#series: bedside manner

[periprose]

Bedside Manner - Chapter One

The Ghoul x Reader

When it comes to job prospects in the Wasteland, being a nurse isn't all that lucrative. So you're Dom Pedro's assistant, where your nurse skills of administering drugs come in handy with sedating the Ghoul. (Not really following canon, just taking my own spin on stuff)

Genre: fluff, fallout angst (more in future chaps anyways), strangers to accomplices to ambivalent friends to lovers, heated moments of tension, probably eventual smut

Word count: 2.2k

Masterlist | Next Chapter

Holy fuck, does shoveling do a number on your back.

You groan as you roll back your shoulder, and throw the shovel behind you. 

Dom Pedro has been on your ass about this shift. You have to take the Ghoul to Dom’s workshop, where he’ll carve him up, when the sedatives have worn off and the pain will be ever-present and lingering. You figure Dom’s angry about something else– and what better outlet is there than torturing a ghoul?

It’s not something you like to do, carrying this extremely heavy, tall undead-man through Dom Pedro’s house by using a rope system and tugging, and then after Dom Pedro’s had his fun. re-administering drugs that will prevent the feral nature from taking him over, but it’s necessary and it pays well.

Pedro’s a little too elite to do this himself anyways. That’s why he hired you, a former nurse who used to work at a charitable hospital– one that was eventually claimed by the Brotherhood.

You try not to think too much about your former, much more fulfilling career.

The mildly disturbing scent of a living corpse hits you as you open up the casket. The Ghoul isn’t the worst ghoul you’ve ever had to look at, but he’s still a little creepy, and you stare at him as he lies there.

Is he awake? Pretending to be asleep so you’ll be caught off guard, and his gun will fire rapidly, making a bloody mess out of you?

You’re well aware of the risks. You just have to hope that today’s chemical cocktail IVs are correct, and enough is administered inside him so that he’s truly, really, fast asleep.

You carefully tie around his wrists and legs– you feel, somehow, the slightest bit of warmth, something that could suggest a pulse from the veins of his wrists– but you know that’s ridiculous and continue on.

/

Dragging him to the workshop makes you feel a little guilty. His face sometimes smacks onto the wooden floors of this cabin if you’re not careful, and you always whisper a hushed “Sorry!” Even though he’s not human.

You don’t want to be on his bad side, even if he can’t hear you. 

“Why the fuck isn’t there a more moral way to make caps?” You exhale, a common complaint you always have.

You tie him to the torture-chair, wrapping rope around his torso and arms and legs, so he can’t break free, adjusting his hat so it stays on, and because– despite the Ghoul’s reputation as a bounty hunter, you feel like he deserves a little respect with his belongings– and now you’re waiting for Dom Pedro to come and cut him up.

You don’t know why Dom Pedro does this. Is there some sort of use for ghoul skin and blood that you don’t know about? Or is it just purely torture, since Dom Pedro’s kept the Ghoul alive for so long, even giving him the false kindness of anti-feral ghoul drugs so he’ll be entirely aware of every inch Dom Pedro’s knife cuts into him?

You don’t know. And it’s not exactly like you’re important enough to know that information, anyways.  

/

The Ghoul stirs awake. He blinks– he’s back in the workshop, yet again.

He’s only half aware of how he gets here. He knows there’s definitely a woman involved– someone soft, with pliant fingers and hesitant motions that suggest she doesn’t want him to get hurt as she drags him from sleep to being butchered– he only vaguely remembers seeing her back, just once, maybe a few months ago.

He turns to the side, ready for Dom Pedro to be seething in the corner over whatever their beef was and brandishing that scary, rusted axe. 

He’s not there.

Oh. The Ghoul blinks again, his eyes clearing up as he does.

It’s you. You’re the woman, the nurse that Dom Pedro uses to administer all these drugs into him. 

It’s almost a little shocking, a little tantalizing to him to actually see you. Two-hundred years of memories doesn’t exactly give him the most clear of minds, but he knows you’re the one who’s always just hazy, on the edge of his peripheral vision after being tortured, in his dreams after you sedate him.

“Hey, nurse…” He can hardly talk, but you jolt in your spot, and turn to him. 

“Uh–” You stare at him, entirely flabbergasted. “You’re not supposed to be awake!”

“Well, I am. What’re you gonna do about it?” He yawns, still ever so slightly woozy from the drugs. 

The Ghoul notices a knife on the table. He tips his head toward it.

“Cut me free.”

“Are you fucking crazy?!” You shake your head immediately. “Dom Pedro will kill me.”

“Dom Pedro’s a bitch if he’s killing someone willing to do the hard work for what, a couple hundred caps?” The Ghoul raises his non-existent eyebrows, and you swallow. “You don’t know how rare that is nowadays.”

“And I’m supposed to just trust you? The Ghoul, the most terrifying, ruthless, brutal killer I’ve ever known?” You narrow your eyes at him, with every adjective tossed out of your hissing mouth, coming closer and closer to him.   

“I like how you describe me, keep going.” He jokes, looking up at you, but he snarls suddenly and you flinch.

The Ghoul grins in satisfaction, white pearly teeth, very square and rigid in their appearance, something that should look handsome on the right person and instead, is a little unnerving right now.

Still attractive, though, and you question yourself.  

“Let me go, sweetheart, and I promise your death won’t be as half as painful as he could make it.” He drawls, and you swallow but shake your head.

“I’m not interested in being a mercy kill.” You state, and he sucks on his teeth. 

“That’s a mistake.” He leans closer to you, somehow straining against your carefully tied knots to do so. “I’d be doing you a favour.”

“Well, I’m a coward. I’m not all rough and tough and shooting every single person I see, unlike you and Dom Pedro. I’m not gonna die in glorious battle, and I don’t want to die anyways.” You’re glum. “I only took this job because being associated with him protects me.”

The Ghoul is silent for a moment.

“And what if you were associated with me?” He asks, not actually intending anything serious, but he feels an urge to tease you ever so slightly. “That’s protection, isn’t it?”

“What?” You glance back at him. “Why would you do that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe because I’m trying to bargain my way out of here, maybe because you’re the one who’s been kind enough to make sure I’m not chafing with how you tie these fucking ropes– and I’m assuming you drug me, right, sweetheart? You dull the sick pains he gives me.”

“Uh… yeah, I do.” You pause. “Stop trying to sweet talk me, Ghoul.”

“Nah, nurse. It’s funny and I wonder what Dom Pedro will do when he sees you talking to me.” The Ghoul says, another shit-eating grin upon his face.

Oh.

That’s actually quite bad, you think. The Ghoul hasn’t just been trying to coax you with compliments so you’d help him escape– the longer he’s kept you in this conversation, the closer you’ve gotten to his Plan B: Dom Pedro’s wrath.

“I’m guessing a smart lady like you would be more afraid of him.” The Ghoul keeps prodding, and you glare at him. “Rather than me.” 

You know he’s right. Your eyes give away what you’re thinking as you ever so slightly glance to the table.

There’s a syringe of chems there, meant to send him to sleep after Dom Pedro has done his worst. Usually Dom Pedro takes the initiative to do that himself, because as he tells you, he likes being the only one who can send the Ghoul to sleep, the closest Dom Pedro will let him ever get to death. And then you’re stuck with dragging his comatose body back to the grave that awaits him.

Maybe you can just put a stop to the Ghoul’s philandering right now, and get yourself out of here before things get bad. Dom Pedro wouldn’t even notice– the Ghoul would seem as out of it as he was supposed to be at this time.

It’s only a second of you looking over there, but the Ghoul is quick– too quick, immediately understanding what you intend to do– and he somehow pushes his chair forward, at you, aiming his foot to kick at you with what limited motion he has in his restraints.

You get shoved back with a grunt, and you see him edge towards the knife on the table– but you knock him backwards with a shove, and the chair tips back, only stopping on it’s back legs due to the ropes extending from them, tethered to the back wall and through the gear and pulley systems that are ever present in this workshop. 

The Ghoul’s kept his grip around your wrist, though, from where his hands are tied on the armchairs, and you fall back with him, balancing on your tippie toes and your hands on the top of the chair. Your hair brushes against his face as you lean forward, and you attempt to move away, but he won’t let go of you, instead sighing with gratification as he looks up at you from here.

“Huh. This is a compromising position, isn’t it?” The Ghoul licks his teeth as he keeps pulling you towards him, and you hear the wooden floor creak under you as the chair wavers in the air.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, c’mon, cut the bullshit.” He scoffs, still trying to get you to budge into helping him. “You really think Ol’ Dom Pedro won’t think you’re conspiring with me now, after it looks like you’ve taken a lover–”

There’s a sudden sound at the porch of the cabin. You and the Ghoul both turn to look out the window– and it’s definitely one very drunk Dom Pedro struggling to open the door.

You duck, out of fear that he’ll see you through the window, in the delicate moonlight, and the Ghoul tuts as your face comes near his jaw.

“What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” He looks at your trembling face nonchalantly, as you try to make a decision. “Free me, and we’ll escape together. Use the drugs, and you’ll be stuck under Dom Pedro’s grubby fingers making exceedingly meagre wages.”

“How do I know you won’t just abandon me as soon as you want to kill a bounty?” You whisper, and he rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t. But I always repay my debts.” He says, and you don’t really believe him at all, but the more time passes by, the more you know that he won’t even seem appropriately sedated for Dom Pedro’s wishes– so you wordlessly nod.

The Ghoul won’t let go of you, so you’re left careening to the side as his arms hold you to him. He’s keeping such a tight grip to ensure that you scrabble for the knife– and you do.

“No sneaky bullshit.” He spits out, and you, despite being of the Wasteland, had no mind to kill him. No, that would’ve certainly looked bad as well. 

Dom Pedro’s favourite lap dog, dead? His bounty killer, who does it for the love of the game? His favourite ghoul to torture? The one who did something so bad it’s basically unspeakable, and Dom Pedro would be livid if he wasn’t ultimately the one to kill him in the end?

You could say goodbye to your head if you killed the Ghoul. You know your place– even if you get paid to administer drugs to him, you’re no better than a dealer, a sweet face providing a nice bedside manner.  

You make quick work of the ropes restraining him, and the Ghoul stands up before ducking behind a table, putting his finger against his lips, shushing you.

You’re very careful now. Dom Pedro is coming down the hallway, and any second now, he’s going to check to see if you brought the Ghoul here.. Luckily, Dom Pedro’s so drunk, he’s taking his time, stumbling and groaning.

After mulling over it in your mind, you decide to take the full syringe on the table. Less evidence, and you figure maybe Dom Pedro will be so drunk he’ll forget you were supposed to be here anyways.

And after second-guessing it– you think fuck it, and take the entire briefcase of drugs with you.

The Ghoul whistles very slightly at the sight of that. “You’re committing.”

You resist the urge to ask him what other choice you have, since running out on Dom Pedro is a great way to have a bunch of bounty hunters after you– you’re relying on selling some drugs, and bribing the Ghoul with some so he’d have to continue protecting you after he inevitably says he’s completed his debt by helping you escape.

“Let’s go.” You mouth, and he nods.

He’s not one to care about personal space at all, though– and he lifts you up over the ledge of the other window, pushing up on your thighs, away from the hallway where Dom Pedro is finally coming in– and you feel your face turn hot at the close contact, halfway over the ledge into the outside, with his hands on your waist as he hoists you away.

You don’t even have time to think about it as you land lightly on the ground together, because he’s right behind you, hands still on your waist for a moment, and then he lets go, and together you move quickly.

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

I wanna laugh and say the Ghost/ExAid movie was the most un-serious thing i've ever seen but it was actually so stressful. Nice job writers!!

Putting this one under the cut cause I gave up on it lol:

[bumblingbabooshka]

Harry Kim saying Naomi is lucky to be born on Voyager and that he would have given "anything" to have her life when he was a kid...

[fireinmywoods]

Hi! I recently blasted through all your stuff on ao3 and am thoroughly obsessed with your writing and I just saw that you’re writing a Jim prequel fic???? Yes PLEASE!!! Can I ask—is that mckirk too or just a solo Jim piece? Either way I am absolutely stoked, I’m just wondering <3 thank you!

Can I ask—is that mckirk too or just a solo Jim piece?

Yes.

So here's the thing: I'd never written a multi-fic series before pverse. I didn't mean to this time, either! I wrote palimpsest, and for reasons I'm sure you now understand I simultaneously started writing anagnorisis as a companion piece, and I thought at the time that those two would be it. But then I had readers asking me a bunch of questions, and my answers had a funny way of transmogrifying from long-winded Tumblr responses into full-blown fics, and then I’d get MORE questions, and all of a sudden I had a verse on my hands.

Anyway, it was while writing anagnorisis that I realized I needed a prequel to fully unpack how Jim and Leonard's relationship transformed over time. And then, in trying to tackle THAT story, I realized I needed a prequel to the prequel to fully unpack Jim's journey pre-Academy in order to understand his starting point when he and Leonard meet, since his evolving character arc is such a key driver of the gradual change in their dynamic.

So when I talk about “Jim’s prequel,” I’m often conflating two separate Jim POV WIPs: a solo piece that follows Jim from elementary school until the day he joins Starfleet, and then the follow-up to that, which is very much a McKirk-centered story that takes us from the Academy up to the events of palimpsest and beyond.

You, uh...you want a look-see at ‘em?

The true Jim prequel:

The “(1 garbage fire + 1 garbage fire) * time = 1 really BIG garbage fire” prequel/sequel:

[sunniepoo]

thinking about mean stepbro!rafe catching his cute little stepsis humping away at her pillow late into the night when everyone’s asleep ⋆ටᆼට⋆

that night was ingrained in the back of rafe’s head as if some twisted fairy carved the image of you rutting helplessly into your pillow within the crevices of his brain

it was all by complete chance. the night’s breeze gushed through the older cameron’s window awakening him to the seasonable hot hours of darkness- he couldn’t even remember what caused him to leave bed; water? needing to use the bathroom?

all that clouded his twisted mind, was walking past your room; his sweet, pure minded step sisters room. the soft little pants and uh uh’s that left your mouth filled the silent air. he almost couldn’t believe it, it felt like some perverse wet dream that centred around your poor, naive self

his body moved before his mind, his hand gently creeping up against the door, softly pulling it open- cautious to making no noise to alert his presence. it was art; the sight of seeing you move vigorously against a spare pillow, your hips rocking back and forth as your back arched back, your hands travelling up to pull and squeeze at your clothed tits, your mouth agape as the sinful sounds of pleasure leave your mouth

but the true beauty of it all was when his eyes fell down to your bare pussy, all red and puffy from the constant stimulation. you were so so so wet, you poor thing must have been so achey, so desperate

he would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted, there was nothing he wanted more than to barge in and pound that pretty pussy till you couldn’t even remember your own name - but he settled, hiding in the darkness, watching you work at your pillow late into the night. he found his hand travelling down beneath the band of his sweatpants, palming away at his hardon, small pants of pleasure escaping his mouth

you paid no notice to your surroundings completely oblivious to the shadow of the large figure behind your door until you stopped

fuck! had you seen him? has he been caught?

depsite the danger of being caught, rafe’s head peered further inside and god he nearly came at the sight.it was heavenly,the way you took of your corset like top, tits spilling out in an almost pornographic like manner. one of your small hand gliding up your stomach, eventually to come pull and twist at your cute little nipples while the other goes down to rub at your already sensitive pussy

the loud moan that left your mouth went straight to his throbbing cock, dying to be let free and make itself home in your tight cunt. he rushed to pull down his pants and boxers, freeing his large length as his hands fist around it, moving up and down at the same pace you rocked against the pillow

his mind couldn’t help but wander what if it was him underneath you instead of the pillow, the zip of his jeans catching against your sore clit just as the edges of the pillow did when you rocked forward and when you rocked back it was the friction against his bulge rather than the fluff of the pillow

he could hear that you were getting closer, your whines becoming higher as you rocked faster and faster, your hand rubbing roughly against your mound prompting him to move his fist faster up and down the length of his cock, leaking with pre cum

a soft series of curses left your mouth as you went into total bliss, hands gripping the side of your bedside table,mouth agape while a high pitched wine left your mouth and as if it was a cue for the tall blonde, he spilled out across the palm of his hand

he wondered if you ever heard the joined pants of the aftermath of both of your highs. he watched you collapse down into the warmth of your bed, the lengths of your hair stuck against your sweaty body as you breathe out, softly panting

god he wishes he could have stayed and watched your pretty pussy throb and clench around nothing but he knew he had pushed his luck already. the images of you and your little cunt plagued his mind as he fell asleep

⇉

the morning after was a blur for you; the early morning rays of sun kissing your skin, waking you up to the quiet twitter of the birds. it was early - way too early for anyone to be up, maybe ward but that seemed unlikely since he had no buisness to attend to roday

so when you went downstairs in nothing but a pair of panties and a bra covered by a thin dressing gown, the last person you expected to see was rafe cameron, the older boy resting his lower back against the counter, mindlessly scrolling on his phone

there was something magnetic about him - the dark blue in his eyes carrying a deep mystery. despite his typical mean,brooding state - barely sparing anyone around him more than a glance, you were always so drawn to him - his roughness; it only made your mind wonder to places they definitely shouldn’t be going, especially not about your brother

his hands; so rough and calloused, always adorned with the familiar gold cameron ring gifted by his father. you’d thought about them more often than you’d like to admit, what’d be like to hold them - intertwining them within yours. you wondered how’d they’d feel inside you, fitting in you so snug - reaching places inside you that you could only imagine of. the thought of them wrapped tightly around your neck, his fingers inside your mouth, making their way down your thro-

“your up early, must’ve slept good” you look up at him, realising you’d been staring intently at the lengths of his fingers, his voice was husky signalling he must’ve just gotten up aswell

you didn’t miss the subtle smirk as he uttered out the end of his sentence. weird you thought but didn’t pay it much thought, rafe is rafe. “yeah i guess-” you sigh out, hands softly grazing against the edge of the counter as you moved slightly closer “i mean i went to bed pretty late but it’s fine”

“yeah?” it was hard to miss his teasing tone, you couldn’t help but look down at the ground - feeling small in his presence “and why did you go to bed so late” the sudden shift in position nearly startles you, with rafe’s tall figure looming over you, standing impossibly close. you could feel his minty breath coming slowly closer and closer, making your pussy clench around air

you couldn’t help but take in his appearance, wearing nothing but a tight pair of boxers which did nothing to hide his quite obvious boner poking at the front of your thigh, hair tussled above the icy blue in his eyes

“just on-” the quiver in your voice only seemed to push him closer “on my ph- phone” you ramble out, hoping this conversation would be over soon enough

and just as he goes to speak, the voice of ward and rose waking up could be heard from downstairs, thank god- but it doesn’t stop him from shifting closer, leaning down to your ear “ well get to bed earlier-” he drawls out, voice unusually soft and gentle “f’me kay” he begins to leave but not before placing a sticky kiss on the bottom of your cheek, hands resting dangerously low on your back but quickly glide off at the arrival of the rest of the family, as he rushes his way upstairs

you stood there hot and bothered and all that rested in your mind was the excitement of straddling your pillow tonight hoping it was him;your mean older step brother

[contact-guy]

THE ENGINEER'S THUMB - tbh outside of Watson having a terrible bedside manner, this story is a bit boring - but I found my fun by extrapolating from the line about Watson having Holmes over for dinner. HE'S FINE IT'S FINE EVERYTHING'S FINE

(this is in the Watson's Sketchbook series!)

[allysdelta]

CrossOmens Part 2: A Matter of Character

A companion piece to my Crowley comic, in which Book and TV Aziraphale have their own little heart-to-heart over sushi. Angelic bedside manner isn't really all it's cracked up to be.

Read Part 3 here!

Support the artist on Ko-fi Follow on Patreon! Read the CrossOmens series on Ao3

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 2 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly centered around moments in the car

warnings (TW): swearing, illegal activities (of course), descriptions of panic/panic attack or general anxiety, alcohol consumption

tags: fluff, early relationship described, pining, very slight angst, affection

notes: i mean, i liked writing part one? so … i’m just gonna keep writing? do what brings you joy and all that jazz. alsooooo im currently unemployed and have too much time on my hands. any feedback is appreciated, seeing as this is the first (second) time i’m publishing online !

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked my new masterlist that contains updated parts to this series, thank you and hope you enjoy!

word count: 3.7k

| masterlist | part iii |

When you reside within the same place as another, you begin to notice particular behaviors. Of course, Stanley had resided in an unquantifiable number of places in the last decade, but he had forgotten what it was like to live alongside someone. 

Forgot about the consideration of messes and manners, and forgot about his socks in corners and cans on bedside tables. These were things he never had to consider when he was confined to a single room and a shared bunk with his brother, but she was different. 

The first couple months he found himself stumbling around her at times. Let her lead through doorways, ask her what she would like for dinner, using odds and ends as a coaster here and there. 

But she was much the same in that way. 

She hadn’t ever had to share her space like this, much less with a man. She fumbled with answers concerning dinner, forgot her delicates in the washer routinely, and had a habit of throwing her feet up on Stanley’s chair when he sat across from her at their poor excuse of a dinner table. 

But this was months ago. 

No, they both had noticed these intricacies about the other and had more or less adapted around them. Laundry was done half-heartedly, a quick combination of their socks and delicates. A calendar made its home on the fridge with scribbles of dinner plans, and her feet were shuffled onto his lap every night, adjusted to fit across his hips. 

But she still leads through most doorways. He would never admit to why. 

There were other, smaller things too. These things made him ache somewhere behind his sternum, and he usually shook them off. 

Small things like how she curled at her end of the couch, or how she brought her face to any page she was scribbling on, always squinting. How she tidied the living room every morning like they would be having guests. How she came to the kitchen every morning, hand outstretched for the mug he had deemed hers. 

He decided to forget about these things. At least some of them that is. 

He knew for a fact that she loved it when he drove the most. She enjoyed the movement of the trees out the window, enjoyed stretching her feet up to his dash (despite his initial protest), and she loved the radio in particular. 

Common law says to keep your eyes on the road, and both hands on the wheel. But it was very hard to conduct when she leaned forward towards the radio, singing under her breath. She was so relaxed here beside him on the long bench in the front of his long-loved car. 

The car had been through hell and back, but he was sure it’d never encountered anything as enchanting as her bellowing singing. It would ring through the car, only ever on the way home, and only ever after a bar visit. The buzz would stray his eyes from wheel and headlights to her, head thrown back singing. 

He swerved on the road more than he cared to admit when she was in the car. The reminder of her safety usually woke him up from his fantasies of her with her head thrown back, with her hair spilling around her, and a flush on her cheeks.

But he rarely kept both hands on the wheel, to begin with anyway. His right arm always flung behind, scrunched on the back part of her seat, itching to find the soft back of her neck. 

Clearing his throat, he adjusted himself in his seat, both hands returning to the wheel. A smile never leaving his face, a laugh rising as she scooted closer, incoherent 70’s BABBA lyrics sung into his right ear. 

He’d admit he likes driving her, in particular, around. 

They had made for town for a handful of differing supplies that day. 

Stanley, Stan, had a bright idea to earn some seasonal money by making the front half of the shack into a tourist attraction. After an explanation of his initial encounter with a group of town folk upon his first couple days in the shack, she had nodded along in agreement. 

They needed money, and the need was only growing of course. 

She was the farthest from a financial advisor, but she knew the reserve of money she had come to town with was dwindling, and with them both diving head-first into Ford’s basement business, the idea of money had seemed trivial, at least to her, those first couple months. 

She knew though that money wasn’t a trivial thing for Stan (Stanley). That he hadn’t had a successful last decade, and that her life strayed from his own background astronomically. 

That was one thing that grated her slightly. How flippantly he spoke of Ford to her, but how he had not shared himself as willingly. It didn’t make him a liar to withhold said information, but the state of Stanley’s (Stan’s) car backseat that first month spoke of a man on the run. 

But he had lit up so differently when he dragged her to the front of the shack's cluttered room. Explaining where things would go, a cash register, a display case, and certain merchandise. She’ll admit to perhaps not completely listening to him at the time, but later she would look back and reflect on how he was unsurprisingly a great salesman. 

He had been so happy, dragging her from corner to corner, painting pictures with words, but he had looked too enchanting for her to really hear it. One hand in his pocket, the other gesturing, and a smile upon his handsome figure. He had reached back out, dragging her back to the front door, hand on the small of her back as he ushered her around. 

It was a dump up here, truly. The one place in the house she hadn’t gotten to scouring for clues yet. She was unsure as to why she left the room untouched at the moment, but she thinks it had a lot to do with the panicked memory of meeting Stan (Stanley), and how the glow of the backroom reflected on his face made her wander in through the front door like a madwoman. 

She made for the car very soon after his explanation, eager to get the supplies he would need to renovate the front of the room. He had beaten her of course, opening and closing the passenger door without so much as a prompt, and making his way to the driver's side. 

The drive into town had been great as always. It was one of those mid-spring days. Wet on the windshield and crisp until 10 a.m. The hardware store served its purpose, as they wandered from aisle to aisle, looking for particular wood stains and sandpaper. 

“Here it is Stanl-” He had come up behind her abruptly. Hand coming up to her mouth, stopping her sentence, flicking his eyes up and down the aisle. 

She turned to face him, an apology already on her lips. But he was already looking down at her, a hidden heat behind his eyes. 

“What did I tell ya, hun?” He whispered it in the space between them. “I told ya, I can’t be that here.” 

He couldn’t be him anywhere anymore, at least not in the light of day. She had tried to shake the old him, but somewhere in the far reaches of her mind, she had a hard time calling him Stan. 

Because she knew it meant he was being Ford, not Lee. And it was hard to lie about anything concerning him, concerning Stanley. 

He sighed, his hand leaving her lips and running through his long hair. “We gotta get outta here anyways. Come along, hun.” A practiced smile reached the corners of his mouth, another lie. 

Unfortunately for his psyche, the cashier wanted to talk their ear off also. 

“Oh hiya, Stanford!” And of course, they knew his brother. 

A smile crawled up his face anyway, making nice like he figured his brother may have done all those months ago. 

“Getting supplies? Any new projects?” 

“Uh nah nah, not at the moment. Looking into renovating parts of the shack for some business right now.” 

“Business? Really? Never took you for much of a businessman.” The cashier continued to bag their samplings of wood stains. “But hey, life takes ya in odd directions sometimes!” 

He tisked. “Don’t I know it buddy.” He shook his head a little, grabbing the bag, peering over his shoulder checking for his smaller shadow. She followed in his wake, slightly downtrodden to have cut their store visit short with her stupid mouth. 

“Oh, Stanford!” The cashier called, but he didn’t turn until she reached for his jacket’s dirty red sleeve, tugging to turn him back. Flushed, he meets the cashier's outstretched hand. 

“The receipt! You always want the receipt.” 

He crushed the receipt in his hand. “Right… right ya, thanks.” 

She followed him back to the car, her hand never leaving his sleeve, brushing her warmth against his slightly shaking palm. He doesn’t forget to open her door or to slam the wood stains and sandpaper into the back of the car. 

The ride back was tense, and not of its usual bravado and fanfare.  He had peeled out of the parking lot all too quickly and regretted it the next moment as he looked over and watched her pale in the passenger seat. 

She didn’t reach for the radio, hands folded on her lap. She didn’t look out her window, as the trees blurred differently under Stanley’s hasty speed. 

Under Stan’s hasty speed. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this mess. And he definitely didn’t want to upset her. His arm never met the back of her seat, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel. 

He didn’t think of pulling over until he looked at her halfway home. Ram-rod straight, pale as all hell, and eyes blurry with undescribed grief. 

He cursed under his breath, pulling the car off to the side of the road, gravel underfoot. 

She got like this at times, at his temper. He knew at times he could be loud, that he raised his voice at inconveniences and the T.V. Knew that her lip curled in a particular way when on a very off day, his frustration explodes in her face. He was quick to anger at times, and she was quick to cover. 

He made himself so big in the face of things, but she folded into a different shape when he did. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he prayed she knew that he would never turn his anger to her. That he had raised fists before and spilled blood, but he’d never raise them again unless it was for her, if she would allow it. 

But he doesn't want her to get small in the face of his, well, everything. Because he had been angry at so many things in succession in his life he lost count, and he doesn’t want to lose the part of himself that cared for her in his anger, and he doesn't want her to fold into odd shapes and shadows in the face of him anymore. But above all, he didn’t want the reminder of his father to taint whatever the hell this was. It was bad enough he saw glimpses of him in the passing reflections from time to time.

He loved the fight in her eyes when they spat back and forth sometimes, a sarcastic, fake fight brewing between them. That’s how they both always ended up laughing at the dinner table most nights, and how he felt closer to her most days. His anger was never her responsibility, or her doing. She had never truly upset him once, and the way they played with words back and forth over a meal like an old married couple rattled a few rusty cogs in his brain from time to time. That his anger could at least be amusing, because when she smiled he forgot all about it anyway. 

So he parks the car in Spring and turns to her with his guts in his lap for the first time since he spoke to her that Winter night when he thought his prayers had been answered when she plowed through the shack’s door like a tidal wave. 

“I hate this.” He sighed. “And I can’t stand when you fucking look at me like that.” 

Her lip curled. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“I know.” It wobbled out her mouth. “I ruined the day, I’m sorry.” 

He leans back, his hand meeting the back of her seat. A beat, before he turns to her completely, like he does every night across the dinner table with her feet propped across the entirety of his lap. 

“I don’t want you to apologize to me. You should never have to apologize to me. I don’t want you to, ever fucking think you gotta hand that over to me again. Because you’ve never done anything to upset me doll, not ever.” 

She sniffles, a moment of crisp silence. Spring rain beats on the windows in a mist. A smile comes to her lips, and he sags in relief, anger fading.

“Except when I forget the laundry on the line.” She’s cracking jokes now? 

“Except that ya, because I kinda need socks and underwear mmk?” He laughs only slightly, a tiredness seeping into his posture. 

“I didn’t used to be like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“A bad liar.” He admits. He hadn’t disclosed much of his past to her. He wasn’t ashamed of it much when it came to disclosing his long resume to others, but she made him nervous. And he hadn’t been really, truly, honestly nervous in a long time. So he did what he does best, and he lied. 

“I could buy the shirt off your back from ya in under 10 minutes I swear.” He readjusts in his seat again, hand slowly creeping up the back of her seat still. “I’m a great liar, it’s how I made it from state to state, and the reason I’m not allowed back in Pennsylvania.” 

She laughs truly now. She had figured that was what he was used to. Long trips and longer fibs. She didn’t care much about the morality of it, because when she imagined him somehow corrupt in her mind's eye she remembered him bent over her on the couch, and how it felt to listen to the T.V. fade into the background as he carried her up the stairs. The faintness of her sheets, and the brush of his hand on her hairline. 

“But I can’t lie about this, or at least I'm really fucking bad at it.” He interrupts her thought. “I’m the farthest thing from Stanford Pines.”

“Perhaps you are, Lee.” A name she hadn’t used out loud fell between them. “But no one ever asked you to be him.” 

She realized quickly in her desperation to reassure him that she was also being a hypocrite. It was hard to call him Stan, she realized, but only because she was afraid of hurting him. The memory of Stanford still lived between them, and although they tried to shutter his existence in the basement they both weren’t very good at playing pretend yet. 

But they would need to be. It’d need to be the best con he’d ever pulled, that they had ever pulled. He just wasn’t used to having a partner quite yet. But they needed to be honest now if they were gonna pull it off and bring Stanford home. 

“You don’t need to be him. I know you aren’t him Stanley, and I don’t want you to be.” She paused, considering. “If we are going to do all this though, we need to work together. I-I need to get better, I need to call you Stan, and you need to believe me when I tell you I’m staying for the long haul.” 

He sighs again, readjusting to look over at her. 

“I lived a long time trying to be something great like I thought he was, like I know he is. But I haven’t, I hadn’t, seen him in so long. I don’t know who he is anymore.”

“You both have a surprising lot in common, actually.” She shrugs, a smile coming to her lips in memory. “You both smile the same, and you both doodle the same way, and you both tilt your head to the left when I ask a dumbass question.” 

He laughs at this, a memory of passing scribbles and doodles in class back and forth, and the comic books he would spend all night drawing in their shared room’s lamplight. Some things always stick, at least. 

She bridged the gap of some odd ten years, and he could at least be thankful about that. 

“I just want you to know… Stan. That when I do call you Stan, I mean Stanley- not Stanford.” She shrugs again, nervous. “Because you’re not him, you're right, and if you don’t want me to lie about this one small detail, it can be between us.” 

She had somehow come to the heart of his predicament without much digging. He had worn many hats in his time bouncing from state to state, a conman, a businessman, a thief, and a liar. But he didn’t wanna make her one of those things, and he knew by associating with him she would need to be. Just in the blur of it all, he didn't want to be someone else to her. Not even in name. He wanted there to be honesty between them because otherwise, it wouldn't work. What wouldn’t work? 

He finds resolution in her answer. That he will always be Stanley to her, and Stanford to others, at least for the time being. Oddly intimate, closely personal. He wouldn't linger on the thought.

“You’re right as usual, doll.” A smirk comes to his lips. “Team?” He questions, fist uncurling from the back of her seat, brushing between them to meet for a bump. 

She smiles brightly now, meeting him in the middle. “Team.” 

He sinks in the seat, beat from the emotions of the last hour already. “Okay we need to do something fucking fun now.” 

“Like what?” Amused, she reaches between them to turn the radio back on, sick of the silence in the shell of the car. A hum already on her lips. 

He smiles, a scheme on his lips, a memory playing in his head when he looks at her. 

She flushes, a quick shake of her head. “No, no, no Stan, no I am not doing it no.”

He loves how she fights it but he knows how to get his way with her already, even if it has only been a short six months. Flushed in her seat, and begging him. Fuck. 

All he has to do is fucking smile, with that stupid glint in his eyes. “Yes, ya are!” He taunts, a laugh already bellowing. “You’re driving!” 

“I don’t fucking know how and you know it!” She had been embarrassed to admit it to him that one night, that she had made it this long without a driver’s license, but he had all but said please that night, vying for blackmail from her. He had told her about his kiddy comic books, so she had to fess up to something stupid of equal measure he felt. 

“I’ll teach ya!” 

He was already out his door and around the front of the car, opening her own, and reaching across her lap to unbuckle her from her seat when she continued to shake her head. 

She moved only when he began slipping his hand under her thigh and around her back to move her across the long bench to the front of the wheel. He sometimes forgot about where he put his hands on her, when he was giddy like this. She never minded, though. 

She was still shaking her head when he reached back over her to buckle her into her new spot behind the wheel, laughing all the way. Amused by her protest of this simple thing. Only amused, because he knew deep down she was actually okay with it. Another fake fight ongoing between them, some old cogs moving in his head. 

He moved back some, but resided half in the passenger seat and half in the middle, his big hand on her thigh. Fuck. 

He leaned down (Fuck), his other hand pointing at things she should have been paying attention to. This is like the shack all over again. 

He looked back at her, even more amused by her flustered face, and repeated himself like he knew what was going on in her head. Because, well, he kinda did. 

“This is the petal to the right, and the break to the left, doll.” He brings his hand back to the wheel. “This stick on the left is the turn signal, and this stick on the right is the shifter.” 

She began to breath again when he moved away, but he was still chuckling through ever sentence of course. Too handsome for his own good.

“Now all ya gotta do, doll, is shift from park to drive, but put ur foot on the break first.” 

“Uh… this one?” She put her left foot on the left most pedal. 

He squeezed her thigh, goddamnit, leaning back into her to basically physically move her foot. 

“No, no, ya gotta only use your right foot. You can’t use both.” 

“Why not?” 

He shrugs, tilting his head left at her dumbass question. “Because I said so.” He laughs again, hand still very warm and very present. 

“Okay, okay… okay.”

He nods. “Okay okay okay, now just shift the right rod up here.” He grabs her hand, bringing it up and showing her the different gears and how to count through them. Forgetting himself in his amusement, hand still on her fucking thigh. 

He laughs all the way home, and she thinks it’s worth the constant breaking she does in the middle of the road when she gets spooked by the speed of the car. The road is luckily empty, and the radio is drowned out by Stan’s commentary. She doesn’t mind the jabs at her newfound skill, and he takes jabs right back when she slams the break particularly hard and his head gets precariously close to the dash. She doubles over at that one, amused by the sudden shock on his face, but quickly distracted by the hand still on her fucking thigh. He thinks she looks nice like that, behind his wheel. 

They make it back to the shack in one piece, but he’s the one that has to reach over to shift the car back into park. 

He realizes when he looks back over at her, that he had forgotten his anger a while ago, and that his hand had made a new home on the soft of the back of her neck, moving from her thigh when he shifted gears. 

He would let her drive again, if it meant this. 

She’d admit she likes driving him, in particular, around. 

He’d just need to stock up on brake pads. 

[asidian]

Something this show does incredibly well are the little moments Charles and Edwin share, without words, that sell the idea that they've been each other's Most Important Person for thirty years.

This little section of a scene takes all of probably six seconds.

Crystal has just taken her memories and is ready to rush off to London alone to sort out her issues. And what does she do? She digs up Edwin's attitude from early in the series, from before he knew or particularly liked her, and throws his words back at them.

And then it cuts to the boys, and they get this stunning little exchange that happens without a single word spoken.

Charles just gives Edwin this look. Like: there. You see? That's come back to bite us, hasn't it.

And Edwin gives him a smile, and a little nod, like: I'm leaving this to you, please take care of it.

And then he just turns and goes.

It is an absolutely brilliant moment, honestly. You can see how often they've done some version of this before – how often Edwin's abrasive attitude toward people he doesn't know very well has earned him exactly that look from Charles to remind him that his bedside manner could use work.

And there's something so incredibly familiar about the whole exchange. These characters are very aware of each other's strengths and weaknesses. They have grown to work and live together so seamlessly that they understand how and when to compensate for things their partner isn't as adept at handling. They both know that Charles has the better emotional intuition in this partnership; they both know it's his charisma that smooths the way with clients, because he's been doing it for thirty years.

It's such a tiny aside, but it packs so much into those couple of seconds. Any other show would have needed an entire scene to get across this much history and chemistry and been-there-for-you-for-decades affection and mutual support.

Not this one. Hats off to the writers and the actors for this little gem. What a good moment.

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (1)

Summary: You managed to convince Astarion not to go through with the rite of profane ascension. He remains a vampire spawn, and you now offer your blood from time to time to help with his sanguine hunger until a solution is found. Even though you had both decided to stay as friends back in Moonrise Towers, lines begin to blur once more as other cravings come to the surface… and things with Astarion are seldom uncomplicated.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Word count: 6k

Warnings: 18+. Endgame spoilers. Blood drinking. Mutual pining. Biting. S*xual tension. Mentions of past trauma.

Series masterlist . AO3

"He's upstairs."

You nodded curtly, but before you could turn in your heels and head to the wooden staircase, you felt a hand grip at your arm.

"He hasn't been paying his due," Bork, the Blushing Mermaid tavern's publican, said with a rise of his brows.

"Noble room again?"

"Yes."

As expected. Astarion would sooner be caught dead again than having to stay at a merchant or peasant room.

He adored all things lavish and that extended to his accommodations, naturally.

"I'll cover for it," you said, snatching your arm away. "How much?"

He bared his yellow teeth. "Thirty gold pieces."

You felt Shadowheart's burning gaze on you. She didn't approve of you cleaning after him. Especially since her protective instinct dragged her along with you every single time.

"Very well," you said through gritted teeth, rummaging through your pouch, and handing him the expected amount. 

"Good," the older man said with a twirl of his kitchen knife. "If your pale friend does it again, he's done for."

Threats like this would usually warrant you to bare your dagger or cast a less friendly spell, but you couldn't afford to cause a scene.

Not in front of so many onlookers. 

You felt Shadowheart briefly tense up by your side. "Do hurry up. I shall wait for you."

Nodding, you gave her an assuring nod before heading up the staircase. 

The first floor was reserved for the highest paying customers, and it was heavily decorated and with candles spreading along the narrow corridor.

You paced quickly along the wooden floor, already knowing where to find him.

Room 7.

At this point, you were already over common pleasantries, so you skipped knocking at the door and just barged inside.

You heard a sleepy groan from the crimson bed placed at the centre of the luxurious room.

Astarion wasn't alone.

He was laying on top of the silk sheets, flipping through a book, seemingly undisturbed by your sudden appearance. Curiously enough, he was fully clothed, wearing a frill shirt and his regular trousers. 

However, the woman next to him was very much fully naked, with only a blanket draping over her bare torso.

The sight made your stomach twist and turn.

"Hello, darling," he said casually as if you had just walked in on him picking flowers. 

She peeked over her shoulder with a horrified look spreading across her pleasant face.

Of course she was extremely attractive.

She let out a shriek. "Do you mind?"

"No," you said dryly.

She immediately rolled out of bed, shooting a murderous glance your way, while scrambling to collect her belongings from the carpeted floor.

The door snapped shut behind her, and you were already pacing toward his bedside table once you spotted his coinpurse.

"Happy, are you? You scared her off, poor thing," he shook his head, feigning disapproval.

"You owe me."

You reached out to grab the thick pouch, but caught sight of the glint of a blade and the cool touch of metal being pressed gently against the back of your hand. 

Typical.

"Ah-ah-ah..." he tutted with a click of his tongue. "Where are your manners?"

He seemed very serious all of a sudden, but you knew better. "I'll hex you."

"Faster than me piercing through your skin?" he asked, tapping the flat side of the blade playfully on your skin.

You really did consider hexing him for a split second just out of spite. "You overestimate your abilities."

"And you could have cursed me already, but are too lost in my dashing good looks."

Your jaw dropped in utter disbelief.

"That lovely mouth of yours could never compete with my agile fingers."

The insinuation wasn't even subtle, and it was enough to make your blood boil.

You scowled deeply at him, shoving his dagger out of the way. "Thirty gold pieces."

He slipped the blade under his pillow again with a devious grin.

"Bork was rather eager to have at you, so I just paid him. Maybe next time I won't intervene."

"And what would he do? Kill me again?"

Point taken.

A dangerous smile danced across his lips. "And here I thought you intended to start charging me for our arrangement."

You glared at him intensely, feeling momentarily outraged. "You're the one profiting off of it. Entirely."

"Hmm, debatable."

You narrowed your eyes. "If anything, you should be paying me, no?"

He snatched the coinpurse from your grasp, tugging it open before handing you a few gold pieces. 

"Here you go, darling. Sixty gold pieces," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "Buy yourself a new attire, while you're at it."

You glanced down the length of your body, arching a brow and straightening your shirt and trousers. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

Astarion scoffed. "I don't even know where to begin, but do not fret. You could be wearing nothing but a rotting sack of potatoes, and I would still not be deterred from your neck."

You pressed your lips tightly together, and glanced at the gold pieces in your hand. "Your sweet-talking skills have been slightly below par as of late."

He chuckled, crossing his hands behind his head and against the meticulously wooden-carved headboard. "Yet here you are."

Not that you had much of a choice, really.

Halving the sum of money he had given you, you shoved the rest in your pocket while placing the other half on the table.

"Keep it."

"Don't be ridiculous," you groaned.

"Working on your flattery, I see?"

He was enjoying this far too much, and the more you talked back, the more you instigated him to continue.

"Why don't you just pay him when he asks for it?"

"Oh, darling…"

Here we go…

He was casually checking his hands, putting on his condescending demeanour. "Patience is a virtue he clearly lacks. If I'm to live eternally, I might as well teach these commoners some manners."

"Or you just adore getting on people's nerves," you said with a sly smile.

He grinned so wide, you caught a glimpse of his razor-sharp fangs peeking through. "You know me too well."

You used to think so.

Now, you weren't so sure.

Clearing your throat, you looked around the dimly lit room until your eyes settled on the large majestic bed. "She was really pretty."

"You sound surprised."

"Not at all. She does fit your type."

He laughed dramatically, further grinding your nerves. "I have a type?"

You gave him a look.

"You mean outrageously beautiful and undeniably entertaining?" he asked innocently. "Like you?"

Your heart jolted.

His method of seduction was deemed nigh pristine, and a few weeks ago, you would have maybe fallen hard for this level of charm.

But not anymore.

Well, for the most part…

"She was not outrageously beautiful."

He placed on hand at his chest, feigning hurt. "First you rob me, and now you question my taste in beauty. I'm not entirely sure my dead heart can take much more of this."

You huffed, crossing your arms before glancing out the window. The full moon lit up the street below, as the night began to draw out those who preferred to keep to the shadows.

And those who had no choice but to do so.

Like Astarion.

"I didn't do it."

His voice startled you and you stared at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

He paused briefly. "I didn't do anything with her, if that's what you're thinking. There is an odd comfort in being surrounded by beauty, even if only to glare at, and nothing else."

Your heart clenched at how vulnerable he sounded all of a sudden. His pleasing face held an expression that you'd seen many times before…

Guilt.

The ripple effects of centuries of torture and abuse still slipped through the cracks of his usual pompous demeanour.

"Your personal matters are your own, Astarion. No need to justify yourself."

He stared at you in silence for a moment, and the urge to reach out to embrace him nearly took over.

Until his features began to twist into a light frown. "Don't look at me like that. I can't stand it."

"Like what?"

"That look. Pity. Spare me," he groaned with a roll of his eyes.

You weren't surprised in the slightest that he went into his defensive mode so rapidly.

He would fluctuate so often around you these days, that it gave you whiplash. Some days, he would let his guard down and allow you in, while others were plagued with him having a brick wall up around him if you happened to breathe in the wrong direction.

You had learned how to navigate through his tough exterior when the two of you traveled together, and as he opened more and more to you.

It all culminated when you offered your help against Cazador, and having him make the decision not to go through with the ritual that would doom so many souls – including his own — in the process.

He had thanked you for saving him from himself.

But nowadays, talking to him was like walking on eggshells while simultaneously dancing around his weathervane mood.

It was as if your relationship had somewhat soured over the past few weeks, and all the remnants of a solid friendship were now beginning to crack.

"You know, you don't have to be here," you said softly, trying to disperse the tension. "You are more than welcome to stay with us."

Astarion snickered darkly. "And having to endure that dullard? Please. I'd rather stake myself, darling."

You rolled your eyes and heaved a sigh at the targeted provocation.

"Gale is not a dullard. He is quite inter-"

But he began to part his mouth into a forced yawn. "Boring already! See, this is what happens when you choose to surround yourself with such unstimulating company – it spreads, and you used to be so much fun," he finished with a dramatic pout.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you sent him a death glare. "He's not the only one there."

There was a hint of amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Oh, yes! How could I forget Shadowheart and her magnificent ability to bore me." He swung his feet off the bed, standing gracefully. "Or perhaps you mean Lae'zel? She's clearly in debt to whichever god bestows a sense of humour."

An added layer of defense: sarcasm.

No one wielded it quite like Astarion, which also proved to be a major inconvenience when trying to win an argument. 

I'm also there, you wanted to say, but chose to remain silent.

Deep down, you detested how you still longed for his company. Even after so many weeks had gone by. Even when he seemed so averse to it outside of this… arrangement.

Your relationship had been reduced to nothing more than a transaction.

Once again.

Your blood for his hunger to be quenched even if only momentarily.

"Or are you referring to yourself?" he mused, pacing towards you while adjusting his shirt.

It was extremely infuriating that he could see through you so easily.

"Let's get this over with, then," you said, words stinging in your throat.

He offered a faint smile, as he came to stand before you. "I must say, our weekly encounters are nothing short of exciting," he brought his fingers to your jaw, tilting your head gently as his eyes roamed across your neck. "And I am positively famished."

You felt a gentle tug at the collar or your shirt, and glanced down to see him undoing the buttons with just one hand. 

All those years of honing his dexterity were bound to come in handy at the most convenient of times,  and Astarion would never shy away from displaying his expertise.

Your senses were suddenly hit with the faint scent of bergamot, rosemary, and aged brandy.

His scent.

The same that once brought you comfort through the toughest of times.

But now…

"Which side will it be this time?"

You swallowed hard, shuddering. "You decide."

He caressed your neck tenderly, tipping your head to the opposite side, half-hooded eyes roaming across your exposed skin.

"Ever so generous."

You huffed in annoyance. "Astarion."

He didn't need to be warned twice, and you soon felt his soft lips brush across your skin, as he searched for your steady pulse. The contact made you jolt slightly and he took your hands in his, placing them at his waist.

"Hold on, darling," he whispered, as his breath fanned your flushed skin, before darting out his agile tongue and enclosing his lips around the selected area.

You had let him feed on you many times before, but the flutter was ever present. It wasn't out of fear or concern that he might take it too far. He never did. But the knowledge that you were, once again, involved in something so intimate truly gnawed at your nerves.

As soon as you felt the initial sting, you balled your fists, gripping the fabric of his shirt tight, as you hissed in pain. 

He held your jaw in between his fingers whilst his other hand was firmly pressed to the back of your head, making sure you were anchored in place.

Astarion moaned first – a muffled and deep sound that reverberated across his lips with each mouthful of blood he downed.

Your eyes dropped close all of a sudden and he  pressed his body against yours, acting purely on the instinct driven by his bloodlust. 

And just like all those times before, you began to feel it.

With each passing second, the all too familiar and ever-growing pressure in your lower abdomen became harder and harder to ignore.

He had once revealed how your blood worked like an aphrodisiac whenever he drank from you; how he couldn't keep his body from reacting to it, and, ultimately, to you. After all, you had been the first thinking creature he had ever fed on. 

As such, you had grown accustomed to his erection being pressed firmly against you – a constant reminder of how easy it was for him to make you yearn for more.

Whatever pain you had left from the initial bite, had morphed into a very subtle wave of pleasure that spread from between your legs.

You cursed inwardly, tugging harder at his shirt.

You didn't wish for your body to be so… primal. 

Even with blood being drained from you, and the act itself being considered so profane, it was still a much welcome moment of intimacy that you had come to embrace. 

A soft roll of his hips lulled you into him like a moth to a flame. Your body struggled with fading from the blood loss as well with the increasing throb between your thighs.

At this point, you couldn't help but moan softly as he eased his grip on you until he had fully withdrawn his teeth from you. 

Your eyes fluttered open and you had to blink twice to disperse the haziness blurring your vision.

Crimson red tainted his lips, and droplets of the warm liquid threatened to spill over. The sight of him revelling in your blood used to make your stomach turn, but now it had morphed into a habit.

But what truly caught your attention was how he looked faintly… displeased?

He lowered his head, crimson eyes locking in with yours. 

"That was quick," you whispered, struggling to ease your throbbing clit, as his erection was still very much pressed against you.

But now he was frowning. 

Suddenly, you felt experienced fingertips trailed across your lower abdomen, casually teasing the hem of your waistband.

You sucked in a breath, chills sprawling all over your body, as he began to trace down your thigh, just where your dagger was resting.

"What are you–"

He pressed a long finger to his blood-stained lips and you swallowed, his eyes darkening. "We have company."

Before you could process his words, you felt your dagger being yanked swiftly from its sheath. With a languid shift of his feet, you watched as he threw the sharp blade across the room.

Just as it cut through the air, the large wooden door began to swing open and Shadowheart came into view.

The dagger landed dangerously close to her head, the tip carving into the wood and wobbling faintly.

She frowned slightly. "You missed."

He darted out his tongue to collect droplets of blood. "Did I?"

She looked positively unimpressed by such a display of skill, even one that could have easily maimed her.

But he had deliberately missed.

Of course he had.

You caught a glimpse of Astarion's reddened ears – the ultimate proof that he had recently fed, and one that, somehow, sent a shiver down your spine.

The bloodless effect was also beginning to take a hold of your body, as dizziness spread more and more.

Snapping out of your transfixed gaze, you hurriedly brought the handkerchief in your pocket to apply some pressure to your bleeding wound.

"Stealth was never your forte, darling," Astarion mused, visibly annoyed. "You're about as subtle as a pack of gnolls."

A teasing smile parted her lips. "You have such a way with words."

He grinned deviously. "It's called being eloquent, dear Shadowheart. Not that you'd know anything about that."

"I was taught to converse with others without constantly resorting to sarcasm," she mused, hurling your dagger back at him. "Not that you'd know anything about that."

As expected, he caught it in between his fingers with little to no effort, twirling it easily with the expertise that only centuries of practice could provide.

He clicked his tongue. "No wonder you're so tedious. But… eavesdropping? My, my… how unbecoming of you, darling."

A flash of surprise crossed her face. "I - I was doing no such thing! I merely decided to make sure everything was all right." Her face softened as she turned to you, her usual caring nature surfacing. "Do you need any healing?"

You smiled warmly at her, patting the pouch at your hip. "No need, thank you. Brought the scroll of Lesser Restoration you gave me."

Astarion scoffed.

Shadowheart ignored him. "I ought to go. Gale needs my assistance with some letters he's received from Waterdeep," she said, straightening up to her default stoic pose. "I trust you're quite done here."

You nodded, clearing your throat.

"What, you're not joining us for a nibble?" Astarion pouted dramatically.

"Over my dead body."

He looked as amused as ever. "That can certainly  be arranged. Though I prefer fresh blood… right from the source."

Her features hardened once more and you decided to intervene. "Will you stop it? You're like a cat with its claws out."

Astarion snapped his head at you. "Excuse me? Claws?"

"Would it kill you - well, again - not to be so damn abrasive all the time?" 

He groaned sheepishly. "She interrupted my feeding. It can be quite hard to resist the urge to behead her."

Shadowheart's gaze dropped to his lower half with the slightest uptick of one corner of her mouth. "By the looks of it, Astarion, you have other hardships to concern yourself with."

A rush of heat spread across your face as you followed her line of sight and were met by the very prominent outline of his erection strained against his trousers.

He turned around, mumbling curses under his breath to adjust himself, and Shadowheart looked at you with a triumphant smile.

It wasn't an easy feat to silence Astarion, yet she had achieved it so gracefully.

"I'll see you later, I suppose," she mused and you nodded. "It was rather entertaining seeing you again, Astarion."

He threw her an infuriating glance over his shoulder.

By the time she had closed the door behind her, you were already taking the scroll into your hands and whispering the incantation, as the paper scroll began to disintegrate itself.

A wave of warmth spread through your hands, before engulfing your body in it. Strength and heightened senses gradually returned to you as the lasting effects of him feeding on you dispersed. 

From the corner of your eye, you spotted him glaring at you with a visible sulk. 

"I'll come back next week."

"Leaving already?" He asked, fake heartbreak twisting his features and voice. "Was wondering if you could, perhaps, give me a hand."

He handed you your dagger, which you promptly slid back inside its sheath.

Your eyes then widened at his not so subtle suggestion.

Uncertainty boiled deep within you, and you had to muster your will to keep yourself from immediately leaving.

Astarion's healing path had been one he had decided to tread alone. The relationship he had with sex had been the reason you two had decided to be as friends and nothing more. You had fallen hard for him – or his deceit – but you figured what he truly needed was a friend and not a lover.

And so you left your infatuation for him behind.

It was better off this way.

But now… watching him fall back to his usual charming advances made you somewhat wary. Was he back to forcing himself to seek intimacy with his body, because he still couldn't do it effectively in any other way? Was he simply feeling more at ease?

You met his sultry gaze and cleared your throat. "Well, I'm sure you can ask that outrageously beautiful woman to help you out, if that is what you truly seek."

That seemed to have caught him by surprise, and he cocked his head. "What?"

"She seemed positively distraught for having to leave your company so early," you said, dragging the handkerchief down your neck to wipe off the trail of blood.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy, darling?"

"Delusion does not suit you, darling."

He took a few steps towards you until you could see the crimson of his eyes flicker as they studied your face.

Your stomach turned.

The proximity made you feel vulnerable and you immediately felt naked under his burning gaze. 

Astarion had over two centuries of practice when it came to reading others. It wasn't an easy feat to deceive him, and you were no exception.

"We traveled together for so long and I can safely say I never took you for a liar – perhaps too soft-hearted for my liking, but not a liar."

"I did not lie," you shot back, lifting your chin in defiance. "I can offer you my friendship and even my blood, but I'm not so sure about anything else."

He heaved a deep sigh.

"I just fed on you and the bloodlust can be quite… overwhelming," he confessed. "I usually take care of it myself, but you did taste absolutely exquisite tonight, what can I say?"

That caught you off guard.

"What do you mean? Take care of…" your voice trailed off as realization hit you.

Oh.

Oh.

Astarion clicked his tongue. "Don't act so surprised. You can feel it whenever I'm feeding, can't you?" He took another step back and only came to a halt once your back was pressed against the carved-wood wall. "There is only so much I can withstand with your delicious blood coursing through my body, darling."

You swallowed hard. 

He was being particularly firm on his advances tonight. You were used to his occasional flirtatious remarks whenever he fed on you ever since the arrangement took place. However, this was bringing things to a whole new level.

One that you hadn't expected you'd reach ever again with him.

Somehow, you managed to find your voice. "Maybe you should stop feeding on me, then?"

A weightless taunt, obviously.

Crimson eyes darted all over your face as if studying you. He remained silent for what seemed like an eternity, before the corner of his mouth curled into an intriguing smile.

He had seen immediately right through it.

"If that is what you wish, then so be it," he said in a rather dismissive tone, but still towering over you.

You arched a brow. "That's it?"

"Darling, as immortal as I am, I do not beg," he continued, now tracing around the fresh bite marks on your skin with uncharacteristic tenderness. "I will surely find other exquisite necks to sink my teeth into."

His words carried a hint of a threat, which unsettled you. 

"That was not the arrangement, Astarion," you said with a scowl. "It's either wild animals or my blood."

His fingertips paused at your pulse point, and you were certain he could feel the throbbing increasing rapidly. "How possessive of you, my dear," he mused playfully. "Although, I am quite sure you are aware that many do carry fantasies with vampires."

You pressed your lips together in a silent reply.

A man as attractive as Astarion was bound to allure all sorts of attention. When passing through Moonrise Towers, the drow Araj had tried to have him bite her in exchange for a rather powerful potion, but you had assured him that you did not demand anything against his will.

The memory still left a sour taste in your mouth.

But he did have a point.

Vampires could be regarded as a taste of the forbidden, and he could certainly deliver it.

"That was not the arrangement," you repeated through gritted teeth, deciding to ignore his previous remark.

His eyes narrowed dangerously in an instant.

"'The arrangement'," he mocked, inching near and pinning you frozen against the wall with the weight of his burning stare. "Does dear Wyll know that I haven't been exclusively feeding on wild animals? Because that was the arrangement, darling," his face drew closer and his cool breath fanned your skin.

Upon becoming Duke of Baldur's Gate, Wyll had agreed to allow Astarion to reside within its walls, but not without assuring he posed no danger to others.

But then you decided to volunteer in aiding him until a solution to his vampiric condition could be found. Hopefully, it wouldn't take too long to find something useful. 

Your research had led to a couple of enchanted items, but those were rare to come by. A wish spell seemed to be the easiest way, but even as a sorcerer and with Gale's help, it would be extremely challenging.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "He does. He knows blood from thinking creatures sates you more effectively, so he allows it for the time being."

He scoffed, dropping his hand from your neck. "How very thoughtful of him, indeed."

"This is what friends do."

He sneered at you. "Friends do not hand out ultimatums. Care to revive my memory?" His lips almost brushed against yours and you didn't dare take a breath. "I am to wag my tail like an obedient pup as I wait for a solution to this minor inconvenience, all the while enclosed in a golden cage."

Impatience gripped your nerves ferociously. "These things take time, Astarion."

"Oh, my darling… I have all the time in the world, but you only have a limited supply of blood," he whispered softly and you could almost taste his taunting words.

He drew back slightly, his glare so intense you felt yours waver and drop, catching a glimpse of his sharp canines. "We are actively looking for a solution. Gale is also making some progress-"

He pressed a finger to your lips, effectively silencing you.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking I am faulting you," he said, his face suddenly softening, as he caressed your lower lip. "If anything, you are the only reason I was ever able to kill Cazador."

He was being sincere, and that was what made your heart drop to your stomach. 

"You have my eternal gratitude."

You shuddered under his touch, feeling your breath quicke, as his other hand trailed down your neck until it was resting just above your left breasts and beating heart.

He was too good at this…

Unfairly so.

"Wyll ought to allocate more of his resources into aiding me, don't you think? After all, you are the one at risk here," he continued. "I know he cares not for me, but I could have ascended and bent Baldur's Gate to my will… if not for your intervention."

"I'm not at risk," you said with a roll of your eyes. "And if you drink more than what you need, then you know the consequences."

His eyes dropped to your cleavage as he began to caress the flushed skin. With each deep breath you took, you pushed more of your breasts into him, further igniting the heat between your legs.

"Promises, promises… unfortunately for you, darling, your words don't match your body."

Fuck you. "You're impossible."

He slowly dipped his head until his lips grazed yours. "You would stake me?"

Never. 

"I would."

He chuckled. "You would stake me as I sink my teeth into your darling neck and feast on your divine blood?" 

No. "Yes."

But his smile only widened as amusement settled on his face. "I can't think of a better way to part this world for good."

Your mouth parted slightly in surprise, and he rolled his hips into you, earning a soft gasp.

You half-expected him to finally take your lips, but he tilted his head instead to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

And your body nearly imploded as old sensations resurfaced.

Fuck.

"You're so sweet…" he whispered with a sigh, as he began to graze along your jaw, taking your hands in his and planting them on his waist. "So warm… the gods above could never do you justice." He continued in between light kisses with his hips matching the pace.

As your eyes fluttered shut, you lost track of how eagerly your hands tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing impatiently against the waistband of his trousers.

Astarion groaned softly, helping you with the inconvenient lacing at the front. "And here I thought I was the starving one."

He always talked way too much and had a natural talent for doing so at the least opportune time. 

"Can you shut up for once?"

"Gladly," he said as he quickly took your lips in his, muffling your groan of protest.

Reason told you to halt everything once. That you were taking things too fast, and that there was no need to indulge in such depravities.

But you had missed this.

You missed having him so close that he completely overtook your senses. 

The kiss turned rougher and his tongue soon found yours. Instinct guided you as you succumbed to the vicious grip of desire, and you pressed yourself further into him.

It was almost embarrassing how wet you already were and how intensely your swollen clit was pulsing. Your body was already readying itself for him to be buried inside you, and you shuddered at the prospect of it.

Your tongue darted into his mouth and your eagerness had it glide across one of his sharp fangs, and you felt a sting of pain as you accidentally drew blood.

"Fuck," you grumbled, breaking the kiss at once.

The familiar taste of metal began to pool in your mouth, and you felt gentle fingers grip your jaw tight, as he titled your head back.

"I would apologise, but it was your own doing," he said with a smile, hunger in his eyes. "So let's not allow it to go to waste, hm?"

And then he pressed his lips against yours, immediately parting them with his experienced tongue, in search of the warm liquid he so badly craved.

The cut wasn't deep or wide enough to cause much to spill, but it was certainly enough for him to let out a beautiful moan of delight, as he lapped at your blood.

Your hands gripped the front of his trousers, the lacing now undone and offering you the opportunity to feel him, and he was kissing you so ardently, that your mind was completely clouded by all of him.

Testing the waters, you caressed his cock through the fabric.

He immediately parted from you to let out a delicious hiss, as he rolled his hips into the palm of your hand.

Astarion was incredibly hard, but just as you were about to slide it inside to grip him, he caught your wrist and held it firmly in place.

And everything halted all at once.

Your eyes found his, and he seemed… distant.

Concern washed over you. "Astarion?"

He was frozen, eyes fixed on the floor.

As he eased his grip on you, it became apparent that he wasn't listening to you.

Fuck.

You brought one hand to grip his shoulder. "Astarion…"

He shook his head lightly. "Give me a moment, darling."

The way the last word drawled out of his lips, made your heart clench violently. It was so instinctive for him, that you doubted he even realised he had uttered it.

You stood still, unsure of what to do to help.

The two of you remained silent for a few moments. You kept your hold on his shoulder, gently caressing it in an attempt to bring him some comfort.

Then you felt rage swirl in you.

Cazador had warped him in such a way and for so long, that the ramifications of his abuse on Astarion seeped so deep and gripped him so tight, causing you to feel nothing but anger.

You took a deep breath, and carefully placed your hands on either side of his face, slowly guiding him to meet your eyes.

He looked broken.

"I apologise."

You caressed his cool skin with your thumbs, shaking your head. "There is nothing to apologise for. Ever. Do you hear me?"

He tilted his head until his forehead touched yours. "I really wanted this."

Even though the two of you had grown apart over the past few weeks as he had distanced himself, you couldn't think of anyone else who had such a hold on you.

With one hand drifting along his soft curls, you pulled him further into a hug, which he promptly embraced, lacing his hands behind your back.

This was your Astarion.

The one who made it so easy to love and care for him.

"Sometimes what we want is not what we need."

His cheek was pressed to the side of your head and you heard a faint chuckle. "So poetic. I reckon Volo has competition."

"Your mind goes to Volo when holding me? Is there something you wish to tell me, Astarion?" you teased lightly.

He patted your back twice before letting go.

"Guilty as charged," he mused, slipping back into his usual antics.

He crossed the room, tying the laces of his trousers before plopping himself on the bed with a stretch of his arms.

"I'm sure you're exhausted. Maybe you should go back to that dullard friend of yours," he said with a sly grin.

His words hit you hard and your face dropped. "I can stay a little longer…"

He picked up the book next to him, examining the cover. "Whatever for? I'm perfectly fine, darling."

Now, this was not your Astarion.

Cold. Distant. Impenetrable.

The one who pushed you away whenever you attempted to bridge the gap that had come in between you two. 

He focused his attention on the book in his hands and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

"Very well."

You composed yourself, and headed to the door, not even bothering to exchange another look.

"Thank you for the meal, and for… well, you know."

You nodded, feeling the overwhelming urge to just leave. "See you next week, then."

He didn't reply.

You rushed out of the room, feeling the familiar prickle of tears in your eyes, and you tried to convince yourself it was better off this way.

That he needed time and space.

That he didn't need you.

By the time you crossed the crowded lounge of the tavern, you crossed paths with that woman again.

She locked eyes with you, a faint smile curving her lips, as she rose to her feet from her chair, probably heading back to him.

She truly was a sight to behold, no doubt.

But what tore your heart was realising that, even after everything you'd been through with Astarion, he still favoured her company over yours. 

Next chapter

Masterlist . Series masterlist. AO3

[throneofsapphics]

finding you again, part two

Azriel x f!Reader

summary: after he ended your relationship, you didn’t expect Azriel to pop into your life again - and you’re not happy about it

warnings: violence, injuries, war

a/n: if anyone wants to be added to the taglist, please let me know!

series masterlist

Azriel barely remembered making it to the healing tent. 

It must’ve been a hallucination, surely you wouldn’t have healed him. You’d call for someone else to do it. 

“Stay safe spymaster,” you’d said with that wicked smirk on your face, “and do it far away from me, won’t you?” 

He’d let you get the last word in. Maybe because it pleased you, maybe because he was too caught up staring at you. 

Still, the features he’d tried to memorize those months ago loomed over him, pretty eyes glimmering with worry. 

“Come on, Azriel,” you half-snarled. “I’ll be pissed if you don’t make it.” 

“You have horrible bedside manner,” the words rasped from his throat.

“Get some water,” he didn’t know who you called, but he both heard and felt the pure relief in your voice. Next thing, you were tipping his chin, fingers cold against his skin, cool water sliding down his throat. 

“He’ll be fine,” you said, withdrawing as quickly as possible. Azriel’s vision was still swarming, but Cassian helped him sit. He caught sight of your back, ducking under the tent flap, back out towards the carnage. 

-

Madja was busy, and you hadn’t hesitated when your High Lord’s voice slipped into your mind, ordering you to a specific tent. Your stomach had dropped when you saw him. Not because of the gore, because it was Azriel, knocking on death's door hovering right on the brink of an unconsciousness that would put him in a coma. Perhaps not your neatest work, but he would survive.

Rhysand was probably aware of your shared history, and it made you even more surprised he let you near him. 

You shook the thought of him, of the Inner Circle, from your mind and faced the hoards of injured and dying again, scanning for the most critically injured. There was plenty of work to do. 

Pace yourself, you remembered Madja’s teachings on battlefield healing, and your own experience. Ration your magic, use only what’s necessary. They’ll survive a scar.

Time had no meaning as you worked, hours passed with countless patients, the sun fell and rose, and you could barely stand on your own two feet. 

“Take a rest,” a familiar voice, and a hand squeezing your shoulder. 

You shook it off. “There’s more to do.” 

“You can’t help anyone if you pass out,” he said mildly. 

Pivoting to face him, your face tightened. “And people will die if I can’t help them.” 

If you had more energy, you would’ve squirmed under his scrutiny. “At least eat something.” 

“Fine,” you spit out, and headed to the tent the healers stayed in, on the outskirts of camp, hoping he wouldn’t follow.  

He had, of course, as you emerged with an apple between your teeth, a few strips of dried meat in a recently cleaned hand, he was standing outside. Somehow, the area was regretfully empty. 

“I don’t need a minder,” you told him. “Go rest.” 

“Hypocritical.” 

“You’ll ruin my hard work.” 

His eyes flashed. Amusement or ire, you reminded yourself not to care, reminded yourself again as he left without a look back. He was getting in your head again. If you survived this war, if your world survived it, you’d flee far far away. 

-

It was dark, he should be sleeping, but instead he slid through the shadows, searching through the camp for … for you. His shadows told him everything, but he felt the need to set his eyes on you, like if he looked away for too long you’d disappear. 

“You can’t stay?” you asked. His eyes scanned you, white sheet barely covering the top of your breasts, the slight look of disappointment on his face. Azriel needed to be up early, and he knew if he spent another minute here, he’d be late and have too many questions to answer. 

Instead, he kissed your forehead, “another time,” he promised, unsure if he could actually keep it, and slipped out the door. 

The memory came to him out of nowhere, the desire to go back and change that moment strong and unexpected. He forced it from his mind, there was no going back, and you’d made that perfectly clear. 

As soon as he’d caught a glimpse of you, he retreated to make an effort to get some sleep - it’s what you’d want him to do. 

-

You moved with the armies, went where you were ordered, healed whoever needed healing, and most of all - kept your head down.

Maybe a few days, maybe a week had passed, but when Azriel appeared, one hand pulling the tent flap back, you didn’t have the energy to rebuke him. 

An exhausted wave of your hand, you let him in, and turned to pile over the notes in front of you. Letters bent and blended, and the heavy blinks to try and return them to legible words failed. 

Footsteps, loud enough to make sure you were aware of his position, slowing as they reached. Twisting barely over your shoulder, his thumb pressed against your chin, turning you forwards, to gaze at his shadow cast against the tent wall - now encompassing your own. 

Featherlight brushes against the skin of your neck, goosebumps down your spine, rough thumbs run circles in all of your trigger points. Decades ago, he’d done this nearly every time you met, always without asking, and somehow still knew all of the right places.

A low moan escaped slightly parted lips as he dug into where your shoulder and neck met. The fingers paused, but gods the exhaustion must’ve been truly driving you out of your mind, because you covered his hand with your own, encouraging him to resume. 

A low chuckle, and he did.

The next hours were something of a fever dream. Your bed was hardly large enough for two - especially for a pair of wings, but you managed to lay side by side, both fully clothed. Occasionally, his hand would bump into yours, and vice versa. 

The only noise inside the tent was your steady breaths, the two of you finding solace in the silence of each other's company. In that silence, you convinced yourself it was a dream, or a ridiculous hallucination. 

But, when you woke in the morning - alone, the usual tightness in your neck was missing, and familiar hints of cedar and night chilled mist filled the space. You were well aware he owed you nothing, but waking alone, not even a note, left you feeling used - you scoffed at the word - he’d given you a massage after all, if anything you were the one using him. 

 Whatever game he was playing with you, you wanted no part of it. Even if it wasn’t a game, even if he was just searching for some comfort during the chaos, it wasn’t you. He could find another source. The night only tightened your resolve to stay away from him. 

You were not called to heal him, nor any other members of the Inner Circle, again - to your relief. Just once, you saw him in passing, and averted your gaze, melted into the crowd before you could be noticed. 

The war ended, and you heard the stories of sacrifice, of the loss and gain of life, and thanked the mother with each one, but all you had eyes for was the rows and rows of males and females in varying shades of misery front of you. 

-

“Madja,” you called just loud enough to catch the healer's attention. She held up her hand in acknowledgement. The moments dragged as you watched her movements, the careful and measured expenditure of her magic, the efficient bandaging and applying of herbs.

As soon as she’d finished, she met your eyes. As always, her gaze stripped you bare and you wondered what she saw, before deciding you didn’t want to know. Her chin jerked towards the water basin, and you dutifully followed. You’d received her summons just minutes ago. 

“Back by the border,” she started - the location of the last battle, you noted, “there’s a medical camp in need of a seasoned healer. Although we can hardly spare you,” she sighed, “they asked and their need, believe it or not, is equal if not greater than ours.” 

“The ratio?” You asked, steeling yourself. 

“About fifty,” she gave you a look that said she didn’t envy you. 

“Then I better get going,” your mouth curved at the corners. After all, there was nothing keeping you here. 

You were fresh off a few hours of mandated rest and a good meal, and knew you had enough energy to winnow and get to work as soon as you arrived. It took mere minutes to pack the few things you brought, to tuck whatever supplies Madja could spare into a pocket space. You didn’t give yourself time to evaluate the weight that left your chest as you departed. 

-

When the chaos and politics surrounding the final battle ebbed, he looked for you. His shadows searched every inch of the blood soaked ground, tent, hidden crevice, but you were gone. Swallowing pride, he asked Madja, who only said you were dispatched elsewhere, and fixed him with a quizzing look. His eyes cool and face an unreadable mask of stone, he let his shoulders rise and drop slightly. 

“I only wish to thank her.” 

Madja huffed, head shaking and turned away. It didn’t matter whether or not the healer believed his half-truth. 

Azriel had spared what time he could for you, and banished you to a back corner of his mind, tucked away with the other memories that ached an old part of him. Shadow cooling his neck, a slow exhale, and he focused back to the present, back on his priorities. He needed to keep you where you belonged, in his past.

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[ginnsbaker]

prophylaxis

Summary: The most powerful Avenger is afraid of one thing: dental appointments, or the one where you're a dentist and Wanda is a baby about seeing one

Word count: 2.6k | Warnings: None. This is just good ol' fluff

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Author's note: This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, and while this is a one shot, I might follow up with more :)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Next part: the follow up

--

Steve and Natasha are barely done with their own routine dental check-ups when the notification of an emergency mission comes through. The Avengers' annual dental visit is typically swift and uncomplicated, but the arrival of their urgent mission turns the day into something far more chaotic.

“Where is Wanda?” Steve asks, scrolling through the mission details on his phone.

Natasha shrugs, sipping on her post-check-up glass of scotch. “I haven't seen her since breakfast.”

Vision appears in the room at that moment, his face expressing the closest thing to exasperation an android can manage. “She’s only now on the chair,” he says, glancing at Steve, whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Now? But everyone else is done!”

“I had to convince her to come,” Vision sighs. “I found her hiding in the back library. It took me the better part of an hour to persuade her to face the dentist.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the revelation, trying to suppress her chuckle. The most powerful Avenger, avoiding a simple dental prophylaxis. “We don't have all day, Steve. The mission is critical.”

Steve nods, sliding his phone into his pocket. “We'll leave a note for her. She should meet us ASAP once she's done.”

Natasha gets up from her chair, glancing one last time at Vision, as she quips, “Good luck to whoever is the dentist working on her this year.”

As you approach the dental chair, you take note of the apprehensive figure occupying it. You've already seen a dozen Avengers today, each with their unique quirks and idiosyncrasies. 

But Wanda Maximoff, her gaze filled with clear distaste for the situation, seems to take the cake. She's curled in on herself, making her seem smaller than she actually is. The sight of her alone would have been enough to unnerve you, but the intermittent quivers of your dental tools due to an unseen force send a cold shiver down your spine. You can't help but wonder if you've drawn the short straw when they assigned you the patients for today.

You try your best to project an air of calm. Inside, though, your nerves are jangling like alarm bells.

“Wanda, right?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice steady.

She nods, her eyes wide as saucers.

“I promise this won't hurt,” you reassure her, even as your tools continue to rattle on the tray. “It's just a routine check-up.”

A skeptical glance is thrown your way but it's at least some reaction. Her gaze is piercing, and it takes every bit of your collected facade to keep from faltering. An absurd thought flashes across your mind: if you were to meet an untimely demise in your line of duty today, who on earth would inherit the numerous houseplants that have taken over your apartment over the years?

With a nervous smile that Wanda can barely make out behind the surgical mask you wear, you gently ask, "Shall we begin?" Your tone is soothing, carefully modulated to put her at ease.

The poor Avenger takes a deep, long breath before giving you the go-ahead to proceed with the checkup. 

For her part, Wanda begins to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of your gloved fingers in her mouth. Her gaze settles on your oversized prescription glasses that lend an air of professional yet friendly vibe. And there’s something about the clean, familiar scent wafting off your white coat that comforts her more than she's willing to admit.

She can’t help it when her mind starts drawing comparisons with last year's dentist—a gruff, no-nonsense man whose hands always seemed cold and who lacked any bedside manner whatsoever. You, on the other hand, are like a breath of fresh air with your calming demeanor and reassuring approach. Wanda blushes at the thought that, admittedly, you’re kind of a nice upgrade.

You begin the examination with meticulous care, your movements deliberately gentle to assure Wanda of your sensitivity to her obvious anxiety. As you carefully check her teeth and gums, you're acutely aware of how much trust she's placing in you, despite her apparent discomfort.

Glancing into her eyes as you angle your dental mirror to inspect her molars, you're suddenly struck by the piercing green of her irises. Even under the harsh clinic lights, they appear incredibly vibrant. Framed by the dark eyeliner she wears, her eyes are sharp and arresting. They follow your every move, staring up at you with an intensity that causes your skin to perspire under your uniform.

You've dealt with many patients over the years, some with eyes equally as fascinating, but something about Wanda's gaze is different. It's as if she's not just watching you but reading you, understanding you in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Your focus starts to waver under her scrutiny, and that's when you notice something strange. The dental tools on the tray beside you begin to quiver more violently, vibrating with an unseen force. Your heart skips a beat, realization dawning on you that Wanda's powers are reacting to her nervousness.

But it's not just her nervousness; Wanda's face takes on a look of surprise, her eyes widening momentarily. You can almost feel her presence in your mind, a subtle brushing against your consciousness. 

She's read your thoughts, albeit accidentally. 

She knows how captivated you are by her eyes. 

Catching yourself, you quickly shift your thoughts to a safer topic–your plants. The vibrant green of Wanda's eyes morphs into the various shades of green gracing the leaves of your beloved indoor jungle. Your Monstera, your string of pearls, your peace lily–

And yet, none of them are a match for the pair of green orbs that your mind keeps going back to. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck as you meet her gaze, the unspoken understanding between you making the air in the room feel charged. Wanda's cheeks take on a hint of color, and her control over her powers seems to falter, your tools–and a chair behind Wanda–now levitating a couple of inches from where they originally sat.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, wide-eyed and apologetic. You barely make out what she’s saying with her mouth still wide open. “I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” you reply in a comforting murmur, pausing your examination. The room fills with the soft humming of the overhead light and the subtle scent of sterilized equipment. “I'm here with you. We'll go at your pace. Just breathe.”

Giving Wanda a few moments to calm herself, you pull back, placing the dental tools on the tray beside you. You keep your eyes on Wanda, a soothing smile hidden behind your mask. Her chest rises and falls steadily as she follows your instructions, taking deep, calming breaths.

However, you can't help but glance at the floating items around you, fearing that one of them might go straight for your heart that’s thudding loudly in your ears now. They seem to be suspended in mid-air, almost like a magic trick. Wanda catches your gaze, following it to the levitating objects. The already present color on her cheeks darken, and with a flicker of her gaze, your tools reintroduce themselves to gravity once again.

You don't comment on it. Instead, you simply offer another encouraging smile, masked by your surgical mask, but visible in your eyes. You extend your gloved hand towards the once again earthbound dental tools, feeling the cool metal against your palm. 

“Are we good to proceed?” you ask in a soft voice, patiently waiting for her agreement before picking up where you left off. 

Wanda doesn’t move, seemingly hesitant to say yes or no.

“Will it help if I talk to you?” 

She gives you a small nod in response this time.

“Alright,” you say with a hint of a chuckle. “Don't judge me if I start to sound silly, okay?”

And so you start to speak as you get back to work, recounting random memories and thoughts as you continue with the examination. You talk about funny incidents at work, share stories about your beloved plants, and even admit to that time you almost killed your favorite fern with coffee instead of water. At first, you feel slightly ridiculous, babbling about the care of succulents to an Avenger, one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But as the minutes tick by, you see a change in her. The initial terror in her eyes fades into curiosity, her body relaxes, and she even smiles at some of your sillier anecdotes.

You get lost in talking to Wanda, feeling both delighted and somewhat ridiculous that you're enjoying this one-sided conversation. You're fully aware that she can't respond with an excavator in her mouth, but it doesn't feel like she's just tolerating your chatter. Her eyes are attentive, following your movements, reacting every now and then. Her body language is open, receptive, almost as if she's hanging onto every word.

As for Wanda, something unexpected is happening. She finds herself liking your voice more and more, feeling an unfamiliar pull towards it. It's warm, comforting, and filled with a sincerity that she didn't expect. She even finds herself slightly attracted to it. But it's a foreign feeling, one she doesn't quite understand, especially in this setting.

As you conclude your examination, you realize that one of Wanda's molars needs a filling. It isn't urgent, a situation that could be deferred to another appointment if she wishes.

“Looks like you have a small cavity,” you inform her, meeting her eyes. “It's not of immediate concern, but we should schedule another appointment if you'd like to have it filled.”

To your surprise, Wanda agrees, not just with a polite nod, but with a subtle hint of anticipation lighting up her eyes. She agrees to another date, another round of you poking around her mouth with your scary dental tools. And yet, there's a hint of eagerness that surprises even her.

As you finish your work, you lean back, pulling off your surgical mask and gloves. For the first time, Wanda gets a full view of your face. It's like a silent reveal, one she hadn't been expecting, and it takes her aback.

She finds herself caught in a subtle admiration, a feeling that quickly intensifies as she takes in your features. There's something about your face that she finds herself drawn to, the warmth of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft contours of your cheekbones.

And when you smile, her breath hitches slightly. It's a simple gesture, but one that lights up your face, reaching your eyes and causing them to crinkle at the corners. It's genuine, open, and a little bit contagious.

“Thanks for your patience, Doctor...?” Wanda voices, feeling a tad awkward. It occurs to her belatedly that she didn't have the foresight to ask for your name before you started the check-up. 

“Just call me Y/N. It's my pleasure,” you reply, your smile deepening, unaware of the effect it's having on the Avenger before you. “I'll see you for that follow-up appointment, then?”

As soon as Wanda is escorted outside by Vision, you release a breath you didn't know you've been holding. Leaning against the counter, you try to calm the racing of your heart, which beats as if you've just run a marathon.

Wanda Maximoff is... quite a surprise. Her beauty, her vulnerability, the way she seemed to really listen to your inane chatter–it's all unexpected, disarming even. You find your mind drifting back to the way her eyes softened, the almost shy smile that graced her lips.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dispel these thoughts. This is unprofessional, you think. She's your patient. A patient who just happens to be one of the world's most powerful individuals. It's nothing more than that.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing you've spent more time with Wanda than any other patient today. You should be moving on to your paperwork, getting ready to call it a day.

But as you sit down at your desk, the fluttering feeling in your stomach doesn't subside, and Wanda Maximoff's haunting green eyes remain etched in your mind.

Walking down the corridors of the Avengers compound, Wanda finds herself in step with Vision. As they pass various agents and fellow Avengers, Vision turns to look at her.

“Wanda,” he starts, his voice taking on that concerned lilt that she's grown accustomed to. “I'm detecting unusual signs in your vitals. Your heart rate is elevated, your body temperature has slightly increased, and your pupils are dilated.”

Wanda blinks, feeling an unexpected heat crawl up her neck. Her palms are also feeling slightly clammy, and she has this weird fluttering sensation in her stomach. She tries to brush it off. It must have been the anxiety, right?

“Are you not feeling well?” Vision probes further, halting in his tracks to face her. His eyes scan her face, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. Wanda's mind races, trying to figure out how to downplay her seemingly irrational reaction to a denti–a dental appointment.

“No, Vision. I'm... I'm just fine.” Her voice sounds surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forces a smile onto her face, aiming to reassure her friend.

Vision doesn't seem fully convinced but doesn't push further. They resume their walk, but Wanda can't shake off the feeling that something has changed, something she doesn't quite understand yet. And for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting back to a certain dentist with a soothing voice, warm eyes, and a love for plants.

How did it happen that a dental appointment, of all things, has turned into the highlight of her day?

The kitchen is dimly lit when Vision enters, the only illumination coming from the withdrawn overhead lights. Natasha is there, assembling her favorite late-night snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She looks up as Vision approaches, her eyes curious.

“I trust the mission went well?” Vision inquires, noting the subtle signs of fatigue in Natasha's posture.

She offers a half-smile, nodding. “It did. It's all sorted now. How's Wanda after the check-up?”

Vision's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates for a moment before responding, “She is... well. The new dentist was quite effective in putting her at ease.”

Natasha smirks, spreading the jelly onto the bread with precision. “Told you a change would do the trick. I still can't believe you managed to convince Tony to switch dentists.”

“And find the perfect replacement,” Natasha adds after some thought, licking the jelly from the knife.

“It was a logical choice. The previous dentist was less than satisfactory, particularly with Wanda.” He pauses, considering something. “But this one... she seemed to have a rather profound effect on her.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking up from her sandwich. “Profound effect?”

“Yes,” Vision says thoughtfully. “I detected unusual signs in her vitals afterward. Increased heart rate, heightened body temperature, a certain... excitement in her demeanor. It was quite unexpected.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile begins to form on her lips. “You don't say?”

Vision gazes at the digital interface on his palm, a soft hum of approval in his voice. “Indeed, she has also filed for a leave of absence a week from now. She has another dental appointment, but this time at the doctor’s private clinic.”

Natasha pauses, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. 

Vision meets her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do you think it could mean something?"

Natasha shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who knows, Vis?” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. “Maybe it's just a good dentist.” And then with a wink and a knowing smile, she adds, “Or maybe…”

She leaves the thought hanging, deliberately ambiguous, and exits the room, her satisfied crunching echoing down the hallway.

Vision is left standing in the kitchen, confusion etched across his synthetic features. He considers the day's events, attempting to analyze how Wanda suddenly managed to conquer her most irrational fear.

Humans really are something.

[astroboots]

Kiss Me Again

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Summary: You discover that Marc has a thing for lipstick

Content: Marc blushing -- Oh mai, domestic shenanigans, lotsa yearning, creampie, explicit sex babeh.

Credit: Inspired form Leslie's gorgeous Love Mark series and in particular this beautiful image. Part of the @moonknight-events Bingo scorecard Challenge: Morning After.

Word count: 3.5k

ASTROBOOT’S MASTERLIST | THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMS’ MASTERLIST |MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST

There is something about waking up in the morning to the sight of Marc standing in the kitchen.

The sight of that wide back turned to you. His firm shoulders fill out that t-shirt oh-so-perfectly, and you can make out the rounded curve of his bum practically bursting out of his jeans. The familiar rigid stiffness that is stitched into every nook and cranny of his frame while he's standing in front of the stove cooking you breakfast.

It's Sunday today, which means the familiar warm and breadlike smell of pancakes permeates the attic flat. It also means that Marc has let you sleep in.

God, what time is it?

Judging from the brightness of the sun, blinding your eyes, he must've let you sleep in late.

You glance at your wristwatch on the bedside table, squinting your eyes to make out the time.

Fuck! Eleven Twenty-Seven?!?!

You grumble, dragging yourself out of bed, grabbing the neatly folded clothes next to you and pulling them on haphazardly. "Why didn't you wake me? It's nearly noon."

Marc is unmoved by your accusatory tone. He flips the pan with a flashy move, flinging the pancake into the air before catching it with ease, right back into the pan.

"You were tired from last night."

He doesn't turn around, but you don’t need to catch the expression on his face when you can hear the playful smirk in his voice.

And he's not wrong. Marc did wear you out last night. The soreness between your thighs as you're making your way to him would prove as much. As does the state of the bed and its rumpled sheets.

You're practically hobbling your way to the kitchen when you  finally manage to join him and perch yourself on a stool near the counter.

From the corner of your eye, Marc turns ever so slightly until you finally catch the amused wry quirk of his lips in person.

"What?"

He doesn't answer you. Just slides the pancake onto a plate, pouring in more batter into the pan, before he brings your plate over to you. Then he looks at you with that same amused expression.

"What is it?" you ask again. Have you suddenly grown horns on your head? Why is he looking at you like that.

Your confusion only adds to his amusement. A huff (that is borderline a laugh) escapes him as he looks at you with a fond expression.

"You're a mess."

Wow. Rude.

You shake your head, your boyfriend never was known for his manners... This boyfriend at least. Steven has the manners of an angelic saint.

Scanning the space, you spot your handbag that's conveniently sitting on the counter and reach for the small pocket mirror, flicking it open.

A deranged Alice Cooper impersonator looks back at you. Mascara running halfway down your face.

Shit.

Okay, Marc might have a point. Your hair looks like a runaway freight train blazed through it, mascara has run halfway down your face, and your lipstick is smeared all over, vivid red splotches and smears dotting your chin and cheeks. How did you even manage that?

You grab a wad of face wipes to take care of the worst of it. Then you glance back up at Marc. He is in considerably much better shape than you are. Hair combed back, already dressed in his regular t-shirt, with his grey jacket and fitted jeans like it's his designated uniform.

That's Marc for you. Unfazed. Un-rumpled. Untouchable. 

Your Mr. Tidy, who needs everything to be in its proper place, no matter the time and place. It leaves you craving to achieve the unachievable, to make a mess of him.

Always put together. Always in control. Always has the upper hand on you.

Well… Your eyes drift to his honed cheeks and you can't help but grin at the sight. Almost always.

Today, there's a chink in his tidy armour. A red smear on his throat, matching the ones you just removed from your own face. Unsurprising perhaps, given the way you mauled this throat last night.

"You're a mess too," you counter.

He tilts his head questioningly, and you flip the mirror back at him to let him see the damage. 

You expect him to frown. Expect him to grumble and reach for a wipe or scrub off the offending mess with the back of his hand. 

Marc does none of that. Instead he freezes, eyes growing wide as he just stares into your pocket mirror. 

You don't know how long he just stays like that, frozen in place, and you can practically see the little spinning wheel icon indicating that he brain has stalled out over this new input. It’s fascinating. You have half a mind to just leave him be, curious to see how long it takes his mind to reboot, but then you smell something off in the kitchen. Burnt, like smoke.

"Uhm, Marc? I think... the pancakes are burning."

That snaps him right out of it. 

"Shit!" 

He leaps into action. In a split of a second, Marc is back at the stove, yanking the offending pan off the heat. He seems a bit off kilter, grumbling to himself as he carries the whole thing to the bin and starts scraping the burnt remains of charcoal pancake off. 

The whole scene takes you aback. You don't think you've ever seen Marc just freeze like that. What could have happened?

Was it the mirror? Mirrors serve as a neat conduit for communication between the boys. Perhaps Steven or Jake said something that distracted him? 

You watch as he moves back to the sink without so much as a glance in your direction.  Hoping for some insight you hop off the stool and walk up next to Marc, but he stiffens unexpectedly at your presence, ducking his face towards the sink, and avoiding your gaze.

Something is off with him. Something is definitely wrong... and-- 

You don’t see it at first. His head is tilted down, casting a shadow over his cheeks, but you think you see… 

Wait wait wait. Is Marc... blushing? 

You lean in closer, peering over his shoulder to stare at his face. 

"This is distracting. I'm trying to clean," he mutters, tilting his face away from you.

Oh wow!

He is! 

Marc is blushing! 

Your veins buzz at the revelation. You're so excited by this new development, you don't even connect the dots at first.

He's blushing! Why is he blushing? God knows!

But it’s adorable! You need to know how to make this happen again.

Mirror. You need to get the mirror– Or wait, no. That doesn't make any sense does it? It's not the mirror that made him blush, why would it?

You retrace your step. Not the mirror, must've been something he saw in the mirror. It could have been something Steven or Jake said, but…

You think back to the night before. The way Marc’s dark eyes had gone darker, deep and bottomless, as he watched you get ready to go out. The way his eyes never left your face as you talked, always circling back to… your lips.

Excited to test your new theory, you leave Marc at the sink and head for the corner of the counter where you left your bag, fishing around until you can locate the tube of lipstick. 

Yanking off the cap, you nearly end up mashing the red tip with how hard you press it on your lips. That done, you recap the tube and drop it back into the depths of your handbag, and rejoin Marc at the stove where he’s already poured another round of batter into the newly cleaned pan.

He's not looking up at you, eyes glued to the bubbling forming on the half-cooked pancake with strained concentration. But you bet you can change that now that you know what you know.

You tip-toe forward, reaching up to press your lips square centre on his cheek. You keep the contact soft and brief. Just enough pressure that you can make sure you've marked him in red with the shape of your lips.

Marc freezes again bound in shock. His eyes are so startlingly wide, for a moment you could almost mistake him for Steven.

Bingo.

You're grinning so widely it almost physically hurts. "Sorry, I think I got some lipstick on you."

He doesn't respond. If you didn't know better you'd think you'd turn him into stone with that small kiss. But you can see the way his fingers are wrapped so tight around the handle of the pan, the cast iron could crumble from the pressure. 

Oh my, this is fun.

Leaning up you do it again. Pressing your lips to his cheek again, inches from where you had before, just as soft. Just as brief, and watch the red mark join the other one.

Marc tenses up all over again. Slowly but surely, you see that gorgeous crimson spread across his cheeks. It's a fascinating sight. And god, it makes you want to paint every inch of his skin in lipstick red, like a blank colouring book.

It takes him entirely too long before he gathers himself again. Eyes blinking rapidly like trying to wake himself from a drunken stupor, before shock is replaced by that familiar grumpy scowl.

"I'm–" he pauses to clear his throat, "I’m trying to make breakfast here."

"So do it," you respond cheekily, leaning in to kiss him again, "Don't let me stop you"

You keep pressing little kisses to his skin, leaving red lip prints all over and delighting in the fact that his face gets hotter with each one. More than a little bit smug to see the pink flush deepen and spread over his cheeks and down his throat.

For once, Marc-nothing-can-faze-me-Spector is struggling to keep his cool, and you are taking entirely too much joy in being the cause of that. 

You reach up again, hands cupping his cheeks to tilt him to your mouth and press a kiss against his lips until they are stained bright lipstick red. 

Marc remains still, but you can feel the frustration vibrating off the surface tension of his skin.

This time he lets go of the pan, and it clatters loudly back onto the stove. 

You step back to the sight of that familiar irritated glare in his eyes even as he's blushing an unfamiliar bright barbie pink on his cheeks. His thumb hovering over his lipstick smeared bottom lip. 

At first you think he's going to wipe it away. He doesn't. Instead his thumb just lingers over the mark, hand trembling slightly.

"Stop teasing," he grumbles.

It’s meant to be a warning, you’re sure, but all you feel is excitement of what's to come.

There's a saying isn't there? About not poking a bear with a stick. Except in that scenario it’s because you don't want to anger it and have it maul you, and in the present, that's exactly what you want from Marc. 

You step in close again, tilting your face up to deliver another kiss.

All you can hear is a low growl, and then Marc is moving. His hand comes to the back of your neck and reels you into him, so close you can feel the embarrassed heat radiating from his cheek as if it were your own. 

Then his lips are on yours, and joy and love surge through you, blending in a dizzying concoction that makes your surroundings spin. 

You expect his kiss to be harsh and hungry, but Marc continues where you left off, pressing gentle, nearly chaste kisses to your lips over and over again. 

It could almost be innocent if it weren't for the way he's panting against your lips. The way his strong arm wraps around your waist. The way his fingers dig into your hip as he drags your hips against his, crushing you against him until you can feel him—all of him, the length of him hot and hard against your stomach—even through his jeans. 

His hand slides down over your hip to your thigh, one firm palm gripping and lifting to hook your leg over one side of his wide hips so he can grind against you. It's desperate and frenzied, the bulge of his cock slotting perfectly between your legs. Pressing forward until you’re so close that you can feel it jerking against you with each shuddering roll of his hips.

And through it all, he kisses and kisses and kisses you, gentle presses that grow just a little bit harder with each one. It sparks through your veins like an ember, heady and sweet until you think you could melt from it.

His lips drag against your own until finally, he parts them. The slight edge of his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, like he wants to devour you whole. 

And you'd let him. You’d let him bite in and swallow every morsel of you without resistance, but for some unfathomable reason, he… doesn't. 

Instead he stills. Pulls back. Both of you gasping and shaking as you just look at each other.

He doesn't say anything. His gaze drops to your lips, his own parted and trembling.

You're just about to ask him what's wrong, when you realise that nothing is.

You've been together long enough now that you are finally starting to get the hang of hearing the things Marc leaves unspoken. Can read that hesitant look in his eyes and know what he’s thinking.

You know that in this moment all Marc wants is more. That’s what he doesn't know how to say.

Because Marc is still learning to ask for what he wants. And you know that the more he wants something, the less able he is to ask for it. (And the more you want to give it to him.)

And right now, the thing he wants more of is…

"Hang on a tic," you tell him, holding up a single finger. Your voice sounds throaty, but somehow miraculously calm despite the way your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. You reach behind you, scooping up your discarded handbag and plucking your lipstick from it as easy as you please. The small round tube nearly falls into your hand like it's guided by divine inspiration.

Marc's hands tremble on your hips, fingers gripping tight, tighter, tightest until it's almost painful. Somehow that only makes it better.

How many people on this earth can say that they've managed to make Marc Spector tremble?

Somehow your hands are still rock steady. Uncapping the lipstick, you feel his cock jerk hard against your thigh once, and then again as you twist the tube and begin to slick the bright stoplight red onto your lips.

You don't have a mirror. Don't need one. Don’t even have to look to know this is the cleanest application you'll ever manage, for all that your lips were already smeared to hell when you started. Your lipstick is perfect. You can tell by the way Marc is looking at your mouth. Staring at your mouth. Staring at you, like you're a goddess come to life. Every desperate desire he's ever had made flesh, made divine. 

Marc Spector makes you feel divine.

Twisting the lipstick back down, you recap it, barely managing to tuck it away in your bag with hands that are just beginning to shake. Then you reach for him.

Framing his face with trembling hands, you lean forward to press a single, perfect kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"There we go," you manage, before the need for him rises up to swallow you whole and your voice goes ragged, unspooling at the edges.

"Now, Marc. Please, now."

You don't need to say more than that. You watch the muscle in his jaw jump as he grits his teeth.

The ground beneath your feet vanishes in an instant, all you feel is Marc's arms wrapped around your waist as he hoists you up against the nearest kitchen counter. Firm, thick thighs framed against your sides as he presses you down against the hard surface. All you hear is the fumbling and swearing as he struggles to get his tight jeans undone and pushed down because his usually-rock-steady hands are trembling.

You’ve never seen him like this. All of him is shaking, every muscle in his body straining, so worked up he's practically vibrating with need. And you feel it too, his desperation seeping into you like a contagion, until you can barely breathe. Until you feel sick with want for him. 

You reach down to help him with his fly, the material of his jeans sticky against your fingers, his cock jerking under the fabric at your touch.

"Fuck. Baby," his voice is a raw and ragged thing, dragging in his throat like the air from his lungs has been wrenched from him. 

Everything inside you tingles with excitement at his tone. It doesn't matter that you're still sore from last night. That your legs are still wobbly from the pure physical exertion of it. All you want is more. More of this. More of Marc.

Clumsily, you get his zipper down and reach inside. He's hot and hard, the skin velvety smooth and slick, his cock jerking under your touch as you free him.

He shoves a hand between your legs in return, drags the soaked crotch of your knickers to the side, and unceremoniously slides two fingers into you, filling you so perfectly that you gasp at the sensation.

Heat spears through you, your hips bucking forward so hard you nearly fall off the counter, but he's there to hold you down with his weight.

His hips pressing forward. His hand pulls back, knocking yours out of the way so he can grab himself. Line himself up. The slick, fat head of his cock pressing against you. 

It's hurried and frantic. Your head spins from the blood rushing through your head so fast your vision blurs.

Then Marc presses inside. 

His cock is hot. Slipping into you like a fiery brand. Like the missing heart of you coming home. Burning you from the inside out. You both moan, gasping into each other's mouths.

When did you start kissing again?

You don't know. Why did you even stop? You never want to stop.

You can't move. Can’t think. Can't fucking breathe, but it's okay. You don't need to. Don't need anything except this. His cock pressing into you. Lodging itself inside you until it's as deep as it's possible to go.

You gasp again, and your head falls back, breaking the kiss as pleasure spears though you, sharp and blindingly sweet. It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Marc says something as his hips retreat, but you don’t register what it is, barely realise that he’s spoken.

You don’t register he's talking to you, asking you for something, until he stops moving. You whine, clawing at his shoulders because whatever he wants, the answer is, 'yes.'  

"Again," he repeats, and yes, that’s what you want. You want him to fuck you again, but he’s not doing it. Why did he stop?

"Baby," he says, the word scraping its way out of his throat like it's made of broken glass, "Kiss me again."

Oh.

It doesn’t register with you then—not really—the significance of his ask. How unusual it is that Marc is asking you for something that he desperately wants. You’ll remember later. Notice later. But for right now, it doesn't matter, because you want to give him what he wants regardless. You always want to give this man anything and everything he wants.

You lunge forward, his stubble scraping against your lips as you glance off his chin leaving a red smear.

Hot pleasure blooms as he thrusts forward into you.

"Again," he says.

You whine as he pulls back, but you're quicker on the uptake this time. Kissing his throat and get to watch his Adam's apple bob under the red lip print you leave behind, before your vision goes fuzzy with the next overwhelming thrust.

"Again."

You kiss his jaw, and he barely pauses before fucking back into you.

"Again."

His throat, again. and you're rewarded with the hot perfect press of him inside.

"Again."

Everything starts to blur. His words slurring together; your lips barely leaving his skin. The heavy weight of him pushing its way inside you.

You're panting open mouthed against his shoulder, lips sliding and sticking against his skin.

"Again," he demands, even though there's no longer any lull in your movements, 

"Again."  No break in contact of your lips on his skin. 

"Again." No pause in his rhythm.

"Again." No respite from the way the feeling swells. Coils tight, right where his cock is pounding, relentless, into the very centre of you.

"Again."

You can't–

"Again."

Oh god, you’re about to–

"Again. Again. Aga–ngh"

The litany breaks off, words dying, replaced by a strangled groan, when you come hard, your body clamping down, clenching around him. 

Through the waves of overwhelming pleasure, you feel the sting of his blunt fingernails digging in too hard at your hips. Hear the tiny, ragged "Oh. Baby. Fuck." that leaves his lips like it's been punched out of him.

You swear you can feel the heavy weight of him swell inside your still-clenching cunt, and then the reflexive, aborted jerk of his hips, as his cock begins to pulse.

He holds you there, tight against him, or maybe you hold him or both of you hold each other, as you shudder there together for long, endless moments.

When it's finally over, he presses one last, gentle kiss to your lips and pulls back.

You watch, heart so full of love for him that your chest aches, as one side of his red-smeared mouth pulls up in a rare, happy smile.  You trace the corner of it with one mostly-steady finger, and can't help smiling back.

“Well now," you say, once you're certain your voice won't betray you too badly, "I've made quite the mess of you, haven't I?"

Marc's eyes roam over your face. One warm hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you lean into his touch, letting him drag his thumb over your lips. You can feel it sticking slightly on whatever's left of your lipstick, but what does it matter? It's not like he can make it any worse now, is it?

"Yeah," he says. His thumb lingers.  His gaze too. Eyes gone soft and warm the longer he looks at your mouth. "Your mess."

Something constricts in your chest at the words. A deep-rooted, possessive protectiveness that takes hold, then unfurls, spreading everywhere, warm and sweet.  

"Yes," you agree, tightening your arms around his back to pull him closer to you. "All mine."

A/N a sequel to the angsty Love Bites where Marc gets his yearning fulfilled. @thirstworldproblemss and I wrote this ages ago before Christmas but then we felt that there needed to be more ✨ yeaaaaarning✨ Hope you had fun reading.

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[utterlyotterlyx]

A Ballad of Storm and Shadow

Azriel x F!Reader

Part Six

Series Summary - Rhys had been content in taking the darkest secret of his family to the grave, but when the threat of Hybern increases, he has no choice but to send a message to another world and pray to the Mother that his call is answered.

Warnings - mentions of pain, mentions of death, mentions of torture, angstttt, sadness, fluff

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

This is a crossover series, some aspects will differ from that in the books. Physical attributes are described in this fic, it is essential to the storyline of the character

It had taken 17 hours for y/n to stir.

17 hours of Azriel sat at her bedside hating himself for allowing her to venture from the cabin alone and picturing himself grabbing her hand at the last second to stop her from leaving him.

17 hours of verbal beatings which would have been physical if it weren’t for his refusal to leave her side.

Aelin was furious, her wildfire blazing as blue as her eyes across each one of her limbs.

Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word, but his eyes didn’t leave Azriel for one moment, and he hadn’t unclenched his fists from the moment he had stepped foot into Prythian and scented the direness of the situation at hand.

Lorcan and Aedion also refused to move from the room, being her bloodsworn they had a duty to protect and serve her, and they felt as if they had failed in a sense.

Then there was Manon, the gold eyed witch queen with talons so sharp that they had drawn blood from Azriel’s arms when they coiled around him and demanded to know what had happened with a voice so venomous that he was sure she would drink his blood if she could.

In short, everyone despised him, and even Rhys was reluctant to offer a safe hand to his brother. Azriel understood, Rhys had only just gotten his sister back, and was feeling like a failure in his own way for sending her in the first place. Rhys was so ashamed of his request that he had allowed Aelin to preside over y/n’s care with Yrene, as well as the scouting missions she had ordered Rowan and Manon to embark upon to ensure that no attack would befall the city whilst y/n was injured and vulnerable.

The last 17 hours hadn’t been kind to y/n. Black poison poured from the bandages secured around her chest and abdomen, which meant that Yrene had to change them more often, and a fever so damning had taken over her body, causing the Queen of the Erilean Fae to sweat and shake uncontrollably whilst her body fought an internal war to win back her life. It was horrible to watch, and it all could have been avoided if Azriel had been there, flying below her and ensuring no one could pick them out of the skies, or if Rhys hadn’t sent them to begin with.

Azriel could picture it. A fond and vivid image of y/n flying above him. The rain would cause her raven black hair to stick to her skin, but it was the thin wisps of baby hair that stuck to her forehead that made the faintest of smiles to appear on Azriel's lips. Y/N seemed so unbothered up there, so... at home. Much like he found solace in the shadows, she found songs in the storms. A peace that could never be tainted.

That's what he willed himself to see when he looked upon her pallid, fever-stricken face. He willed himself to see the version of her that she would have wished. One where she was happy. One where she was plagued by serenity.

None of them could pinpoint how Hybern had known that y/n was in Prythian, or how they knew that she even existed in order to create the only poison that could be used to weaken and fatally harm her. Even Yrene had uttered that the ingredients were sparse even within Erilea. It meant that someone had spent valuable time collecting and crafting in order to inflict the pain onto y/n. Azriel swore to himself that whoever it was would die for it in the most curdling manner his mind could fathom.

It was within the thirty second minute that she stirred, her kaleidoscope orbs appearing beneath her fluttering lids and a small groan of torturous pain emitting from her lips. Azriel moved from the chair beside her to the mattress in a matter of seconds, disturbing the peace by shouting into the void for Lorcan and Aedion to call for Yrene, and the healer came quickly at their demands barrelling down the halls.

Yrene was closely followed by Aelin and Manon, the latter of which growled once she spied Azriel’s marred flesh tainting the purity of her queen. The red cloak of Manon swept against the stone beneath her feet, her claws were retracted but her teeth were poised to rip the throat out of anyone who got too close, Azriel included. Not wasting a moment, Yrene crossed the room whilst fastening her apron at her back, reaching out to lay her hand on y/n’s forehead and stealing it back with a hiss and the scent of burning flesh. “How are you holding her?” Yrene asked, perplexed, holding her burnt hand to her chest.

To Azriel, y/n felt hot, but not searing, not burning. From the beads of sweat that teared down her pallid cheeks, he knew that she was struggling to fight off the poison and the infection that came with it.

The Shadowsinger didn’t answer.

Instead, he kept his hazel eyes upon her face, tracing the slow beat of her eyelids and the quaking of her gasping lips as she attempted to form a word. “Y/N,” Azriel cooed gently, causing y/n to stop trembling for a moment, “To me,” he told her, pulling her darting eyes from the ceiling and to his face, “You need to save your energy and rest. Close your eyes and sleep. Let Yrene heal you.”

It wasn’t as much as a command as it was a plead, but she listened, shakily nodding her head and shivering into slumber, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

He felt the golden eyes of the witch queen on the side of his face, Manon couldn’t understand how y/n hadn’t noticed her at her side, she couldn’t understand how y/n’s eyes found Azriel instantly over her own. Azriel moved his gaze to meet those orbs of gold and speckled black, refusing the back down even if he did find her terrifying. “She needs Doranelle,” Manon spoke, not to Azriel despite him being in her eye line, but to Aelin who stood behind her, and to Rowan who was propped against the doorway.

“We’re stuck here,” Aelin reminded her, making it clear that she had already thought the same but knew it was impossible without y/n’s power to rip open the fabric of space and time to take them there. Aelin dropped to her knees beside y/n, the fire coursing through y/n’s veins battling against her own, and she ran her fingers down the side of her face, worry clear and fear prominent. “This King,” Aelin spat, “Knows what he has done. Your war will be coming sooner than you think, and he’ll seek to destroy her along with it.”

“I won’t let him,” Azriel growled, tone low and threatening, and eyes peeking through the thickness of his lashes whilst his hand kept entwined with y/n’s like he was her link back to the land of the living.

Aelin honed in on Azriel, drinking in the dark possessiveness in his eyes and the way his shadows flitted over the skin of her dearest friend, almost as if they were trying to shield her from the world.

It wasn’t like Aelin truly blamed the Shadowsinger for what happened to y/n, she knew first hand just how difficult she could be when it came to anything she felt determined to do. In all honesty, Aelin blamed Rhys the most and had told him plenty of times of the fact. Y/N was Rhys’ sister, he knew how important she was to other worlds let alone his own, and he willingly put her in danger. Such motions threatened the survival of Prythian, and by extension, Erilea.

The feelings of Aelin were probably why Rhys had stayed away, waiting for the rest of them to leave for the evening before spending the night at her side, reading and telling her stories of their father and sister to then only leave at the break of dawn when Lorcan and Aedion would arrive. Azriel was the only one who stayed every minute of every hour, refusing to be anywhere else, out of guilt or desperation Aelin would never truly know, but part of her was thankful for it.

Do you see it?

Aelin craned her head over her shoulder to find Rowan’s orbs fixated on the pallid body of his friend and former princess, a woman he had spent centuries protecting and training. His sight pulled from her to Aelin and he nodded, eyes flickering to Azriel who had turned all of his attention back to y/n.

Yes.

The yawning of Aedion who was sprawled across a chair in the far corner halted Aelin from probing Rowan further. The unimpressed guise of the chamber fell upon him, “Tired, Cousin?”

Aedion shrugged, motioning to Lorcan with a wave of his hand, “She’s funnelling our energy through the bond. Forgive us for feeling a little lethargic, Aelin.”

“What do you mean? She’s funnelling your energy?” Azriel asked, brows furrowed and trying to grasp the meaning in his mind.

Sighing, Aelin explained, “Y/N is incredibly powerful,” she smiled upon y/n sadly, “There are aspects of her power that she refuses to use, abilities of the darkness that she inherited from her mother, Maeve. She can absorb strength from those sworn to her and from those who offer their power to her,” Aelin nodded toward Aedion and Lorcan with her eyes softening, “Y/N is absorbing the strength and energy from Aedion and Lorcan, they are her bloodsworn, and her body is in such a bad way that it seems the dark spots of her power are grasping onto anything they can to keep her alive.”

“It’s happened before?”

Aelin smiled thinly, trying to offer some comfort to Azriel who was beginning to understand the pain inflicted upon the woman before his eyes, but before Aelin could reply, Manon’s voice echoed between them. “Once. She was in a much worse state after she destroyed Maeve, her power was drained for the first time in her life, and she was severely injured from what Maeve did before the battle. All of that put her into a state of comatosis. It took her weeks to wake.” From the heaviness of Manon’s recount, Azriel knew just how close they were, all of them, so he understood why they blamed him, hated him.

“I’m sorry that I let her leave the cabin. I’m sorry,” Azriel spoke, staring right into Manon and trying to decipher whatever emotion lay within those cold golden orbs.

Rising to his feet, Aedion crossed the room, nudging a lingering Rowan on the way, “It’s fine. Y/N is a stubborn thing, she’s pulled the wool over all of our eyes at some point.”

“Like when she sacrificed herself to secure my freedom?” Aelin asked with a smile, leaning to run her fingers along y/n’s arm.

“Or when she trailed the ilken following Elide and I and slaughtered them all without us even realising it?” Lorcan huffed with amusement, creeping closer to the bed with humour in his eyes and his arms firmly folded over his chest.

“Then there’s Skull’s Bay,” Rowan almost sang, the words being the first noise he had made since he had arrived in Velaris and the room hummed in fond remembrance.

“And we won’t ever forget how she took possession of that burst dam and swallowed Maeve along with it. She saved us all that day, even when she was barely alive,” Manon spoke softly, a speckle of humanity shining through her soul shrouded in stone, “She’s family,” was all the witch queen said, an olive branch of sorts, an explanation as to why she had been so difficult.

Noting the concern in Azriel’s eyes, Aelin lay a hand upon his shoulder, gentle but unyielding, “She’s survived worse, Shadowsinger. Don’t underestimate her, you won’t survive the humiliation.”

Silenced followed after that, well, silence for Azriel at least. Whilst he traced the contours of her face, the rest of the room spent some time reminiscing, talking fondly of Erilea which Azriel somewhat listened to but didn’t engage with. All he could really wonder was what place could be so worthy of someone so perfect, and part of him wanted to walk the streets of Doranelle for a moment so that he would be able to understand it.

Only when Yrene would periodically swim by would Azriel lift his eyes to give her a thankful smile that she would return with an unspoken warmth. It seemed as though y/n had a family of her own, just like he did, a family not of blood, but of unbroken bonds and unyielding wrathful friendship. They’d all die for one another, it was something Azriel could resonate with.

After an hour, the doors to the chamber opened and Feyre stepped in, fumbling with her fingers and eyes floating through the room until they landed on Azriel and Y/N, and she found her heart fluttering at the way he looked at her, it reminding her of how Rhys’ gaze embedded itself into her at all times.

The expectant void of words caused Feyre to float back into the room, “Rhys would like a meeting. We should discuss next steps in this war and in y/n’s recovery. Yrene can stay with her, it won’t take long.” Aelin rolled her eyes but stood, muttering something about a false king under her breath which caused Rowan to chortle a laugh as they passed by Feyre. “You too, Az.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Yrene told him softly once she realised the reluctance in his eyes and the way his fingers curled tighter around her hand, “If anything happens, I’ll call for you. I promise.”

Stiffly nodding, Azriel stood from his seat that was imprinted with his frame, he pressed his lips tenderly to the pallid and slightly bruised knuckles of y/n before laying her hand softly upon the mattress and following after Feyre, stealing one last look at the fussing Yrene as her glowing hands floated over y/n’s torso yet again.

Azriel trailed behind the group, lingering at the side of his High Lady as they all sauntered through the halls of the House of Wind. Whilst pacing through the fortress, Azriel couldn't help but allow his gaze to float between each one of the other-worldly beings. Beginning with Aelin and tracking how her arm slid around Rowan's waist, to Rowan who placed a tender kiss upon her brow, to Aedion and Lorcan who were bustling shoulder to shoulder, clearly being too large for the width of the halls, and then there was Manon, red cloak swaying at her back and moon-white hair braided over her shoulder whilst her eyes darted past every doorway like she could see beyond them.

Yes, Azriel was very sure of y/n's safety being almost a guarantee.

With all of his watching and observing, he didn't notice the eyes of Feyre drifting over his face with a quirked smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, "You don't leave her side. Why?" Feyre asked quietly, catching how his eyes thinned slightly as he searched his mind for an answer that would appease her.

"I feel guilty," he tried to say, but the heaviness of his voice betrayed his words.

Feyre gently slipped her arm around his, resting her fingers on the indent of his elbow and pulling him into her side softly. "No. I don't think that's why," she gave him a pointed look, one loaded with knowing, "You feel something for her, despite only knowing her for a few days. What draws you to her?"

A more adequate question would be what didn't draw Azriel to y/n?

"I wasn't sure at first. If you had asked me why I couldn't concentrate at the High Lord's Meeting then I would have told you the truth. It was because of her. Not because she was new, or because I thought she was a threat..." Azriel trailed off, his voice softening and shoulders falling lax, like all tension had floated away, "It was because looking at her made me feel like I was finally home. There is a warmth within her, and a darkness that mirrors my own. She is fierce and tortured, but gentle in ways no one would ever be able to begin to understand. Y/N has spent her life fighting, being used for what she can offer but not being appreciated for who she is, and I think that I understand that."

"So, you seek to protect her?"

"No," Azriel sighed, looking to Feyre with a sparkle in his eyes that she'd never though she would ever get to witness, "Well, yes. But I seek to give her a life free of torment. A life of love and one void of the restraints of her station. I seek to be her freedom, Feyre."

The High Lady of the Night Court found herself blushing from sheer excitement. Feyre had noticed it the moment y/n had waltzed into their lives, limbs exposed and hair flowing, eyes glowing with the light of a thousand storms; she had seen something spark, a cog falling into place after so long tumbling around without purpose.

"Does it help that she is the most beautiful thing to walk the universe?"

Azriel scoffed, "Her beauty is incomparable to what lies beneath it," he told Feyre, glancing sidelong with a smirk, "But I suppose she isn't half bad to look at."

Feyre tried to conceal her chuckle behind her hand as they both entered the dining room that Rhys had converted into a meeting room for the sake of convenience.

It was clear that sleep had escaped him, and what was even more pristine was the fact that Aelin could not have cared less about it as she took her place at the head of the table, further solidifying her position as leader of their little merged group. Rhys didn't contest, instead he simply moved to the opposing end, motioning for Azriel and Feyre to take a place either side of him.

A usually convivial dining table now swimming with discontent from two sides.

Aelin assumed her usual position. Legs propped against the tabletop. Arms folded over her chest. Dagger gleaming in the pale lights and reflecting upon the ceiling. A warning. A dare.

"Have you figured it out yet?" Aelin's head curled to meet Rhys' sight, "Have you figured out how this world knew of her and the only thing that can weaken her?"

Silence consumed the room like thick onyx poison, drowning and dimming all forms of barely there happiness. Rhys shuffled in his seat. He had to send himself on such a mission since he knew that Azriel refused to leave his sisters side, and he had come up empty handed.

The location of y/n's downfall had been left void of any traces of armies and magic, the only sign of this incident occurring being the blood soaked earth where Rhys had stood for an hour cursing himself for even thinking about sending her away when he had only just gotten her back.

If he could, he would go back and rip the order from his mouth. He'd carve out his own tongue to keep her hidden.

"No," Rhys spoke roughly with a throat that hadn't been quenched by water in what felt to him like days. "I assure you that such knowledge has never reached Prythian. I sent word to Helion and Thesan, enquiring if such a poison were in any of their libraries. There isn't."

Lorcan scoffed and glanced to Rowan who had his lip curled upward into a snarl from his place beside Aelin, "And you believe them?"

Sprinkles of magic littered the air, casting a faint shimmer that filled the spaces of the open arched windows whilst the faint sound of laughter from the mouths of little ones echoed upward to the House of Wind.

"I do," Rhys gulped. The High Lord of the Night Court ran a hand down his face that was soaked with exhaustion. "Helion and Thesan aren't only High Lords of Prythian. They are friends of the Night Court, and their lives have been dedicated to research and healing. They would never withhold such information."

"Forgive me for not believing a word of it," Aelin muttered, fingers tracing along the hilt of the dagger on the table. "Your enemy knew that she would come. He knew she would come looking for him, and he knew exactly how to ensure her death. If it weren't for that last burst of power that brought Aedion and Lorcan to her position, she'd be gone." Aelin leant forward in her seat, feet falling flat against the ground and venom laced in her words.

"You foolish man. Sending not only your long lost sister but our queen into the belly of a beast without being able to ensure her safety. Your world isn't the only one at stake here. If she cannot recover from this then your world will perish, and our world will have lost its fiercest warrior."

Manon chuckled, pulling the attention of the room to her, and Cassian who was placed beside her leant away from the talons she was running the pads of her fingers down lazily. "In other words, if she dies here, we'll ensure that you do too. Or well, I will," Manon flashed her iron teeth at Rhys, causing Feyre to shift uncomfortably in her seat as her fingers became entwined in his own, allowing her power to ebb and flow from her essence in response to Manon's threat.

Remembering his position, Azriel's eyes manoeuvred over Manon, then Aedion and Lorcan whose fists were clenched but possessed tired eyes, before landing on Aelin and Rowan who were struggling to contain themselves. Tendrils of shadow scattered over his shoulders, dancing wildly in a brisk wind from an opened door, sauntering up and down and shaking in rhythm with a silent, reverberating thumping that was grasping at and rattling his bones.

"I think it would be wise to refrain from talking to my brother like that," the room collectively snapped its gaze to the doorway, and Aelin rose to her feet instantly.

Before them all stood a pale but healing y/n. She was grasping at her side but walked forward with a pride Aelin had never seen before, not in someone who was hours ago so close to the grave. There was something dark about her, the power itself or the contrast of her hair and eyes against her whitened skin Aelin wasn't sure. But what was clear was that she knew something, the truth and ire dancing in the dimness of her eyes. Something that could change the course of all of their fates.

Y/N's silver skirt kissed the ground as she stopped at Rhys' side, laying her hand atop his shoulder and squeezing it weakly, "I can understand being protective," y/n moved her eyes around the room, slowly raking over each one of her Erilean family, "But don't be mistaken into believing that threatening my blood is big or wise. I decided to take to those skies alone. It is my doing and mine alone."

Azriel felt his heart stop when her eyes finally found him, and he stood instantly, offering his arm and seat and feeling a sense of completeness when she accepted his touch and found comfort in the sensation of his presence behind her.

"Y/N-"

"I'm not finished," a voice of dread and death cut through the plea that fell from Aedion's lips, a voice of a ruler, a voice of one of the most deadly beings the universe would ever know. Inhaling deeply, y/n closed her eyes for a moment, as though she was preparing herself for something, and in sensing her discomfort and hesitation, Azriel lay his hand at the top of her spine, allowing every emotion and ounce of pain to wash through his veins.

Y/N visibly relaxed.

"In my sleep, the attack played in my mind over and over again, not like a nightmare, but in a way to make me see the truth. To push me to see beyond the pain," her eyes were downcast, but she moved backward into Azriel's hand, feeling a blanket of certainty and warmth coiling around her frame. "When I was flying over their camp, I felt the power of the cauldron. It was a drowning feeling, it made me feel confused almost, and I felt a certain type of dread. I was scared."

Y/N's eyes dragged down the table, settling on Rowan with eyebrows tight and fear visible within her irises. "There has only ever been one form of power that has ever made me feel like that. Maybe I was too wrapped up in what was happening to realise it."

"What are you saying, y/n?" Rowan urged, knuckles turning pale from his grip around the arms of his chair.

Without thinking about it, y/n's fingers faintly traced over the scar that had held Azriel's attention in the cabin. A morbid reminder.

"Dorian and I had a theory. That souls from our world didn't pass on into the afterlife but rather fell through the plains separating Erilea from other worlds. It had only ever really been a theory, but it was something that we couldn't stop thinking about. It haunted us in a way."

Because they had both lost a parent.

"But being here now with a poison in my veins so putrid and complex that no one from this world could have ever known of it. I realise what is happening." Aelin leaned forward, gaze flickering over the face of her friend until their eyes met. "There is only one person who knows how to make it. Only one person who would find joy in seeing me dead. Only one person who would seek to ensure the upmost pain. Only one person whose power terrifies me."

Aelin's eyes blew wide. "No," she spoke a hush above a whisper, "It can't be. She's dead. You killed her."

"What's going on?" Rhys entwined his fingers with those of his sister, feeling her fear bristling against the walls of her mind like a battering ram, splintering and wrecking the cage of her consciousness.

Realisation was floating about the room, to all those bar the Inner Circle. Rowan's head hung low, his eyes closed and nostrils flaring with each inhale and exhale, and Aedion couldn't lift his eyes from the tabletop.

"Maeve is here. My mother has come to punish me by devouring your world. Only when you're all dead will she kill me, and then can she conquer Erilea for the final time. Who knows, she might even keep me alive long enough to watch Doranelle and Terrasen burn." Y/N turned to Rhys, bottom lip almost wobbling, "I'm sorry. This is happening because of what I did."

Rhys dropped to his knees before her, taking her burning face in his hands and stroking his thumbs along her cheekbones. "We'll face it. We'll face her. And may the Mother grant her some mercy when I get my hands on her." He read the depleting light in her eyes, knowing that whatever energy she had been granted was wavering. "Let's get you back to bed. We can face this tomorrow. We still have time."

The High Lord of the Night Court went to hook an arm beneath his sisters arms, but she wrenched herself away to the side, still under the touch of Azriel, and looked upward to him. It was a silent plead, the widened watering eyes and a gentle shrug that lifted her shoulders.

Azriel moved instantly, scooping y/n into his arms and hugging her tightly into his chest, propping his chin on the crown of her head as he wordlessly carried her away.

Author's Note

I know it's been ages and I'M SO SORRY

Taglist

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[ammoniteblue]

Not a Hero, Just an Author (p.2)

kenji sato x reader

Her latest novel a flop, Y/N is starting to worry she wasn’t meant to be an author. She’s 24, lives alone and most of her college friends are either married or in more traditional jobs. she feels like she’s being left behind. That is until a charming baseball player finds his way into her life and shows Y/N that it takes more than talent to be a star.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

At first the baseball card was left on your bedside table. But as you realised that night, after getting back from Mr. Ozami’s Ramen Shop, you couldn’t sleep with it so close to you. If you opened an eye you’d see it, sitting there atop the table. Then all thoughts of sleep evaded you. It was almost impossible not replay the events of the night over and over in you mind.

Kenji. His easy grin. The way his jacket hung just right off his shoulders.

so like any coward, you hid it. Pushed into a drawer crammed full of notebooks and stray pieces of paper. You left it there in your office, hidden within your desk and finally managed to sleep.

For two days the card sat in that drawer, hidden, out of sight out of mind.

Why an ordinary schmuck like you wasn’t jumping at the chance to call a legendary athlete like Kenji Sato you would never know. A million girls would kill to have his number and yet you….you couldn’t even bare to look at it.

But why ?

For those two days you did nothing but watch old reruns of his games. Ones of him in America, playing for the LA Dodgers, all dressed up in white and blue. He wore that same easy going smirk when he played too. Like he knew no matter what that he’d win.

Something in your keened for that kind of confidence. Most people would be jealous of Kenji for his wealth, his fame….his good looks. Not you. what you wanted was his confidence. how, when millions of people were watching him, did he look so carefree ?

Kenji was right. Maybe he’d just make a baseball fan out of you yet. When watching his reruns got boring you changed to interviews. They were always solo, usually him and some pretty female reporter.

A nasty green feeling curled up in your stomach as you watched the way he chuckled and smiled, tilting his head in an easy but flirty manner.

Arrogant asshole. Stupidly hot arrogant asshole.

On the second night your older sister called. she never rang your phone, always the landline. nobody ever used it and most of the time you forgot it was there until Ami rang for your weekly catch up.

She didn’t live far, only thirty minutes on the metro, but with her full time job as a reporter and status as a single mum she was usually busy. Of course you went over to help whenever you could, but lately you’d been avoiding her and therefore Chiho too.

You couldn’t admit to your powerhouse big sister, who had it all, that your book had been a flop. that you and Sana were desperately trying to secure a movie or tv show deal in hopes of recuperating your losses.

Yes a show or movie would put you on the map, give you the status of a serious author, but it would also mean some hollywood exec tearing your baby apart and turning it into some dark, sexy CW series.

Your heartwarming story of a boy’s struggles through adulthood, as he comes to terms with his new powers and what they mean, made into the next Riverdale. You’d rather die.

Oh the shame.

“Y/N you need to call back mum, she’s worried about you.” Immediately Ami is hounding you over the phone.

with a sigh you respond, “yes Ami, it’s nice to hear from you too.”

“we’re just worried about you. lately you’ve been so distant. we miss you. Chiho misses you, she keeps asking where her auntie is.” Her words cut straight to your heart.

A pang of guilt hits your stomach as you imagine Chiho’s sad wide eyes asking where you are. That was a dirty move on Ami’s side.

“Things are just…” you scramble for an excuse, “busy. yeah i’ve got some book stuff and…..and there’s this guy.”

wait what ? why the fuck did you say that ?

“a guy ?” your sister asked.

oh shit well no going back now.

“um yeah a guy. he’s nice ?” you almost sounded questioning.

there was a pause before Ami made a sound of excitement.

“That’s amazing Y/N ! i’m so happy for you. you’ve got to bring him over, mum would love to meet him. we all would.”

you knew that was code for “as your big sis i need to vet this guy and make sure he’s good enough for you”.

two minutes later and you found yourself promising to bring this mystery guy over soon along with returning your mums anxious calls.

“we love you Y/N, please don’t forget that.”

After she hung up you sat there for a minute. It was dark out and if not for the light from the TV the living room would’ve been submerged in complete darkness. Another interview was playing, an old one. Kenji couldn’t have been older than 20. A college graduate recruited to play baseball full time. He looked so happy, the kind of energy only young people have. when they’re still full of hope, before the world has smashed it into pieces.

once upon a time you looked like that. maybe in those weeks just after your first book deal. fresh out of university and the promise of bright career in writing.

As you watched him, you replayed the conversation with your sister over in your head. she’d sounded so worried. they both did, her and mum. something had to change. you needed to do something, anything to fix this funk you’d fallen into.

maybe that’s why you walked out of the living room and into your study.

The desk drawer slid open easily and inside the baseball card gleamed up at you. You reached in, picked it up and then grabbed your phone from your back pocket.

Ten digits later, your phone rang and after several seconds of intense silence there was a voice.

“Hey Kenji speaking.” It was him, really him. “umm hello ? if this is that guy from the gossip magazine then please f-“

“It’s the girl from the ramen shop, Mr. Ozami’s.” You quickly interrupt.

Kenji goes silent, the threat dying on his tongue.

“Oh.” Is all he says.

“Yeah.” you mumble in response.

Theres another awkward silence.

“So…” He starts

“So…” You repeat.

For an international heartthrob, Kenji Sato is surprinsgly not that smooth. Just like you he’s unsure of what to say, and for the first time the baseball icon seems a little human to you. it’s what gives you the confidence to speak first.

“I watched some of your games.” You try, unable to fight the heat rushing to your cheeks.

was that weird ? was admitting you’d watched him play weird ?

There’s a laugh over the phone that puts all your worries to rest.

“Really ? i thought you said you didn’t like baseball ?” He asks, amused.

“Oh i still don’t, but i wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” You respond boldly, almost flirty.

“And ?” He prompts.

from over the phone you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“And i thought you were pretty good.” You can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth as he makes an unbecoming noise.

“pretty good ? i think you mean the best babe.”

oh. OH.

Suddenly the pyjamas you’re wearing felt too tight, too hot. you slipped off the couch and padded over to a window, opening it to let in a fresh night breeze.

“I-I mean,” you try to school your voice, “sure you’re good but the best ? that might be a stretch.”

Oh good lord why did you say that ? Why was your go to defence insults ?

“Well if you need some proof why don’t you come to a game ?” His proposition catches you completely off guard.

“a game ?” you’d never been to a baseball game.

how much were the tickets ? You weren’t exactly very liquid right now. yes the advance on your latest book had been quite a lot but with it not hitting its sale targets you’d had to make a few setbacks. no excessive shopping, no eating out - Mr. Ozami’s was an exception - no travelling. A baseball game sounded expensive. could you afford the tickets ?

“Yeah, i’ll send you a ticket,” and then cockily adds, “don’t worry i’ll make sure you have a good view.”

You breath out a small laugh. It was a tempting offer. A free ticket, the chance to experience something new and watch cute men run around a field in tight pants. What was not to like. Maybe this was what you needed to get you out of that funk.

“Okay,” you found yourself responding, “that would be nice. thank you.”

there’s a chuckle over the phone and like that you figure the call is coming to an end until Kenji adds:

“But on one condition.”

So close.

“What’s that ?” You try to sound normal.

“You let me take you out.”

three days later

The new Tokyo Stadium was a magnificent piece of architecture. it had only opened a few months ago but you’d yet to see it. with a book tour and signings and fan events you hadn’t had the time to walk around the city like you used to.

Dressed up in your nicest pair of jeans and a Giants jersey you’d bought just for this game, you joined the back of one of the ticket booth queues.

Kenji had sent you an E-ticket right after your call. since then whenever you went onto your phone you’d checked to see if it was still there. the sight of it was a confirmation that this was real. the Kenji Sato had not only given you his number, invited you to a game but had asked you out on a date. you turning up to this was basically confirmation that yes you wanted to go.

A date with Kenji Sato.

What was happening to your life.

Since that night you’d itched to call your sister, to tell her what was going on. But you couldn’t. Ami was so practical, she followed her head over her heart. if she found out she would tell you to drop it. that Kenji Sato was a known flirt who was scared of commitment and would leave you high and dry. He wasn’t the dating type. Not at least according to the hundreds of magazines and articles you’d spent the last few days reading.

it was all there. his long, slightly hazardous, dating history. models and musicians. beautiful women with no body fat and immaculate skin. the kinds of girls that you see online or in magazines. you couldn’t be further from them.

What on earth did Kenji Sato see in you ? A small time author with a minor online following and, according to one very cruel article in the Tokyo Post, a dying career.

Ami would tell you to quit while you’re ahead, before you’ve gone on a date with this guy and inevitably let him charm you into submission.

But Ami wasn’t here and you were in too deep now.

The lady at the ticket booth scanned your ticket and then you were in. it was unlike anything you’d ever seen. The stadium rippled with noise. hundreds of thousands of fans filled it, filing into seats, calling out for hot dogs and beers from the uriko girls.

like you many people wore Giants jerseys. Children and women and men. some had orange face paint strewn across their cheeks.

suddenly you felt less self conscious about the jersey you were wearing. nobody would glance at you and think you’d never been to a game before let alone not know a thing about the sport or rules.

it took you a while to find your seat. you walked further and further into the stadium, eyes scanning the rows for the letter A. it wasn’t till you were right at the front that you found it. to your surprise, your seat was just above the dugout, giving you a clear view of the home plate.

not only had Kenji Sato bought you a ticket, he’d bought you maybe one of the best seats in the whole place.

There was a buzz in your back pocket. you reached for your phone.

enjoy the show

Kenji.

As you stated at the message, biting back a grin, a sudden chorus of cheers shook the stadium. around you people had jumped to their feet, hoisting posters and foam fingers high into the air. the people next to you, a little girl and her mum, were jumping up and down in excitement. the little girl held a poster in her hands and with one quick glance you realised it was of Kenji.

You turned to look at the field and suddenly it made sense. There waltzing up to the home plate was the man himself.

Kenji Sato.

His white jersey gleamed in the midday sun. the number seven printed on the back in big block lettering. a baseball bat hung almost carelessly in his left hand. you were sure that under that helmet he was wearing the most obnoxious grin possible.

The Kenji Sato show was live.

As he strolled up to the home plate, he turned to wave at the crowds. what a showboater. it worked though. another round of cheers rippled through the crowds, so loud it almost made you wince. the little girl was nearly crying with excitement next to you.

You cheered along too, a little unsure of yourself. it wasn’t like you’d ever done this before. Then to your absolute horror, Kenji Sato glanced across the crowd until he locked eyes with you.

Had he been looking for you ?

He must have, because as soon as he saw you his grin grew even bigger. a look of absolute smugness. He gave you a once over, something unmistakable flashing across his face as he saw the jersey you were wearing. it had been a coincidence, you picking out the number seven jersey. Until now you hadn’t realised it was his jersey. did he think you’d done it on purpose ?

Oh my god he did.

There was a self assured smirk on his face as he gave you one last look before turning to batter up. An almost unnatural silence fell over the stadium. everyone waited with baited breath, about to witness for the first time Kenji Sato batting in the Japanese League.

The pitcher swung his arm back and the ball sailed through the air.

To your surprise and everybody else’s Kenji missed. The ball went square into the catcher’s mitt. You’d watched enough of his games to know Kenji rarely missed a ball. maybe it was nerves ? His first game on a new team, in a new country. anyone would be nervous. But then he missed the second time and from your seat you could catch the way his hand flew to his shoulder, as if in pain.

Then the catcher said something, what exactly you couldn’t hear. But judging by Kenji’s reaction it wasn’t anything good. You watched with wide eyes as the batter levelled up to the catcher, his bat almost held like a weapon. The pair were almost chest to chest until the umpire stepped in. there was a final heated exchange before Kenji returned to bat. Then to everyone’s surprise he swapped sides, changing to his right hand to bat.

A series of quiet murmurs, sceptical and surpised words, rippled through the crowds. Did this not happen often ? You weren’t entirely sure what was going on. But judging by the confused looks around you Kenji was about to do something unprecedented in baseball.

All you could do was watch as the pitcher made his final throw. the ball flew through the air. the silence had never been thicker, and then with a speed so intense you nearly missed it, Kenji swung the bat back. there was contact. an almost cracking sound and the ball was sent soaring into the opposite direction.

the crowd roared with approval. the noise shook the stadium and to your surprise you found yourself up on your feet cheering along with them.

“Go Kenji !” You cried, almost jumping up and down as he ran each base.

A victorious grin had broken out on his face, and as he returned to home base he glanced up at you. Suddenly you felt self conscious stood there, hands in the air your cheeks flushed. But then he winked at you and something electric and light and fluttering soared through your chest.

He was incredible.

And then the Kaiju appeared.

is she the queen of cliffhangers or what ?? stay tuned for part three !! also if people are confused about why the reader seems to contradict herself a lot it’s meant to show how she’s an unreliable narrator, and like can’t see that she’s doing better than she thinks.

[crusty-chronicles]

Hiei Courting Headcannons

In honor of the Live Action series (Even though I don't Have High Hopes For It)

Now, we all know Hiei is a very stubborn demon. Especially when it comes to his feelings. When he realized he liked you and didn't just tolerate your presence, he fought hard to deny it.

So what if he spent most of his time with you? Who cares that the first place he goes to after coming back from the demon world is your house? It didn't matter that his eyes seemed to soften whenever you were around.

No not one bit.

But the second Kurama threatened to court you himself, well Hiei couldn't just sit down and let that happen. Didn't that fox understand he shouldn't touch what wasn't his.

1. Showing off to see if you're interested

Hiei may be a demon, but he has some semblance of manners. His pride wouldn't allow him to claim you until you accepted his advances. Any creature who dared force themselves onto another was the lowest of the lowest.

So, his first step is showing off during fights.

Letting the enemy bloody him up more to show that injury didn't affect him.

Using more spirit energy than was needed to end another demon with just one blow

Stopping you from fighting because he'll "take care of it. You humans are too fragile."

He'll also use his Jagan more frequently.

You lost something?

Well look no further, he can track it down precisely and easily.

Praise him even once or say in passing he's really strong, and he'll take that as you being interested.

Even if you're just trying to be nice.

2. Wearing Richer Colors

I firmly believe Hiei courts more like a crow than the usual beast. He's sleek like one anyways.

Now if you didn't know, most birds attract mates with their bright feathers.

In Hiei's case, he'll start to wear dark, yet rich colors to get your attention.

Strength is one thing. Any low-class demon can demonstrate strength and be happy about it.

What Hiei is looking for is to see if you're attracted to him. If you find him visually appealing.

Though he's not a vain creature, he still yearns for the confirmation that him and him alone captivates you.

He'll start with darker blues. Maybe change up his cloak a little.

And when that doesn't work, he moves onto purples. Getting teased by Kurama for 'changing up his style.' But he stays determined.

Eventually moving onto a burgundy. And the way you were immediately drawn to him then made it worth it.

Relishing in your compliments on how 'the color really suits him' and 'it matches his eyes perfectly.'

Letting you grab at the fabric and inspect it until he asks why you like it so much.

"Well I always thought your eyes were pretty. It's nice to see something that reminds me of them."

He's a prideful smug bastard after that. Not even comments from Yusuke can tick him off that day.

3. Bringing You Shiny Objects

Once again, he courts like a crow.

Now that you've shown interest in him, it's time to properly start showing his affections.

Hiei isn't one for flirting or compliments. He's more prone to showing rather than telling. And in this case the way to do that is to bring you little trinkets that catch his eye.

Usually, it'll be small gems he stumbles across in demon world.

Rubies, diamonds, and emeralds. All things he knows where to find thanks to his prior occupation as a thief.

He's not trying to buy your affection. He knows you're not that vain judging by the pushback you always give when he presents you with a jewel.

No, rather he's trying to show that he can provide for you. That you'd never have to worry about scrounging around to survive as long as he was with you.

A protector and a provider.

He also notices how you treasure the less valuable items with as much fondness and care as the others.

He had asked you why you slept with a chunk of pyrite on your bedside one time. And your response let him know he wouldn't give up on pursuing you anytime soon.

"Because it was one of the first things you gave me. Don't you remember? You said something along the lines of fool's gold for a fool's heart. I think it's sweet you even got me something at all."

You didn't care about what he brought you. All that mattered was that it came from him.

If that didn't mean you accepted his advances, then he didn't know what would.

4. Scenting

Ah, yes. Back to the classics

Once you've accepted the gifts he's continuously given you, Hiei takes it as you liking him back.

He's aware human and demon courting processes are very different from one another.

But he's exactly not human, is he?

When it comes to demons, once you've accepted their advances, your mates.

In a sense, it's like dating. Only except a dissatisfied partner will kill the other in most cases.

With this in mind, Hiei happily accepts the fact you're his and immediately moves onto the final stage of courting.

Scenting you so that other demons know to back off.

Think of it as your last out if you realize what's happening and actually don't have feelings for him.

The scenting process will start with Hiei showing up to your place of residence and staying with you.

Not yet following you around, but making sure to spend time in each room.

If he has to leave somewhere, he'll leave either an article of clothing or his sword.

It confuses you at first and you think maybe he just trusts you.

But you start to think otherwise when he starts getting touchy.

Laying in your lap and ordering you to stay still, only to find out he's fallen asleep on you.

Or letting his face rest against the crook of your neck. Which you didn't mind all that much.

It was quite funny to see someone as tough as Hiei become completely docile around you.

You weren't too worried until he followed you out when you went to buy groceries.

"You don't like being around people. Don't you wanna stay home until I get back?" You asked him.

"I've already shown you that you're a very fragile creature compared to me. It's best I accompany you so you don't hurt yourself."

Usually you would have argued back, but it was clear something was off with him.

These past few months had been strange with him either trying to get your attention or trying to stay directly next to you.

You wouldn't figure out what it was until your other three friends showed up.

Kuwabara wanting to have a movie night and you offering your home to do it.

When the three of them arrived, you noticed Kurama and Yusuke hesitate by the entrance.

"Something wrong?" You questioned.

" I can't put my finger on it, but something's telling me I shouldn't go in." Yusuke responded.

Unawares it was Hiei's scent warding him off.

But Kurama knew. He'd known since you opened the door.

It seems Hiei had staked his claim on you.

Yet judging by your calm demeanor, you didn't know that yet.

"Have you noticed Hiei acting strange lately?" Kurama asked.

"Yes! I thought I was the only one. He's been really clingy. I mean at first it was odd he kept bringing me stuff like gems, but then he started following me around like a house cat. It's endearing, but honestly what's going on with him?" You ranted. Prompting a laugh from the redhead.

"I see. Good luck on your new relationship."

Before you could question him about what he meant, a gentle grip around your waist stopped you.

"What're you doing inviting these fools to our home. You know how long it took me to get rid of their scent the first time? It's like you want me to start the whole courting process all over again."

Courting?

Oh.

Oh.

You couldn't say you minded now that you knew what was actually going on.