x Luffy x Reader. Reader is GN and a gunslinger of the crew. polly relationship, established releatinship.

Plot: The new island you docked on seems peaceful until a strange rumble catches you all off guard. The secrets of the island will be relived as you try to make your way back to the surface while the boys raise a little hell.

Warning: Bad language, Violence, Blood, injury.

Part 1 Part 3

Your head pushes out of the cold water taking in a sharp breath your hands reaching to grab the rocks on the dry ledge in front of you. You struggle to move your body up onto the rocks panting once your whole body has left the water, a white haze leaving your mouth and body shaking uncontrollably. You were in pain form your shoulder and chest knowing you needed to move if only to get your body temperature up. Sitting up you took a look at your shoulder seeing it out of place, the pain getting worse with the shock wearing off. "Fuck" you let out under your breath, you were lucky though, a long time ago you dislocated your shoulder and Chopper showed you how to put it back in, those memories come back. Manipulating your arm was painful but needed to be done, gritting your teeth as not to scream in the echoey cave, one more lift and it popped back in the pain stopping immediately. Rolling your shoulder a few times you let out the breath you were holding taking in your surroundings, the cave wasn't too big, water taking up most of it except the ledge you were on. The only sores of light coming from a small gap in the wall, too small for anyone to fit through. Sharp stalactites hanged in random places from the ceiling dripping water form time to time onto the rocks around you and the water. As you looked around you noticed blood on some stones behind you, you remembered what happened and hitting something before rolling down, this prompted you to stand up and look yourself over.

You couldn't find where the blood would have come from until you touched your lower back, Pain sprang threw you body a piece of sharp rock was lodged in your back. The adrenaline flowing threw your body must be blocking the pain and there was no point in removing it. you'll let chopper do that once you get out of here. A loud cracking sound almost defining as it bounced off the walls of the cave cause you to cover your ears. light filling the whole cave as the crack in the wall opened up, the cracking sound stopping soon after being replaced by foot steps and male voices. Panic hit you, you had to hide and the only place you could was the water, not thinking to much about it you slipped into the water trying to be as quirt as possible. Your head just making it bellow the water line as five men walked in "Gods i can't wait for a beer after work", "oh shut up about that already." "Quirt you two now where did they go?". Their voices where muffled as you swam under the water deep enough as to not disturb the water line. Your gun was socking wet and unusable so fighting these guys wasn't an option, instead you intended to give them the slip. slowly rising above the water you saw four guys looking around the rocks one examining your blood. The least guy was blocking your exit standing in front of the opening but he was distracted looking up at the ceiling.

Carefully climbing out the water you snuck up behind him and locked him in a chock hold, he struggled but even hurt you were much stronger than him. pulling him back through the opening he fell limp in your arms so you let him drop to the floor. a switch on the side of the wall caught your attention a smile forming on your face as you pushed it, it did exactly what you thought it would do, the opening in the wall closing and that same cracking sound catching the other men's attention, they yelled and ran to you but you only waved as the opening slamming shut. It didn't echo though so that meant there was a big area near you. Taking the man's cloths you put them on replacing your old socked ones. Light blue overalls covered your body the collar fanning out in a deep blue and around your waist was a black work belt with all kinds of tools on it. You had to adjust it so it wouldn't touch the rock still in your back. making your way down the path, rock flooring was soon replaced my metal until you reached a huge white room, people wearing the same outfit as you walking around talking, pushing carts and pulling things up scaffolding. It differently seemed like a mine but there was no indication of that on the island. Something was going on here but the most important thing now was getting your gun dried off, you mentally scolded yourself for only bringing one. you had four others on the ship so why did you only grab one?

---------- Surface level

Luffy and Zoro made their way into the town finding a bunch of villagers gathered around a fountain a small statue of some strange creature in the middle. Some villagers where crying with glee and others where cheering in joy, the only person who stood out was a youngish man wearing dirty cloths, he didn't say or do anything just stand there and smiled looking over the crowd. he soon noticed the two boys their stares burning holes in him. The young man gulped and ran off, Luffy stretchs his arm wrapping around the mans waist and forcefully pulling him back. Luffy let the force carry the mans body into a shop wall catching everyone's attention, the wall cracking and falling apart. The villagers yelled behind them, some in fear and others yelling treats, it took one look form Zoro for them to shut up.

The man sat up slowly from the rubble Luffy now standing over him. "Your... straw hat?" he man asked looking up at the angry pirate in front of him "Where?" Luffy simply asked his hat shading his eyes. his anger boiling, people where cheering and happy while people where missing, he had a feeling it wasn't just Y/N that was taken but the villagers too. "I... I dont" the man barely got out before a sword was thrust into his face "Yes you do" Zoro's eye burned with a fury like no other "The... The mountain... The rest of the v- villagers are t- there" he says almost chocking on his words, as Luffy started walking away the man sighed feeling like he escaped death only for Zoro to grab his neck "Your coming with us" Zoro smiles dragging the man along with them.

On the way to the mountain they headed through the forest, the young man gave them directions hoping these two wouldn't kill him. he tried to explain what was going on but Luffy stopped him turning to face the man being dragged by Zoro, The captains eyes now showing, red rage is all that could be seen "I dont care, i want Y/N back" Luffy hardly gets angry but when he does its scary, if looks could kill many people would be dead before him. "B-But.... you don't know what your getting into." the man stutters looking at the two only for Zoro to let out a laugh throwing his head back before looking at his captain "It doesn't matter" the smile on the sword mans face made luffy smile and laugh "Lets cause some trouble"

---- Bellow

As you walked around no one seemed to pay you any attention, the metal in this place was crazy, pipes lined the ceiling, wires dangled and metal grids covering big wholes in the floor. As you looked around you realized it wasn't the metal that made the room white it was the rocks, pure white lined the rocks, they seemed to be digging them out, it wasn't anything you have ever seen before. Getting distracted you bumped into some one, a little girl fell to the floor, Dark brown hair parted in the middle two short braids on each side of her, her face round and cheeks red. She was wearing the same uniform as you but why would a little girl be here "I-im sorry" the girl stuttered fear in her bright green eyes "no no, i should be the one to apologies, i wasn't watching where i was going" you bend down holding out her hand to take "Your- your" her eyes widen, before she could let out a scream you covered her mouth with you hand picking her up into yours and making your way into the nearest room, which so happened to be a closet. "Hay hay, its ok. im not going to hurt you, i just need you to be quirt ok? can you do that?" you ask looking down at the little girl, she nods as you set her down on the floor making sure your in between her and the door. you slowly let go of her mouth and sign "Your not going to hurt me?" she asks looking up at you with wide eyes "Why would i hurt you sweetie and how did you know i wasn't from here?" the little girl shrugged then pointed at your shoulder "You dont have a number. see" She pulled her overalls revealing a number, 79. It hit you, very hard, the shaking, the small amount of villagers, they were taking the towns people to work in their stupid mine. you sigh and stand up zipping your jump suit up more so your shoulders are covered.

"Do you know a way out of here?" you ask only for the girl to nod and stand up with a smile only for it to drop "Yes but its closed off. only master Lilitu can open it. he uses his devil fruit powers to do so" you ponder for a minutes "So thats how the ground opened. Kid, is there a weaponry here?" you ask the girl nodding "If you take me there, ill make sure i get you and everyone else free form this place" the promise of freedom was too much for the young girl to pass up. She took your hand with a big smile "Im Em and you are?" she asks shaking your hand with a bunch of energy, just like Luffy. "Im Y/N." you answer walking out the closet with her heading to the weapons room. Thinking of Luffy made your heart hurt, you didn't know where he was and what happened to him, You dont think him or Zoro got captured too otherwise you would differently hear it. "Where are you two?" you whispered under your breath gaining the little girls attention, she didn't ask not wanting to talk out in the open but she was wondering if you had more people with you.

The weapons room was much bigger than you thought, guns lined the walls and there was two guys in there cleaning weapons. they noticed you two and glared "What are you going here brat?" One of the men asks, before the girl could answer you walked in with her closing the door behind you "Im so sorry she was showing me around" you say letting go of the girl and looking around the room "Wow this place is amazing" you say walking over to them "Your not meant to be here either?" the same man spoke up putting his gun down. you took the chance grabbing him around the neck and kicking the other guy into the wall. Body slamming the guy onto the floor knocking the wind out of him. the other man tried to get up reaching for the gun he dropped but you were quicker grabbing the rifle on the side and butting the man in the face knocking him back into the wall and passed out on the ground. you did the same on the guy below you just in case he was faking before grabbing some rope on the wall "wow that was so cool" the little girl almost screamed. you laughed a little and tied the two up. "Thank you." you pulled out your gun and placed it on one of the table starting to clean it and replace the gunpowder and bullets.

"Where are you from? Your not from the village" the little voice form the door chirps out making you smile "Im from the sea." you state not wanting to scare the girl by telling her your a pirate, as soon as people hear that word they think the worst. "Then your a pirate" you gasp and look over at the child, how did she know and why was she smiling "My daddy's a pirate he's Birudingu Suneiku, do you know him?" that name is so familer to you and then it hits you, Luffy talked about him "You mean Building Snake of the Red haired pirates?" the girls face lite up running over to you and hugging your waist. You met that man once and he was super nice, if this was his daughter then you needed to protect her with everything you had. it sparked a fire in you, placing a hand on the girls head she looked up at you "Im gonna get you out of here. i promise". your moment was cut short when the door bursts open "What the hell man your taking too long." One of the three men outside said only to see you, a little girl and two tired up men. They drew their swords only for a loud bang and an alarm going off. this gave you the prefect opportunity to grab your gun and fire hitting two of them in the chest and the other in the head.

-------- Surface level

The large mountain before them seemed normal no doors or hatches "Have you been lying to us?" Zoro asks the man who was still being hold by the neck "Im not i swear. the master can control rocks. he covers over the door." It didn't convince Zoro too much but Luffy nodded "Ok step back Zoro i got this" Luffy placed his hand on his bicep and blew on his thumb making his hand and arm bigger and bigger before using his Haki to turn it solid "Gum-Gum… Elephant Gun!" he yells as his fist hit the solid rock braking it into big chunks, the rocks fell away to reveal a massive metal door. Zoro threw the guy to the side placing his third sword in his mouth and holding the other two before widening his stance and slashing the door " Ultra Tiger Hunt" with a flash the door was distoryed pieces flying into the mountain, the bang of both their power sent shock waves threw the facility inside, alarms rang out as Zoro cracked his neck "Think we went too far?" he asks Luffy walking to stand next to his swords man, his arm now back to normal "Nah..." a laugh leaving the captain's lips.

The dust starts to settle the two men walking forward using their Haki to scene around them. the dust cleared revealing stairs and lots of them. The two ran down hearing foot steps running up the stairs to him. Lots of men and women in jump suits ran up the stairs guns and swords in hand firing and swinging as soon as the two where in site, Luffy dodged punching his way through while Zoro cut through the blades, bullets and people that got in his way. it wasn't long until they made it into a big room. metal pipes covering the ceiling, mine cards, rails and white shiny walls all around. metal walk ways up above where people stood aiming guns at the two "Who the hell broke my door?" a large booming voice came out form bellow. Heavy foot steps slowly climbed the stairs at the other end of the mine. Soon a man emerged, he was big almost 7 foot tall and heavy set. His suit was fancy too fancy for a mine and gold rings gripped around his chubby fingers. "Where Y/N?" Luffy yelled out making the large man raise his eyebrow looking at the two, running a hand threw his think black hair he signed "I have no idea who your talking about but you will pay for braking my door. do you know how much that is going to cost me?" the mans voice boomed through the cave making some workers cower in fear and others grip their weapons harder.

Zoro closed his eyes for a second taking in everything around him "Luffy... their here. down there?" Zoro points out feeling your aura. Luffy looked to the man and the large stair case behind him "We'll lets go then" Luffy walked Zoro right next to him "The hell? dont come any closer your both filthy." They took no notice of the large man until he spoke again "Keep them away form me, kill them" The men and women above firing immediately. Luffy dodged with ease, Zoro running over to the platforms and slicing their supports causing it to fall along with the people. Luffy ran at the man pulling back his arm and using his armament hardening before bring his first towards the man "OUT OF MY WAY" the captain yells only for the man to raise his arm, a hand of rock rises up and smacked Luffy away form him and into the wall, the rocks around him pinning him to the wall slowly pulling him in "LUFFY" Zoro yelled running to help a wall of rock rose form the ground, even though zoro cut through it the rocks didn't fall instead shot up hitting him up into the air.

This is way longer than i though but i wanted to make it good. Part 3 will be up later today :)

#one piece #polly relationship #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #one piece imagine #zoro x luffy x reader #luffy x reader #zoro x luffy #monkey d. luffy

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 1 year

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Words: 4,162 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: S10/S11, The Reapers Warnings: language, mentions of injury A/N: This is part of a series! You can find the rest on my Master List, the pinned post on my blog.

Summary: Injured and scattered, the group tries to find each other.

Your name: submit What is this?

Daryl,

Our son is two years old today. You wouldn’t believe how much he’s changed in only the last few months. It used to be that you could only make out baby babble with a few words here and there, and now he’s stringing together full sentences, expressing his own original thoughts. He looks less like a toddler every day and more and more like a little kid, soon to be asking questions about the world that will be harder and harder for me to answer. He reminds me of you in so many ways and I hold onto this part of you extra tight. When I think of how much you’ve missed of his little life, of all the milestones we’ve already passed, every part of me aches, and to know he’s missed out on having you too... that hurts even worse. I know you would be the most amazing dad. You love as fiercely as anyone could.

When I think of you at all, it nearly stops me to a grinding halt, could bring me to my knees, the pain is still that sharp. If we never find each other again, I think I’ll walk around forever with this poignant sense of something profound missing. It’s hard to write this, but if it wasn’t for DJ, I may have given up by now… But if I know anything, it’s that you’re out there somewhere, still alive, still surviving, still protecting the people you love. I know that beyond any doubt, because that’s who you are. I just hope that in our continued wandering that we find some sign of you. I don’t know what it would be—but Jen keeps telling me not to give up hope, to trust that my intuition is right.

I’m not having that dream anymore—the one I wrote about before where you’re calling for me from the other side of the glass—but lately I’ve been having a new one. I find you again, out in the woods, wandering, and then the next moment you’ve vanished. It’s almost worse than the last dream, because I think I have you and then a moment later I lose you all over again. It feels so unbelievably real. I wake up completely gutted with my cheeks wet. I have to reach for DJ every time.

God, I miss you.

It’s hitting me hard today, on DJ’s birthday. I hope you’re safe wherever you are…

With love, Y/N Daryl was mentally running through the parts of your book he’d already read, and wishing he’d made the time to read more, but he was also thanking himself for not bringing it along. He was certain The Reapers had gone through his pack. He didn’t know what would have happened if Leah had found it… She’d know he’d found you again and then all of this—his pretended disconnection from “those people on the road” and the implied feelings he was manufacturing for her—it wouldn’t have been available for him to try to keep his family and Alexandria safe.

His hand strayed to the left breast of his vest and he could feel the stiffness of the picture in the lining. It was comforting. He hadn’t slept. He was too afraid to. His mind was too busy. He laid on his back on a cot, far off in a corner, and waited.

It had to be near first light when he heard bootsteps coming up the hallway outside. He turned his ear toward the sound, listening intently for anything else that could signal what was happening.

Carver showed up in the doorway. “Get up, dickhead,” he spat. “We’re moving on that info.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

A hand on your shoulder shook you awake and you startled at the sudden jolt.

“Easy.” Negan’s voice. His hazel eyes were looking right into yours beneath his raised eyebrows. The point of your blade was at his throat.

You let out the breath you’d been holding and lowered it.

Negan was in front of you, palms out. He relaxed as your knife left his neck. “I’m a little worried that reflex isn’t going to stop short one of these times,” he said.

You shifted so you could better sit up against the back of the dingy armchair. “Then stop surprising me,” you said. You winced as you moved and couldn’t help drawing in a sharp hiss of breath between your teeth. Your side, the knife wound from The Reapers, felt like it was on fire. “Fuck…” you murmured, shifting to attempt to relieve the worst of the pain to little success.

Negan’s brow furrowed. “How ya feelin’?” You thought you could hear genuine concern in his voice.

You shook your head. “Not at my best, but I’ve had worse,” you said.

He went on frowning at you. He swept a hand back over his short hair. “I don’t doubt it but, uhh, no offense… you look like shit. I don’t think the whole pale, graying skin thing suits you at all. I woke you up because I was starting to get a little paranoid that you might not wake up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop being so dramatic,” you scolded him.

Negan gave you a small tight smile despite the situation. “Can’t. Drama. Theater… It’s kind of my thing,” he retorted. He watched as you pulled your shirt up to look at the wound on your side. The surrounding area and the wound itself were an angry shade of red.

Negan saw it. “Well, fuck. That doesn’t look good.”

You closed your eyes for a moment and leaned back against the chair. You’d flushed the stab wound out as best you could and applied ointment but it didn’t seem to have been enough. “No shit,” you said. “Any other earth-shattering observations you want to hit me with?”

Negan let out a dry laugh and straightened up, grabbing his crowbar from where it was leaning against a dusty couch and swinging it absently. “You know, I am actually trying to help you here. You see anybody else around?”

You sighed. “Right. Right… Sorry. Just—this whole situation is—”

“Complete and utter-fucked, five ways ‘til Friday bullshit?” Negan finished for you.

You gave him a long look but eventually nodded. “Yeah.” You pulled your shirt up again and looked at the neatly stitched wound. Negan had helped you with that the night before, and you had to hand it to him that he’d done a good job. “It’s a local infection or the start of one,” you said softly. You paused to think. You had limited medical supplies left and had used the last of the antibacterial ointment the night before patching up your side and Negan’s leg.

“Alright, so, can we kick its ass before it becomes un-local? From what I hear, that’s something to avoid, what with the lack of hospitals and meds these days.”

You chewed anxiously on your bottom lip. The burning and pulse you could feel in your whole side made it hard to think. “Hopefully…”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression darkening like a cloud passing across the face of the moon. “You have a fever?” he asked, and you heard some apprehension in his voice.

You shook your head. “I don’t think so.” You mopped at the cold sweat on your brow even as you answered, but you were pretty sure that was just from the pain.

Negan cleared his throat and stepped closer hesitantly. “Can I check without you slitting my throat?” he asked. “I’ve actually already had that done, courtesy of Rick, and it isn’t something I’d like to repeat.”

“Fine.”

He bent his tall frame and put the back of his hand on your forehead. He shook his head and let out a hugely relieved sigh. “No. No, I think you’re good.” You gave him a questioning look. “I had the thought that maybe they’d coated their blades… so that anyone that didn’t die right away would go full-blown undead asshole.”

You fixed a steely stare on him. “Oh, you mean like you did. To the Hilltop.”

Negan gulped and his face fell. His eyes turned down to the floor. “Maggie told you about that, huh?” he said softly.

“Mhm…”

“Yeah. That was pretty fucked up.” He was still avoiding your eyes. “But it was effective...”

“Negan—” you started angrily.

“Hey, I’m just stating a fact! And to be fair, it was a fucking war! I was looking after my own the same way—” he broke off abruptly at the look on your face.

You shook your head. “No. Not the same way I do. Not the same way they were. Not even close.”

“So, you’re telling me that you’ve never done anything royally fucked up to keep yourself or people you care about alive? Hmm? Doll,” he said, swinging his crowbar up onto his shoulder, a smirk on his face, “I ain’t buyin’ it.”

You scowled at him. “Don’t call me ‘doll.’ In fact, let’s just table any more nicknames you’ve got floating around in your head. And let’s get one thing straight, Negan. You didn’t care about those people at The Sanctuary. You gave them barely enough to stay alive and it wasn’t even a life. The only person you actually gave a shit about was yourself. And have I done fucked up shit? Yeah. Plenty. To keep me and my son alive… not to set myself up as some sort of wannabe god to assuage my bloated ego,” you spat at him, wincing and putting a hand over your side again and shutting your eyes.

There was a tense pause and then Negan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and another small laugh escaped him. “I can’t really argue with most of that. You’re right. And I see that Maggie and Daryl have been pretty thorough in catching you up already.” He sighed and sank back down on the wooden chair across the room from you. “But none of that shit matters right now. So, what do we do about your tidy little ticking time bomb there? You have any more of that—”

“No, we used almost everything up last night,” you interrupted him.

Negan laughed humorously. “Now let me make something clear here; you’ve gotta be okay,” he said emphatically. “If something happens to you while you’re with me, Daryl will fucking murder me. That is not an exaggeration. No, he won’t just murder me—he’d probably carve off little pieces slowly. He isn’t gonna hear that it wasn’t my fault. So, for your health and mine,” Negan said, fiddling with the crowbar across his knees, “we’ve got to figure this out. So, what do I need to do? You obviously can’t go anywhere fast at the moment, which is really what we need.”

Your ground your teeth together and Negan saw the muscle in your jaw tense. “You’re going to have to find me some moss and get us some water and fuel for a fire.” Negan stared at you blankly.

“Sorry, did you say fucking moss?”

You nodded. “Yeah. A specific kind. I’m gonna tell you where it grows and what it looks like.” You pulled your pack closer and dug around inside it until you pulled out a small cloth bag and held it out to him.

“Is now the right time for a scavenger hunt?” he asked, but he got up and accepted the bag from you.

“A lot of mosses have antimicrobial properties that should fight the infection and—look, just do what I’m fucking asking, okay? Or I can go myself. Like I said, I’ve had worse,” you started getting out of the chair, pushing yourself up on the arms but the pain in your side seemed to ricochet through the rest of your abdomen and chest and you quickly froze, only partially standing.

“Whoa!” Negan grabbed your upper arm and helped you lower back down into the seat. His leg didn’t feel great, but it was definitely better than your side. “I’ll get it! Fuck, just sit the fuck down,” he shook his head at you. “I can see why you and that pain in the ass Daryl are together. Stubborn with an attitude,” he said with some amusement. “Moss. Water. Fuel. I can handle that. Just tell me what I need to know…”

You did. And Negan set out and returned a couple hours later with all of it.

Soon you had a fire going in one corner near a broken-out window, any smoke trailing up and out—though you’d made sure all the fuel was dry as a bone so it wouldn’t lead The Reapers straight to you. The water had finished boiling and was sitting to cool a bit. Negan was watching you with interest from his seat again as you cleaned as much debris out of the moss as you could.

Negan was casually peeling the bark off a stick, sitting on the stiff wooden chair and watching you work. “Are you going to tell me what the deal is with you and Daryl or what?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered up to his face for a moment and you paused, completely still. Then you went back to what you were doing. “No,” you said simply.

“Ahh, come on. What the hell else are we gonna talk about? I’m dying to know how exactly he ended up having a kid he didn’t seem to know about. Especially one that looks to be about ten years old.”

You tossed the handful of debris you’d been picking out of the moss into the fire. “I’m sure you are. But you’re the last person I’m going to discuss my personal life with, Negan.”

Negan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Come on. It’ll pass the time!”

You fixed your gaze on him for a long moment. “I’ll give you one question,” you said, dusting off your hands.

“Hot damn!” Negan grinned. “I better make it a good one… Hmm. Let’s see…” A smirk grew on his face. “So, are you guys fucking again? I mean what’s the current status?”

“Negan!” you barked back at him angrily, color flaring in your face. He only chuckled.

“It’s just a question! Anybody can see the guy is head over heels. That was obvious by the way he looked like he was mentally dismembering me anytime I came within ten feet of you.”

You only glared at him. “Do me and yourself a favor and shut the fuck up,” you growled. You collected the moss and plunged some of it into the still warm water and let it soak for a few seconds. Then you removed it and wrung most of the water out. Negan watched with interest as you packed it over the wound in your side and secured it around your body with a long makeshift bandage you’d fashioned from a spare flannel you’d had stowed in your pack.

“That’s gonna fight off infection?” Negan asked, interested. “Seems counter-intuitive to stick some dirty shit you found outside right over a wound.”

“It’s not dirty. And yes, hopefully. Long before we had modern medicine, plants were doing what doctors and pills used to,” you said, climbing to your feet and sinking back into the armchair again with a sigh.

“How the hell did you learn this?” Negan asked, digging in his pack for his MRE and tearing off the top.

You shrugged. “Aren’t we all picking up new things all the time? One of my people, from my last community, knew a lot about medicinal and edible plants. I paid attention.”

Negan nodded, scooping another bite into his mouth. “So, we gotta just wait now?”

You nodded. “Just have to let it do its job.” You sunk back more heavily into the chair and closed your eyes, but they were only shut a moment before Negan’s voice broke the silence again.

“You’re really not going to tell me about you and Daryl?”

Your eyes opened. “No. I’m not.”

He sighed. “What if I tell you about my wife?” he said softly.

Your brow furrowed. “Which one?” you asked sharply.

“The real one.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

The next morning, you woke up gently. Negan was already awake, standing at one of the dingy windows, staring thoughtfully outside. He turned when he heard you shifting. “You’re looking better,” Negan commented.

You stood and moved without pangs of pain and sighed with relief. Unbinding your bandage and peeling the poultice from the wound, you saw that the redness was gone and it was no longer inflamed. The moss had done its job. You applied fresh, dry moss over the stitches and rebound the bandage.

Negan wandered over, watching you closely. “You good?”

You looked up and nodded. “Yeah.” You paused. “Thanks. For your help yesterday with getting all that stuff.” He nodded once. You slung your pack up onto your shoulder. “Come on. We’ve gotta get to that house. Maybe the others are waiting there.”

“You can’t be serious,” Negan said, nearly stepping in your way as you moved toward the door. “You want to keep going? We don’t even know if anyone else made it.”

You started to unbarricade the door with a grunt of effort. “They did,” you said matter-of-factly.

Negan shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” you snapped at him, standing up straight. For the first time, Negan saw something like desperation in your eyes. “They made it,” you said firmly, but he heard the shake in your voice. “Now, help me move this…”

Negan looked at you for a long moment and then sighed and pushed the heavy oak desk out of the path of the door.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Maggie, Gabriel, and Elijah waited in silence. The air was heavy with anxiety and Maggie found herself alternately pacing the length of the room and then standing frozen at the window, peering out through the wooden slats. Through the narrow space, she saw figures moving on the street outside but it was difficult to see through the leaves of the shrubs close to the house. “I got movement comin’ up on this side.”

Elijah stood and went to another window near the front door. His knife was in his hand.

“Oh my God. Oh, thank God,” Maggie suddenly sighed. “It’s alright. It’s Negan and Y/N,” she said, happy tears in her eyes.

A moment later, Elijah pulled the door open and the two of you stepped into the dilapidated interior, Maggie rushed over and grabbed you in a hug. “Thank God you’re alright,” she said.

You tightened your free arm around her, bow in your hand at your other side. “You too. All of you,” you said, looking at Elijah and Gabriel as she broke away, but at the same moment your heart sank. “Daryl?” you asked, your brow furrowing and casting a shadow over your momentary relief at seeing the others.

Maggie shook her head. “We don’t know. We haven’t seen Daryl or Frost. Alden’s hurt bad. I left him someplace safe,” she said, her voice breaking. “Agatha. Duncan. They’re gone...”

You hung your head and closed your eyes for a long moment. “Fuck…” Your knuckles shone white as you gripped riser of your bow hard. “Goddammit… I’m so sorry.”

She nodded solemnly and then scrutinized you and Negan more closely. “How are you two?”

You moved farther into the house and stood beside the small stash of supplies. “We took a little damage but I think we’ll be fine. What’s the plan?” you asked, getting straight back to your purpose.

“We’ll wait a little longer for Daryl and Frost, in case they’re tryin’ to get here. But then we have to move. It’s not too far to Meridian from here.”

Negan let out a small scoff and paced away in a small circle, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

Maggie bristled. “Somethin’ you wanna say?”

“Maggie, look at us. We’re hurt. There are only four of us. One more encounter like the one we just had and that number is going to drop to zero.”

“People back home are dependin’ on us. Hungry kids. If we can’t make this work, Alexandria is done.”

Negan sighed and leaned back against the wall, but he stayed quiet.

“So, unless you’ve gotta somethin’ helpful to add, just keep your mouth shut for once in your life,” she snapped at him.

“Hey—” Elijah said suddenly. “Something’s up.” _ _ _ _ _ _

The heavy bootsteps overhead seemed to press on your ear drums as the Reapers moved through the house. Your heart was hammering in your throat. Then suddenly—Daryl’s voice. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from gasping with relief. Alive. He was alive. He was okay. But then your stomach plummeted into the pit of your stomach. But why was he with them?

It didn’t take long for you to realize what was going on. A voice. A woman. “You’re either with us, or you’re not.” Leah. It had to be Leah. It was the only thing that made sense.

Your chest tightened and it was harder for you to draw in even shallow breaths. You closed your eyes, straining your hearing. Daryl again. “What do you want me to do?”

Then it was obvious; Daryl was dropping as much info as he could to you hiding below. 20 people. Weapons. Supplies. Walls. And then he was picking a fight on purpose with this “Carver” asshole.

“Shaw. Wake. Up. Everything is a test now,” Carver spat. “If you think this guy is ever going to give a shit about any of us, you’re gonna fail.”

“He’s right,” Daryl said quickly. “I don’t give a shit about any of you. Except you.” You felt a sharp pain between your lungs. “I’m here for you. It’s no secret I made mistakes. But I’m here right now.”

You were trying to suppress a rising wave of nausea. You could feel Maggie and Negan looking your way and you ducked your eyes, kept them down-turned to the cement of the cellar floor. A second later, Maggie touched you on the sleeve and tilted her head toward the cellar door. With Daryl distracting Leah and Carver, you snuck away, but the painful bubble in the middle of your chest stayed with you.

When you were finally safely away from the town the Reapers had been combing, Maggie stopped all of you. “We can stop for a minute,” she said, out of breath just like the rest of you from rushing through the woods. “We’re getting’ close. About three miles out.”

Negan let out a disbelieving laugh again, but you silenced him with a look. Maggie turned to you and touched you on the arm and spoke to you in a soft undertone. “You know Daryl was only sayin’ those things to—”

“I know,” you interrupted her, nodding, but your face was downturned. It still felt like a knife was lodged upward between your lungs. Listening in on that, Daryl saying those things to another woman, to her, had been excruciating. You hadn’t even realized how much so until you were out of the immediate danger. They seemed to ring in your head. “I’m here for you.” “I made mistakes.”

Maggie frowned softly. “Y/N, you and DJ are his whole life. I was there. I saw it. I saw how he was after. We almost lost him when he lost you. And then he never gave up on you. He never stopped searchin’. Whoever she is, she’s nothin’ to him compared to you. Believe that. Trust it.”

You gulped and nodded again and managed to give her a forced smile, though the worry line stayed between your brows. “What’s the plan for taking care of these assholes?”

You all turned as sticks cracked nearby. Walkers were wandering in. Everyone fingered their weapon but Maggie stopped you. “Wait,” she said, looking at more following behind out of the trees. She glanced back at the group of you. “Think we can find more?”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles #daryl x you #twd reader insert

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kicktwine · 3 months

Text

“Ch’ari. What are you doing.”

The aetheric silhouette that is the Warrior of Light freezes in the middle of hobbling across the hallway. “I am… getting… a drink?” He says.

“Oh?” Y’shtola raises an eyebrow.

His aether flickers. The shape inches forward slowly, as if she were a dinosaur and couldn’t see him if he moved really slow. “I am… getting a very specific drink. From… Othard.”

“Are you now.”

“…You are getting me a very specific drink from Othard?” Ch’ari tries.

Y’shtola reaches behind her for her staff, and Ch’ari turns and scuttles as fast as his body will take him back into his room where he’s supposed to be.

Alisaie scowls. “I am bored.”

“No kidding,” Ch’ari whines. “When are we allowed to leave?!”

“I am allowed to leave tomorrow. You will be staying here until you have resolved not to be a fool and throw your life away for a victory lap,” Alisaie snaps, and then her expression turns down. “Or at least until you can walk again.”

“Seems hypocritical to me. They’re letting you out early.”

“I’m almost healed!”

“By the loosest definition.”

“It wasn’t even a wound, Ari.”

“Hm.”

“Look—“ Alisaie says, pride in being Not Bedridden stoked by his dismissals, and pushes her way out of her bed at Dawn’s Respite to march over to Ch’ari’s bed, indignant. And still, notably, a bit shaky, after concentrated lightning magic left her too hurt to stand. Ch’ari still thinks they’re all stupid, every Scion, right back at them, for not tending to their own injuries well enough to heal themselves before pouring almost the entire Ragnarok’s worth of aether into him. Stupid, dumb, idiots. They’d already saved the universe at that point. We don’t need eight incapacitated scions when we could have had just the one.

“You look like a baby amaro,” Ch’ari says, instead of voicing any of those thoughts. “Like a newborn foal. Damnation, looks like you’ll have to stay here and keep me company.”

Alisaie flicks him — gently, even though he’s not even got a head wound. “Ari. I promise we’re not going anywhere. And you know if you asked him to, Alphinaud would stay with you for days reading fantasy novels or textbooks at you for entertainment.”

His ears droop. “I know. But he needs to sleep.”

“And so do you.”

“And so do I,” Ch’ari grumbles in concession. “I am just not used to not moving. I want to kill something.”

Alisaie coughs out a startled laugh, and Ch’ari grins. “Gods, as do I, but we have our orders! Two weeks. No travel, no fights.”

“Sneak a coblin in here when you get out of this joint and I’ll pay for your sweets for a month.”

“Not a chance.”

“Not that I doubt your s-sSS-killed hands, Krile, I would never. But do bandages need changing thisoften?”

“In this specific case, yes,” Krile says, clearly not willing to entertain him while he chatters distractingly. “Might I remind you you were falling apart before we got to you with healing magics, and therefore you will be suffering the consequences for as long as a normal wound takes to heal naturally.”

“Peachy,” Ch’ari groans. He should have been better at avoiding that dumb voidsent Zenos summoned, but it always hid right out of his line of sight until it pounced. Clearly, a cheater, even if its master wouldn’t do a thing like that. Nah, he’d challenge him head-on, evening the playing ground until it was just strength against strength, no tricks, no unfair advantage. Pure, untouched adrenaline, bloodlust, the hunger for feeling alive.

… Ch’ari will not miss him. But he will think of their encounters as long as it takes him to find something like it, if he ever does. Which is exactly what the prince wanted, drat. He should have taken Zenos to the Gold Saucer. Maybe he’d get really into chocobo racing instead of death matches.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a sharp tug in his ribs. “Ow!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Krile says, already casting a light soothing glow over the sticky mess there. Ch’ari buries his head further into the pillow with a groan.

The door creaks. “My, someone sounds grumpy they’re being tended to,” comes a voice, and Tataru trots in with a small box in her hands. Ch’ari’s ears perk up.

“Am not grumpy, I’m injured. What’s that?”

“Medicine,” Tataru says bluntly, and then gets a sly grin. “And a handful of pastry fish, fresh from the oven.”

“Tataru you’re my favorite. Have I ever told you you’re my favorite? You are. Hands down,” Ch’ari says, already sniffing the air to catch the smell, his tail whacking the edge of the bed. “I don’t even care that it’s bribery to get me to drink that foul tincture, I love you.”

Tataru laughs, bright and open, and even Krile huffs a bit in amusement.

Alphinaud is asleep when he wanders into the main rooms, and Ch’ari considers dropping something onto the table to wake him up, but decides against it. He’s not all that sure how mana works — or mana overexertion, or… well, Lyse called it a chakra, but Ari isn’t a monk, and he’s not sure what straining or breaking one of them entails. He just knows the kid needs to sleep a bunch to get his aether back, and Ari shouldn’t be startling him so bad he breaks something again. If that’s how that works. He’d rather not risk it.

Instead, he wanders over to Estinien, who is brooding in his Dragoon Corner. Also seemingly asleep until one eye cracks open, trained on his approach.

“Dragoon,” Ch’ari says.

“…Cat,” Estinien replies in greeting. Ari snorts, the joke he made about having nine lives clearly amusing or at least annoying the Elezen to this day.

“Guarding your nest, are we? I didn’t think we’d see you stick around this long.”

Estinien grunts. “Aye. Under normal circumstances I’d rather be off by now. But as long as…” he frowns. It’s always difficult for him to differentiate between draconic instincts and his own, and then subsequently translate them into human words, something he and Ch’ari have only spoken of briefly when Nidhogg’s lingering presence wanted to clash with what was left of Hraesvelgr in Ch’ari’s body. Simultaneously feral and overtly made of higher thought, the presence of the dragon is as long-lived as the beasts themselves. “As long as my ward is in need of protection, I will stay,” he settles on. And then his expression squishes, pained. “And… the pink one threatened me if I were to leave without a clean bill of health.”

Ch’ari laughs, then covers his mouth quickly to muffle it. “Ah, the jailer. No escaping that.”

“Indeed.”

“Raha, you need any help with anything?”

G’raha looks up from his books, surprised. The Warrior is standing over his shoulder, swath in bandages and a simple shirt and slacks, his tail swishing. “Do I need any help with anything?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no, I don’t think so… resigned to being monitored as we are, I have no new tasks which require my attention, and so…”

“Let me rephrase,” Ch’ari interrupts. “Please do you need help with anything.”

G’raha blinks. And then splits into a smile, ears giving a quick one-two wiggle. “My friend, I am quite sure we can find something to do. Something very calm and stressless, but something nonetheless. What is your opinion on magic circles?”

#my writing #endwalker spoilers #I couldn’t think of anything for Urianger and thancred to do so they are snoozing in their gay little beds OK !!!#just doodles. Of scions being eepy resting #ffxiv #I have thoughts about estinien and they all involve dragon maaannn he was a dragon.. MAN. TROGDOOOORRRR #ff14

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tbsangstersgf · 2 months

Text

a/n: sorry this took me way longer than I wanted 😭 I’ve had no motivation and I even had to have a friend help me finish writing it, things have been a little rough lately. I hope you all enjoy!

The friend that helped me is @galactic-junkyard and much love to her bc I literally could not have finished this without her

enjoy!

Requested by @futuristicyouthvoid (again sorry it took so long)

Minho x fem!reader

Warnings: blood and an injury, it’s just fluff honestly though

Two years. You’d been in the Glade for two shucking years. You were also one of the first people in the Glade after a few others, so you were there when the rules were made. You were there when mistakes were made, and you’d seen a lot of people die trying to escape the maze. Not only all of this, but you were the only girl. The only girl in a very confined area with a whole bunch of boys. Thats why you became a runner, you wanted to see first hand exactly what was going on in the maze, and it gave you some time alone.

You definitely had friends, but they were never your top priority, the maze always came first. The only person you truly took time for was Minho. You never noticed the special attention that he payed you, or the special attention that you payed him. Sure you were aware of how very attractive he was, but the maze should always come first.

And besides what would be the point of ruining such a good friendship for a dumb relationship. What would even be the point of dating in the maze? It’s not anything could really come from it, right?

This is what you say to yourself everyday. You can’t get distracted. The only thing that matters is getting out.

And it stayed that way for a while. It got boring and the maze got more frustrating, but you had to push through.

It was on a run that everything changed. Those shucked up grievers. You knew how they worked, you knew their usual routes that they took during the day. You knew how to avoid them. But today they were acting different, you were running section 2 like normal, thoughts going through your head as fast as your feet were running. You weren’t really paying to your surroundings, just leaving a trail of cut vines to find your way back.

That’s why you didn’t notice the clicking and whirring of the griever. That’s why it was too late for you to run. The griever reached its mechanical claw out and was unable to grab you, but did manage to cut you. A long deep cut down your left leg.

“Shuck!” You cry out. The pain makes you want to stop, but to stop is to die, so you push on. After five turns your vision starts to blur, but the griever is still following you close behind. Blood is pouring out of your leg, and black is clouding the edge of your vision.

“Help! Help me! Minho!” Your voice breaks and you trip over a stray vine and hit your head. You don’t know what compelled you to yell Minho’s name, but out of all the names you could have yelled, you chose Minho. As your vision fades, you see a blurred blue shirt and then everything goes black.

You open your eyes to see a cracked open window, letting in warm afternoon light. Pounding fills your head and you go to sit up, only to fall back down, a sharp pain running through your leg.

Why does everything hurt?

“Hey y/n, how are you feeling?” Clint briefly looks over you, making sure your movements haven’t opened any wounds.

You let out a bitter chuckle “Good as I can be I guess. What-“ you cut yourself off as you look around and see the sleeping figure of Minho, slumped over in the crudely built chair next to your bed.

“…How long has he- how long have I been out?” You briefly take your eyes off of Minho to glance up at Clint as he begins to move about the room, grabbing clean bandages so he can change your dirty ones.

“It’s been about three days now, and yes- he’s been here this whole time” he gestures to Minho.

“Oh- three days? I- has he eaten anything?” Concern fills your voice, you know Minho, he’s stubborn and if he’s been by your bedside you don’t doubt that he hasn’t moved for anything.

“No, like I said-“ just as Clint started to speak, Minho’s head shot up.

“Y/n?” Minhos groggy voice matched his lopsided hair.

“Morning sunshine-“ Clint teases as Minho shuffled over to your side.

“Shut up.” Minho snipped back before turning his full attention to you. “Are you okay..?” He asked cautiously, his voice had an undertone of care and warmth to it.

“Fine.. a little sore-“ you begin before getting cut off by the other runner.

“Where?” His eyes scan your body, making your cheeks flush. You’ve never cared about they way he looked at you before, why now? You motion to you leg and minho pulls up the thin blanket covering your mangled limb. Both of the two boys take a peek and cringe at the sight of it. Clint, being the closest thing to a doctor, took a closer look at you leg while minho zoned out.

“Minho.. you good?” You ask, immediately getting an agitated answer.

“How could I be okay when your carelessness nearly got you killed. Oh sometimes I swear you do this on purpose but i know your no idiot because I-“

Minho’s eyes caught your tearful gaze and he stopped scolding you. “No I didn’t mean- y/n you now Ii- Clint could we have a moment”

The medic looked relieved to be excused from this awkward situation. He left the two alone in the dimly lit room, giving minho time to form his words.

After a few beats of silence you speak up, “I know you- what?”

You prompted in a mildly aggressive tone. When he refused to speak up you repeated yourself with a harsher attitude. “I know you-“

“You know i care for you! Right…?” Minho said cautiously. Now you were the on who couldn’t speak. Your lack of words made him more self conscious. He was fighting tears, which shocked you. He never gave of that kind of fragility before. “I care for you, a-lot. And seeing you push yourself so hard all the time to find a answer to this shucking maze is killing me. Its killing me because i love you, and im not sure you feel the same. And its okay of you don’t but-“

He was cut off by your lips meeting his. When the initial shock wore off and you pulled away his hand cupped your cheek and reeled you back in. This kiss was tender and warm. He treated you like an artist would worship his final creation, which was a breath of fresh air in comparison to the harsh conditions the maze forced upon you. On all of the gladers..

“Am I… interrupting something?” Clint interrupted in a cheeky tone. Minho pulls away with a smile tugging at his lips, the happiest hes been since he beat Gally during the bonfire two months ago.

“Yes Clint, your timing is impeccable-“

Clint snickered, “If I’m not mistaken, you have a maze to run around.”

“And you have a patient to take care of” Minho adds with a glance down at you, “take care of her shuckface.”

Before Minho leaves, the room he turns and flashes you a wink. The giddy boy left and Clint gave you a look.

“So…… are we gonna talk about that?”

With nothing but Minho on your mind and a smile on your face you turn away from the door as Minho is gone now.

“Nope.”

#minho #tmr #the maze runner #minho x reader #fluff

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adrift-in-thyme · 5 months

Text

@thepinklink Plink you lovely human I come bearing Legend whump for you <33

I'm so glad you met and I've absolutely loved chatting with you these last few days! I look forward to many more conversations <3

Now, this fic kinda got out of hand (*stares at word count* I...did not expect it to get that long I promise), so I'm gonna hide it beneath the cut. But first, warnings!

CW for poisoning, vomiting, blood and injury, harm to animals, and some trafficking vibes (it's not trafficking specifically and isn't related to such harm to humans. But still, be careful)

Oh yeah and you can also read this on ao3

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

Legend moves on feather-light feet. His cape swishes gently around him, its silken folds embracing his slight form. Not for the first time he thinks how lucky he is to have it. To possess the ability to become invisible is an invaluable skill. Especially, in situations like this one.

“Come on, rancher. I know you’re here.”

He steps around another row of empty crates, their metal bars dinged and scratched from previous occupants. He can feel their presence still lingering, calling out in panicked voices few humans can understand.

“Help us!” They cry and every word makes his ears prick up, listening even as he tries not to. “Set us free!”

Roughly, Legend swipes at his eyes.

Find Twilight and get out of this cursed place — those are his only objectives. And the sooner he completes it, the better.

He tugs his cape closer about his throat and tightens his grip on his sword. Determinedly, he moves forward.

It seems like forever before the telltale sound of snuffling reaches his ears. Legend perks up, ears pricking at the noise. He can hardly pick out the rancher’s distinctive wolf scent through the stench of dozens of past captives. Still, this place has been empty up until now. Empty and horrid and dark.

So too have been the countless cages scattered about the wide space. But the one Legend can see now tucked awkwardly into a tight corner…that one is occupied.

A large, gray wolf is curled within it, ears drooping in defeat and blood on his paws. His breaths come fast, an edge of panic and pain hitching the end of every one.

Legend’s heart clenches despite himself.

I’m coming, Twi. Just hold on.

Furtively, he glances around. No figures move in the shadows, no one steps into the dim light. But the goddesses only know how long he has before someone arrives.

Legend takes a deep breath and rushes forward.

Twilight’s ears prick up at the sound of pattering feet. He raises his head, tired eyes searching for the disturbance. Fear quickly turns them razor-sharp. A growl rumbles in his throat, low and hoarse, but threatening all the same.

Quickly, Legend lowers his hood. He’s sure that a floating head isn’t the most reassuring thing in the world, but still, it’s better than nothing. And he is unwilling to remove his entire cape just yet. With luck, he can conceal Twilight beneath it as well.

“Hey, hey quiet,” he hisses, holding up invisible hands. “You’re gonna alert the creeps.”

Twilight pauses in the act of rising to his feet, head cocked like one of the stable dogs in Wild’s Hyrule. Legend’s lips lift slightly. He reaches for the lock with one hand, retrieves a cluster of keys from his pouch with the other.

He found them earlier, hanging on the wall from a hook. A paltry attempt at looking professional, in his opinion. Real villains conceal the keys in their cloaks or attach them to their souls with the darkest of magics, unreachable by any who lack the strength to defeat them.

He’s fortunate, though. Fortunate, that they weren’t smart enough to do either.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he murmurs.

Ring-adorned fingers slide over the collection of keys, magic rifling silently through them, searching for the one that fits the cage. It weaves with elegant grace between them, selects the right one, confidently raises it like a pointing finger. Legend grasps it and fits it into the lock.

The padlock plummets into his waiting palm.

“Alright, let’s get out of this place,” he breathes. And burn it down on the way out. “Can you walk?”

Twilight dips his head. Slowly, he limps out of the cage. A cold nose bumps against Legend’s cheek, leaving a smear of wetness there. The veteran swipes grumpily at it.

“Yeah, yeah you’re welcome. Now, let’s get out of here before somebody discovers us.”

Pulling his hood back over his head, he nudges the rancher into the safety of his cloak. Matted fur scrapes against his legs as they begin to walk. No doubt Twilight is leaving a trail of bloodied paw prints behind. But there’s nothing much Legend can do about that. Except, of course, pick up the pace.

At the rate they’re going, it’ll take them thirty minutes just to reach the double doors. By that time someone will have entered the room, noticed the marks, and begun a search. And though the cape is wonderful for concealing physical forms, it does little in the way of softening sounds.

Twilight stumbles, a low whine escaping before he can stop it. Something damp and clammy slides down Legend’s legs. The veteran reaches down and sets a hand on the rancher’s head.

“Hang on,” he whispers, and the wolf nudges him again in response.

Legend inhales deeply and blows it out. His eyes flit back and forth, searching for hidden adversaries. Every limping, laborious step brings them closer to their escape. Yet, it seems so far…

If he could lift the wolf, that would be helpful. One kick of his pegasus boots and they’d speed right on out of here. But Twilight isn’t light and Legend is already expending quite a lot of magic to keep them both hidden.

Slow and steady is their only choice, then, he thinks, with a huffed sigh. Because it can just never be easy.

If he’s lucky, though, it will be enough.

But he is hardly the luckiest guy on earth.

They have made little in the way of progress when a door slides open behind them. It glides softly on its hinges, showcasing a rather large grouping of shadows. They stretch along the floor in front of the two heroes.

Legend stares down at them, heart in his throat. He dares not turn around to see who they belong to. Instead, he eases down into the shelter of a small enclosure of crates.

Twilight lowers himself with a haggard sigh. But that terror still remains poignant in the piercing blues of his irises. And when he turns to peek at the doorway, his breathing speeds up.

What were those sadists planning to do to him? Legend wonders, fingers coming to rest in thick fur. He hopes it’s a reassuring gesture. What have they already done?

“You said you had another test subject for me.” It’s a woman’s voice, sharp and calloused, like a hand that has held a weapon too many times. “Where is it?”

“Right this way ma’am.”

Large figures fumble to allow her a way forward. Legend tenses as the shadows grow darker, shorter. His fingers tighten, drawing a small comfort from the feel of his sword hilt in their grasp.

The group approaches, passes by without even turning in his direction. He doesn’t allow himself a sigh of relief. They still haven’t reached the cage.

When they do, he knows it.

“He’s right — wait a minute! Where’d he go?”

Panic pitches gravelly voices higher.

“He was right here! I swear!”

“What you swore,” the woman hisses, “was that there would be a wolf waiting for me. A wolf with the power to turn into a man.

“You swore to me that your price would be worth paying. Evidently, I trusted the wrong people.”

The room suddenly tenses, air thickening and growing sharp. Like a dagger readying to be thrown.

Legend’s breath catches in his throat. Dark magic. He’s suffocating on it.

Somewhere, something makes a sickening squelch. A scream sends the pressure spiraling.

“No, n-no need for further violence! I can fix this, I swear!”

The shadows darken once more. A man backs towards their spot, hands raised.

“He’s here,” she says with icy decisiveness. “I can feel him.”

The air goes taut again. She is closer than ever now, eagle’s eyes scanning for her prey. Twilight is rigid. Legend’s fingernails dig into his palm.

“Them. I can feel them. There’s two of them now. Find them both, or suffer the same fate as your companion.”

Burly men the size of his uncle trip over themselves, sputtering promises and reassurances. They fan out, weapons in their hands.

But the woman only grows closer. Legend can smell her now — rotting flesh and chu jelly and bokoblin innards, all attempting to hide beneath a layer of costly perfumes.

Legend presses a hand to his nose, fighting not to retch. Beside him, Twilight shudders.

“You’re near,” she purrs. Hands marred by too many magical experiments reach out, taloned nails beckoning. “I can smell your fear. Come out and I won’t hurt you.”

Nearby, a stack of cages topple with a deafening crash. Legend flinches despite himself. Loud noises have always affected him strongly. Every one feels like an assault to his ears. But in this moment, with the tension and the terror, with a hundred different plans whirring in his mind, it feels like an explosion in his skull.

“Yes. I feel your despair as well.”

She is even nearer now. Legend can see her hideous form, monstrous and gnarled and emanating dark power. Like a witch from the illustrated story books Uncle read him as a boy.

“Come out, little heroes. Come out.”

Legend inhales a shallow breath. He’s going to have to, at some point. She isn’t going to let up — that much is certain.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t still try to evade her.

Closing his eyes, he sections off some of his magic. There is a separate path from the main one, one more violent, more…explosive. A simple nudge and eagerly, his magic streaks down it.

Legend nudges Twilight in the side.

Get ready.

One second passes, then two more. Off to their left, crates and cages and men go flying in an eruption of crackling detonations.

Legend works quickly, pouring more magic in, causing more explosions. They heat the air, send objects and people hurtling. Screams of pain and shouts of fear ring out.

The woman whirls for just a moment. And that’s enough. It has to be.

The veteran leaps to his feet. They can’t run — what Twilight achieves is more of a hobbling jog than anything else — but maybe, just maybe if they keep up this panicked pace they’ll have a chance…

Something streaks through the air, sharp and vicious, searching. It’s pure magic at first, a dark power he tries to evade, to shield them against. But his efforts only draw it to him further. It speeds up, ravenous and eager, zipping towards him. And the next thing he knows, a dagger is embedded in his bicep.

Legend chokes on a sudden mouthful of blood. He tries to remain quiet, he tries. But the cry breaks free anyway, agonized and cut off, screamed through gritted teeth.

Wrong, his body and mind screech as something horrible and icy slides off of the blade and into his veins. Wrong, dangerous, getitoutgetitoutgetitout

Trembling fingers reach for the hilt. But before he can drag it out another wave of magic hits. He screams, grip on his own spell loosening. He clambers to grasp it again, slips, falls. The cloak retreats into his pouch.

“There you are,” the woman hisses.

The ground bucks beneath his feet.

The desperate spark of hope that had blossomed in Legend’s chest shatters completely. And he falls along with it, colliding with the ground with skull-shattering force.

Stars explode in his vision, bursting in eruptions of blinding, electric lights. Somewhere, past the roar filling his ears and head, past the thundering pound of his heart, Legend hears Twilight’s growl.

Nails clatter over the ground. Seconds later, a heavy object slams into the floor beside him, whimpers, and goes terribly limp.

Panic splits through the agony and confusion. Legend curls his hands into fists, blinking furiously in an attempt to see straight again.

Come on. Get up. Fight before they kill you both.

He grasps the dagger, yanks it out. His limbs scream as they move. Blood splatters onto the floor, creating large puddles of greenish-maroon. He tastes the tang of iron, the bite of bile, and…something else. It seems to emanate from him, a strange, vile thing. Tasteless, yet disgusting; icy, yet flaming hot.

Legend shudders, suddenly nauseated. But he hefts his sword more firmly in his grip and turns to face the woman.

“You are a strong one, boy,” she says, face splitting in a leering grin. “That dosage should have killed someone your size, instantly. Yet, here you are.”

“What can I say?” The words are slurred. Legend stumbles as he steps forward, struggling to see past the blur the room is quickly becoming. “I’m full of surprises.”

He thinks the woman’s grin grows larger. But maybe that is only one of the illusions his eyes are forcing upon him. Either way, he hears her words quite clearly.

“I’m certain of it. Not to worry, though. You’ll be dead soon enough.” She nods to the men that have gathered around her. “Go. Get what is rightfully mine.”

They start forward. Legend grits his teeth and steps back toward where Twilight lies, still twitching from the effects of the spell that had hit him.

“Just try and touch him,” Legend growls. “Know that spell that blew your friends sky high? There’s more where that came from.”

For a split second, there is the slightest glimmer of fear in their eyes. But then the ground dives down, down, down beneath his feet. Pain streaks through his head, as though someone has driven a stake through his skull.

Legend pitches forward and vomits.

Laughter assaults his ears as he fights to compose himself. Darkness tinges the edges of his vision. Oblivion beckons him.

Let go, it whispers. It doesn’t hurt here.

He bats it away, steels himself, straightens. Blood and bile dribble down his chin, and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

“Give up,” one man orders between barking chuckles. “You’re already dead.”

Legend lists to the side and grins, all sharp, blood-tinged teeth.

“Not yet, I’m n-not.”

Magic streaks through constricted veins, scraping as it goes. With an agonized scream, he sends it forward. The room lights up with streaks of greenish light.

He crumples in the wake of it, choking on a mouthful of blood, dragging thin gasps of air through failing lungs. His stomach heaves again, desperate to rid itself of the poison his heart pumps through him. But there is nothing for it to expel.

Agony holds him in an iron-fisted grip, turning his limbs stiff and immovable, making his head spin and pound. The darkness claims more of his sight. Still, he battles it.

He has to stay awake — for Twilight’s sake, for his own. He’s made it this far. He’ll be damned if he gives up now.

Cackles reach his ears. Slowly, he lifts his head.

The fallen bodies of his enemies lie strewn about, still smoldering. The sight brings bile back into his throat. He hates killing, no matter what the deceased people might have done. And yet, there had been no other choice.

The woman, however, seems to have come out relatively unscathed.

Shielding spell, Legend’s mind so helpfully supplies. A harsh curse bubbles out from between bloodied lips.

“You truly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

A bolt of electric power collides with his chest. Legend goes flying, hits a stack of crates, and collapses. His breath is merely a wheeze now, though he can’t tell if that’s from the poison or the broken bone currently skewering his lung.

Both, probably.

The woman advances. Legend tries to sit up and fails. His entire body is on fire now. Shudders wrack him. Everything smells of blood and vomit and poison. The room spins like a leever; his surroundings blur like smudged charcoal.

He coughs and more greenish-red hits the floor.

“I would keep you, you know. To examine and experiment on. But it seems the poison has already done irreversible damage.”

A flick of a finger and Legend is propelled upwards. Seconds later, he hits the floor again with an earth-shattering crack.

The pain of broken bones joins all else. He thinks he screams. He can’t be certain.

He knows that he can’t breathe anymore. All his lungs are capable of are paltry, wheezing attempts. He’s suffocating, drowning in blood and poison. He’s back on the sea, battling against waves taller than Hyrule Castle, fear growing stronger with each one that floods the deck of his little boat.

“I see no reason to spend precious power on saving your life. Perhaps, you can save yourself. I doubt it though. After the spells you cast, you likely don’t have enough magic left within you to heal a nicked finger.”

She is right upon him now, presence smothering. Legend blinks, slowly. Everything feels very, very far away. If he releases his grip now, will he plummet? Or will everything simply fade away, leaving him to float on waves of grayish nothingness? Empty. Alone.

Maybe it will feel better then, being unattached, emotionless. Maybe…maybe it won’t hurt so very much…

Fire screams in his veins, burning muscle and flesh and bone, devouring his insides. Blood fills his throat. His breath rattles in his veins. A tear slides down Legend’s cheek. Its icy touch is almost soothing.

His grip on something resembling consciousness slips. He tries to inhale again. His lungs do not expand to fill his foggy request.

The last thing he sees before his eyes flutter closed is a wolf leaping forward and closing its jaw around the woman’s neck.

She shrieks, blood spurts, and it all goes dark.

….

“...end! Legend!”

Protesting eyes flutter open, beckoned by a voice he knows. Sharp, gray-blue eyes gaze down at him from a pale face streaked with crimson.

“Ra-ranch–”

Legend drags in a wheezing breath and chokes on the word. Twilight holds him closer, nudging his sweat-soaked bangs aside.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

A calloused hand encases his frigid one. Legend tries to squeeze it. But his muscles won’t cooperate. Everything still burns. He yearns for the darkness to cover him again. He yearns to not feel.

Are you okay? Is what he means to say.

“Hurts,” is all that comes out.

Twilight’s expression shatters. There are tear streaks on his cheeks, the veteran realizes, dimly. They shouldn’t be there.

“I know, buddy.” The world shifts and Legend squeezes his eyes shut against it. Something cold and smooth presses to his lips. “Drink this. It’s all I’ve got but it’s enough to keep you alive.”

Bittersweet silk slides down his throat. Obediently, Legend swallows it. It soothes all the way down, knitting bones and flesh back together, nudging the wrongness out of his veins.

Not completely. Not even close. But it’s something, and Legend is grateful for it.

“Okay?” Twilight asks, and the veteran offers a jerky nod. “Alright, then I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Again, his surroundings tip. Legend swallows against the urge to vomit.

“No,” he croaks in a barely audible whisper, “…I-I was ‘posed to get y-you outta here.”

The world begins to move like the endlessly churning walkways he had endured in the dungeons of Koholint. His head bumps against something wonderfully soft, and he leans into it. A heartbeat drums softly in his ears.

“‘M sorry.”

It is merely a sigh. Twilight hears it anyway.

“It’s okay, vet,” he assures him, as thick darkness envelopes him again. “You did great. You saved me.

“Now, let me save you.”

Somewhere in the fuzz of oncoming unconsciousness and potion and pain, Legend has the urge to laugh.

Save him? He’s the veteran of hero business. He shouldn’t need saving.

But the heart keeps beating like a distant drum; and the softness drags him into it, tickling his nostrils and caressing his face; and the arms that hold him remain steady even as the world churns like waves on the sea. And before long Legend is gone, adrift once more in an abyss of blessed oblivion.

#trin writes #linked universe #lu legend #lu twilight #hurt/comfort #whump #blood and injury #vomitting #poisoning #harm to animals #angst #tysm for letting me write this for you Plink!#i had such a great time!#oh also i tried to gift it to you on ao3 but it wouldn't let me #so i linked it here so you could read it on the archive if you wanted!

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

Text

Of Saints and Sinners - Chapter 5

Joel Miller x f!reader/f!oc

masterlist

warnings | 18+ angst, dark themes, canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries

a/n | she's long, she's dramatic, she's got people stabbing each other, she's got the smallest little smeck of fluff at the end :)

There’s a rushing in her ears as she starts to come to. Her brain is sluggishly crawling through the events that have led her here, laying on her side in damp grass. She remembers the moment just before the blow, seeing people she thought she’d never see again. There’s piecemeal memories of flurries of activity and sharp pinpricks. They’ve been drugging her, keeping her under. She keeps her eyes shut for now, not wanting to alert the men to her conscious state. She can hear them, quietly talking, picking out four distinct voices, though she’s pretty sure there were six of them in total. Too many for her to take on her own. Her mind spins. She lets her eyes barely crack, trying to get some idea of her surroundings. It’s either dusk or dawn, one of those in between times when there’s still a dim light. She can see a sliver of crumbling highway to her left, the grazing tops of trees to her right. She guesses they’ve stopped for the night in a field alongside the highway back to Seattle. She’s slowly letting a plan settle in her mind. She won’t be able to take these men on her own, but she won’t have to.

…

It’s early, before the sun has fully spilled over the horizon, Joel and the men are getting ready to get back on the move. As they’re getting ready to mount up and head forward, a piercing, drawn-out scream rings out through the forest. It’s not a clicker, and it’s not an animal. It sounds like a woman. The men all look at each other, eyes wide, and then Steve is already running into the treeline and all Joel and Alex can do is follow. Since when did he run towards a sound like that?

They don’t get far into the woods before there’s another scream, followed by punctate gunshots. The men are blindly running toward the commotion, moving as silently as possible through the underbrush of the trees. They're coming towards a break in the treeline, and that’s when Joel sees about ten clickers running in the very same direction.

…

The sound she made was guttural, coming from somewhere deep that she hadn’t unearthed in a long time, maybe ever. A long preening scream into the dim morning. The men were stunned still, at first they didn’t really understand it had come from her, thinking she’d be out for a while longer. She scrambled to her feet quickly, getting ready to shout again. Before she could, one of the men was on his feet yanking her back by her hair and smothering her mouth with his grimy palm.

“You fucking bitch!” He seethed. The other men were on their feet now, guns cocked.

“We can’t kill her! We have to bring her back alive.”

She bites down hard on the man’s fingers, tasting the thick warmth of blood in her mouth. He shoves her forward onto the ground, another man kicks her in the ribs, hard, and she wheezes out a muddled yelp. She reels for a moment, pressing her cheek into the cool earth, a flickering worry that her plan won’t work.

And then she hears it. Those warbling, inhuman shrieks. The clickers heard her scream and they’re coming for a meal. The men are jerking their necks, pointing their guns towards the treeline, distracted by the sounds. She scrambles back onto her feet, and lets out another wail just as the first infected come darting out of the woods. She grabs a knife out of one of the packs on the ground, the men too distracted by the oncoming clickers to care. They do exactly what she was hoping they’d be stupid enough to try. They start shooting, even more noise to draw even more bodies.

She knows that none of these men can be left alive. She must make sure none of them make it back to Seattle with the story of her survival. They weren’t expecting someone to be crazy enough to kill a human in the midst of a clicker attack. But they also weren’t expecting someone to be crazy enough to attract clickers as a means of escaping. She grabs the closest man and slashes his throat just as the first infected descend on the mouths of their guns.

…

The men have slowed their pace down to a crawl, letting the stream of clickers trickle out into the field before they reach the treeline. Joel’s never seen anything like this. There’s two men left standing in the field, bullets abandoned, fighting off clickers with knives and the butts of their guns. Four men are dead, and scattered bodies of the infected lay around them. And there’s her. At first Joel thinks she’s running towards the one man to help him fight off the infected, but when she comes up behind him, she stabs him in the fleshy softness below his ribs, pushing him off her blade and into the clicker’s arms. It happens like a flash of lightning, she darts across the field to the last man fighting off two infected. It’s a similar move, she stabs him in the back and shoves him forward into the snarling bodies. Joel glances at Alex and Steve and neither of them seem shocked by this display and Joel wonders if they’ve done this before, if she’s done this before.

She freezes where she stands, moving cautiously, silently around the feeding clickers. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the men in the treeline as she carefully picks up a deserted pack. But as she goes to sling the pack over her shoulders, a metal canteen falls loose from the bag’s side, dropping to the ground with a sloshing clang. A clicker is darting at her in a flash.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Joel is bounding out from the trees towards her, knife in hand.

…

The clicker has knocked her onto her back as she presses the bulk of the pack she was carrying into its gnashing face, trying to push it away, to gain back some ground. Its decayed nails scratch into her arms, bearing down its weight until she’s face to face with the creature. She has the fleeting thought that it might just be time to give up, to stop running. And then, the clicker suddenly seizes, collapsing on top of her. She rolls out from under it, trying not to scream in the aftermath. When she looks up and sees Joel Miller, knife in hand, she thinks she might have actually died because there’s no world in which that seems a plausible reality.

He raises his finger to his lips, the need to keep quiet and get the hell out of there most obvious. She swallows hard, standing slowly. Her legs feel like lead, the brutal truth of what just happened coming into focus. She shoulders the pack and grabs his arm. He leads her, stumbling, back towards the trees. Alex and Steve step out from the woods, eyes wild, mouths agape. She lets go of Joel’s arm and staggers into Steve’s arms, digging her nose into his neck as Alex wraps them both up. For a moment, everything is still, everything is quiet, everything is alright. And then she has to let go.

The group moves back into the woods, away from the carnage as the morning’s light lays bare what has happened. She’s following the men, numbly maneuvering through the forest, staring straight ahead, trying not to think, to just move. Her mind keeps going back to Joel, still wondering why the fuck he came. But she’s too tired to follow that thread far. And she’s in pain, the adrenaline wearing off and the reality of another bite and a bruised set of ribs coming into throbbing clarity. She keeps moving, because it’s the only option, the relief of giving up has dissolved into a wistful fantasy.

…

Joel’s pulling up the rear of the group, keeping his eye on her. She’s limping, sort of crumpling over her right side. There are faded bruises on her neck and arms, dried blood on the side of her face and the ghost of a black eye. The sleeve of her shirt has been ripped clean off and Joel can see that she’s been bitten again on her left forearm. He feels his chest stir, watching her struggle. He wishes he could’ve taken the task of killing those men off her hands. He would have done it gladly.

Steve glances back just as she starts to falter and he’s at her side immediately, ducking under her arm and holding onto her hip. Alex shores up her other side, both men supporting her steps. They have to keep moving, get back to the horses and away from the infected.

They break through the trees, horses still tied up at the gas station where they had left them that morning. She’s stilting in and out of consciousness as they hurry her into the building, laying her down as gently as possible. Steve immediately starts rifling through his stashed pack for the first aid supplies he brought.

Alex kneels down by her head, encouraging a few sips of water out of her.

Joel murmurs as he starts to lift the hem of her shirt, “we need to check her ribs, she was moving like something was broken.”

She hisses as the fabric slides along the bruising. A brilliant blooming bruise across her right ribcage, but the skin isn’t raised or warm or red in any areas. Joel lets out a sigh.

“No sign of a break, just a lot of bruising. There’s not much we can do for it besides getting her somewhere safe.”

Steve is already wrapping the bite on her forearm, limb splayed out on his lap. For a moment, Joel’s frightened by how passive she is, a far cry from the person he used to do patrols with. She’s practically catatonic, head tilted to the side, staring blankly. Joel looks to Alex.

“She’s in shock. We can’t move her today. We’ll have to wait for tomorrow. We’re not gonna be able to get home right away. She’s gonna need rest. There’s an outpost in Twin Falls. Two days from where we are. Three days from Jackson. It’s all we got.” The two men look at Joel, nodding blankly.

Alex feeds her expired painkillers from the first aid kit, she flinches under his gentle ministrations. Joel sits along her right side, eyes still trained on her darkened ribs. He didn’t even realize he had grabbed onto her hand, until she starts squeezing hard. He squeezes back.

…

It’s later when she starts coming to again, night settling in. She slowly sits up, huffing in pain as she scoots her back against the wall. Alex and Steve are sitting across from her, leaning against broken shelves, both seemingly asleep, or at least trying to be. She glances over at Joel sitting next to her.

“You hungry?” She shakes her head. “Alex forcefed me an expired clif bar, I’m good.”

She rests her head against the wall, tilting her chin up, sighing. “Those weren’t good before and they’re sure as hell not good now.”

Joel huffs at that, “you eat a lot of clif bars before?”

“Oh yeah, it was a pre-meet ritual.” Joel looks at her, questioning.

“You know, like cross country? I ran the 5K. Ran track too. Was supposed to run in college.”

“That is one sport I never understood.” She snorts at his comment, “it was one of the only things I understood.”

“What else did you understand?” He turns towards her, watching the slope of her arched neck.

“Music, mostly. Fucking loved music. Been searching forever for a record player or cassette player of my own so I can start hunting for whatever’s left. Have a few records stowed away. No luck though.” She bends her knees, letting her arms rest over her shins, slinging her head low.

“Well, if we get back to Jackson alive, I’ll give you unlimited access to mine. Got a record player that works pretty well at home, so long as Ellie hasn’t messed with it.” She visibly brightens at his words, head popping up.

“You’re shitting me. I didn’t know anyone in town had one of their own. Just the one in the bar that Sam likes to play dictator over.” He just nods, a slice of a smile on his face.

It’s quiet for a moment before she glances back at him, swallowing, “you worried we aren’t gonna make it back?” He sighs, “mostly I’m worried you’re not gonna be able to handle the trip in the state you’re in.”

“I’m fine to travel. Believe me, I’ve had a lot worse.” She’s bristling up again, Joel can feel it.

“I know you have. From what they told me you’ve had a whole lot worse.” Her eyes flash furiously at him, mouth twisted up in a grimace. “So they told you, huh?”

Joel nods, “they had to, had to tell me what I was walking into.” She shakes her head, drawing her lips back in a sneer, “and just why did you walk into this? I wasn’t expecting a rescue party, and especially not one headed by you.”

“You know, most people would be saying thank you right about now for saving their life.” She glares blatantly at his words.

Joel sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, “I don’t know why I came. Don’t even know why I ran out into that field after you.”

She glances at him again, eyes softened, before looking back down at her hands. It was barely a whisper, but Joel still heard it.

“Thank you.”

#joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #tlou #the last of us #joel miller fluff #fanfic #pedro pascal

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